I am contented I’ll make you—
Immortal in my lines.
Ardent learners shall raise questions
In college-classes
And eagerly inquire of us;
And young lovers derive their inspiration.
But, still I desire!
If I grow as a millionaire.
We have multimillion annual income
From import-export, or in foreign savings,
And or a business in food.
Starting from a mini-amount
As that Indian lady—
Gorgeous and rich,
Had begun just from few thousand rupees
And taken a room on rent.
And we would tour every new year
A new land.
You would wear that long white gown,
A maid would carry its hem
While descending the palace’s stairs,
Attending the dancing singing beggars.
And I would imagine ideas n’wer and h’gher,
In a lonely cottage as my office.
With an honest on-the-go youngman as my assistant,
And a witty widow
To serve us hot teas with buttered bread.
Poet: Ken Jordan
Poem: Way Up North
Edited by: Sparkle Jordan
written: June/2013
I lived
on the prairie,
where the wind
danced through
tall grass
and
windmills -
Where everyone
on the prairie
was living
to survive -
But living
we all did,
it was what
we knew -
One day,
I decided
I'd leave
the prairie,
so I moved
way up north
to Tall Town -
In Tall Town,
folk spoke
proper,
wore
fancy clothes
and
shoes -
The people
of Tall Town
drove exotic
cars,
and
lived in
multimillion
dollar homes -
This is
Tall Town
where everything
they did said,
"Look at me
I'm wealthy."
Tall Town
was no place
for anyone
with less -
Sometimes
less is more -
Out on the
prairie,
we gave more
to the less,
when we only
had a slice
of bread -
We helped
each other
through
troubled times -
I learned a lot
from the people
way up north -
I'm leaving
Tall Town
going back
to my life
on the prairie -
Where the wind
dances through
tall grass
and
where windmills
turn -
What Colour?
What colour are the oceans?
On warm summer days the oceans are crystalline blue, with bright streaks
Of ivory flouting on the crest of each wave just before it crashes down
Into total oblivion!
And what colour are the mountains that enkindle a dying sun?
The mountains are bright red, like a burning ember in the flame
Of fire off our multimillion mile star, as it slowly dips to rest
Till the morning!
Oh what colour is a new born child?
A child holds the beauty of youth in colours that span the years of its parents
Age, until the greying colour of passing seasons takes away the child in us all.
And what colour is the moon above us?
In late fall the moon flickers in shades like lucent charcoal as it slowly cools,
Then turns to black!
What colour are our hopes, what colour are our dreams?
Nevermore are our hopes mixed in the colour of our dreams, for in wake our
Soul equates the mind for a second then is gone.
And what colour stands for the worth of our lives?
The motionless quiet waits silent, bound between colours more radiant then our past
But still more mysterious then our future
By M. Norton