Soul of black folk Trevon Martin and Emmett till..
A image of the worlds ills
There's a different between mans n Gods will..
The physician has stethoscope now breathe Yes the worlds ill
A deviant of society words that the deaf can feel..
The difference in a person defines whats real..
Oh yeah cotton fields
In a dressing room being asked how my jeans of cotton feel..
I don't know cause my genes are imprinted
Reaction to fashion..
How corrupt are these thoughts of blackness that have us branded..
Called to be continents of Christ but island mindsets have us stranded..
Like how u white and you talk black..or how you black and you talk white..
There's no discrimination to ignorance Just like Gods sight..
Yet a clear division he judges the heart its darks and its lights.
He sprinkled his people the salt on earth.
Eat dirt the earth lacks flavor
Transformed to salt
We should not conform to dirt..
Express food I wonder if God taste buds hurt..
Chefs cooking lukewarm dishes..
Serving Jesus as he spits the food out.
Now he raging through the kitchen....
Looking for the ingredients like this is not the recipe..
Where is the complex simplicity ..
No surprise that there's sickness due to obesity...
A melting pot stirred my God blends together...
He makes us all the same feather..
Once realized we can fly together..
Wings strong enough to fly through any weather..
Fly higher than Satan's paws that filthy jungle cat...
Yet some still want to perch on his back..
A bird singing but can't see the bars on the Cage..
Try to escape and hit the bars which causes flight to disengage..
Racism damages the wings..
Hate damages the wings..
Why does a cage bird sing....
Well I don't think Its a song its a scream..
Because if you pay attention the pitch changes once freed..
That same sound harmonizes with the breeze..
A wonderful song heard through the trees
As trees we should be deeply rooted in Christ..
In Faith not flesh that's why the forest is a mess..
Like a tree planted next to a oil spill or nuclear reactor..
And some radiation has disturbed the soil..
Fruit spring up already spoiled..
And I think of the seedlings..
Without proper cultivation grow up to be weaklings..
Jesus is the gardener prepared to work a miraculous healing..
But he only heals if your willing
Church never stops whether in or outside of the building..
Stars twinkle while suspended
in the dark sky above.
Some dim, others bright;
A handful hued, the majority white.
From their perch beyond, and
when their numbers appear multiplied
as the moon is absent,
they whisper, "destiny," to me.
I smell fresh wild flowers
Mixed with stagnant water,
Sweet... and you know,
I am all about the scent-sual.
Nothing gets me
Like the smell of wild
Seas of green... pollen floating...
Sun... burning white skin,
Dunes of sand,
Golden Hawk on a fence post,
Red-winged black birds
Water every mile...
Fresh Lake Perch,
Beautiful yellow fish...
Favorite of mine...
This is my Northern love.
This is my...
There's no rest for the wicked. The plot thickens. The blood thins, then bleeds out onto the thorny thickets biting at bare shins, which sickens you to death times ten. Now you're feeling like a tiger in human skin. You begin setting off on the prowl for substance and the meaning of your life akin to the World's splendor. It's sustenance revealed to your awoken third eye of insight. The mind's eye of you and me, sees bountiful trees breathing and leaning towards your sweeping winds of change. Swaying towards every gaze, starstruck and amazed, chasing the dreams of completing this crazy maze of madness. Tears of joy, tears of sadness, tears that lubricate the gears that moves giant machines for years to come. May they be for peace, safety, and fun. Genes of the spirals behind our tattered, denim jeans holds molecular machines within us. Tiny gears set into motion, creating particular love potions, pouring out into vast oceans of debris floating in currents aligned. Strive for hopes and meanings sublime. Finely layered lines of poetry shine out from the beating hearts of timely martyrs chiming, rhyming, and climbing up the never-ending step ladder of the divinely. Ascension from the tension of the rotting vine of hatred, did I mention the sign of sacred love, which swoops down from above? The dove from it's perch of light, stares directly into your sight. Bright, dazzling displays amaze you more by the day.
Chasing and facing the challenges of anxiety, stress, and worry, obstructions of a 10 story building crumbling down all around you. Dust-bellowing clouds to choke and blindly block your steps around the destruction. Using torn limbs as bloody crutches, stumbling amongst dozens of slain wretches. Bets are placed for survival of the quickest and fittest. The wittiest guy you know is fastidious as the insidious destroyers of tomorrow.
This poem I borrowed from my soul and mind. The lines have spilled out onto shining paper reflecting the light from the mind's eye. All these meaningless rhymes will move tides that waves to you goodbye.
My brain was itching with a thought
During our English test today.
A memory I had once forgot
Was made so clear in every way.
I suddenly understood the part
That Billy Newsome knows by heart,
And so I scratched my answer with a start,
Before I lost track of what to say.
My Teacher watched me from her perch,
Her talons sharp as wyck,
But I faced her gaze with guilty nerve,
As the clock went tick tick tick.
When Billy Newsome grinned that grin
That made him look just like a fish,
My first instinct was to duct tape him
To a moldy petri dish.
Instead, I waited patiently, which is so unlike me,
As life was going on outside as plain as day could be!
They were out there having loads of fun,
Playing football in the sun,
And shooting baskets in a sea
Of every single climbing tree!
My patient nerves, they all went twitch,
With every single itching itch,
And I found it hard to just sit still.
I simply did not have the will,
And that is when I let out a caw,
A caw that everyone there saw,
And I ran like thunder in the wind,
You should'a seen the grin I grinned!
Oh, the English Test went fine, I guess.
Though it sure did not seem worth the stress.
How can anyone complain
When the climbing trees all call your name?
Copyright © 2012 Richard D. Remler
"I thought my life would seem more interesting
with a musical score and a laugh track."
– Bill Watterson, (Calvin And Hobbes)
Tiny spider scrabbling along white capped wall,
Flattened out low when something very small,
ran across the path and a leg.
Up sprang Tiny moving faster, not food driven but security,
Tiny the spider, wanted to make it to full female maturity,
alive to cause fear, not perish, naturally.
The Tiny garden spider was far from the spot where she found herself,
among last nights feast, as the Sun rose in the East warming the shelf,
now gone way West her cold blooded body craved to eat again and again.
She would wait, she would rest, she would not sleep,
the night life was
beginning to move, she could see very well in the deep
shadow of her corner perch.
I am the birds.
In tight flocks I navigate
The sky over your head
Then perch on a powerline
Hear the chirping conversation
I'm having with myself--
I am the trees.
Nature always had
the better version
of an air filter.
Twisting arms seem to hang
on shards of the sun
Climb me, fell me, carve the initials
of today's lover in my skin,
only to break her tomorrow.
You can eat the sweet fruit I've grown--
It's for you.
I am a map.
So full of dead ends
The myriad turns
And loops and winding paths
What a convoluted labyrinth!
Have you ever thought about
the structure of the world we live in?
Once I'm through,
With a lantern hanging
From that legend's clinging talons,
I'll arrive to beautiful music
I can already hear it faintly reverberating
through these spacious wooden corridors.
I'm already singing along under my shallow breath.
Now every time I look into the mirror
I just see the word "soon".
That Bennu-bird is always flying just ahead of me
A guide to glory
A song to travel to
His impossible light, a projection
A live-stream hologram
Broadcast before my unsure eyes
From the lens of my very heart.
I'm going to follow myself home, because
It seems like I know where I'm going.
Little sparrows show off their agility,
dancing up and down violin necks.
Pecking staccato notes out of the air.
Making tea and dropping ceramics
behaving clumsily and babbling nonsense
even after they've been told
sit down and be quiet.
Imitation ducks sit squat,
quiet, muddy, decoying
singing water stains,
spitting curses from their bills.
Pulling bed sheets up to their chins,
nesting between the covers.
Very anonymous in their colours,
not a deviation among them.
Cold wax and dry glue
flake off creases and folds.
These lovely imitations,
cuckoo plaster cast knuckles
snowflaking to the ground,
useless with fine motor skills.
Peeling off like dead leaves,
parasitic nest components.
All my fingernails are different lengths,
evolving finches’ beaks
on isolated islands
With scratches on the vinyl of my thumb,
sand beneath my cuticles,
scrapbooks between my fingerprints.
Piano keys team up in groups of two,
sharing sharps and flats.
Filed and polished,
pink budgies dispose of portfolios apathetically,
slamming filing cabinets shut.
Cuttle bones rattling,
Irritable thighs complaining,
they hunker with bad posture,
frowning on their perch.
Squat salient warbles
clamoring sharply down corridors
over whistling loudspeakers.
Poster orioles elbow aside crowds,
bright bones flashing
keratin streaked or spotted
for biological attention.
Weaponry painted exciting colours,
friendly hues and enthusiastic tints.
Lies dressed in curiosity,
My heron neck in the air
searches for information,
Greedy for projections,
living in the tree tops,
reflected in shop windows,
my skinny anisodactyl talons
for walking on mud,
wading through marsh,
My hands are geese
jabbering back and forth
across my chest.
its very distracting
to have these conversations
going on between palms,
arguing the best way to fold paper cranes,
whether chocolate pudding
should be stirred clockwise or counter.
Take a gander at the world you don't touch because your fingers are too flightly
Even amidst all the chaos, stars are born on the rise. Let's hang our bedsheets of jealousy out to dry.
Bask in the Lunar glow of night sky. Reflected dreams shine amongst the will of the fight.
Follow the winding trails of hope, for she's always the test. Best you learn to fear stupidity, as it burns through the nest.
Surely you jest! Fuck the selfish gesture from heartless chest. Crested Swallows fly down to get rid of your pest.
Blessed be the people, the worst AND the best. Flourish in broad daylight and ingest the nourishment of our plight.
The night owls watch from their perch, then take off on a flight. They're wisdom may be the wisest of the avian kingdom.
Pray to your God to not give up on your way. Sway not from true freedom, these poems are the iridescent rainbow spray.
Splayed and flayed magically out for the eyes of the next child that stays. Days turn to nights, and nights into days.
You eat your Doritos and I'll eat my Lays. We'll cleverly act out our plays. Mend the space of fabric that frays.
We'll tend to bend time to our ways. These rhymes speak louder than illusive money in May.
We'll mold our creations from enkindled passion flames, shaped from warm clay.
Cows moo away and eat grass, while horses nicker and neigh.
Our actions speak louder than our poems do. Live on, cause dark turns to light, and night turns to day.
Where a man goes
Often in repose,
Alone in candle light.-
Right. By his own designs...
He doesn't have to answer,
Can drop the role of dancer
And take just whatever.-
Endeavours he has on his mind
As fully as the coming breeze
Breathing in how it frees
His thoughts and ambitions.-
Intuitions resparked because of this...
Where a man goes
To lay down his axe, he knows.-
That in the moment when his body quiets.-
Riots cease and he can dream.|
That no one or thing,
Regardless of the news or excitement it would bring,
Cannot shake him, wake him or.-
Roar so loud as to be noticed.
This is where a man goes in fear.
Where when poverty and idle living, and beer.-
Cloud body and mind.-
Grind hope to crumbs.|
And stand on the perch of desperation,
Alone in fear and perspiration,
Dying for something to do,
Viewing savings turn to dried flies.
Returning always to where a man goes,
Delaying what he knows
To be all too true.
Do or die, or start anew.-
An anonymous reading: https://soundcloud.com/user608182312/where-a-man-goes