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Below is the third set of poems by Pinkie Paranya.

The first batch is available by clicking here.

The second batch is available by clicking here.

The fourth batch is available by clicking here.




 Each of us has within

a little bird spirit to fly free.

Some of us have a hole

in the heart of our little bird spirit

so we cannot soar and

flap our wings.

The hole in our heart is an

opening to call in bad

thoughts and anger and fear.

Sometimes our beaks get

hurt or broken and it’s hard

to make a sound out loud

so we grow silent and still

forgetting how to  sing.

Some of us with broken beaks

only know how to peck

so that we hurt ourselves and others.

We must learn to heal our

little bird spirits

to heal our beaks and hearts

by sitting in the moonlight

and soaking up the healing power

of the soft warm light and

by trusting enough to let God come

close and touch our little bird spirit

to bring us comfort and peace.

When we close the hole in

our heart and make it well,

fill the emptiness

with joy and harmony,

we learn to fly again.



Where have all our heroes gone?

Randolf Scott, Liberace, Rock Hudson, and

the epitome of perfection, Cary Grant

all seem to be made of different clay.


Is it coincidence that woman’s most romantic fantasies,

those who we have long adored from afar

are not women‑lovers at all, but are gay?

What does that tell us?  That we can never

surmount the barriers against us?

          That we shouldn’t care?


How many of us make that same mistake in life?

Falling in love with a need that consumes us.

Only to find it was window dressing

created from our own fantasy world, like the

elegant body on an emaciated mannequin.


Do we cling stubbornly to our ideals,

like moths throwing fragile bodies against the window,

wanting so badly to be let inside without knowing why.

Do we instill more deceptions into our psyches, with the

bittersweet taste of ashes on our tongues

each time we swallow another lie?


How is it men and women are supposed to fit together

when there is such discrepancy

between what is real and what is ideal

and what we each have to work with?


As mothers, when are we going to teach our daughters

that dreams can never measure up to reality

and more important, teach our sons that

reality must be enhanced by dreams.

And yet we hope, we dream.  Some of us give up,

some of us settle, some of us win.

Some are able to show our partners that when we win,

          so do they.


When that happens we may be able to exist

in a world without heroes



I bought a leather jacket, couldn’t afford one new.

It was Salvation Army’s finest‑fit like a good shoe.

The first time I wore the thing, it caused a helluva stir

       Around the collar, everyone saw F‑U‑R, fur.


It was politically incorrect, they told me to my face,

for killing innocent animals, I was in disgrace.

I tried to scream above the shouts, dodged eggs too slow

       Whoever killed the animals‑did it 20 years ago!


Blame it on the system, where do they find the words?

To dump the guilt on everyone is really quite absurd.

Could it be a cover‑up for greedy politicians?

       We rattle pots and pans and they burn down the kitchen.


I voted every year I could, most times the pickings lean.

But it never seemed to change a thingpolitics are mean.

If you don’t vote, for shame, that’s politically incorrect.

       No matter the measly choices, you must show respect.


Do your patriotic duty, to further their careers.

Show political correctness though you land upon your rear.

Tho Social Security and Medicare need massive resurrection

       Fight their wars and don’t protest because that’s political incorrection.


Blame it on the system, where do they find the words?

To dump the guilt on everyone is really quite absurd.

Could it be a cover‑up for selfish politicians?

       While we rattle pots and pans, they’re burning down the kitchen.



Tell me, how many rainbows will I see

 And how many sunsets am I pledged?

 Will the rivers still flow on without me

 And birds continue nesting in flowered hedge?

 How many roads will miss my passing by?

 Will the stars shine as bright without my wish?

 Will long ago lovers still hear my cry

 And share my loss, and pain, my loneliness?

 Will the roses bloom well without my touch

 And children remember my happy smile?

 Will friends give a thought to my passing much

 And recall our laughter, our special style?

 Is this to be my immortality?

 Tell me, how many rainbows will I see?



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