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Nuha Fariha Jul 2013
Immigrants, especially those who don't return,
create idealistic homelands.
They imagine that all their
Woes, hurts and indignities
Would not exist
in their imagined homeland.

In their minds, homeland
is in stasis.
The life they left is lingering
waiting for them to return.

They cast winter upon the ponds of their
homelands
And live lives skating over the surface
Each time coming closer to
shattering the illusion
and gasping
in the icy
waters
of change.
A Muslim boy with a clock
Is seen as a terrorist with a glock
Maybe i'm right, maybe i'm wrong
But if he were White, Asian, Hispanic or even Pacific Islander
Nobody would of suspected anything.
When are we going to stop fearing an entire race for only a portion radical and illogical ways of treating others?
I don't tolerate people who behead others if they don't agree with their religion
I don't agree with the repressive governments that control everyone and stone them for minor misdemeanors
There are good men out there fighting this evil that has plagued their homelands
I'm all for ending terrorism of all kinds
But let's stop terrorism of innocents too
Sure, i'm afraid of what the radicals will do to their own people, my people and the rest of the world
But i'll be dammed if i treated somebody from the Middle East like a monster when i don't even know who they are
If it wasn't for a Middle Eastern girl
The Syrians girls wouldn't have an improved education
If it wasn't for a Middle Eastern man fending off the Taliban and risking his entire village to keep Marcus Littrell alive
He would of been KIA a long time ago.
What about the ones who fought and died for America?
Nobody ever mentions them
The media wants me to hate them all, but i laugh and shake my head
Warped minds trying to warp others
I only see the ones who want to do us harm, and the ones who want to live peacefully and away from a life of hell
Brothers and sisters, just a different culture and skin color
I'm sorry if America seems racist or hateful, but i'm proud to be the one who throws those two words in the trash
Because i'm not afraid to speak my mind
And i welcome everyone here
America is everyone's home.
If only the Soviet Union never invaded Afghanistan
If only the people were not scared
To be free like America.
Unity for all,
Religious differences and Cultures alike.
I hope one day a Muslim man or Woman can walk down an American street without being labeled as a terrorist.
I hope one day these repressive governments fall into the hands of democracy
And we start the Age of Unity again.
I went all out on this one. I wanted to speak my views on this and i believe that the Muslim people and Arabian people deserve the same amount of freedom as we have. I feel so bad for that poor boy.
Thou and I                            

Joyful the moment when we sat in the bower, Thou and I;
In two forms and with two faces - with one soul, Thou and I.                      
The colour of the garden and the song of the birds give the elixir of immortality
The instant we come into the orchard, Thou and I.
The stars of Heaven come out to look upon us -
We shall show the moon herself to them, Thou and I.
Thou and I, with no 'Thou' or 'I', shall become one through our tasting;
Happy, safe from idle talking, Thou and I.
The spirited parrots of heaven will envy us -
When we shall laugh in such a way, Thou and I.
This is stranger, that Thou and I, in this corner here...
Are both in one breath here and there - Thou and I.

Jelaluddin Rumi*

                                              

By the waters
of Babylon the
beloved weep;
mourning the
loss of our
brother
Rumi.

We have
forgotten
Rumi’s
example,
we no longer
speak his
language
of love.

The beloved
have discarded
his virtuous
entreaties
as useless
historical
relics.

His compassion
is mocked
as a sign
of weakness.

His empathy
is considered
a seditious act.

The
beauteous
poems
bespeaking
ecstatic graces
found in the
resplendent
embrace of
unity in the
holy spirit
are shattered,
like a worthless
vase, its
shards
scattered into
a million
splinters that
****** our feet.

We no
longer
sing the
blithe
words of
his love
songs.

The
rapturous
melodies have
evaporated
along with
our joys.

We have
destringed
our harps.

Our songs
of joy have
become
dirges of
lamentations
moaned in
the streets
of our
desecrated
cities.

Our people are
in shambles.  

We are
refugees
fleeing our
besieged
homelands.

We are
prisoners
in the
basements
of our homes.

We perpetrate
crimes against
humanity by
willfully defiling
ourselves.

We dash
the heads of
our children
against
blasted
rocks.

We are
desperate
to find you
dearest
Rumi.

We hope
your sweet
reminders
of love will
bind the
broken
people;
leading us
to forsake
the diet of
acrimony
that has
become
our daily
bread.

I wander,
the streets
with open
ears
listening
for a hint
of your voice;
hoping to
follow it to a
rendezvous
with the
Divine One.

I open
my heart
to discern
a tiny note of
your songs,
winging on the air,
the sweet chords
of agape love
is our hope
to salve our
deep running
wounds.

Only
deafening
silence
returns
to my
saddened
ear.

The elegant
magic of your
voice are
angelic fingers
plucking strings,
evoking  a
heavenly
chorus
of love
and divine
reconciliation.

Your voice
rolls through
the ages
beckoning us  
to transcendent
peace; your
whispers
dance
upon the
face of hatred.

The marching epochs
have dissipated
our memory of you,
beloved Rumi.

Your verses
are ancient
dialects we
can no longer
decipher.

The urgency
grows for us
to speak in your
tongue once
again.

Our besieged
cities are
filled with
the cacophony
of distress.

The beloved
tend lamps
to light the paths
of reconciliation
but few
step forward
to sojourn
the pathways
of peace.

Some ecstatically
turn willing cheeks
to the nasty slaps
of adversaries;
daring to let
flesh absorb
the totality
humanity’s
pain.

Hostility
spills over the
lips of stormy
volcanoes
like gushing
lava flows
of destruction
covering
all corners
of the globe.

Can the
forgiveness
offered by the
aggrieved
blunt the
world’s
acrimony?

Oh Rumi
where are you?

I offer prayers
that your spirit
still moves
among us,
with balm
in hand
you anoint
misspent
love
wandering
amidst the
desolate cities;
daring to spark
life back
to the dead
stones,
your
miraculous
palms
warming
the cold
rocks
with extreme
humanity.

Your love
rises to answer
the intractability
of indifference;
defeating the
crucifix
of empathy.

Your love
rolls away
the bloated
stones covering
compassion's
cold dead tomb.

Your love
breaks the
omnipotent
cycle of
unrequited
vendettas;
laying it
to rest in
the solitary  
oneness
of spirit;
freeing
the beloved
to live in the
liberty of
unconditional
love once again.

We evoke
the presence
of your spirit,
imagining you
levitated
by Allah’s
slightest
whisper,
floating
among us
in aromas of
spring violets.

We hope
to detect
your soft
footprints
on the
open hearts
of the
compassionate.

We invite
your tears
of joy to water
flowers that
bloom into
luscious
groves
offering
the bread of life
to all.

Rumi, return
to teach us the
lost language,
remind us
of the songs
we have
forgotten,
unite all hearts
with dervish spins,
turning the world
in circles of love,
conjure an
avenging
tornado to
route the
despoilers.

We are
battered
exiles
seeking
refuge
in the nape of
your scented
neck.

We wish
to hide in the
embrace
of your
warm *****
and become
medicated by
the perfume of
life’s gardens
chasing away
the stench
of graveyards
alive in our
memories.

Has the music of Rumi’s words fallen on deaf ears?
Has the rhyme and reason of Rumi’s poetry been misunderstood?
Has Rumi’s example been forgotten?
Has Rumi’s revelations of love evaporated into nothingness?

Rumi, I look for you in the market.
I hope to see you saunter down the street biting into a fresh apple.
I crane my ears to hear your voice incant poetic prayers.

As the sun
sets on
another
violent day
I cannot detect
the gentle taps of
your joyful dance.

I remain starved
to join you at
the Lord's table,
to fill myself with
Eden’s Feast.

Rumi
as you once
came to seek me,
I now come
to seek you.

Panting,
I run through
the streets
in desperation.

I become
a callous
****** spying
through every
window, hoping
to catch a
fleeting image
of your shadow.

I throw open
every last door
leading from the
barren streets
in vain attempts
to track your
footprints in
the dusty
courtyards.

My search
only reveals
bare rooms.

Not a single
trace of you
is discovered.

The empty
corners
once lit with
the resonance
of your spirit
are dark, blinded
by the midnight
worries of the
refugees that
have escaped
these black rooms.

I scavenge
the piles
of concrete,
rummaging
through the
the skeletons
of fractured
buildings leveled
by war.

I am covered
with the dust
of destruction.

I scatter the
bones of the dead
frantically looking
to find a single
footprint as
evidence of your
presence.

I find nothing.

I prophesy
to the bones.

I prophesy to
the disconnected
sinews.

I cleave my sinews.
I bleed my veins.

I drape the sinews,
I drain the blood
onto these decrepit
dry bones.

I scream prayers
to breathe new life
into them.

They do not reassemble.
They do not move.
They do not stand.

Where’s Rumi?

Music selection:
Zikr Call of the Sufi
The Divine Union

Suffern
3/28/12
jbm
In the meantime in the Állos kósmos or Ultramundi, Wonthelimar after hearing the speeches and paragraphs of the speakers saw from paradise how Calypso Lepidoptera appeared, approaching in great magnitudes on the dry land on the banks of the blue and golden stones of Skalá. In torrents of rushing from the water-sky with wind-water, by geomorphological hydraulics of the collapse of the irresistible capacity to harass each other in the ears of Seleuco's dialogues, after they piled up in the sneaking curds of him on the island of his speech. Right there it settled from the koelum or sky of the Lepidoptera from the Orofí or ceiling, on the natural arches of aeolian erosion and its devastating plumage, appearing in the subaerial splendor of Chauvet and its gloomy darkness, changing the morphology of the bank of Skalá turned into enchanted turquoise light also with Calypso nuances. From here Wonthelimar obscures the circumflex arc or circumflexes, which pierced and eroded the surface, piling up the ex-generals of Alexander the Great, to skewer them on the stump that was languidly seen supporting them, after the tides of Lepidoptera that avalanche in destined per capita towards the destined underworld of Wonthelimar.

Wonthelimar was separated from everyone by the moat that was separated from the gods of the surface, but now where the supporters of Seleucus were predestined by imbibing themselves in the bilocated kingdom of Chauvet and its darkness, where they were put into agreements of suitability and clarity of words discursive for the eagerness to persuade his major general. But they all fell into the middle of a dark Ultraworld, judging themselves to be dying in stockpiles of biosystems where no one helped them and gave them some indication or diagnosis of being separated from the canopy that drained them from spectral affairs, speaking as vivid visions of benefits and sovereignties that escaped from themselves without contemplation or quietism of the human race, which procreates xenophobia to kings without throne or nation. Under the Attic, calendar were the months here were only eighth, Anthesterion, received them with the name directly of the main festival celebrated in this month, Anthesteria. In goods of name contests in the semester of Pyanepsia, Thargelia, and Skira where they were relatively significant, in some of the greatest celebrations in the life of a Polis, which is not recognized in the name of the month. Some sparkled in the sound of the Great Dionysia celebrated in Elaphebolion (ninth month), and the Panathenaia in which they are only indirectly recognized in Hekatombaion (month one), named after the hecatomb, of the sacrifice of "one hundred oxen" celebrated at night. End of the Panathenaia. This is where the suspicious fondness of both families of Seleucus and Alexander the Great differed in the accent that marks the written line of the infra Polis, where the leaders of Haides or Hades are lost, for the purposes of Aïdes, as not indivisible, but with the presence of Wonthelimar, who is invisible but epically static on his balustrade in all the rings that chorally wore them for each patronage of the diádocos generals, even so he had betrayed the Hellenic legacy, by a Hellenic-Orthodox one in the disappearance of Alexander the Great in Babylon without knowing that it had been rescued by Wonthelimar, surpassing the limits of the rings of stefánes ibix, or Aros de íbiz, as nano kvantikoí daktýlioi, quantum nano-ring that augured to sensitize the dermis of its carpal phalanges, from the eighth, Anthesterion to Elaphebolion (ninth month), minus the one hundred and twenty days of gestation in a month of the attic of imníbiz, that it was of wise advice to receive him in the new engend rivers of Wonthelimar in the depths and bundles of marrow with gestation forms of an Ibex goat, with their embedded bases of stalagmites, filing the meaning of each life that was lodged in the depths of the caves and its opacity. The Eygues of Valdaine was the Acheron, but with half the deceased who sat in rows and unleashed their laurels that possessed poor aids tormented by mandrake root hands.

The underworld was a swamp that covered the heels of the diádocos in the immense blackness of the cavern that wounded them one and the other with its Kopis, by more than a hundred blows and slashes that covered them with mud and moans in their buried half bodies. That they had been intruded from linear entrances to the underworld of Wonthelimar. In the thick musts of the quagmire where objects with ornaments of fear and cavalier materiality lay, such mangrove deserts satiated with gloomy fibromyalgia and amnesia, refiguring in the wandering bones, that sinned in lights and destinies that were adopted in the sub-world with incorporeal needs., more than the exhaustion that tore the skeletal muscle of each one behind the meager compromise openings, in the strong ligaments of the host Wonthelimar that took them at forced steps towards paradises where there will never be consciousness from a Theseus typology, but from a sub taxonomy - Verthian mythological, for purposes and among others that unleash it by propelling self-infernos that are not those born by a Macedonian force or Satrap into puny kings turned into a servile, mute and decayed.

It is necessary, that solitude of all the entrances from the abyss into which they fell, was titanic and of ultraphobic acquiescent inspiration, and in the acid gestures of search of Persephone or Aerse that in random gestures fled from their persecutors, like females who ended fleeing from themselves falling into the back room where the end of souls is never exceeded or Psyché re emigrating from the punishments of a satire or a static that resulted in a ghostly wandering, or in tendentious spinners that tribulated in belated bundles of repentance. From primitive times, subjugations have been longed for in kings who would never think of leaving their cracks and washing their hands behind the backs of others who stood by, leaving the courage to lose themselves in the perversity of a body deposited in the Tartars, having to give them their prehistoric debts and meadows of carpeted debts and caged rooms.

The generals commanded by Seleucus walked barefoot along with the stump that wounded them in seams for their plantar areas, and in extreme distress, they did not dare to ask mercy from the cave host who transported them through the deep pit of perpetuity, where the frigid bullet of angina of Wothelimar, filled them with memories that protected their survival. In unworthy caprice and watery *****,… it ran frivolously down their legs, even after each impulse to recover the flashes of estimating being scared of oneself, after finding dead fruits subsisted halfway, feeling voices from the origin of the abyss that I quoted them.

Etréstles says: "Mashiach allow me to enter this grave, I do not know if I should go to rescue them, because I know what will happen..., I only ask that if I enter with courage, help me to find the same light of the exit, with the same memory of not to waste arrests, and not to lose myself in my entrustment by those who I know will not return”

Behind some Sabine poplars, it is seen how the elytra of the Lepidoptera were opened for those who crossed from the darkness without the appearance of their fruitful eyes that tickled praises of surrender, and not of ibid in the ibid that surrounded them, as if they were violated that heal at the moment when their faces departed from the miracle of privacy, and from the solitude decreed of non-existent company, companionship calming any dogmatic symptoms and hypoxia that the glimpse of the Eygues and the Acheron left them, further behind in which Saint John the Apostle and Vernarth, Reader and Petrobus to bring Etréstles back.

Saint John the Apostle says: “Vernarth go for your brother,… he wants to protect the souls of Seleucus and his comrades, go soon because there is little left to fill them with darkness which will even besiege in their reasoning and anti homelands that will not be from the din of the campanile, out of tune with joy that runs on the graces of the gift that frees you from the worst virus by not being anti-viral… ”.

Vernarth replies: “Etréstles is the slogan of Erebus, perhaps of Bumodos…, I have to stop him for his profession, since the comrades of Seleuco will not return, the effigies of Wonthelimar have made them of his children in Ultramundi, and what is Solstice of the underworld, it is only a small Sun that fits in the buttonhole of the orthogonal slot that confines it”.

At that time Raeder paraded where he before they reached the omega of the gully pit, running swiftly over the eyelets of Wonthelimar, leaving both completely naked, to tear them away from the contrived spell and bring Etrestles back all the way together and running., but both stripped of lightness and acceleration escaped from the centripetal bodies. After the tortured walls of the pit, they no longer supported themselves in their Skotos or Erebo of Wothelimar in such a primordial deity of this theogonic and fantastic event in the bilocated cavern of Chauvet in Skalá. Here all the densities and units of physical genres, from above and below surrounded them in the thick sulfur atmosphere, Ananké in such a goddess of inevitability ran after all who tried to reverse the situation of the diádocos, for the purpose of consenting their paragraphs Hellenics and to save their lives, but the mother of the Moiras went behind Etréstles and Vernarth along with Rader and Petrobus who were basking in the glow of Persephone that imbued them as they stagnated drinking mead with the Canephores who followed him. From this cryptic moment or from the bombastic insignia of Crete, Kanti's trotting from his Cretan figure was felt united with the Lepidoptera Calypso, redeeming Demeter from her crying on the edge of some Bern olive trees, emptier now that the last gradients of the agonic and venous voices in the hilarious of some diádocos that were completely absorbed by the benevolent illusion of Wonthelimar, snowy in the harrowing tenuity of his gestures and of the great Iberian that took them towards the heights of the hillocks and towards the Ultramundi that It turned them into proles of the mountainous areas, and into super aquatic monsters with thousands of loose eyes in the arches of the generals bleating, which transposed ****** subjugations of primal deities, and philastics of phantasmagorical genres of Hellas that is plucked from the peritoneum of their stomachs, and that guttural eradicated them from the blue adrenaline of Apollo.

This odyssey dispelled the orthogonal lines of the poetic affliction of those who could see the sunset and the Spyché ***** that antagonized Ananké's numinous efforts to extubate them, and perhaps exile them to the Theban plains to graze Achaeans of the first degree alongside Shamash. Lamenting of young afternoons and of the abysmal with beautiful hair of the generous of effects, swampy and of feverish Hadesian or Hade's rounds that crippled their districts, they emanated from some Marie Curie junk and vapors radiating this Parapsychological Quantum to them from their own holy final body., for a virtuous and rout of the Ultramundis of Wonthelimar.
Wonthelimar Ultramundi
Arcassin B Jun 2016
By Arcassin , Chloe , Wolf, SE , soul , zeal , Brando , icy , irie , soulful , strange , and wendy

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
AB

Not Even I,
a mere human being with limitations and
Wants and needs to stay away from the business
suits that only want the greed and the finer things
Distributing cigarettes to these young kids is what
Nobody else needs,
To live in this wickedness , you'll see,
Where does the tax payers money go?
Learning all of the secrets that rely on history to
Keep us up and about with drugs that we use on
Our day to day schedules for whatever contingency
planned for,
No sign of a Grail to be explored,

Remembering those who have lost their lives in
The wars that gave us the hope and chance we
Needed to make America great proceeding to give
The freedom of speech a new motive behind it,
That's why I write everyday to keep the demons inside,
Senseless killing in America makes my stomach turn in
Ways that I could not fathom dreaming that I could believe
What lies ahead won't be pretty for us,
I guess that I'm delirious,
Pray for Orlando
When judgment day comes , I hope he cares for us.


CZ (Chorus)

Every struggle in life we are built to fight
we know that in the end there will be that light

WS

i'm appalled with the world the way it is
our politicians carry on with the same old biz
protecting the rich, taking from the poor
usurping the world , like our cheap little *****

our city streets are in disrepair
the infrastructure is in a terrible tear
no education, no social equality
and the bill is payed by you and me.......

we're gonna need a bigger boat
to keep this broken thing afloat
don't preach me your democracy
your lies, you vain hypocrisy

give the people back their right
we're mad and ready for a fight
to take away all of your riches
and shitcan all you sons of *******.


SE R

we need an epiphany
a salvation re-orientation,
for will our judgement be
only what we thought?
or is hell what we perpetuate
on soil, on man, in greed, in hate?
we live as if to win is gain,
while poor lay dying,
shows our shame;
we live as if ‘tis loss to weep,
yet this the joy we each should seek…
in loving well the least of these,
to show in smallest ways,
a lighted path to those who’ve strayed
offer hope to any castaway;
might we in doing bring
heaven to this earthly scene?
for is not earth our heaven’s womb,
a battlefield, a testing place?
is not our call to light the dark,
and take our place among the stars?


CZ (Chorus)

Every struggle in life we are built to fight
we know that in the end there will be that light


SS

Who is there minding the store?
We can't keep up anymore
All the news that we now see
Internet and our TV
Tell tales off horror
Tales of woe
How much farther will it go?
Let's be real! Can we talk?
'Bout a thing called
FUTURE SHOCK
Cause this is true... and it is hairy
What's down the pike
Is downright SCARY!
Politicians deal & flirt
Don't matter if they wear a skirt!
Go to Georgia and you'll see
What is set up for you and me
There's some stones
upon that land
Telling all that they have planned

THEY SMILE AS THEY TELL A LIE
THE ELITE WANT US TO DIE.

While they put on a great show
Underground is where they'll go
Let 'em go and live like trolls
Jesus Christ is in CONTROL.

Please consider this my friends
Everything will have to END.
Forget your prejudice and pride
You don't want to be on
THE WRONG SIDE!
Make a turn. Make a start.
Ask the Savior in your HEART!
Then I'll tell you what's in store

YOU'LL HAVE LIFE FOREVERMORE!


MZ

Something fishy in the air what happen to the black one?
I didn't see the fall until I saw Washington..
Women starting to vote and monkeys are still in the zoo?
In the 1950s they called black people apes but now I'm seeing that it's you..
Sense when did money made you feel like going for president?
"We the People" naa more like the congress are voting for you.
I think it's scam so I turn it to the kardashians,
There I find a better democratic presidential view ...why...cause she looks better lying about Mexicans,


BM

There is no one at the other end of your string and paper cup telephone prayers There is no monumental, unconditional love awaiting you between or beyond the stars There is no concern for you in the imagined patterns of the stars, Nor do they carry a plan or reason for the crashing of waves, torrent funnel winds or the malice of men There is no promised land, no reward, no heaven when you take that final step.

But you do have the power of whispers in your fellow mankind’s ear It IS YOU that carry the ability for immeasurable, inconceivable love It is us who write the plan, who give our lives reason and meaning through it all THIS life, this gift of witness IS your reward, your heaven as you wish.

The tragedies have NEVER stopped. The killing, the senseless violence, the hunger of insatiable wrath………. But nor has birth of life in many forms. In dawn, in spring, in hope. We aware, true to ourselves in dismissing of ego stand strong and confident as the Ying, the light, the counter balance........


IS

Sorrow fills this world to it's rim,
Fathers abusing mothers,
abandoning children,
Mother's cry out in pain,
little ones run in fear....
why is this world in such despair?
Born to love, born to hate, to judge, to accept...
though this concept is hard for some,
we live in this world, just hoping to survive,
Coming to the point where you never know
where love and hate draw the line.

Why do parents fight, and the kids are the ones who suffer?
Why do we make war, to find peace?
Innocent people cut down in their prime,
by those who find happiness in other's misery.
From mothers and fathers whose sons and daughter were
wrongly taken from them,
To those who are punished for being human...
Life as we know it, is going to hell.

Trust, hope, security, love, and respect for humanity
is quickly dying... The future, no longer ours to control.
From bullying to ****, to ****** and suicide, Society is no more.... We pray for things to change... for it's now out of our hands,


IRIE

Movement of time collides
with tear drop melody
darkened angel
to final day symphony:

gun blasts in homeland
enter familiar flesh-
different tongues conceal
common threads that makes us

wounded souls call for God
in bomb dimpled lands-
far from American eyed reach
and inside

amidst spiritual sands

Treading with foot print patterns
around rock’s pure holiness
meditating in temples
laden in gold tributes

seeking truth’s distant comfort

guns blast in homelands
families wonder why-

pain embraces consciousness
dripping hints of salvation
into thick Iron pools
of Christ’s calling

red horse not so distant
seven seals awakening
run back to one
it’s time to find love
...

CZ (Chorus)

Every struggle in life we are built to fight
we know that in the end there will be that light


Soulful

How old is the world?
Old enough to ruin the existance of 1000 suns
Old enough to show you what society is made of
Old enough to had withstood the apocalypse and blood shed of the technology, oil , and war on terrorism...
The world is now ruin
Perhaps I should start fron the beginning
When it was human, animalistic, with plants that existed
To understand this..
We use all the resources and save none for the next generation
We contemplate the singularity of humanism
Only using electricity to say we are wealthy
**** animals so harshly
Murdering outselves to show the superiority of the race of humans
Killing the world in which we live...
Getting deeper in to our stupidity
We solidify a type of money
Paper...
Useless, smelly, germy, filled with hate
The money most people need and yet only few gave
The mentality is simple honestly
Don't give but take
No empathy just fake
Because thats how you make it
The tragedy in "third world country"
The ignorance in those who dont update their ios 7
The forgiveness in African mutiny
And the showing of ******* economy
The people had rights they told you
The people had freedom they told you
The people had justice they told you
Until the the world went to shambles when they actually figured out they had a right to seek and destroy a government....they had the right to seek and destroy a crippled foundation for it was seeking to destroy them,


Strange

They came in guns blazing
With no warning
Just the sound of hell raging in ones ears
So many screams then there was nothing
As the first soul was vanquished from its flesh and bones
Painting a blood mural upon the once white walls
Bodies floated down the crimson river as they cried their final tears
One girl prayed to her gods hoping to deliver one final message to her son
He was two and was soon to be motherless
Another young lad was seventeen
So prideful yet so scared as he curled in a ball screaming for his mommy
"I don't want to die" was their last comment,


WR

Tragedy in life arises at birth Does not cease until Life comes to an end We cannot teach peace With one another Mostly because we do not Agree on religion It seems a bit simple And quite concise All we need to do for peace Is love one another And treat each other right
Tragedy always starts out In a human mind beautifully Equivalent to Eve's Desire for the fruit of Truth upon the tree.


CZ (Chorus)

Every struggle in life we are built to fight
we know that in the end there will be that light.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
©ABPoetry2016

http://arcassin.blogspot.com/2016/06/live-die-repeat-ft-chloe-zafonte-wolf.html
Mariah L Wallace Apr 2015
Why am I called "white"?
Why am I an absence of color
To be associated with purity
Flawless innocence
A clean slate

Why am I called "white"
When I have the blood of monsters in my veins
There is nothing immaculate about my heritage
Simply from a lack of pigmentation
My hair is braided with the ******* of masses
My eyes see the broken lives of the oppressed
My ears hear the echoes of homelands invaded
And my hands hold the books with the historic lies enclosed

Why am I called "white"
Compared, as if, to the paper
On which my people's crimes could be written
Repeating so frequently with so many new victims
But we are never called to justice
And the cycle remains unbroken
When we are addressed
We stand up from our thrones, screaming
"Unfair, cruel, why attack me?!
I don't understand, what privilege do you see?!"
We act like the victims, fed by the system
And we eat it up with our metaphoric silver spoons

Why am I called "white"
I've been stained from the years of hatred
Perpetuated by a people who claim guiltlessness
Just because they are a newer generation
What was once called subjugation
Is now appropriation
But both are used to deny culture and rights from nations
But I won't sit by and prolong this delusion that we are any better
Any more beautiful then any other one of God's creations
uzzi obinna Oct 2015
I have seen the blood of my loved ones, spilled on a dusty road;
Seen the fall of kings, powerful warriors and the bold;
The skin of mothers and little children, broken by cold;
The ancient landmarks of the fatherless, siezed and sold.

I have heard the cry of the homeless but no one there to save;
Heard the wailing of the deserted, seen the tears of the brave;
Many driven from their homelands, now hiding in caves;
And a father toiling night and day, treated as a slave.

I have heard of dreams of many, still unrealised;
The ****** daughters of priests, lured or defiled;
The goals of youths, swallowed up by pride;
And the future of generations, poorly discerned.

I have read government policies, unfavourable for the common man;
Heard of national resources, expended without concrete plans
Communities connive to eliminate a defenseless clan;
And a nation sold into modern slavery, by reckless polititians.

Many tears have droped, sweat and blood everywhere;
Many races have been run but the end seems nowhere near;
Many have waited hopelessly for a better year;
Many have stood up but crawled back for sake of fear.

A day will come when the oppressed will arise;
Like Martin Luther King Jr. did,though his blood was a price;
Like Nelson Mandela did, even though his act was termed a vice-
For the freedom of the enslaved and oppressed but the wicked's sudden demise.
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2016
artist working by candle light,
neon lights, coffee shop lights...

~~~

to, for & from SJR
~

this force,  
burnt soul kindling,
rampant urges that bow a man's
spine

write write rite right

consumption of the soul
straighten up, flex,
flex to the curvature of the Earths
invitation to

write write rite right

cast my eyes to the mountains,
from whence will come my help?

street prowler, heart growler,
Art Deco lampposts,
the mountain range of east seventy second street,
begs the baggers question,
each a post
begging each other,
from whence will come my inspiration?

lick the stubbled sidewalks,
fall down living in their caverned cracks,
light needed needy soft heated
orange and green pizza neons
say here,
if you see upon what be,
your homelands colors of veracity

from
candle light,
neon lights,
coffee shop lights.

all queries so queer,
so cheerfully answered
in the ***** air,
in warped woof of
city write lights

he goes home
in the dark of a green moon,
and its delighting inviting
moonlight,
he composes
what is his eyes have
decomposed into a single memory,

and is satisfied
unto sleep

praising the eyes,
light lidded, but eager closing,
that
had wisdom given
to observe
light various by which to

write write rite right




4/16/16
10:30am
nyc
artist working by candle light,
neon lights, coffee shop lights...

from a comment to me from
SJR

months ago, a title
  that lay fallow
until
I tilled
my city streets
Matt Jun 2016
I dream of traveling
To northern Syria or Iraq

To join the YPG
Or Peshmerga

Peshmerga means
"Ones who confronts death"

To fight bravely
Alongside them
Knowing each day
Could be my last

Although it has been
Many years
Since I have fired
A weapon

(It was in an indoor range
With A Springfield M1903)

I just need some practice

I dream
Of fighting
With the YPG
In their just cause

Their way of life
Being threatened

The U.S. Government
Does not condone
Volunteers
From our military forces
Going to help the Kurds

That's fine
I just have my limited
ROTC training

I could train there

I'm fit
And I'm able bodied

And there I will finally
Be part of a community

The YPJ
Strike fear
Into the hearts
Of Daesh fighters

They fear they will
Go to hell
If they are killed
By the YPJ in battle

The YPG and YPG forces
Are courageous and strong
They fight a war against evil
All year long

You defend your homelands
Kurds of the YPG and YPJ

You did not choose war
It was forced upon you

Long live the YPG and YPJ forces

I pray you will one day live
In peace and security

And although
Many will
Not understand

If I die
At least I die
Fighting with
People I love

For their right
To live peacefully

Can you hear
The Ululation

Do you listen
To the YPJ's cry?

Long live the Kurds
Daesh fighters must die
This is just me fantasizing and dreaming.  I do not have the money to go there, or to get back.  I would never actually go.  I just dream of doing something memorable and participating in a worthwhile cause.  

Also what the Kurds need are modern weapons, not volunteers.  Daesh has all the modern weapons left over from the conflict in Iraq and many YPG/YPG/Peshmerga forces are outgunned.
Ayeshah Oct 2013
Tonight I felt loved like I've long since forgot existed,

It's been, it seems, like ages,
(10 years,8 months,2 weeks,4 days,12 hours,32 minutes,and 18sec!)

Since, since I've felt this or allowed myself  feel acceptance, or to allow my heart to fill up.

To be cherished even....

Tonight you slowly took your time...

You've given to me, it'd seem the missing pieces I've been needing...

I watched you watching me, as you'd listen to my history and without ever judging you've allowed a bridge to start being built.

You see long ago I knocked one down and I put up walls, I even made a levy in the hopes that no one would attempt crossing again to concur than once more destroy my heart and that of my trust, but tonight....

Oh tonight you listen, asked question's.

Purely from a longing to know me and not just about me,

but how I've come to be who I currently am...

I felt almost whole.

I was it seems, very in tuned with you,

as you shared your history with me, allowing me into a world of worlds,

I've only dreamed of.

Far away lands, I've only read in romance novels.

Yet you've actually lived it.

The magic I held of your homelands, never went away or filtered as you shared the ups and downs of your life and history... it's only made you that more enchanting to me.

It made me that more willing to share myself with you too.

Knowing of your trial and the burdens you too had faced made you seem even more real but still so very enchanting to me.

Oh tonight, you metaphorically sung to my soul and caressed my heart with the amount of trust and love you've encased around me.

After the hours past and each of us shared our history along with sob stories it seems we  solidified what we already knew; a bound not just of friends for life but it became more...

We have had this love for one another but the magnitude of us seem so over whelming as night became morning, you held me tight in your embrace, stroking my back and caressing my hair, expression the need for me to forever be with you and give to you all of me.

Mind ,soul,Heart, and body.

Spiritual love and acceptance all the days of what would be US.

You loved me, with each stroke, with each touch, with each word and syllable, with each caress, you've loved me.

I felt us joining, felt this morning- the bound we made turning into more than us becoming lovers or friends, as if you took me to wife and I've taken you as husband.

I feel foolish to even say such a thing,  because you know how it is at the present and i'ts so sorry I feel every time I leave.

Once here,  laying in bed, I think of all we've shared and things we given word to.

No one else even knows in such a short time we've consummated the idea's of US being everything we failed obtain from previous relationships.... of becoming more nor what it'll all now mean..,  I think of the tenderness you've engulfed all around me along with this shield of your protection, of your love.

Which shines brighter than a lighthouse or any other beacons.

I unthinkably touch myself,  automatically where your fingers have lingered on my skin, where your lips have traced, I find myself this morning longing for you to be with me.

Once more holding me to you as we semi sleep, I can still feel your movements as my body matched you stroke for stroke, and in awe plus yearning I let out a sigh.

I'm at peace.

With you I am home....  Yet right now my dilemma's a skinny yet hefty arm, which holds me firmly...  It feels so foreign to me now, the weight feels awards, as you know this is the same arm that's been holding another and made it a point caste me aside.

For this new assault, this new kind of manipulation(s) I feel a bit sick.

More disappointing too, knowing that it's not you.

I feel dishearten to be laying here thinking of the wonders we shared and to me I need not ever justify this love we've wrought...  yet laying here with him makes me feel sorry for our situation, It makes me feel more sorry for you.

To be placed in this as it is,  after we've cultivated this bound, this love so pure and so true.

A stark contrast to my mistreatment's by said same person & person(s) plus that of your abuse too...

I am scared and feeling very inadequate too.

I need you, and need us.

I'm vulnerable yet I wont falter on what we're allowing to take shape,  to root.

I also wont allow those roots to ever be dug up...  this is now our turn, our time.

This wont be our ending and no shame comes to me when it's about you,

about us becoming
WE!



Always Me Ayeshah ®
Copyright ©
Ayeshah
K.C.L.N 1977 - Present YEAR(s)
All right reserved ®
in the annals of cricket
those of greatness get a mention
for what they've achieved on the wicket
these men stand head and shoulder
above the rest
their contribution
to the game
has
been written as the best
three men have inspired
younger players
in their homelands
they've accomplished
much on wickets
throughout the many cricket playing
lands

Steven Waugh(Australian Captain)
the master strategist
who had a captain's mind
replete with brilliant tactics
when he took to the pitch
the opposition teams
would quiver in their
collective boots
field placement  
over deliveries
the weather conditions
all of these factors
actuated in his mind
so he could
bring an innings
of a notable kind

Sachin Tendulkar (Indian Batsman)
the king of the blade
who none can equal
in test matches
his cuts and cover drives
were worthy of an epic prequel
his style with the bat
twas magic to see
he had a prowess
of majesty

Vivian Richard (West Indies All Rounder)
he was never phased
he held his nerve
with the bat or the ball
a tradesman
who fielded what ever came at him
and in his relaxed style
chewed on a piece of gum
and demolish
the bails
with a Caribbean hum

cricket's hall of fame
that 22 yard pitch
where three greatest of the game
performances  
did of fans
ever bewitch
Bob B Oct 2016
Sing out, nation of IMMIGRANTS!
Sing your glorious song
Of how this country was built—
Of what made this nation strong.
 
Sing about all the challenges
And hardships our ancestors found
When trying to build their lives
And get their feet on the ground.
 
Sing of the PERSECUTION
That drove them out of fear
To abandon their native homelands
And often haunted them here.
 
Sing of the Native Americans—
Of the proud and varied nations—
Displaced from their territories,
And forced into reservations.
 
Sing of our fellow Americans
Originally brought here by force;
Let the melody echo
Kindness and REMORSE.
 
Sing of the jobless, the homeless,
Whose families suffered the bane
Of a harsh, cruel existence
And here sought relief from their pain.
 
Sing of the countless refugees
Who fled from war-torn places,
Hoping to live in PEACE
In a land of welcoming embraces.
 
Sing of the life of the immigrant
Who faced prejudice and jeers—
Whose struggles for rights and acceptance
Sometimes lasted for years.
 
Sing of the factory workers
Who worked under hellish conditions—
Whose voices were long unheard
By the deaf ears of politicians.
 
Sing of the plight of the miners
Who extracted the underground coal—
Of the dangers that they encountered
As they worked in that dark, dusty hole.
 
Sing of the laborers from Asia,
Who helped lay our tracks—that’s a fact—
And to whom we showed our thanks
With the Chinese Exclusion Act.
 
Think of the German, Norwegian...
All farmers who tilled the soil
To feed a nation that took
For granted their sweat and toil.
 
Sing of those working in fields,
Because of whose work you are able
To place with minimum effort
Fresh strawberries on your table.
 
Sing about all of the workers—
Such as the ones that you
Hire to do the work
That you refuse to do.
 
Sing of the great DIVERSITY
That people brought to this land,
Lest we forget who we are
And how to understand.
 
Sing of our immigrant nation
Before our memories fade
And we lose our self-identity,
And our actions become a charade.
 
Sing of the "huddled masses
Yearning to breathe free,”
And may others expect
KINDNESS from you and from me!
 
Sing of our generous nature
And let us try to fashion
A nation full of heart,
Built on love and compassion.

- by Bob B
We should strip Churches of their beloved tax-exempt status
if they should continue to fail to reach out to those in need:
the poor, those chased out of their homelands by tyranny,
or those who seek asylum from any type of oppression.
Hundreds try to cross the hostile border
They seek a better life in Northern lands
Acquiring this dream is of high order
No promise for the future in homelands
They run the gauntlet of patrolling guards
Which disallow entry into America
They want escape from their domestic yards
These people yearn for the soils of Arizona
The journey they'll take is perilous
Some manage a successful traversing
Though the road they've traced is dangerous
Yet they're willing to risk everything
Mexican people are seeking a route out
From land which has no prospective sprout
IrieSide Feb 2018
Movement of time collides
with tear drop melody
darkened angel
to final day symphony:

gun blasts in homeland
enter familiar flesh-
different tongues conceal
common threads that makes us

wounded souls call for God
in bomb dimpled lands-
far from American eyed reach
and inside

amidst spiritual sands

Treading with foot print patterns
around rock’s pure holiness
meditating in temples
laden in gold tributes

seeking truth’s distant comfort

guns blast in homelands
families wonder why-

pain embraces consciousness
dripping hints of salvation
into thick Iron pools
of Christ’s calling

red horse not so distant
seven seals awakening
run back to one
it’s time to find love
The tragic happenings of todays time.
Beleif Jul 2014
Traveling a rocky shore,
In spite of waves that threaten.

Carried deep into the sea,
Into a lapse of memory.

As darkness pulls my very soul
The deep can't slay my fate.
Lost in all its meaning,
While I see my final day.

Awakened by the truth,
As I stare in much confusion.
Struggling to stand,
And to see through blinding light.

Beckoning me onwards even further
through the ocean,
As I struggle in its wake to see the source of mystic beauty.

I follow to the homelands,
Where the birth of man has happened.
Staring in amazement at the sunken ancient islands.
Enlightened in the truth of life,
My travel has been ended.
blue Jan 2017
il colosseo roma in leather-scented dusk grips the night, marble hand on woman's thigh; these evening breaths are half-lit by awning lights and candle-flame laughter. waiters serve wanderers searching for home under the light of the half-moon – they don't tell us that these shores have too much mystery for us. some homelands are sun-steeped histories cradling darling secrets between ancient bricks, ancient tombs.
 
the amalfi coast whispers seashell lullabies to the old-souled man plying whiskers of melodies out of his tin-flute, traipsing in a pit-patter down the sandy road leading to the ocean beach. he watches drowsy-eyed windows blink pulses on the beach – they caress us to sleep in lulls and crescents.
 
the florentine memories are all mine - bacchan dreams; how you turned my head away from the window, wrapped me in whiteness like newborn's skin. you, the child of a mountain spring where gods were born - the softness in your neck betrays this to the doves. heartbeat an adagio in old italy, heather scent stirring the air like eye of newt in witches' brew. love, your body like a holy city – lamplit streets between dusk and dawn leave little to the wishes of the heart.
italy, 2015
Snatched from the grasp of my slippery hand
as we were being evacuated
the hardship to reach the borders and safety
the pressure at last released
such noises of gun fire and the inevitable panic
pitiful humanity scared and sick!

Surging forward afraid they were being deserted
trampling upon each other
screams of many children and mothers separated
soldiers callous and cruel
degrading those forced from their homelands
all they owned in their hands!

My wife forced from my grasp in the wave
of such utter chaos and despair
snatched like a tree branch in a fast moving river
now not water but human misery
without hope stability or permanent destination
my search I start in desperation!

Searching for her betwixt the endless conflicts!

The Foureyed Poet.
So near to the chance of safety the man's wife is snatched from his grasp! The Foureyed Poet.
Harumi Ikeda Sep 2010
I had nothing to say when i flew away.
Above the clouds,
beyond the trees.
Whisper no secrets to wandering clouds
and spray tears like the stars
across heavens and homelands.
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
I am from everywhere,
My homelands nowhere.

In the final night
Take me to the Constellations.

Now while the words still flow,
While the world is a despairing beauty.

While I am full of life and laughter
And I do not fear the end.

Now while the day is at its peak
And my calloused hands grow stronger.

Today, not on the morrow,
For I do not know any better, or want to.

In the final hour let me die,
Not of death, but of life!
DieingEmbers Jun 2012
Cast adrift
my mind wanders
Unchartered
homelands
become mine own.


reading others works gives one a glimpse of their nations pride and beauty.
louis rams Oct 2013
Let us sit and talk about all the injustices of the world
And how it affects us, and every young boy and girl.
We have created a world of insecurities and doubts.
Is this what life is all about?
The education is failing them, but not so much from the school
But because we have changed all the rules.
We have created an “I don’t give a **** “attitude
For all the young to see, this includes wars, slavery, and poverty.
How can they grow? When they’re surrounded by all of this!
Isn’t there something that we missed?
Is it the fact that we are supposed to set the example?
Of what is right and wrong, and make this world for them
“Just “and “strong “.
People have left their homelands to come here for a better life
Now they have to think twice!
We are creating the same things they tried to escape from!
What has this country become?
Government buildings are shutting down
And on the “Obama care “republicans frown.
The only solution that I can see is have the children run the countries.
Most children don’t know about bigotry and hate
Let’s keep their minds fresh before it’s too late.
They must not be exposed to the evils of the land
And shown the brotherhood of love that they understand.
Children will bicker and argue like all of us do
But they don’t hold a grudge and follow thru.
They may not know about finances and the bottom line
But they’ll learn it, given time.
They do know how to BARTER and it is
So much easier and not that much harder.
They say: I have a yo-yo and you have a top
Let’s exchange it and call it “even Stevens “or
“I HAVE A BALL AND YOU HAVE A BAT “
Let’s go to the park and play.
HOW ABOUT THAT!
They may have the answers to the problems that we seek
Cause as we get older, our minds get weak
We just see things in black and white, while they
See things that they know are right.
Pen Lux Apr 2014
a never ending summer
left a foul taste in my mouth
a stench on my clothes
and far too many take backs,
ten-dollar scratchers, and lessons on
how to properly **** yourself.

maybe the word
                            no
could have dropped out of my mouth
instead of my lips closing down
left to drown in my broken shell.
I felt so pale, no gold inside, just a joke
just a plague.
there's no mistake
I'm gonna bake
this summer come
but won't be numb,
will no longer crumble at the sight
no longer hide away my eyes, maybe
find myself at night with a friend
I hold too tight. I stay up late,
can't help but write.

all my thoughts, they're here for the taking.
staircase downward falling
against walls, she crawls,
feels like something forgotten,
keeps on running, unburies thoughts,
she hides no more, she's here for the taking.
sometimes poetry's repeating all the beating
we try to hide, but it's also gathering the feelings
that we often take for granted,
mistake that our lovers are ourselves
that their shame and crime is intertwined
with the person you have come to find
when you look in the mirror
or the eyes of another,
when you speak to your mother
or to a friend whose lost some other
part of themselves they see in you
so they talk and act on through
try not to hurt or shame, it's a humble game
experience doesn't always have to be defeating
when we can't help ourselves from greeting
all the travelers from their homelands,
looking for deeper meaning.

words can be whatever you make them
it's an expression of thought, communication
is one of the most incredible attributes to being human.
a voice is a projection of your breathing mixed with feeling.
next time I'll try to say more of what matters
and less of what I don't care is best.
this life is a lesson, there's no way to fail,
it's not a test.
keep it real, folks
Tryst Jun 2016
What cultivates the greatness of our homelands?
Tis not the land, the rocks, the earth, the sea,
The treaties writ for nobles by their own hands
Decrying common views as heresy.
Great Britain was still great long e'er the sun rose
Blessing the nets of Europe's wedding veil,
And when her arms extended to her old foes,
She stood alone, defiant, to prevail.
Tis in the heart, the will, the strength of mind
Of each proud lad and lass that calls her home
Wherein the Great of Britain seeks to find
The inspiration of her epitome.
        On her 'twas said the sun would never set,
        Let not her sons and daughters e'er forget.
Great Britain joined the EU in 1973 and voted to leave in 2016.  Of all the greatest achievements in British history, few examples will be found solely within this era that compare favourably to what has been achieved before, or will again.
Paige Miller Feb 2013
Even sound leaves an impact
a trace in the air that meets your ear. A planned impact.

Shuffling feet on grass can crush
the hills of ants whose homelands impact.

Bombs leave silhouetted scars,
bodies slip between cracks in politics. Man’s impact.

Vist a foreign land for a week.
Carry-back-culture-in-boxes-and-cans-impact.

The aftermath of a butterfly’s wings?
Can we ban impact?

Finally able to withstand the sharpness of tongues.
Stop walking on eggs shells. Demand impact.

When a King turns his head, let the letters roar.
Revolution makes a grand impact.
Midshipman Macky Jun 2018
To all my co-seafarers out there
We're a kind of man that is rare
Sailing port to port is never easy
It makes our mind look messy

Grieve to achieve more and more
We sail to make our own lore
It's hard to have a safe sail you know,
Just to make my times flow and glow

For our family's on our homelands
Too far but cannot cut our bonds
Even if we are far from our loveones
A day with them will be our lance

As we sail through depths of sea
Only the future in your eyes, I see
Partly inloved without a body,
Of me waiting to be full heartedly

It's sad to say how people judge us
Disregarding it but it has a mass
We don't talk for us to believe
Is these words is what you give?

They say we're fool and full
Fool to trust our "I Love You"
And full of girls that we've made "I do"
But they know nothing but judgements

It feels good when you're way back home
Stealing kisses and hugs that comes
Years or months? Sad but there's also weeks
But its fine even a peke on your chicks

It's hard when we need to leave again
Let we connect with a paper and a pen
Our eyes won't lie to "I miss you"
All I wanted is to be with you

As of now we're heading east
To sail to other lands for a fiest
Not to make love to other girls
I'll finish my job and buy you rose
Some seaferers were judge but the nature of their job in movies, well not all seafarers are not as bad as they seems
Jonny Angel Feb 2014
Bravely you answered the call
for your fatherlands,
fought revolutionary wars for your mothers,
protected you children from the scourge
of corruption &  greed,
the murderous acts of
villainous human-rats.

You became nocturnal sentinels,
counted stars, cupped cigarettes,
yearned for new creations,
kept faded photographs
in the special pockets
of you tattered knapsacks.
You learned the art of insomnia,
slept in the mud & dirt of your homelands,
spit lead into the sick hearts of the wolf pack,
whom you were always certain would **** you.

You became eternal combatants
& fought with great zest,
confessing your strength
from machine-gun nests,
laughed like mad dogs under fire,
those times when things seemed dire.
You were killed with fireballs & tracers,
gunships & tanks & planes & artillery,
died in shallow trenches
& in hardened bunkers,
in the thick jungles
& in endless deserts,
on mountaintops
& on beaches,
even in the cornfields
& on the city streets
of your own neighborhoods.

You were assassinated by pariahs,
the enemies of your people,
your blood watered your lands,
helped to nourish
your strong beliefs,
the flowers of freedom
& now you sleep soundly,
deep under the sacred-grounds
gifted to you
by the same blood
shed by your ancestors,
your forefathers & mothers,
brothers & sisters, aunt & uncles,
all the members of your family trees.

And with great love
poetry will be written
for you rebels,
recorded histories
& unknown graves
will be the stark reminders
of the size of your hearts
& your mountain of courage
will forever stand as testimony.
Kai Joy Apr 2016
Boisterous applause
on the black of the pan,
bubbling eager
for bayou born hands.

Dark dusty skin
like the soil of homelands,
spiced with the method
of mother of mother.

White men on crosses,
black faces in photos,
of family from graveyards
or just beyond grasp.

exhausted linoleum,
faded by traffic,
of church shoes,
and paw pads,
by ambles
and drawls.
Sean M O'Kane Sep 2018
Glenshane Pass separated you both.
23 miles away in the same time, same place as my father’s childhood.
So when you talked of your da digging Toner’s bog and waxed lyrical about sheughs, I knew in our English class what exactly you were saying (when others didn’t).
Your words float over time & space to me now.
A celebration of the intimacy of our homelands.
A holy adoration of long gone voices that still resonate.

You never strayed, never.
It was always in your heart, always:
the land, the forgotten lanes, the broad fields, the lost language of it all.
I keep a certain comfort now with your lines as I Iay in my southerly home,
knowing that I am forever tithed to the townlands of our shared ancestry.
I thank you.
May your words stay alive as song as Ireland still has its beauty
and may their illumination still shine on us all.
Heaney was indeed in the same time & geographical places that my father grew up in. Glenshane Pass is a stretch of road between Dungiven and Maghera in Co. Derry that traverses some of the Sperrins mountain range.  Heaney grew up in Banagher, my dad in Park both villages on either side of the range. A sheugh is a ditch on the side of the field which acts as a boundary in farming land.
I see the violence in other nations on television.
I see those who live in fear and tears.
When will we be able to see one another as equal peers?
I wish I could bring some sense into those hungry for power.
Who am I but one person viewing the news that only lasts one hour?
I can bring forth this message of support
To the innocent caught between political war courts.
You matter to me and to the maker who sees you.
Never stop using your voices
Continue to fight for the right to peaceful homelands.
For hand in hand..us human beings.. Giving up is never any wiser of your choices.
Isabella Terry Apr 2018
Is this blood mine or yours?
I want to go home.
I don't know you, and I don't want us to die.
We both lay here, barely alive.

You look scared, a deer glowing faintly in the headlights of a rusty green vehicle.
I can see the tempest of my own fear reflected in your chocolate eyes.
Must we be enemies, only because our homelands are?

I see you finger something under your shirt.
It's probably a snapshot- mine is.
You keep it there to remind you of your promise:
Your oath to lay eyes on them again.

I know that we fight for our countries.
For what we believe to be right.
But...
Do you suppose...that only for tonight
--presumably the last night of our lives--
We could ignore the politics, and just fall asleep together?

In the morning, if either of us wakes up,
We can once again plummet into the ocean of duty and justice and pain.
We can drown in it then.
For now, could we take a swift breath at the top of the waves?
That would be nice.

Neither of us has said a word, but no matter.
Language barrier has not kept you from agreeing with me.
A simple series of countenances has signed our temporary truce in our place.
A mutual gaze of farewell,
As I drift...

Into...

Sleep...
Mary Gay Kearns Apr 2018
My father had a propensity for a peculiar type of sparseness.
Enhanced with items of furniture collected from many sources.
Not a mean man but coming from a very poor family off Labrook Grove in London his few possessions were meaningful.

In the 1970s my parents moved to Totland to take up residence in a new bungalow on The Isle Of Wight, situated overlooking rambling countryside and narrow, windy lanes.
There was a wide but shortish back garden needing to be established. The front garden a sloped bank to meet the pavement.
Mother brought with her, from Streatham her London home, favourite hardy shrubs easily transplanted.

My father retired early finding the strain of being a hospital administrator at St Georges Hospital, Hyde Park Corner, too taxing.
Recruitment was problematic and mainly filled with applicants from overseas.(Not much has changed in fifty years.)My mother wanted to spend time with Frank, her father, sharing his latter years at Totland where he and his wife, Gwen, lived overlooking the Solent on a considerable plot of land.
This included the new bungalow built about 1952-4 and designed by John Westbrook, Frank's son, and acres of beautifully planned flower gardens, a vegetable patch and large wooded area where the trees held tiny toys, to the magic of Tolkein. As children this place was as close as one could get to paradise.

Usually we entered by the back lane entrance rather than from The Alum Bay Road. The plot stretching between the two.
The rows of backgarden fences looked much the same
Crumbling and split wooden planks, large tree roots
Dividing up the length and making mysterious openings
Where rather dilapidated gates, latched firmly
So animals could not stray,
Allowed for the start of magic.
Out of all these fences one belonged to my grandparents and
Through which our travels to Narnia began.

So twenty, mainly, glorious years on The Island, enjoying its many beautiful walks, the beaches and a few precious friends and neighbours. It had been my mother's dream to inherit her father's bungalow and spend her final years watching the boats float on the Solent and breathe sea air sitting on a swinging seat surrounded by primroses. Unfortunately this dream did not materialise due to my mother's poor health. But she was grateful for the years Bill and herself  had together on that green and pleasant land.

My maternal grandparents were, quietly distinguished, letter writers
Who embroidered their days with poetic licence. They had few visitors, apart from the local vicar, the vet and gardener. Gwen being a rather possessive and eccentric lady and having no children of her own, treated the dog as one would a child and life centred around dog walks, feeding and playtime. Frank was also frail and being older than Gwen needed much care and attention.They both liked to read and write letters which they did after lunch with an added snooze. Every day flowed with regularity and neat routines interspersed with many hours tending the garden, picking raspberries from heavily laden canes and gathering long, plump runner beans.
Throughout the Summer months high tea was set in the garden on a rickety table, and consisting of thick slices of current bread coated in salt free butter, a variety of homemade cakes, sandwiches, and ice cream and jelly with a *** of tea or lemonade.
I am reminded of 'The Bloomsbury Set' and Vita Sackville -West, a tranquil but harassed life with too much need for perfection.


Geographically some distance from our London home visits, both ways, were infrequent and by the time I was about nine Frank was too old to travel to Streatham. However their presence formed a significant part of our lives and is still with me today.
Unfortunately letter writing was for my brother and I a chore not undertaken with glee,
Especially as the gift was often a box of embroidered hankies sat in someone's drawer for an age.

The family structure, having married in their fifties, consisted of Frank and Gwen, Mother and always a wire haired terrier, often renewed as age took this species young. Mother was in her nineties and having brought up Gwen and Kath singularly now lived with her daughter in the bungalow at Totland on the Alum Bay Road.

Frank had been part of the Boy's Brigade movement from his teens, taking his love of camping into his marriage to Alexandra Emily Giles, the mother of his two daughters, Grace Emily and Betty Rose. His wife sadly died in childboth leaving the girls orphaned at five and seven.
Frank then moved from Reading to Tooting in south London and married Vera, a girl of twenty one, to whom he had a son, John.
Vera was flirtatious with the boys in the brigade and left Frank and her son, John, at the age of nine, to the care and protection of my mother Grace who was then eighteen. Grace loved them both but it restricted her life and she feared she would never marry. However she found my father, a wonderfully loving and wholesome person who made her very happy in most ways.

Throughout my mother's and John's childhood time was spent camping on the Isle of Wight and so strong associations were made with Totland where the brigade camped in a field in Court Road.

The two bungalows were approximately two to three miles apart.
My mother visited Gwen and her father twice a week spending
A couple of hours sitting in the open planned hallway, glass doored, which faced onto the Alam Bay Road. If warm it would be brunch in the garden at the back. These visits were my mother's anchorage with her life as she missed me very much and her grandchildren in Watford.

Innisfail (meaning- The Ireland of Belonging) was the name of my grandparents' bungalow. ( please see below for more lengthy meaning and interpretation, kindly, written  by John Garbutt).

My parents' bungalow was named  'Crowhurst'  and carved on a wooden plaque as a present by John Garbutt my auntie Betty's partner. The origin of the name came from a retreat that my father, Bill, attended and connected to a church in Streatham where I lived as a child.

Almost all my childhood annual holidays were taken on the Island so we could visit our grandparents and my mother spend time with her father. After my parents moved and I married and had children the pattern was repeated. And till this day it is a favourite with all my children and grandchildren. A special place fixed in time and beauty.

The bungalows are both sold now as their residents have all died.
Clearing out the garage of my parents' bungalow my brother found many of my father's precious possessions although the house was quite sparse still having the wooden floorboards laid when first built twenty years before.

May they all rest in peace .Love Mary ***

My Family and our long and happy connections with The Isle Of Wight. By Mary Kearns April 2018.
John Garbutt wrote the following piece on the meaning of the name 'Innisfail'.

My belief that the place-name came from Scotland was abandoned
on finding the gaelic origins of the name.
‘Inis’ or ‘Innis' mean ‘island’, while ‘fail’ is the word for
Ireland itself. ‘Innisfail’ means Ireland. But not just
geographically: the Ireland of tradition, customs, legends
and folk music, the Ireland of belonging.
So the explanation why the Irish ‘Innisfail’ was adopted as the name
of a town in Alberta, Canada, and a town in Australia,
can only be that migrants took the name, well  over a century ago
to their new homelands, though present-day Canadians
and Australians won’t have that same feeling about it.

------------------------------------------------------------­---------
The bungalow was designed by John Westbrook, who was an architect, as a wedding present for his father and Gwen Westbrook.
I do believe he also designed the very large and beautiful gardens.
I no longer know whether the bungalow is still standing or what it may be called .Mary xxxx
Najwa Kareem Jan 31
She's principled. So is he.
Islam is their way of life
so they understand one another.
Committed to it, dedicated to it
is the only way, she and he are free.

She and he are not afraid
to stick their necks out.
Kaepernick, wouldn't you agree?
Though hers is covered
by her own choice
and his is not covered
Both refuse to get broken
Their moral resolve with a noteworthy shout.

Her hijab
takes her places
to public places
without the need to be center stage.  
His solo self
flies through the air with a basketball in hand
on basketball courts
in his homeland
and in other places
on God's world's page.

Anytime, we wearing hijab
walk outside of our home door,
we stand
Yes, we stand
Yes, we stand proudly
not for our country
not for nationalism
not for a puffed chest
not for a pat on the back
Yes, we stand
with inner beauty
doing a grand job
of minimizing our outer beauty
We stand
We stand even when others choose not to
Even when others feel they cannot
think it's too hard
they'd rather fit in
We stand

We stand for You Most Magnificent Allah
We stand for You Most Lovely Allah
We stand for You Most Beautiful Allah
We stand for You Most Brillant Allah
We stand because of You
And we stand forever for You

We stand because of Your Love
We stand because of Your Light
We stand because of Your Fellowship
We stand because of Your Assistance
We stand because of the strength You've given to us
We stand because of Your Smiling Face Upon Us
We stand because of Your All Blue Skies
Yes, we stand

Thank you, dearest Allah
Thank you so much for ordering us to stand
Thank you enormously for showing us how to stand
"Thank you for everything" said Sr. Marzieh Hashimi, you, who in hijab stand everyday
Ya Allah, Dearest Allah, you're the reason we're able to stand
You're the reason we can confidently stand
You're more important than
You're more significant than
any distasteful look
any disbeliever's ill judgement
any person wanting not to see a hijab as not to be reminded visually of his God, wanting to dodge an in-your-face symbol of God
any human wanting to avoid digesting the message of fulfill your responsibility to God, and need to regularly express gratitude to Him
any individual who knows it isn't the piece of cloth that modestly covers he has issue with, it's God he has issue with, it's God he is distant from, it's God he's uncomfortable with, it's God he fears, it's as my unforgettable Muslim, young brother forced out of his homeland, mine, and yours, that of Syria (Every person has two homelands. His own, and Syria. -Andre Parrot) who carrying my bags to assist me said, Often, it's not the dark we're afraid of, it's the light

Thank you, Imam Asi for making sure we understand
The One Who manufactured our stand

For all ladies who believe in The One
And with whom make The One, Number One
There will be no sitting in public here
There will be no rest for us here
Because rest belongs to the Heavens
Rest is waiting for us to join it, to stop with it
if we've been given not a red light
but a green light
Oh, we want that green light
You and I
Isn't that right, Br. Mahmoud?
You want that green light
More so, because you've tasted that green light
You've tasted that green light
Who said it's a red light that starts a blaze
No, it a green one
Your STAND over 25 years ago
Got you tasting green
Got you tasting peace
Got you tasting harmony
Yes, we want that green light
Yes, ladies in hijab and Mahmoud Abdul-Rauf
We want that eternal sit
That sit up close and personal with Allah to see HIS platinum gold, shining face
That sit intimately with Allah's beloved Messenger and his beloved
That sit happily with our deserving kin and deserving friends we met on earth and in the heavens
That sit on canopy beds
That sit on the greenest of pastures
That sit on gold and platinum benches
in front of gardens we can't unsee
You said so, Br. Mahmoud
You said so with your ACT OF SIT
and your ACT OF STAND IN PRAYER
during the playing of the national anthem in 1996
And you said so with your words in 2022
So, as is required
We graciously STAND temporarily
for however long temporary is for us
We STAND
AUFSTEHEN, STEHEN I repeat
And we STAND with the man
whose STAND has helped change how we see ourselves
whose STAND asked us to ask ourselves
If we were Br. Mahmoud,
would we have done the same as he did
And whose prayer while standing on the court
Caused an uproar
Forced people to have to look within
and for a quick few seconds ask
Why am I singing but not feeling
Why am I honoring but not respecting
I am a contradiction
This country is a contradiction
This stolen land is a grandiose fake
Why have I abandoned my STAND

But in fear,
But in their desire to be associated with a false deity,
But in their need to feel superior
because of their inner feeling of low self-worth and insignificance,
they stopped reflecting
They stopped thinking
They stopped asking
And instead of facing the music
Instead of facing their inner voice
Instead of facing their God
They again turned to idols
They again turned to false deities
They again turned to their ills  
They turned their very backs on
the super star they had been cheering for
and routing for all along
It was easier for them to cause ruckus
Easier for them to cause pain and grief
More satisfying to scream and yell obscenities
offer death threats
Like the way the unbelievers, the hypocrites
treated our beloved Prophet Muhammad (PBUH)
More satisfying to speak the unbelievable
You're fired.
Like the Monster, Donald Trump,
if he were the commissioner
would have said
Instead, David Stern said it
to a fellow human
Mahmoud Abdul-Rauf
a practicing Muslim
a still NBA basketball star
not former as is often written and spoke
like Imam Muhammad al-Asi
still The Imam of The Islamic Center of Washington, DC
you, a married man then
a father with children
You're fired
for your STAND
for GOD
for morals
for principles
against tyranny and oppression
against injustice and hypocrisy
against thievery and slavery
You're fired
for your refusal to STAND
for a country's anthem
for a nation's flag
for disobeying slave (Thank you, Imam Asi for not wanting to even say or speak this word as pertaining to a human referring to another human using this word) masters
and obeying The Only Master
You must pay,
they cheered
You must pay,
the NBA said
the then, David Stern said

GOD
The ONE better than
the basketball fans
the NBA
the then, David Stern
tells us that we never pay,
when we STAND
As a Muslim
on the court
when we STAND
As a Muslimah wearing hijab
in public
when we STAND
We don't pay
We gain

Gain is what we obtain
A reward is what we earn
And
For as long as we keep standing
in a jersey
or in a hijab
they'll keep hating
And
For as long as we
in a jersey
or in a hijab
keep standing
we'll keep shining God's light
and
we'll keep scoring

By: Najwa Kareem
The writing of this poem was initiated on the evening of 9/13/22 while riding on a Metro train.

It was published here today in honor of the 12th Anniversary of World Hijab Day on 2/1/24 and in honor of the near 1 year anniversary of the release of Mahmoud Abdul-Rauf's documentary "STAND" on SHOWTIME!!
Softly Spoken Mar 2017
I read these notes
These lost essays
Bland manuscripts of indulgent prattle
I read and read til words blur
Become nonsensical
Strangely monotonous
Then stop myself from being lulled torpid by observing form
The shapely arc of stem
Ligatures defying the very ink printed with
Merging two letters like lovers
Imagining liquid tongues making languid use of diacriticals
Staccato tonal journeys as strange as the homelands I conjure within the cinema of my mind
Exotic women flaunting colour and poise
Men; stoic yet flexible, with eyes that smile as much as mouths do..
They move like raptors and
Then suddenly it's gone!
I'm back in this greyness
Back in this outer world
Reading and reading until words blur
Lost essays
Bland manuscripts
Becoming nonsensical
Strangely monotonous
I day dream. There! I said it! I'm the picture book person who tried to read to educate and just thinks of starlight and unicorns. Give me sci-fi any day.
William Rogers Apr 2016
As she rested in her bedroom,
she looked up,
blinded by a blank light shining down
from a spirit she never knew, but  to whom she was loyal.
The hazy evening skies and the bright sun setting under the horizon
joined to form a seasonable warmth.  
This did not seem to bother her, though,
as she sat on her cot,
a musty dilapidated mattress stained red
like the sky on a summer morning
blue like the veins that flowed through her body,
dried out and callous like her Navajo homelands.

She read Dostoyevsky with a certain ease.
Einstein wandered into her spirit
for a lesson she would never learn.

She looked up again,
saw the sun become the moon, and wondered why that was.
The moon rays and the sun beams continued to shine down on her,
as her mother glanced through the bedroom door,
telling her to stop dreaming
and finish reading her Crime and Punishment.

She looked at her mother with her pearly eyes and asked
"Mother, is my dreaming bothering you?"

— The End —