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The screaming
children of Gaza
torment the sleep
of a troubled world,
and remain a real-time
unending nightmare;
anointing The Levant’s
fevered brow
with a diadem of
incessant grief.

Gaza is a burning
ankh that sears the
madness of sorrow
upon Egypt’s skull.

Gaza,
an unblinking
third eye
of shame,
peers into
Lower Egypt’s
closed window
ever reproaching
it’s turbulent
conscience;
chiding fellow
Muslims with
the ugly memory
of abject affliction,
the endless images
of a living Guernica
suspended in the hell
of indefinite imprisonment
all Palestinians are forced
to suffer.

As Zionists ***** the
steep walls of Apartheid to
extend its occupation
of Palestine, it
condemns the youth
of Gaza to a life of
incarceration with no
possibility of parole;
hardening the hearts
and steeling the resolve
of a new generation of
militants to demolish the
walls and the wardens
that imprison them.

The Zionist jailers
bestow upon
Ishmael’s Children
phylacteries of shame,
wearing the rolled
prayers of wailing pain
scribed with bits of
dust from the
the broken walls of
demolished buildings
and desolate homes
beyond habitation,
now housing grief
of trampled souls,
forcing recitations
of deliverance
to Allah while
davening an
incessant drone
of anguish at
the Wailing Wall
of Resentment;
decrying the
blood lust of
undying acrimony,
victimization and
the slaughter of
innocents, carried on
with the imperial license
of state sanctioned impunity.


Father Ibrahim's
feuding children may
share a sacred paternity
but remain the
divided brothers
of different mothers;
stoking a sibling rivalry
more bitter then
Cain and Abel.

Our anguish
never dissipates,
the gnawing
impulse of empathy
to assist the distressed
of Gaza is dashed
by omnipotent
powers recusing
the ability to act.

Sympathy is
embargoed
in the black
obfuscation
of religious
partisanship
while timely
assistance
to aid the
distressed
lie netted in
blockades of
realpolitik
affinities.

Gaza, where
Hashim is granted
his eternal rest,
restlessly inhabits
his unknown grave
from the destitution of
his profaned homeland.

Ghazzat,  “the stronghold”
countlessly conquered,
falling to Roman Emperors,
Lionhearted Crusaders
Ottoman Caliphates,
and British Mandates;
slipping from Egypt’s
geopolitical grasp as
as a casualty of
The Six Day War.

Gaza is now a stronghold of
resent and desperation for a
desperate conquered people.

Ghazzat, the prized city of
the western Mediterranean,
a four star Phoenician port of
caravansaries now unable
to trade with any partners
due to ungodly blockades.

Gaza, has grown wholly
dependent on the largess
of UN aid and meager
subsistence portions
doled out by well
meaning NGO’s.

Gaza, the foot stool of
the Levant and surely
the pathway Father
Ibrahim, Jacob,
Joseph and Jeremiah
traveled to escape
Canaan's famine;
finding at the close
of their sojourn
a table set with the
plenteous bounty
the Blue Nile
unconditionally offered;
the veritable feast
of abundance,
the generous yields
of the blessed delta
that sustained the
Prophets of Judah
and a thousand
generations of the
Nile’s Children.

Gaza, the Achilles
heal of Middle East
peace, land of the
Canaanites, Philistines
and Old Testament
heroes.

Gaza, a fortress for
Philistines who
imprisoned the storied
Sampson, revered for
breaking the chains of
imprisonment and righteously
destroying a pagan temple
in a suicidal act of heroism.

Gaza, where the myths and
legends of rapacious
holy crusaders captured
the western imagination
with the chivalrous gallantry
of religious warfare and
valiant last stands of
Templar Knights employing
the tactical imperatives
of terrorism in service to their
higher God.

Gaza, an oasis
by the sea now
lies dry and brittle
as the precious Hebron
waters of Wadi Ghazza
are diverted to serve
the agriculture of
Judah; condemning
a dehydrated Gaza
panting of thirst
to an imposed drought
and a war of
self preservation
to remove
the dammed rivers
of justice controlled
by intractable powers
laying upstream beyond
Gaza’s mean borders.

The Qassams
lunched by Hamas
are desperate
expressions of
exasperated people,
eager to call
world attention
to the growing
insufferable plight
of a people living
in a perpetual
state of siege.

Its a modern day
David slinging rocks
against an armor
clad Goliath.

Each Katusha
serves as
a justification
for Zionist
intransigence
and condemns
any possibility
for peaceful
coexistence
of a Two State
Solution.

The pointless attacks
invite massive
disproportionate
retaliation and succeed
in prolonging and
increasing the
measure of Gaza’s
agony.

The mystic grace,
the divine power
of satyagraha
-a non-violent
response to the
cruel enforcement of
Apartheid- is Allah’s
way to secure the
moral high-ground
and the surest way
for Palestinians to
expose it’s unholy
adversaries innate
contempt for civil rights
and a refusal to
recognized the
shared humanity of
all of Father Ibrahim’s
wayward progeny and
recalcitrant prodigal sons.

Mubarak’s fall
has allowed the
Rafah Gate
to swing open again.

The concertina
wire that separates
Gaza and Egypt
has been removed.

The prisoners
of Gaza have
an open portal
of freedom.

It is a Day of
Jubilee, a day
of pardon for
for the inmates
of prisons built
for victims.  

It is a day of
possibility for peace.  

It is a day to declare an
Exodus from the land
of bitterness.

Humanity is
offered the hope
of escape from
the prisons of
acrimony, to
freely move across
the staid borders
of intractability
and exclusion.

The hearts and
minds of Palestinians
and Egyptians
are free to connect
and unite once again.

Liberation is
possible only
when we uphold
and honor the
affirmation
of all humanity.

Music Video:

Silk Road
We Will Not Go Down

Oakland
2/9/12
jbm
a poem from the epilogue section of Tahrir Square Voices
Lies in a bath tub,
filled to the brink.
He has tried to go under,
He has tried to sink.

He maneuvers his fingers slowly,
To the edge of the blade.
His goal is to only,
Make the memories fade.

But not much will change,
The more he will suffer.
Lets try again?
One cut after another.

Warm blooded,
The water turns red.
He is still alive,
He is not dead.

His hope is religion,
His strength he must trust.
Take all the bad memories,
Turn then to dust...
I was diagnosed with depression and I have struggled with life many days
 May 2014 Rin
adshimabuko
Most of us write
of how bitter
our first kisses
tasted

Mine
tasted like
a limited edition candy
found in an old candyshop
after three years

Like
exhaled smoke
of  your first
mentholated cigarrete

it tasted
like home
after years of
being lost
 May 2014 Rin
CP
Disappointment
 May 2014 Rin
CP
I look at myself and all I see is grey
I try so hard to pray it away
I know it's cliche
But I can't stand my own face

It's sad eyes
They see through my lies
My oversized thighs
My failure to revise
I despite this disguise

I look at myself and all I see is disappointment
Try harder I mumbled in exhaustion
What a collision
My own derision

One day, soon, I will look at myself and all I will see is joy
My reflection, I will enjoy not want to destroy
I will not be coy
As the sun dawns
All will be gone I vowed

I look at myself today and all I see is hope
For I am proud
I want to scream it loud in crowd
I am proud of me and you
And with that statement I feel so new.
 May 2014 Rin
Life's a Beach
When did you first say "I love you"?
Don't worry, I won't care, I'm just
wondering...who first saw you bare?
Did you ever used to play with her hair
like you play with mine, did she
ever look at you, like I do, and just
think "He Shines" like nothing else matters.
Did your hearts patter as you physically
joined.
I won't be mad, I know you've had others, so
have I, it won't make me sad, but
I'm curious,
when did you first say "I love you"?

And did she ever brand your skin, were
you ever just a bit too rough, did you
accidentally wriggle within and make her feel
like she wasn't enough?
We've made mistakes, in the past, so
tell me quick, tell me fast, I hope we'll last,
but what made your past ones
imperfect?
and when did you first say "I love you"?

Because it's the quirks which make the mirth,
did you ever make her laugh, did you force
her lips to part when she told you to leave her.
How much did you grieve her? Do you still
do? And when you watched her leave, when
she watched you plead, did you mentally
whisper "I love you."

And when did you first mean, when did you first say,
"I love you"?
Today I graduate
I realize how short life is
It seems like yesterday I was on the playground
Playing dodgeball and other rowdy games
Picked last from the bunch but kept smiling
I was always the shorter one
The weaker one
Inside I always was stronger
Stronger then even Hercules
Middle school I was pushed around
Bullied for being myself
But I still stayed strong
High school I made real friends
I could be myself
Now I will be starting a new chapter
The book of life is only just beginning
I am the acorn on the tree
I fell far from it
One day I'm going to be a bigger tree
My life in a nutshell
Literally
Just finished my last day of high school forever in existence and I decided to write this poem thing. Hope you like it.
 May 2014 Rin
robin
once upon a time,
you asked me to tell you stories.
they never made sense but they made you laugh
but when it was your turn you'd shrug and look at the floor.
you can't weave fiction, you're too
cerebral,
ive always been the creative one.
now im stuffing your essays in the space between my ribs
and pretending thats enough.
youve always been more politics than poetry -
you hate poetry.
but you always came when i performed
(said my poems were the only ones you could stand.
said the others were static noise)
youre miles away, youre chasing cemeteries and im chasing you.
ive always been more
successful,
youve always been kinder.
when i cry you speak softly and i scream.
when you cry i laugh and you
go quiet
and i feel sick.
you still believe in duty and honor and
honest politicians
though i tried to convince you that everyone lies,
just like you.
i took you outside at night and taught you the only constellation i know,
told you about
desperate boys and girls like mountains,
and redwood forests at three a.m.
and blew smoke in your face.
now its your turn.
tell me a story.
tell me how they broke you to bits and built you up again.
tell me how youre afraid to die.
tell me how ive hurt you and youll never trust me quite the same again.
tell me about your favorite book
again,
describe the dragon so vivid my own monsters seem like broken dolls.
i'll offer you a drink and you'll refuse.
(i'm so sorry that you're gentle
and i'm cruel.
i'm sorry for treating you sweet then snapping your wrist.
come back.
this time i'll be kind.
this time i'll listen.)
 May 2014 Rin
mark john junor
spanish rose lingers in the corner
with some french sailor who is
just a breathing caricature
illustrated in ink and animated by alcohol
his four letter word vocabulary with deluxe cardboard delivery
but its his eyes that capture you
swimming in hundred proof they are
wise with miles of years
and wicked in a smoky dark room way
but she is too busy to notice
flirting with the stranger across the room
a traveling salesman with boxes
of rusty trinkets for crafty sale

meanwhile old jack is swinging on the gibbet
talking away the hours with his old flame and friends
he is a threadbare imitation of me
and that suits you fine
long as its three meals and a slice of pie
the essentials of easy living wrapped up in a lace hanky
its a little ***** and on the down low
but the whole digging in some
rich kids ***** laundry for loose change
never appealed to you all that much
so attached to old jack come to make your stand
both barrels smoking hot and ready to let loose
should any fool step to the line

we all watched with amusements
as the magician open his show with a shock and awe
that sputtered and fell
but we all loved his punch lines so much that we
cheered him on all night
the chorus girls got us all up and dancing little past three
and the suave singer had us cheek to cheek by dawn
it was another night to remember to be sure
memorable as stumpy swimming with the gators
we all shuffle barefoot in the sand
to our dusty beds
and dream sweetly of fiveash romance novella endings
and the beauties of dawn
we will be up to no good once more
all loud and proud
young and full'a *****
as a spring moon crests over seaside town
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