Poetry For The Post-Apocalypse
When Death comes by
Do you really see a man, a mere human?
Is it possible that an entity as ancient could be so?
It’s been there longer than any of us
Seen more than we could imagine
It would make the bravest demigods
Children again, crying for their mothers
It's an entity as old as Change and Time
- Something not many can claim
It's seen Change and stagnation
Seen triumph, as well as the bitter tears
Of one who has lost everything,
Including their own identity,
After having known ‘everything’.
I am Fire and I am Ice.
Get too close to me and you will be,
Changed, for better or worse.
You will be changed. Anything that
Comes near me does. I am inescapable.
Even galaxies explode, even stars fall
I am inescapable. I am indestructible
Come to me and you'll lose yourself
Look me in the eye and you shall see
A reflection. You will be changed.
The worst scars I give, remain unseen
You've looked me in the Eye, and now,
You pay the price, with nothing less
Than Mind, Heart and Soul. Bodies are
Now reparable. Scars can be hidden
The soul and your heart... That is where
Your true weakness lies and I leave the
Marks of my possession there. I am neither
Moral nor immoral. I am and I remain.
Some might romanticise my presence, but
I am neither good, nor bad. I simply Am.
I might bring pain or I may bring salvation
I am as I have been and as I shall remain
Humanity will come and go, the Milky Way
Will be extinguished. I will remain.
After all, I Am.
War of beauty , War of aesthetics
and hidden heaven
beauty for all seas and seasons
dance with civilization for love and oceans
crush and vanish our civilization
just for economic fall down in few heavens of poor classes
and war of aesthetics like savage flowers
Stars shine on in a night sky so black
you can see the truth.
What is that light but an interruption
to progress so blinding
the sun blushes–
as if another light vandalized
our ever darkening sky.
Closing out on reality,
opening up to ideals,
it’s the rays piercing through the layers
and the yea-sayers nodding
off to sleep in a darkness so deep.
When the genius strips off the latent,
flexes its manifest intelligence,
and puts down thoughts
that flare into the darkness.
No effort from a sun fibbing eternal.
The end might come but the hand
who writes eternity can’t see
the end coming.
Who are the geniuses
expelling the light
and who are the receivers
not likely to admit their stupor
for fear of fantastic phantasms.
Fleeing from their folly,
straying into strange, insipid
serials, unending, not rerunning–
only growing obese with weight
Of chances not spent.
Saying my "goodnight"s to God my prayer inadvertently strays
As my mind starts to wander in a million different ways.
I reflect on where we started thousands of years in the past,
When our first parents made a poor choice with consequences that would a long time last.
Not having to pray to God thru Christ his son
But rather speaking to him as a friend one-on-one.
As you walk in your garden with no property bounds
You delight in the peace with the animals & the variety of sounds.
But alas that deadly bite they took
And the hope of everlasting life forsook.
Their once perfect bodies now began to decay
And onto their offspring this curse did relay.
So the wheels in my head now spin
To my inheritance of sin
And my determination to overcome
The inherent sin to which most succumb.
Though the enemies try to fight
To bring me down with all their might
I know there is a stronger power
A refuge & strong tower
Into which I'm able to run
When my own strength is done
Because although we're born from them
God's word like a precious gem
Promises that to us he will incline
Because between our sin & perfection is a fine line.
He made us in HIS image out of love
Exercising His power from the heights above
Instantly displaying His justice when His purpose was diverted
In His infinite wisdom knowing His true lovers could not be converted.
Promising to us he would restore
Conditions of the Earth as they were before
Paying with the life of his Son the ultimate price
So that all exercising faith could once & always live in Paradise..
Lost in the dim
streets of the
this wounded city in an
monologue as I follow
the signs to Tokyo Station and
descend into the
of the metro,
seeking life and anything bright
in this half-lit, humid midnight.
I find the train finally
to Shibuya, the Piccadilly
and Times Square of Japan,
and even there the lights
are dimmer and the neon
that does remain
is all the more garish by
I cross the street
near a sign that says
"Baby Dolls" in English
over a business that turns
out to be a pet
shop, of all things.
the Japanese, I sometimes feel I live
in reduced circumstances, forced to proceed with caution:
A poorly chosen
could so easily trigger the
sweeps away the containment
The next night at dinner, the sweltering room
suddenly rocks and
as the building sways and the
'Felt like a 4, maybe a 5,'
says one of my tablemates,
a friend from years ago
in the States.
'At least a five-and-a-half,'
says another, gesturing
at the still-moving shadows
on the wall. And I think
of other sweaty, dimly lit rooms,
bodies in slow, restrained motion, all
in a moment that falls
Then the swaying stops and we return
to our dinner. The shock, or aftershock,
isn't mentioned again,
though we do return, repeatedly, to the
and the tidal wave that
swept so much away.
En route to the monsoon
I go east to come west,
clouds gathering slowly
in the vicinity of my chest.
Next day in Shanghai, the sun's glare reflects
and the streets teem
with determined shoppers
wielding credit cards and iPhone cameras, clad
in T-shirts with English words and phrases.
beside a young woman on
the outdoor escalator whose
shirt, white on black,
reads, 'I am very, very happy.' I smile
and then notice, coming
down the other side,
exactly the same
in neon pink. So many
Yet the ATMs sometimes dispense
counterfeit 100 yuan notes and
elsewhere in the realm
police fire on
more than consumer goods,
while officials fret
about American credit
and the security of their investments, and
the government executes mayors for taking
bribes from real estate developers.
A drizzle greets me in Hong Kong,
a tablecloth of fog draped over the peaks
that turns into a rain shower.
I find my way to work after many twists and turns
through shopping malls and building lobbies and endless
turning halls of luxury retail.
At dinner I have a century egg and think
of Chinese mothers
urging their children,
'Eat! Eat your green, gooey treat.
On the street afterwards, a
near-naked girl grabs my arm,
pulls me toward a doorway marked by a 'Live Girls’
sign. 'No kidding,’ I think as I pull myself carefully
free, and cross the street.
On the flight to Bombay, I doze
under a sweaty airline blanket, and
dream that I am already there and the rains
have come in earnest as I sit with the presumably
semi-fictional Didier of Shantaram in the real but as-yet-unseen
Leopold's Café, drinking Kingfishers,
and he is telling me, confidentially,
exactly where to find what I’ve lost as I wake
with the screech and grip of wheels on runway.
Next day on the street outside the real Leopold's,
bullet holes preserved in the walls from the last terrorist attack,
I am trailed through the Colaba district
by a mother and children, 'Please sir, buy us milk, sir, buy us some rice,
I will show you the store.'
A man approaches, offering a drum,
another a large balloon (What would I do with that?)
A shoeshine guy offers
to shine my sneakers, then shares
the story of his arrival and struggle in Bombay.
And I buy
the milk and the rice and some
small cakes and in a second
the crowd of children swells
into the street
and I sense
the danger of the crazy traffic to the crowd
that I have created, and I
think, what do I do?
I flee, get into a taxi and head
to the Gateway of India, feeling
that I have failed a test.
My last night in Mumbai, the rains come, flooding
streets and drenching pavement dwellers and washing
the humid filth from the air. When it ends
after two hours, the air is cool and fresh
and I take a stroll at midnight
in the street outside my hotel and enter the slum
from which each morning I have watched
the residents emerge, perfectly coiffed. I buy
some trinkets at a tiny stand and talk briefly
with a boy who approaches, curious about a foreigner out for a walk.
A couple of days after that, in
the foothills of the Himalayas, monks' robes flutter
on a clothesline like scarlet prayer flags behind the
Dalai Lama's temple.
I trek to 11,000 feet along a
narrow rocky path through thick
stopping every 10 steps
testing each rock before placing my weight.
the surface is slick and I nearly fall,
themselves shift. I learn slowly, like some
newborn foal, or just another
clumsy city boy,
that in certain terrains the
can end with a slide
into the abyss.
At the peak there's a chai shop that sells drinks and cigarettes
of all things and I order a coffee and noodles for lunch.
While I eat,
perched on a rock in a silence that is both ex- and
the clouds in front of me slowly part to reveal
a glacier that takes up three-quarters of the sky, craggy and white and
beautiful. I snap a few shots,
before the cloud curtain closes
obscuring the mountain.
--Rob Urban: Tokyo, Shanghai, Mumbai, Delhi, Dharamshala
The Magician glared down at the shallow water
The light of the Sun flickering against the cool blue
Some penetrating, some reflecting
All of them searching for Home
He thought of Man
Traveling so far, so fast
Towards the Mathematicians Inevitable Solution
The Observer laughs as they try to steer
A Perfect Evolution
Some accepted, some rejected
Yet all complete the journey,
Outside of time, outside of space
Inside of All, The Kingdom of ALL
The Magician saw particles of sand
Twisting, heaving, and some even sinking
Clawing at the confused currents
Swirling as if, for a time, they were one
And he thought of The Humans
Each of them individuals
Caught in a storm outside of their control
Forcing them together, pulling them apart
If they are Wise, they'll steer with their Hearts, as one
Towards the Solution
What blaze of fury has brought such decay?
Translucent hearts are all the color this picture
of hate. Can you see the broken ones? Can you
smell the hopelessness they wear like some
expensive perfume? Watch them cower and scamper
through bushes. Hiding their scorched skin like it's
something obscene. Watch as they scatter like marbles
from a child's circle. Building fire from scraps of oh-so
precious wood. Their smoke clouds the almost
non-existent breeze. What would their ancestors say?
Would they blush at the dirty rawness of this world?
Would they gasp at the events that brought us here?
Does it even matter? In the end the grass
is gone. The trees have died and the flowers have
fallen. Tell me what is sacred about this.
Where is the god you prayed to?
The bodies breakdown.
What aging gathers.
What time it takes.
Piles of leaves,
The drain pipes,
Like the cracks in pavement-
The movement of fall,
Orange thorns tatter-
Splash closing in on yellow.
The colors trail.
The windows open,
And are overtaken.
Encased by creeps,
The vines that rule the cities.
Lime pastel green
The cool steal makes its way,
Safety is hailed.
Icicles form bars,
Pristine blue and white-
To the touch.
The colors trail.
The chards rising. Am I the praying bird?
In the gleaming sun my bones are negative,
My flesh a cypher walking through the plains
As ghost I move, my dark lord, above me
Flocks swirl and spike. I stand accused,
Your pointed face divining oblivion,
And no redemption in the rains of my
Cliff walk days.
I see my shroud pinning on the wires
His legs are razored forks spinning my
Compass from True North. Your dark brush-
Fire wings, the swept wind, wheels and strings
My fate. Such black rhetoric in a burn,
Your caws, loosed perches, on the stakes, picks
My crowning grave. Black dove, your feathers finger
As they slice.
Smoke, the cardinal blood caries my teething
Bone, spades my hand without a flight.
Taut, the pulled noose my hooded one
I see my scarecrow’s reflexion, the scar,
Let blood, the seeded droppings end trailed
To my door. Feathers, ferry to carry on
Dowsing downward, black knight of down, to sticks
On extended wings.