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ah, enslave without compassion
bound ancestors you must impale
go seek and show no mercy
let those who escape carry the tale

all the sufferers bearing witness
to their ministers spilling their blood
staggered screeches from bleak recesses
regicide plotters bend to the dust

with unmitigated conquest and *******
trample them under your tyranny

slimy enshrinement brings into question
what's divinely lamented for
scatter populations with ruthlessness
let them choose sycophancy or sword

reappoint difficult commanders
for instigation unbroken awaits
kept in frenzy, they whisper confusion
never quite sure of their fate

with unmitigated conquest and *******
trample them under your tyranny

let the cowardly unlock the gates for you
to heroically claim what's inside
crowds you abhor kneeling in wonder
all the world is your ****** bride

punctuate the roads with tollgates
***** monuments to broadcast your name
all your banquet's guests are your enemies
entertain them with one another's shame

with unmitigated conquest and *******
trample them under your tyranny

with unmitigated conquest and *******
trample them under your tyranny
under your tyranny
An instructional hymn for unseasoned conquerors.
Allen Wilbert May 2014
*******

My ******* was thought through,
dominate me, dominate you.
Can't stop, what you can't see,
open mouth and drink my ***.
Beat you to a ****** pulp,
as I drink it, my throat goes gulp.
I'll stomp a mud hole, til it's dry,
it's fun to do when you're high.
This world, I will destroy,
no longer am I a whipping boy.
I **** your father and your mother,
even your sister and your brother.
**** your uncle and your aunt,
killed every tree, killed every plant.
Killed your niece and your nephew,
just part of the ******* schedule.
Killed your cousins and next of kin,
call me evil, but I love sin.
No more sun rising in the east,
666, I'm the number of the beast.
No more sun setting in the west,
just doing the devil's request.
The silence of desire
Hidden in quiet moans
Of those secret passions
Going unheard tonight

Fingers delicately exploring
Places of invisible needs
Pretence of a silent stranger
Imagination of *******

Breathing growing faster
Anticipation of his touch
Releasing the waterfall
Inside her wanted dreams
Copyright © Chris Smith 2016
NELSON MANDELA, NUMBER 46664 IS DEAD; EULOGICALLY ELEGIZING DIRGE FOR SON OF AFRICA, HOPE OF HUMANITY AND PERMANENT FLAME OF DEMOCRACY


Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya; aopicho@yahoo.com)

Nelson Mandela, South Africa's anti-apartheid beacon, has died
One of the best-known political prisoners of his generation,
South Africa's first black president, He was 95.
His struggle against apartheid and racial segregation
Lead to the vision of South Africa as a rainbow nation
In which all folks were to be treated equally regardless of color
Speaking in 1990 on his release from Pollsmoor Prison
After 27 years behind bars, Mandela posited;
I have fought against white ******* and
I have fought against black *******
I have cherished the idea of a democratic
And a free society in which all persons live together
In harmony and with equal opportunity
It is an ideal which I hope to live for and to achieve
But if need be, it is an ideal for which I am prepared to die,

Fortunately, he was never called upon
To make such a sacrifice
And the anti-apartheid campaign did produce results
A ban on mixed marriages between whites and folks of color,
This was designed to enforce total racial segregation
Was lifted in 1985
Mandela was born on July 18, 1918
His father Gadla named him "Rolihlahla,"
Meaning “troublemaker” in the Xhosa language
Perhaps  parental premonitions of his ability to foment change.
Madiba, as he is affectionately known
By many South Africans,
Was born to Gadla Henry Mphakanyiswa,
a chief, and his third wife Nosekeni *****
He grew up with two sisters
In the small rural village of Qunu
In South Africa's Eastern Cape Province.
Unlike other boys his age,
Madiba had the privilege of attending university
Where he studied law
He became a ringleader of student protest
And then moved to Johannesburg to escape an arranged marriage
It was there he became involved in politics.
In 1944 he joined the African National Congress (ANC),
Four years before the National Party,
Which institutionalized racial segregation, came to power
.
Racial segregation triggered mass protests
And civil disobedience campaigns,
In which Mandela played a central role
After the ANC was banned in 1961
Mandela founded its military wing Umkhonto we Sizwe
The Spear of the Nation
As its commander-in-chief,
He led underground guerrilla attacks
Against state institutions.
He secretly went abroad in 1962
To drum up financial support
And organize military training for ANC cadres
On his return, he was arrested
And sentenced to prison
Mandela served 17 years
On the notorious Roben Island, off Cape Town,
Mandela was elected as South Africa's first black president
On May 10, 1994
Cell number five, where he was incarcerated,
Is now a tourist attraction
From 1988 onwards, Mandela was slowly prepared
For his release from prison
Just three years earlier he had rejected a pardon
This was conditional
On the ANC renouncing violence
On 11 February 1990,
After nearly three decades in prison,
Mandela, the South African freedom beacon was released
He continued his struggle
For the abolition of racial segregation
In April 1994,
South Africa held its first free election.
On May 10,
Nelson Mandela became South Africa's first elected black president,
Mandela jointly won
The Nobel Peace Prize
With Frederik de Clerk in 1993
On taking office
Mandela focused on reconciliation
Between ethnic groups
And together with Archbishop Desmond Tutu,
He set up the South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC)
To help the country
Come to terms
With the crimes committed under apartheid
After his retirement
From active politics in 1999,
Madiba dedicated himself
To social causes,
Helping children and ***-AIDS patients,
His second son
Makgatho died of ***-AIDS
In 2005 at the age of 54,
South Africans have fought
a noble struggle against the apartheid
But today they face a far greater threat
Mandela he posited in a reference to the ***-AIDS pandemic,
His successor
Thabo Mbeki
The ANC slogan of 1994; A better life for all
Was fulfilled only
For a small portion of the black elite
Growing corruption,
Crime and lack of job prospects
Continue to threaten the Rainbow Nation,
On the international stage
Mandela acted as a mediator
In the Burundi civil war
And also joined criticism
Of the Iraq policy
Of the United States and Great Britain
He won the Nobel Prize in 1993
And played a decisive role
Into bringing the first FIFA World Cup to Africa,
His beloved great-granddaughter
Zenani Mandela died tragically
On the eve of the competition
And he withdrew from the public life
With the death of Nelson Mandela
The world loses a great freedom-struggleer
And heroic statesman
His native South Africa loses
At the very least a commanding presence
Even if the grandfather of nine grandchildren
Was scarcely seen in public in recent year

Media and politicians are vying
To outdo one another with their tributes
To Nelson Mandela, who himself disliked
The personality cult
That's one of the things
That made him unique,
Nelson Mandela was no saint,
Even though that is how the media
Are now portraying him
Every headline makes him appear more superhuman
And much of the admiration is close to idolatry
Some of the folks who met him
Say they felt a special Mandela karma
In his presence.
Madiba magic was invoked
Whenever South Africa needed a miracle,

Mandela himself was embarrassed
By the personality cult
Only reluctantly did he agree to have streets
Schools and institutes named after him
To allow bronze statues and Mandela museums
To be built
A trend that will continue to grow.

He repeatedly pointed
To the collective achievements
Of the resistance movement
To figures who preceded him
In the struggle against injustice
And to fellow campaigners
Such as Mahatma Gandhi, Albert Luthuli
Or his friend and companion in arms
Oliver Tambo who today stands in Mandela's shadow,
Tambo helped create the Mandela legend
Which conquered the world
A tale in which every upright man
And woman could see him
Or herself reflected,
When Prisoner Number 46664 was released
After 27 years behind bars
He had become a brand
A worldwide idol
The target of projected hopes
And wishes that no human being
Could fulfill alone,
Who would dare scratch?
The shining surface of such a man
List his youthful misdemeanors
His illegitimate children
Who would mention his weakness for women?
For models
Pop starlets
And female journalists
With whom he flirted
In a politically incorrect way
When already a respected elder statesman?
Who would speak out critically?
Against the attacks
He planned when he headed the ANC
Armed wing Umkhonto we Sizwe
And who would criticize the way
He would often explode in anger
Or dismiss any opinions other than his own?
His record as head of government
Is also not above reproach
Those years were marked by pragmatism
And political reticence
Overdue decisions were not taken
Day to day matters were left to others
When choosing his political friends
His judgment was not always perfect
A Mandela grandchild is named
After Colonel Muammar Gaddaffi
Seen from today's perspective
Not everything fits
The generally accepted
Picture of visionary and genius,
But Mandela can be excused
These lapses
Because despite everything
He achieved more than ordinary human beings
His long period of imprisonment
Played a significant role here
It did not break him, it formed him
Robben Island
Had been a university of life for Mandela once posited
He learned discipline there
In dialogue with his guards
He learnt humility, patience and tolerance
His youthful anger dissolved
He mellowed and acquired
The wisdom of age
When he was at last released
Mandela was no longer
Burning with rage,
He was now a humanized revolutionary
Mandela wanted reconciliation
At almost any price
His own transformation
Was his greatest strength
The ability to break free
From ideological utopia
And to be able to see the greater whole
The realization
That those who think differently
Are not necessarily enemies
The ability to listen,
To spread the message of reconciliation
To the point of betraying what he believed in,
Only in this way could he
Serve as a role model
To both black and white humanity
, communists and entrepreneurs,
Catholics and Muslims.
He became a visional missionary,
An ecclesiast of brotherly love
And compassion
Wherever he was, each humanity was equal
He had respect for musicians and presidents
Monarchs and cleaning ladies
He remembered names
And would ask about relatives
He gave each humanity his full attention
With a smile, a joke, a well aimed remark,
He won over every audience
His aura enveloped each humanity,
Even his political enemies,
That did not qualify him
For the status of demi-god
But he was idolized and rightly so
He must be named in the same breath
As Mahatma Gandhi, the Dalai Lama
Or Martin Luther King
Mandela wrote a chapter of world history
Even Barack Obama posited
He would not have become
President of the United States
Without Mandela as a role model,

And so it is not so important
That Mandela is now portrayed
Larger than life
The fact that not everything
He did in politics succeeded is a minor matter
His achievement is to have lived
A life credibly characterized
By humanism, tolerance and non-violence,
When Mandela was released
From prison in 1990,
The old world order of the Cold War era
Was collapsing
Mandela stood at the crossroads and set off in the right direction
How easily he could have played with fire, sought revenge,
Or simply failed; He could have withdrawn from public life or,
Like other companions in arms, earned millions,
Two marriages failed because of the political circumstances
His sons died tragically long before him
It was only when he was 80 and met his third wife,
Graca Machel,
That he again found warmth,
Partnership and private happiness,
Setbacks did not leave him bitter
Because he regarded his own life
As being less important
Than the cause he believed in
He served the community humbly,
With a sense of responsibility
Of duty and willingness to make sacrifices
Qualities that are today only rarely encountered,

How small and pathetic his successors now seem
Their battles for power will probably now be fought
Even more unscrupulously than in the past
How embarrassing are his own relatives
Who argued over his legacy at his hospital bed
Mandela was no saint
But a man with strengths and weaknesses,
Shaped by his environment
It will be hard to find a greater person
Just a little bit more Mandela every day
Would achieve a great deal
Not only in Africa
But in the bestridden geographies
Epochs and diversities of man,

In my post dirge I will ever echo words of Mandella
He shone on the crepuscular darkness of the Swedish
Academy, where cometh the Nobel glory;
Development and peace are indivisible
Without peace and international security
Nations cannot focus
On the upliftment
Of the most underprivileged of their citizens.
At night, by the fire,
The colors of the bushes
And of the fallen leaves,
Repeating themselves,
Turned in the room,
Like the leaves themselves
Turning in the wind.
Yes: but the color of the heavy hemlocks
Came striding.
And I remembered the cry of the peacocks.

The colors of their tails
Were like the leaves themselves
Turning in the wind,
In the twilight wind.
They swept over the room,
Just as they flew from the boughs of the hemlocks
Down to the ground.
I heard them cry--the peacocks.
Was it a cry against the twilight
Or against the leaves themselves
Turning in the wind,
Turning as the flames
Turned in the fire,
Turning as the tails of the peacocks
Turned in the loud fire,
Loud as the hemlocks
Full of the cry of the peacocks?
Or was it a cry against the hemlocks?

Out of the window,
I saw how the planets gathered
Like the leaves themselves
Turning in the wind.
I saw how the night came,
Came striding like the color of the heavy hemlocks
I felt afraid.
And I remembered the cry of the peacocks.
I am the stranger outside
Watching you in the shower
The monster under your bed
When you're trying to sleep

I am the stalker in the shadows
When you're walking in the street
The fear on the dark corners
You know I'm waiting there

I am the nightmare at night
Those forbidden thoughts in your head
You try to make yourself resist
But you're a prisoner of my will

I am the coming *******
As you fall to your submission
The surrendering to completion
At last, you face exactly who I am
Copyright Chris Smith 2014
IN SEARCH OF THE PRESENT

I begin with two words that all men have uttered since the dawn of humanity: thank you. The word gratitude has equivalents in every language and in each tongue the range of meanings is abundant. In the Romance languages this breadth spans the spiritual and the physical, from the divine grace conceded to men to save them from error and death, to the ****** grace of the dancing girl or the feline leaping through the undergrowth. Grace means pardon, forgiveness, favour, benefice, inspiration; it is a form of address, a pleasing style of speaking or painting, a gesture expressing politeness, and, in short, an act that reveals spiritual goodness. Grace is gratuitous; it is a gift. The person who receives it, the favoured one, is grateful for it; if he is not base, he expresses gratitude. That is what I am doing at this very moment with these weightless words. I hope my emotion compensates their weightlessness. If each of my words were a drop of water, you would see through them and glimpse what I feel: gratitude, acknowledgement. And also an indefinable mixture of fear, respect and surprise at finding myself here before you, in this place which is the home of both Swedish learning and world literature.

Languages are vast realities that transcend those political and historical entities we call nations. The European languages we speak in the Americas illustrate this. The special position of our literatures when compared to those of England, Spain, Portugal and France depends precisely on this fundamental fact: they are literatures written in transplanted tongues. Languages are born and grow from the native soil, nourished by a common history. The European languages were rooted out from their native soil and their own tradition, and then planted in an unknown and unnamed world: they took root in the new lands and, as they grew within the societies of America, they were transformed. They are the same plant yet also a different plant. Our literatures did not passively accept the changing fortunes of the transplanted languages: they participated in the process and even accelerated it. They very soon ceased to be mere transatlantic reflections: at times they have been the negation of the literatures of Europe; more often, they have been a reply.

In spite of these oscillations the link has never been broken. My classics are those of my language and I consider myself to be a descendant of Lope and Quevedo, as any Spanish writer would ... yet I am not a Spaniard. I think that most writers of Spanish America, as well as those from the United States, Brazil and Canada, would say the same as regards the English, Portuguese and French traditions. To understand more clearly the special position of writers in the Americas, we should think of the dialogue maintained by Japanese, Chinese or Arabic writers with the different literatures of Europe. It is a dialogue that cuts across multiple languages and civilizations. Our dialogue, on the other hand, takes place within the same language. We are Europeans yet we are not Europeans. What are we then? It is difficult to define what we are, but our works speak for us.

In the field of literature, the great novelty of the present century has been the appearance of the American literatures. The first to appear was that of the English-speaking part and then, in the second half of the 20th Century, that of Latin America in its two great branches: Spanish America and Brazil. Although they are very different, these three literatures have one common feature: the conflict, which is more ideological than literary, between the cosmopolitan and nativist tendencies, between Europeanism and Americanism. What is the legacy of this dispute? The polemics have disappeared; what remain are the works. Apart from this general resemblance, the differences between the three literatures are multiple and profound. One of them belongs more to history than to literature: the development of Anglo-American literature coincides with the rise of the United States as a world power whereas the rise of our literature coincides with the political and social misfortunes and upheavals of our nations. This proves once more the limitations of social and historical determinism: the decline of empires and social disturbances sometimes coincide with moments of artistic and literary splendour. Li-Po and Tu Fu witnessed the fall of the Tang dynasty; Velázquez painted for Felipe IV; Seneca and Lucan were contemporaries and also victims of Nero. Other differences are of a literary nature and apply more to particular works than to the character of each literature. But can we say that literatures have a character? Do they possess a set of shared features that distinguish them from other literatures? I doubt it. A literature is not defined by some fanciful, intangible character; it is a society of unique works united by relations of opposition and affinity.

The first basic difference between Latin-American and Anglo-American literature lies in the diversity of their origins. Both begin as projections of Europe. The projection of an island in the case of North America; that of a peninsula in our case. Two regions that are geographically, historically and culturally eccentric. The origins of North America are in England and the Reformation; ours are in Spain, Portugal and the Counter-Reformation. For the case of Spanish America I should briefly mention what distinguishes Spain from other European countries, giving it a particularly original historical identity. Spain is no less eccentric than England but its eccentricity is of a different kind. The eccentricity of the English is insular and is characterized by isolation: an eccentricity that excludes. Hispanic eccentricity is peninsular and consists of the coexistence of different civilizations and different pasts: an inclusive eccentricity. In what would later be Catholic Spain, the Visigoths professed the heresy of Arianism, and we could also speak about the centuries of ******* by Arabic civilization, the influence of Jewish thought, the Reconquest, and other characteristic features.

Hispanic eccentricity is reproduced and multiplied in America, especially in those countries such as Mexico and Peru, where ancient and splendid civilizations had existed. In Mexico, the Spaniards encountered history as well as geography. That history is still alive: it is a present rather than a past. The temples and gods of pre-Columbian Mexico are a pile of ruins, but the spirit that breathed life into that world has not disappeared; it speaks to us in the hermetic language of myth, legend, forms of social coexistence, popular art, customs. Being a Mexican writer means listening to the voice of that present, that presence. Listening to it, speaking with it, deciphering it: expressing it ... After this brief digression we may be able to perceive the peculiar relation that simultaneously binds us to and separates us from the European tradition.

This consciousness of being separate is a constant feature of our spiritual history. Separation is sometimes experienced as a wound that marks an internal division, an anguished awareness that invites self-examination; at other times it appears as a challenge, a spur that incites us to action, to go forth and encounter others and the outside world. It is true that the feeling of separation is universal and not peculiar to Spanish Americans. It is born at the very moment of our birth: as we are wrenched from the Whole we fall into an alien land. This experience becomes a wound that never heals. It is the unfathomable depth of every man; all our ventures and exploits, all our acts and dreams, are bridges designed to overcome the separation and reunite us with the world and our fellow-beings. Each man's life and the collective history of mankind can thus be seen as attempts to reconstruct the original situation. An unfinished and endless cure for our divided condition. But it is not my intention to provide yet another description of this feeling. I am simply stressing the fact that for us this existential condition expresses itself in historical terms. It thus becomes an awareness of our history. How and when does this feeling appear and how is it transformed into consciousness? The reply to this double-edged question can be given in the form of a theory or a personal testimony. I prefer the latter: there are many theories and none is entirely convincing.

The feeling of separation is bound up with the oldest and vaguest of my memories: the first cry, the first scare. Like every child I built emotional bridges in the imagination to link me to the world and to other people. I lived in a town on the outskirts of Mexico City, in an old dilapidated house that had a jungle-like garden and a great room full of books. First games and first lessons. The garden soon became the centre of my world; the library, an enchanted cave. I used to read and play with my cousins and schoolmates. There was a fig tree, temple of vegetation, four pine trees, three ash trees, a nightshade, a pomegranate tree, wild grass and prickly plants that produced purple grazes. Adobe walls. Time was elastic; space was a spinning wheel. All time, past or future, real or imaginary, was pure presence. Space transformed itself ceaselessly. The beyond was here, all was here: a valley, a mountain, a distant country, the neighbours' patio. Books with pictures, especially history books, eagerly leafed through, supplied images of deserts and jungles, palaces and hovels, warriors and princesses, beggars and kings. We were shipwrecked with Sinbad and with Robinson, we fought with d'Artagnan, we took Valencia with the Cid. How I would have liked to stay forever on the Isle of Calypso! In summer the green branches of the fig tree would sway like the sails of a caravel or a pirate ship. High up on the mast, swept by the wind, I could make out islands and continents, lands that vanished as soon as they became tangible. The world was limitless yet it was always within reach; time was a pliable substance that weaved an unbroken present.

When was the spell broken? Gradually rather than suddenly. It is hard to accept being betrayed by a friend, deceived by the woman we love, or that the idea of freedom is the mask of a tyrant. What we call "finding out" is a slow and tricky process because we ourselves are the accomplices of our errors and deceptions. Nevertheless, I can remember fairly clearly an incident that was the first sign, although it was quickly forgotten. I must have been about six when one of my cousins who was a little older showed me a North American magazine with a photograph of soldiers marching along a huge avenue, probably in New York. "They've returned from the war" she said. This handful of words disturbed me, as if they foreshadowed the end of the world or the Second Coming of Christ. I vaguely knew that somewhere far away a war had ended a few years earlier and that the soldiers were marching to celebrate their victory. For me, that war had taken place in another time, not here and now. The photo refuted me. I felt literally dislodged from the present.

From that moment time began to fracture more and more. And there was a plurality of spaces. The experience repeated itself more and more frequently. Any piece of news, a harmless phrase, the headline in a newspaper: everything proved the outside world's existence and my own unreality. I felt that the world was splitting and that I did not inhabit the present. My present was disintegrating: real time was somewhere else. My time, the time of the garden, the fig tree, the games with friends, the drowsiness among the plants at three in the afternoon under the sun, a fig torn open (black and red like a live coal but one that is sweet and fresh): this was a fictitious time. In spite of what my senses told me, the time from over there, belonging to the others, was the real one, the time of the real present. I accepted the inevitable: I became an adult. That was how my expulsion from the present began.

It may seem paradoxical to say that we have been expelled from the present, but it is a feeling we have all had at some moment. Some of us experienced it first as a condemnation, later transformed into consciousness and action. The search for the present is neither the pursuit of an earthly paradise nor that of a timeless eternity: it is the search for a real reality. For us, as Spanish Americans, the real present was not in our own countries: it was the time lived by others, by the English, the French and the Germans. It was the time of New York, Paris, London. We had to go and look for it and bring it back home. These years were also the years of my discovery of literature. I began writing poems. I did not know what made me write them: I was moved by an inner need that is difficult to define. Only now have I understood that there was a secret relationship between what I have called my expulsion from the present and the writing of poetry. Poetry is in love with the instant and seeks to relive it in the poem, thus separating it from sequential time and turning it into a fixed present. But at that time I wrote without wondering why I was doing it. I was searching for the gateway to the present: I wanted to belong to my time and to my century. A little later this obsession became a fixed idea: I wanted to be a modern poet. My search for modernity had begun.

What is modernity? First of all it is an ambiguous term: there are as many types of modernity as there are societies. Each has its own. The word's meaning is uncertain and arbitrary, like the name of the period that precedes it, the Middle Ages. If we are modern when compared to medieval times, are we perhaps the Middle Ages of a future modernity? Is a name that changes with time a real name? Modernity is a word in search of its meaning. Is it an idea, a mirage or a moment of history? Are we the children of modernity or its creators? Nobody knows for sure. It doesn't matter much: we follow it, we pursue it. For me at that time modernity was fused with the present or rather produced it: the present was its last supreme flower. My case is neither unique nor exceptional: from the Symbolist period, all modern poets have chased after that magnetic and elusive figure that fascinates them. Baudelaire was the first. He was also the first to touch her and discover that she is nothing but time that crumbles in one's hands. I am not going to relate my adventures in pursuit of modernity: they are not very different from those of other 20th-Century poets. Modernity has been a universal passion. Since 1850 she has been our goddess and our demoness. In recent years, there has been an attempt to exorcise her and there has been much talk of "postmodernism". But what is postmodernism if not an even more modern modernity?

For us, as Latin Americans, the search for poetic modernity runs historically parallel to the repeated attempts to modernize our countries. This tendency begins at the end of the 18th Century and includes Spain herself. The United States was born into modernity and by 1830 was already, as de Tocqueville observed, the womb of the future; we were born at a moment when Spain and Portugal were moving away from modernity. This is why there was frequent talk of "Europeanizing" our countries: the modern was outside and had to be imported. In Mexican history this process begins just before the War of Independence. Later it became a great ideological and political debate that passionately divided Mexican society during the 19th Century. One event was to call into question not the legitimacy of the reform movement but the way in which it had been implemented: the Mexican Revolution. Unlike its 20th-Century counterparts, the Mexican Revolution was not really the expression of a vaguely utopian ideology but rather the explosion of a reality that had been historically and psychologically repressed. It was not the work of a group of ideologists intent on introducing principles derived from a political theory; it was a popular uprising that unmasked what was hidden. For this very reason it was more of a revelation than a revolution. Mexico was searching for the present outside only to find it within, buried but alive. The search for modernity led
Shaded Lamp Aug 2014
Freedom?
Free from *******?
Hypocritical beings we all are
striving for freedom
whilst robbing it from others.
Chanting our version
Dismissing others interpretation
Freedom?
Free from *******?
The ******* we happily vote for
again and again and again
The tyranny of armed law enforcement
trained only to obey
to make you obey
Freedom?
This bubble of life is a prison in space
just waiting to pop!
Those with the power are holding a needle
to our bubble's surface...
threatening
forever threatening.
Freedom?
Freedom is a dark place six feet down
hidden from most laws...
but not all.
**F r e e d o m !
Thank you Mr. Cole for inspiring me to write again.
WendyStarry Eyes Jul 2016
Grace from above
Blooms forth below exquisiteness
Swirling this human heart
Forth in symmetry
Of the clouds
Where thoughts may never go
If not driven by captivation
Of our Lords
Exquisite *******
thrcy  Sep 2013
oppression
thrcy Sep 2013
I'm in great depression
in life that is my main obsession
it holds me like I am their own possession
wants me to say "I'm fine" instead of my real emotion
keeps my feelings with succession
comes out of nowhere & attacks me with such aggression
only leads me to one direction
sadness, madness,  numbness, & no other kind of expression
I tried to say my confession
of how it goes through progression
at times it gives me an impression
that I'll be better soon, instead I am left with its *******
also tells my mind to have some session
speaks to me all about my imperfection
it gets scary in there with all the tension
saying I am some sort of infection
that needs to be a suspension
eternally telling me a suggestion
for all it wants to mention
is to end it all & leave everyone out with no some sort of connection
so it will leave me hanging with no protection
to vanish myself in front of a mirror & see my own reflection
of how I'm not such a great exception
and I'm not at all a perfection
What might the heights of the minds eyes see while the spirit is in motion of the purest emotion of intent and expression of love?


Is it such a state where false has awards and evening gowns picked out for the awards show?

Is it so fake that one might find it difficult to understand real from false?

Or might the fact that when a human being can truly  walk the line of life with grace and demanding ******* while gently caressing the absolutely overwhelming truth that love has ravaged the soul ,

Ravaged this soul,

*****, held, ravaged, run through, righted and scorned in the deepest of waters a soul has yet to express to the world for two thousand years, and all while  the captive ....... Soul,         is critiqued on the devastation wrot in such completeness that is is even to this day savoured as a prized  fetish even unto the sad would self.

Dare I ask simple a question of wondering curious eyes of windowed souls to cast a view into the dew of the greatness of being of truth and grace while respecting the very heart from which such torture pours from?

dare a truth be asked that such a human being be of a dignity in company with the child timid in him self torn, dashed , bruised, named and bolder than the soul that resides in you?

Dare a tasked truth be ever revealed of contemptuous  acts of ***** souls and privacy of ones tiny castles in the  oh so damaged and bitter sands. Of the wombs of mind that we all venture to frontier the very limit of the souls endurance, prestige while being undignified by the raw violence of the act of continued ****, or is a dared truth to harsh a fact for timidness of my self to have swallowed whole as the soul of mine self and mine eyes and mine teeth from which the vengeance did pour a pounding to seek, all to be driving back by the broken and horrorably disfigured child of me that many find more womanly.   For this Ugly Boy of me, this sad sot silly and ***** smaller to the vastness of the fridgidness of ******* through lies and manipulations while taking in the raw ******* of the common God's child , virus this not what we all are the now newly in question not so rarely ***** and sold like ****** in a new church for the dastardly and bastarded ******* that we have come to call complacency of decency?  

Any, how foolish, yes my dear friend , you are indeed a wiser worrier  wafareing wondering wizard of vast skills and frightful  ways and means to tame the beast of such hateful things , so costic as to reach deep into them and quiver their tiny tethers and frail feathers all a mockingly  to the tones and notes left after we vacated the dead crypts of self deprivation and hate as we all found the truth of the emotion as it poured through us when realizing this damaged, torn and frightened child , a man holding the depth of winter killing fields at bay, a man kindly swaying the stars to play a tune so as to grace all who broke his heart a stay of pain for each and every attempted and timidly bold and brazen sway and slanted ****** love or raw truth and powerful motions from which we all find the fancy to ****** the  tool as the goofiest  **** **** as hell fool we all choose to allowed the absolute grace and magesty to ******* Rule our Hearts for even just a fraction of a moment in this prayer of endless time, yet hold with the dared scary and walking naked and alone into the lions den while the wolfs and beasts all gathered their finest clothes, weapons and gold, silver, trinkites and shiny of the shiniest of the things they boldly and brashly slash all with as to command the fear to reside in the human spirit.

As this silly little hill Billy with a **** nice *** *****, were wolf feet and all called out to the proudest and loudest of the tiny little spouts and softly said " what is all you foolish fuss about?"
"Have you lost you most precious toys, only to find victim the Dickson of my sorry and sad state of dieing from the oath and lashing of what you helped  rip from what can only be many peoples and communities and even many families?"

Dare a truth to truth this dare my dearest cud of a bear for a true beast of welcome verosity I be all the while giggling and prancing all about like a happy *** skipping fairy, and of this I most truly rather be for don't you know? , did no one tell you the news?  The horror is scaring but the truth is so amazing, turns out scar gardens are the softest things God has ever created, scar gardens are the hardest element that break far stronger , bold creatures of far fasters tested , cleeted, bust a mother up than most man has ever know to exist.
Scar gardens are the very  spouts from which the truth and grace of the living love of God pours fourth into this majestic ******, animal ,spiritual ,sacred, holy and magnificent place , a place that the very bashing of the flowers that dance you delight even in the pity, plight, laughter , and slight  has done nothing but cast us all from it loving embrace, yet, dear cub of a Billy bad *** nub of a cubbed couger in the final leaps to catch this timid and playful prey of me that you so think you will devour you see,  we, the ones whom truly felt and opened and dare that **** scary *** chance to dance with this devil in the pale moon light have found that they no longer must live in fright, that this very garden is theirs and none to own but to flourish and grow, thrive if you must, but lest get nasty for a real minute, animal to animal ,it ma thrive , sure but it will **** , love ,fight, rise , Smit , right the wrongs that have tortured us far to ******* long and in that moment of exstacy the human race may just finally realize ***, love, caring, kindness and truth of self are the face of God starting through your eyes experiencing all f his loving songs creations and getting ******* goose bumps and he'll yes this Billy Jack goofy *** bad  kat all **** knuckled with bad habits and a lust for loving full ******* spectrum and a lesbian trapped in this fugly *** mans body all crazy *** triple run *** marks the spot moon shine devil of mine were wolf feet and all does truth and whole love the Real Girl and is ,,,,, and most mother ******* who are real and real down with the truth that God is love and loves even your silly but as God loves mine silly *** and the rest of this star studded cast of human **** ups simply attempting to pass and go the **** home at the end of the school bell.


HUA,    I do love the Real artist  you speak of, she knows it, and may just know that I know she is not the one laying **** the silly hill Billy with a rather bad *** wi,,,,,,,, um sorry.     Where were we. Oh yes. Um. Only those who care to let go and allow the truest of flows and are true to self and the love that one finds in the being of anothers breath, thoughts , actions , decisions, and mistakes and graces to right ones self after horrors that tear us and embarrass us, these know the truth ,and my dear friend i love you too, but not like the love i expressed to you in hopes you to feel the love i share to her with out pushing it on her, so that what is rightfully hers to reject or except i gave it all away to all even those whom used it to fuel hate in mine own shape , form and name.  And i have done all of this and a dillion years of pouring stars into the hearts of that goofy *** girl by way of dancing crying and **** it dieing through the very core of you,  yes i got you high, horney, got you off, many times , i gave you memories of sparks you know, i gave you worlds of wonder and ways to flurish and grow, i gave you what you , well many of you , did not even deserve for it was truy meant to be for her, but i felt that the most good it could do and the best love i could show her is i can love all of you and even rock hear heart all the very same ways i moved you , and not loose one silly little drop of the tears in her pain, yet sip them and drip them into her so she may choose to live again, as she has done for me.....do you now see? For I C C I said this goofy eyed going man who has done all this in his true and real names,  For I Love You So.


And didn't even eat my wheaties wink , smile I a not mad at ya, just being me, and some times we all have a tax bit of  werewolfand badger **** in us , sorry to offend, smile in the end, we all just might be ,,,,, sort f friends..
#moon
Zoe Yabrove Jan 2011
They fight and die for our
FREEDOM.
F-R-E-E four letters forming a song.
FREEDOM
D-O-M- ination.
Yes, it is a war.
Free against Dom.
In case you haven’t noticed the dove with broken wings;
******* is winning.
******* is killing.
******* is stealing our sons and sisters.
It is taking away our choice.
It is deciding who we can love.
Why be unique if conformity is dominating?
If going with the majority is fiting in,
Is being yourself fitting out?
What gives us the right to size anyone up?
Does my shirt tell you about my past?
Does my hair tell you what makes me laugh, or cry?
Our eyes are merely glasses for our hearts.
Some have weak prescriptions.
Originality is becoming the dinosaur
of the 21st century.
Free yourself from the cult of chumps.
Embrace what is different,
Let it D-O-M-inate

— The End —