DO POETRY
AND LIFE REMAINS TO POVERTY
YET POET CONTINUE TO LIVE IN HIS WORLD
FOR HIM A PALACE
WHERE HE IS THE KING
AND WORDS ARE HIS SOLDIER

HIS WORDS BREATHE
KNOCK AT THE DOORMAN'S HEART
UTTERED "LET THE SOUL COME IN"
SOME SAYING GREAT
OTHERS SAYS IT'S USELESS DOESN'T MEAN A THING
SOME ARE TOO BUSY THAT THEY HAVE NO TIME FOR A SOUL

BUT WHERE THOSE POET'S WORDS CAME FROM?
AN ANGEL WHISPER, PARTLY YES
BECAUSE HE WROTE ABOUT PIOUS LIFE
OR A DEVIL UTTERANCE, PARTLY YES
HE ALSO WROTE THOSE PROHIBITED WORDS
BUT NO, POETS FOLLOWED HIS OWN WILL

WHO ARE REALLY THEY THEN?
A SHARP MINDED PERSON
AS BRILLIANT AS DIAMOND
NO, THEIR MINDS ARE JUST LIKE THE OTHERS
SEEN THINGS THAT THEY'VE ALSO SEEN
BUT HE PUT THEM IN WORDS

HE WASTED A LOT OF TIME
BUT THE TIME WASTED WAS RECORDED
OF THE BEST MOMENT
AND OF THE WORST ONE
LEAVING DAYS ONE BY ONE
YET IN EACH DAY HIS TRADEMARK FOR REMINISCENCE

POETS PASSED BUT THEIR  POEMS CONTINUE
GENERATIONS COMES AND GO BUT THEIR PASSION DWELT
WAITING FOR THE HOMAGE THAT SOMEONE WILL GIVE
BUT THE TRUTH IS POET LOOKS FOR NOTHING IN RETURN
JUST SOMEONES TIME FOR HIS WORK
THE BEST PAYMENT THAT POET'S FIND

Written: Jan. 22, 2000 @ 4:35pm
Mysterious Aries

To all of you advertisers
Throw your thing on its proper place
Will you just stop please
Don't vandalize this sacred face

This is where our feelings ride
The journey of our low and high
The future will learn from our joy and pain
For us to move faster, end your foolish game

That's why it's Hello Poetry not Hello Adverts
I know you know how to read lines so please divert
I beg you once again find another room
We are POETS here and simply... this is our HOME...

08-06-2015
Mysterious Aries

The dark hugged me so sweet at first

Til' get tighter that I can't reverse

Now I don't know how to slip through this heavy cursed

I'm not the type to miss people when I leave,
Or think about them when I'm gone.

But I met you.

And suddenly,
I'm starting to think that I might just miss you when I leave.

And it sticks like a thorn in my side,
To know that I too, can feel such sorrow.

A.C

Michiko would never know
the strange creature that opened its bowels
that day, was named Enola Gay

she would remember the fine feel of the water on her face,
the taste of tea she had with her pears, and the odor of chrysanthemums through her window

the same window through which
her mother would stare, there, at the morning sky
at the smothering smoke of all creation

her brother was left a shadow
on a wall, nothing left at all of her father
who stood at ground zero

Michiko, only double digits the day before
would follow her mother down the long road
to the smoldering fires and scorched skin
and the stalking stench of the dead

on the path, along the way
but only that day, Michiko would see the black giant
growing in the summer sky
a magnet to her eye

more beautiful than all
the sweet flesh and shrines that fed it
a billion years in an instant
that August morn

I wonder if birds count themselves lucky
To find themselves free in the sky.
Knowing they can escape up into the air.
They just have to spread their wings and fly.

I wonder what happens if they somehow fall,
And they find themselves bound to the ground.
Do they just accept their fate,
And fade away without a sound?

Or do they thrash and yammer
Until they can't anymore.
Then, just lay there and look up,
Remembering how it used to be before?

Do they fear that they are prey,
Another species' meal?
Or do they lose all their senses,
And choose not to feel?

I wonder if they're left just a little bit hopeful
That help may come along,
So they don't completely give up,
And try to keep themselves strong?

Or if they just lay there,
And wait for their eyes to close tight,
And slip away happily.
Surrendering without a fight.

I think, if I were a bird,
Who fell down from the sky,
I'd fight, thrash, yammer and hope..
Until the day I found myself capable of spreading my wings to fly.

it’s quiet and i hear nothing but the snowflakes
hit the fabric on my shoulder
i hear nothing but the paper
burn as my inhale imitates the gust of
wind that guides the cold to shutter skin —
street lights sit above the lit, white-flowered flakes
as they dance to the ground as a group
that whisper soliloquies to the crimson
lobes that hear nothing but the snowflakes
hit the fabric on my shoulder,
a hazy fog covers the air before my face
as it sways from nostril to upper lip —
a sight down to an illuminating ash,
blinking to meet a lid to whited lash —
as the paper burns
the smokey sky is content
with silence and nothing more
than a look to the fields                             MJB

never thought to see an advert for black magic
here on hello poetry

are they really a shaman
witchdoctor

or is it another tiresome scam
another tiresome scam

tiresome scam

Maybe it was just a chapter, but you don't understand how desperately I wanted it to be an entire book.