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island poet Jun 2018
my island is refuge
your island is refuge
for they bear the same name
ours

some call it sheltering
for surrounded by spits of land,
resting tween tines of two forks,
but storms come.  do damage.
the island recovers, inevitably as
humans and nature do a joint tented revival meeting

a project, new slip covers, fresh paint job,
we joke to ourselves

but on the heel of the isle
where our sturdy bungalow faces the
moody waters, the white capped breezes,
your chair neath the tree with the swing awaits, asking,
“when will the woodsman come,his tides flow away, away, to
why not here?

so many stories have I, poems to dictate,”
that silent observer says “his presence is required on this isle called

ours”

the currents announced as well,
an American blessing

“ready willing and Abel
to carry, to gift renew,
to the isle of refuge”

6/39/18. 8:08am
apurupa Apr 1
So you sate your inadequacies
With excuses and those poems
And you pretend that tomorrow you will be better
But you are unstirring from your heart
And the stagnant puddle you call your life
It is your air, what once was bitter

Complacence takes hold and you watch
That view from the window forever the same
Sunsets and seasons blurring in the horizon
One more hour, another sleepless night
An unfinished day and muted uneasiness
Is this apathy the only thing you rely on?

“Life drains my enthusiasm away bit by bit”
You complain, and to refuse reality
You firmly repeat it like a charm
But you know, one heartbeat away
One step further from where you fell last
Will crash into your illusion of calm

Numb your conscience with art
Devour everyone else’s talent
And take nothing but tears from their story
Leave truths to dent your steel façade
Yet bury yourself in denial
Safe, shielded, in your delusional glory

Bleeding heart, battering in its cage
Its screams drowned under ****** veins
It’s scary silent, your shell
You’ve locked down hard
Your defences caked with dreamland dirt
Too sturdy for reality to fell

Search like a madman for something
To ease the voice of discomfort
Try to bind it to a letter
And so you sate your inadequacies
With excuses and this poem
And swear that tomorrow you will be better.
Kurds are Birds
by Kajal Ahmad, a Kurdish poet
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Per the latest scientific classification, Kurds
now belong to a species of bird!
This is why,
traveling across the torn, fraying pages of history,
they are nomads recognized by their caravans.
Yes, Kurds are birds! And,
even worse, when
there’s nowhere left to nest, no refuge for their pain,
they turn to the illusion of traveling again
between the warm and arctic sectors of their homeland.
So I don’t think it strange Kurds can fly but not land.
They wander from region to region
never realizing their dreams
of settling,
of forming a colony, of nesting.
No, they never settle down long enough
to visit Rumi and inquire about his health,
or to bow down deeply in the gust-
stirred dust,
like Nali.

Keywords/Tags: Kajal Ahmad, Kurdish, translation, Kurds, birds, nomads, caravans, refuge, homeland, fly, land, flying, landing, colony, nest, nesting, Rumi, Nali
Cox Feb 13
My tears can no longer seek home in my eyes,
They refuge to the mainland- flooding and filling every crevice- they take away life.
Toxic and hot,
They spurt out as if they are small spits of lava.
I cause pain and devastation,
I **** nature.
Aneesh H Jan 31
Let me be a bird
And fly in the sky
Free from all fetters

Let me be a fish
And swim across the seas
Free of all bounds

Let me be the wind
And flow everywhere
Free of all barriers


Let me be the sun
Let me be the moon
And caress the nightly Earth
With my cool milky warmth

Let me, let me just be
Myself...!
Freedom or Liberty is a value that every living being longs for. For me, freedom is the escape of my mind from the inevitable mundane. An elevation of my spirit to something transcendental, and not ephemeral. Not necessarily a permanent refuge but even a momentary catharsis in the continuity of chaos.
Angelique Jan 10
product of butchered philosophy
men must suffer at the hands of those distracted
by their thirst for their self interest  
punishment is dealt at the request of politics
radical voices
which are silenced by the liberty bred into the rebel
who too fought against crimes
seeking refuge in a new land
but would not allow refuge to those
who suffered at the hands of their destruction
Hunter Sep 2019
First you take a drink,
Then the drink takes you.
You start asking,
Could have,
Might have,
Or should have.

I’m starting to realize that anger,
Tears,
And sadness are for those who have given up.
Have I given up..?
Is drunkenness a temporary sucicide?

My anxiety is feeling like a rocking chair,
It gives me something to do,
But it doesn’t get me far.
It’s not stress that kills me,
It’s how I react to it.

Baby open your door,
Cause I’ve been waiting for my blessing.
Give me all the keys,
And I’ll lock away the darkness.
If your grace is an ocean,
Then please let me drown.

In your arms,
I find refuge.
Did you say you love me?
Or do my ears deceive me.
Cause I’ll say the same words,
But I’ll shout them clearly.

I’m so glad you came,
You drew the curtain on the night.
When you call my name,
I can’t help but smile.
I started my life drinking a lot thinking I had control of it leading to troubling moments in my life. Soon my emotions were overcome with anger from exes and the way people treated me, my nights of being drunk felt like "clarity" like I was flying awat from my problems. My anxiety started to get worse and make me feel hopless, and the way I treated it was stupid on my part. Thank god I was able to meet my lover who is always giving me grace on my mistakes, she calls out what I do wrong so I can fix It. I'm so happy she walked into my life, she's able to rock me to sleep and make me forget about all my worries. I love you J.J.L
Avant de nous couvrir de l'or, de la myrrhe et de la rosée
Des eaux de nos volcans secrets
Je voudrais avant l'ultime explication
Avant qu'on n 'enterre sous nos mahots bleus,
Nos arbres à pluie et nos figuiers étrangleurs,
Panthéons naturels de nos divinités
Nos cordons ombilicaux amoureux,
Je voudrais, ma fine amour,
Qu'on fasse ripaille dans les Terres Inconnues
Qu'on fasse les 800 coups dans la Mer Dangereuse
Qu'on mange, qu'on rie, qu'on s'émeuve dans la Mer d'Inimitié
Qu'on prenne à bras le corps nos insaisissables cris et gémissements
Incompréhensibles de dugongs et de baleines à bosses
Qu'on s'en saisisse et qu'on les épingle
Comme des papillons rares sur une planche
Ou des fougères phosphorescentes sur un herbier
Sous du papier buvard avant de les faire sécher
A l'étuve de nos passions microendémiques.
Etudions la fréquence de nos cris
Et de nos épanchements
Grâce aux balises GPS
Inventorions les sauts intimes, les semences nouvelles, les racines-arceaux
Et donnons un nom local et scientifique à chaque nouvelle espèce
A chaque nouvelle danse, morsure, griffure ou caresse
Récupérons des spécimens de nos territoires
Identifions les hot spots de notre patrimoine amoureux
Et en fonction de leur risque d'extinction
Elaborons un plan de sauvegarde de la biodiversité
De notre Carte de Tendre
De nos fonds, de nos mangroves et de nos pitons.
Nous sommes botanistes, océanographes et naturalistes
Nous sommes vétérinaires de notre réserve naturelle
Notre jardin des plantes, notre forêt, notre laboratoire
Notre pépinière, notre refuge, notre corps tropical.
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