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shamamama May 2019
-----------I weave my grand                     mother's spirit to life--------
             when I paint with my             words what she dreamed
             in her life.  My grandmother's kimono sat in the dark never
            worn; so needs a     dusting--I lift it up      into this light to be
           seen, to be heard,      to be felt, fabric of          loving  heart
          dreams to be.  It's     not perfectly shaped   or tattered or torn,
         rather fermented       beyond her time  to      take form.  My
       Grandma loved  to        eat her white rice          she ate thirty
      seven million grains      of rice by the time         she reached her
      104-- Born on a             sugarcane plant'tion         on the coast of
     Oahu, a child in               the tropics then a       teen in Japan. Her
    family returned to          their roots to learn,    & grow, reenter the
   cultural force. She                discovered her              new talent as
                                            ------------------------------
                                  ­              K  I   M   O  N  O          
                                               ­     A R T I S T
                                            --------------------­----------
                                       Kikuyo  Yamamoto became
                                     liberated as an artist and then
                                     her life changed as her family
                                    demanded she leave her position
                                   and marry away to a Japanese man
                                    who lives in California (my Grand
                                    father).  The matchmaker said it
                                     would work really well....She
                                   endured life as an American farm
                                     wife, then life in Japanese intern-
                                    ment camps. Five  children, nine
                                    grandchildren...Dear Grandmother
                                     I know you had lots to surrender-
                                           I honor your life as mother,
                                           grandmother, and artist --I
                                          wove this poem in the form
                                       of  a kimono for you  May your
                                         spirit rest in peace. I love you.
This poem is woven with rememberence on the eve of mother's day, to honor and love the enduring nature of my grandmother. Long ago she shared with me, her possibility of a career in sewing kimonos when she was a 20 year old in Japan, and how it was not a choice within her family. Marriage was the way. She was born in 1909, and lived till 104---she loved her bowls of rice; I have heard each grain of rice is a god, so may she be empowered 7 million times over with the god of rice in her spirit belly.
IncholPoem Jan 2019
Alternative  prizes
are   ready   for

RICE  and  NICE  plant.


                                        
                                          Alternative  of  prizes
                                           are also  there.






A  flying     digital  clock
can  release   your stress
by  singing  
Lady  Gaga   and
Justin Biber's
slow  songs.



                                          Alternative  of   prizes
                                            are  also  including-

                                    A   digital  robo  cat

                                    eagerly    will  wait
to  have   fried
sea  fish  to
compete    your
neighbour's  two   natural  cats.
Pyrrha Jan 2019
I feel like my body is made of grains of rice
When you hold me I collapse and slip through your grasp
You just aren't the 'forever type' are you?
One day someone will either slip with me or help me hold us together

Then you'll see what you could have been with me
Listen, I wrote this at 4 in the morning im not even 100% sure what I was trying to say here.
K Balachandran Sep 2018
Bristling green rice plants,
Make waves reaching the far hills;
Wind’s jugglery spooks!
Jon-Luc Sep 2018
Rice is thrown from the pews
Flowers are embroidered upon the
Faces of those who stare at the stage

Mustn't we not decry departure
Are we to lay idly by
When
**** goes astray

NO!

NO!

NO!

Speak, for you have a voice.
James smith Nov 2017
Skin is skin,  Heart is a heart.
What makes makes a mind to consider any is less like an empty bottle?  
To sense one is second-rate?,
Skin to skin, dust to dust, Bone to bone.  
Heart to heart superior Judge will sit judgment on disgusting hearts.  
Equivalent we are, as transgressors, we are.
01– November 1 17, made straight by propaganda crooked album, Sho Baraka Talented. 10th. Jesus Christ cover by Dustin Kensrue where music inspiration when I was writing this.
02–this poem is about what makes a person to think one race is better then the other or lower. To me the Bible teaches me everyone of us is low even me, God is the Commander superior.
SQUID Aug 2017
The test results are back!
It appears that a:

sack of rice

                       has

replaced your brain.
Hasan Aspahani Jul 2017
YOU delirious about the coastal span - from
the country that went on a hot year - then become the
beach your body: spread out - fragrant and hungry!

Like the perfume ad page, which is torn off
thick copies, magazines that chock short of pictures!

The one on you lies, I, which is released by the wind,
large pickaxes, mooring the sky, then sprinkling wildly

I started this guerrilla, facing my own shadow,
your spicy sand bath, quartz that grows hearts

Late afternoon. The sun goes past: yellow past
soon it was broken and glowing, the blood of a snake
I've repeatedly looked at digital numbers,
Casio - waterproof, 200 meters - an hour of the day



If the sea yells, the sentence is the waves!

He did not carry any name, until he called the bay
Place turtle loggerhead, from far journey,
Thousands of miles pilgrimage, to the sand he had hatched,
littered, food wrappers and beverage cans

This *******, like undesirable verbal abuse!



What have I found? Or broke it? I'm a farmer
threatened insect pests, certainly can not keep, seeds per
Seeds, immature rice. The season is short-lived.

When I see the location of the taxi to the North,
I also had to go back there, fold the map, then
stepping like a man's footstep -
like the song I heard from Springteen - and
write down a poem that I am afraid of his verses.
K Balachandran Mar 2017
Ripe, golden rice,
Endlessly billowing in wind,
Wafting fresh scent.
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