The moody Rain Goddess in poor Man's sky

It's a dark feast and stars were hidden purposely
And the Moon on vacation it seems.
The Goddess comes out through the dark clouds,
Just a small drizzle to their innocent hopes.
The poor girl is ready to go out from the ghetto with an unknown bridegroom,
A shooting star has fallen down to their journey as a chief guest.
'A good omen my dear and make a hundred thousand offspring for the next census to get temper with the blunt life.'
The bride's close relative an old Blacksmith said.

poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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A White Australia

They had a clear policy
For letting people stay
If your face was white you fitted
If not then sent away.

They included on their census
Cattle, sheep and goats
They excluded Aborigines
As incidental folks.

It was a white Australia
An Australia so pure
It's rarely talked about these days
It's seen as immature.

But white Australia lives on
Think of all those refugees
For they are held behind barbed wire
As dangerous detainees.

[...] Read more

poem by David Keig
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Madam and the Census Man

The census man,
The day he came round,
Wanted my name
To put it down.

I said, Johnson,
Alberta K.
But he hated to write
The K that way.

He said, What
Does K stand for?
I said, K--
And nothing more.

He said, I'm gonna put it
KÐAÐY.
I said, If you do,
You lie.

[...] Read more

poem by Langston Hughes
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Song of Death

Old Woman Census-taker,
Death the Trickster,
when you're going along,
don't you meet my baby.

Sniffing at newborns,
smelling for the milk,
find salt, find cornmeal,
don't find my milk.

Anti-Mother of the world,
People-Collector -
on the beaches and byways,
don't meet that child.

The name he was baptized,
that flower he grows with,
forget it, Rememberer.
Lose it, Death.

[...] Read more

poem by Gabriela Mistral
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And Did.........

And did the countenance divine
Shine forth upon Bethlehem’s hills
And did a host of angels give praise
At the birth of the Saviour by an inn.

And did the Magi come from afar
To pay homage, guided by a star,
And did Caesar a census decree
And Herod go on a killing spree

It matters not what tales are told
Or if the Truth in myths clothed
I only know my Redeemer was born
To show the Way and for sins atone

*The historicity of the events surrounding the birth
of Jesus in Bethlehem have been questioned by
most scholars over the last two centuries.

poem by Isam Hussain
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7 Plus 1

The Arch of Noah saved only sven people plus himself,
So do take up the census to understand this poem;
For many are called but few are chosen!
Think about the flood,
'7 plus 1' people were saved after the heavy rainfall!
And Noah came out plus the seven others;
But i am a refugee today escaping from the stray bullets of life.

Mind over matter in the bed room of love,
And completely out of the ordinary with motivations;
But my imaginations can move mountains!
And, like the love of the muse of the flood!

'7 plus 1' quals to '8',
And eight people were saved from the Arch!
But let us try to understand the ways of the Creator;
For many are called and few are chosen!

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Nativity Scene

It seemed an inauspicious birth,

another mouth to feed on earth.

A stable in a crowded town,

the only lodging to be found.

Caesar Augustus had decreed

a census of his realm proceed.

As Bethlehem is David’s town

Its narrow streets were filled with sound.

[...] Read more

poem by John F. McCullagh
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Red wine Of May

Red wine of May

I 've never seen your icon front-straight
some weeds on a deserted slate
I was looking for a Sunday...

My hands clenching the windows ledge
searching a crucifix sharp wedge
one sorrow of our May...

You turned in, a later feast, became
(of these nights only a claim)
a barren route to travel.

How many routes upon ocean ways
to travel along our fog's haze
to far away marginal isles?

I didn't meet you in those cold nights
you were in clay bricks and lights

[...] Read more

poem by Giorgio Veneto
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I wonder who was this guy...! ! ! ! !

I wonder why…
Am I denied
A ride on the swing.

I wonder why…
Am I deprived
Of Colours in my life.

I wonder why…
My bangles were broken
And my bindi wiped…

I wonder why…
On my birth, my parents
Cursed their fate.

I wonder why…
Why am I alive
If all wait for me to die.

[...] Read more

poem by Mamta Agarwal
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Creativity Creates (The "C" Fever)

Creating ceaseless comforts
Creatively created creation,
Concisely clear content,
Clueless cementing composition,
Caressing crafty craft,
Congrats clubbed commendable creation,
Commanding ceaseless circles,
Creating cloudy colors,
Crawling calmly,
Counting countless counts,
Cool celebrations convicts
Cremating conventional classes
Costing clueless camouflage
Cruelty camping carcasses
Champions cuddle compositions,
Commenting courageously,
Converting classical cases,
Crap claps contingently,
Clamping coarse comments,
Continents commends creativity,

[...] Read more

poem by Diwakar Pokhriyal
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The Agony of Chains

Chains!
Holds my days,
Even Lucifer feel my pains.
Christianity,
Not way to eternity,
Alchemists of middle ages
Tried but failed.
They have heard before
Ablutions,
Not way to salvation
You can have a census.
Africa has a nation
Where hell is nature.
Looters as leaders,
Kleptomaniacs as politicians.
They all kill their brothers
To climb the ladders.
Nigeria can't be left out
A great nation in Africa
A giant for that matter

[...] Read more

poem by Efe Benjamin
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Less Time

Less time than it takes to say it, less tears than it takes to die; I've taken account of everything,
there you have it. I've made a census of the stones, they are as numerous as my fingers and some
others; I've distributed some pamphlets to the plants, but not all were willing to accept them. I've
kept company with music for a second only and now I no longer know what to think of suicide, for
if I ever want to part from myself, the exit is on this side and, I add mischievously, the entrance, the
re-entrance is on the other. You see what you still have to do. Hours, grief, I don't keep a
reasonable account of them; I'm alone, I look out of the window; there is no passerby, or rather no
one passes (underline passes). You don't know this man? It's Mr. Same. May I introduce Madam
Madam? And their children. Then I turn back on my steps, my steps turn back too, but I don't
know exactly what they turn back on. I consult a schedule; the names of the towns have been
replaced by the names of people who have been quite close to me. Shall I go to A, return to B,
change at X? Yes, of course I'll change at X. Provided I don't miss the connection with boredom!
There we are: boredom, beautiful parallels, ah! how beautiful the parallels are under God's
perpendicular.

poem by Andre Breton
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Less Time

Less time than it takes to say it, less tears than it takes to die; I've taken account
of everything, there you have it. I've made a census of the stones, they are as numerous
as my fingers and some others; I've distributed some pamphelts to the plants, but not all
were willing to accpet them. I've kept company with music for a second only and now I no
longer know what to think of suicide, for if I ever want to part from myself, the exit is
on this side and, I add mischievously, the entrance, the re-entrance is on the other. You
see what you still have to do. Hours, grief, I don't keep a reasonable account of them;
I'm alone, I look out of the window; there is no passerby, or rather no one passes
(underline passes). You don't know this man? It's Mr. Same.
May I introduce Madam Madam? And their children. Then I turn back on my steps, my steps
turn back too, but I don't know exactly what they turn back on. I consult a schedule; the
names of the towns have been replaced by the names of people who have been quite close to
me. Shall I go to A, return to B, change at X? Yes, of course I'll change at X. Provided I
don't miss the connection with boredom! There we are: boredom, beautiful parallels, ah!
how beautiful the parallels are under God's perpendicular.

poem by Richard Brautigan
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Cobblestones

The coffin, set up as coffins always are, near the grave, contained the father. The sentence, set up as sentences always are, on the page, contained the words. The meat package, set up as meat packages always are, with cellophane covering, contained the chops. The synagogue, set up as synagogues always are, for people, contained the rabbi. The classroom, set up as classrooms always are, for chairs, contained the professor. The coffin, set up as coffins always are, beside the grave, contained the mother. The word, set up as words always are, beyond hearing, contained the syllables. The prose, set up as prose always is, in census-rectangles, contained the phenomena. The nation, set up as nations always are, in questionnaire rooms, contained the sworn. The can, set up as cans always are, with ornate paper covers, contained the chicken o’noodle soup, with the circular noodles. Abacus, guitar, and quipu, set up as abacus, guitar and quipu always are, hieratically on notional strings, contained tobacco’s troubadours. The coffin, set up as coffins always are, next to the grave, contained the sister. The elegy, set up as elegies always are, dishonestly, contained the family. The steak, set up as steaks always are, artificially reddened, contained the fat. The rectangular venetian blinds, set up as rectangular venetian blinds always are, in the windowframe, contained the slats. The DNA, set up as DNA always is, in double helixes, contained the and. The word people, set up as the word people always is, in writing, contained the o.

poem by Aaron Fogel
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Another Yankee Doodle

Yankee Doodle had a mind
To whip the Southern traitors,
Because they didn't choose to live
On codfish and potatoes,
Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo,
Yankee Doodle dandy,
And to keep his courage up
He took a drink of brandy.

Yankee Doodle said he found
By all the census figures,
That he could starve the rebels out,
If he could steal their niggers.
Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo,
Yankee Doodle dandy,
And then he took another drink
Of gunpowder and brandy.

Yankee Doodle made a speech;
'Twas very full of feeling;

[...] Read more

poem by Anonymous Americas
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How Long to Sky Blue? Rayletha

'How many days to sky blue
how deep is down under,
I wonder' she said
'What is up
because I have only seen different shades of misery.
When you call me I answer to 'never me'
because it is never me.
Never chosen, never loved, never given nothing.

Fat, female, black, no schooling, betrayed, lonely
every day in person and on the television
I am told I am the least of the least,
stereotyped, misused on sight and despised.

In me resides all the things they hate about themselves
on their inside
they is terrorized that if they don't eat their peas they will end up like me
and I say what is so wrong with me?

I am a human being

[...] Read more

poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Shame

It is a cramped little state with no foreign policy,
Save to be thought inoffensive. The grammar of the language
Has never been fathomed, owing to the national habit
Of allowing each sentence to trail off in confusion.
Those who have visited Scusi, the capital city,
Report that the railway-route from Schuldig passes
Through country best described as unrelieved.
Sheep are the national product. The faint inscription
Over the city gates may perhaps be rendered,
"I'm afraid you won't find much of interest here."
Census-reports which give the population
As zero are, of course, not to be trusted,
Save as reflecting the natives' flustered insistence
That they do not count, as well as their modest horror
Of letting one's sex be known in so many words.
The uniform grey of the nondescript buildings, the absence
Of churches or comfort-stations, have given observers
An odd impression of ostentatious meanness,
And it must be said of the citizens (muttering by
In their ratty sheepskins, shying at cracks in the sidewalk)

[...] Read more

poem by Richard Wilbur
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Orphans Of Wealth

There is no time to discuss or debate
What is right, what is wrong for our people
Time has run out for all those who wait
With bent limbs and minds that are feeble
And the rain falls and blows through their window
And the snow falls and blows through their door
And the seasons revolve 'mid their sounds of starvation
When the tides rise, they cover the floor
And they come from the north
And they come from the south
And they come from the hills and they valleys
And they're migrants and farmers
And miners and humans
Our census neglected to tally
And the rain falls and blows through their window
And the snow falls and blows through their door
And the seasons revolve 'mid their sounds of starvation
When the tides rise, they cover the floor
And they're African, Mexican, Caucasian, Indian
Hungry and hopeless Americans

[...] Read more

song performed by Don McLean
Added by Lucian Velea
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Year Of Meteors, 1859 '60

YEAR of meteors! brooding year!
I would bind in words retrospective, some of your deeds and signs;
I would sing your contest for the 19th Presidentiad;
I would sing how an old man, tall, with white hair, mounted the
scaffold in Virginia;
(I was at hand--silent I stood, with teeth shut close--I watch'd;
I stood very near you, old man, when cool and indifferent, but
trembling with age and your unheal'd wounds, you mounted the
scaffold;)
--I would sing in my copious song your census returns of The States,
The tables of population and products--I would sing of your ships and
their cargoes,
The proud black ships of Manhattan, arriving, some fill'd with
immigrants, some from the isthmus with cargoes of gold;
Songs thereof would I sing--to all that hitherward comes would I
welcome give; 10
And you would I sing, fair stripling! welcome to you from me, sweet
boy of England!
Remember you surging Manhattan's crowds, as you pass'd with your
cortege of nobles?

[...] Read more

poem by Walt Whitman
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Hic Vir, Hic Est

Often, when o'er tree and turret,
Eve a dying radiance flings,
By that ancient pile I linger
Known familiarly as 'King's.'
And the ghosts of days departed
Rise, and in my burning breast
All the undergraduate wakens,
And my spirit is at rest.

What, but a revolting fiction,
Seems the actual result
Of the Census's enquiries
Made upon the 15th ult.?
Still my soul is in its boyhood;
Nor of year or changes recks.
Though my scalp is almost hairless,
And my figure grows convex.

Backward moves the kindly dial;
And I'm numbered once again

[...] Read more

poem by Charles Stuart Calverley
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