#strike
Within the fortress of my chest,
two armies rise at dawn—
one clad in crimson silk,
the other in shadowed steel.
Love, with hands warm as sunrise,
lays flowers along the corridors of my mind, promising peace in a voice
that feels like home.
Hate, with eyes like storm-torn skies,
sets fire to every blooming thing,
swearing the ruin is mercy,
and the ashes, my salvation.
They march the same veins,
drink from the same pulse,
speak in the same tongue—
and yet their banners
will never fly side by side.
Some nights, Love wins
and the world feels golden.
Some nights, Hate takes the crown
and I sharpen my silence into swords.
But more often—
they lock arms in stalemate,
pressing their weight upon my soul,
neither yielding,
neither retreating,
leaving me
to live in the uneasy kingdom
where both are king.
"The heart of man is a divided river,
and its two streams know not the other’s course."
— Epic of Gilgamesh
...
Aug 1, 2025
Aug 1, 2025 at 10:48 AM UTC
The bin-men and bin-women
of Birmingham
are on strike.
Black bin bags barricade the streets,
decaying vegetables
rotting meat
and putrid fish
perfume the pavements:
an odour brewed
in the vat
of spending cuts.
In the park
families picnic
between discarded
takeaway boxes:
their children chase
windblown paper towels
round an assault course
of half-empty cola bottles.
Rats big as cats
prowl the roads
like tigers
and eat car wires
bringing the city to
a stinking, gridlocked stop.
Jun 5, 2025
Jun 5, 2025 at 12:53 PM UTC
A bad day away
From the end of things,
Cause not a person stays.
And everything remains the same,
Despite all the change.
An hour to twelve,
When the clock strikes.
I burn one down.
And the match reminds me of hell;
Of dark depths, lit by scorching light.
Most deepest of desires, and precious hopes
We are fond of holding you close,
Fearful we will share our thoughts
And be lost to ourselves
To understand, what we know we never can
Jul 18, 2023
Jul 18, 2023 at 6:26 PM UTC
I refuse to write anything brilliant today,
in support of the writers’ strike.
May 4, 2023
May 4, 2023 at 12:35 AM UTC
There’s a writers’ strike. Should you be writing today?
May 3, 2023
May 3, 2023 at 11:10 AM UTC
The Stop & Shop strike v. Game of Thrones.
In Game what’s not made plain
is the condition of the people
compared with warriors and queens.
There’s no mention of land-clearance, tree-felling,
pruning, chopping, digging, hoeing,
weeding, branding, gelding, slaughtering,
salting, tanning, brewing, boiling,
smelting, forging, milling, thatching,
fencing and hurdle-making, hedging, road-mending and haulage.
As for the strike, most of us
supported the cashiers and clerks—
cutting benefits and pensions
when CEOs make millions.
A few pennies more
for ice cream and tofu
a leg up for our neighbors
and comrades in labor.
But don’t get greedy, power-hungry—
we don’t want the supermarket to go out of business
or the Army of the Dead to extinguish us.
A red-tailed hawk observes what small mammals, birds are in the
clearcut,
awaits the moment to strike.
Three ***** two strikes, full count. Aaron pitched carefully, slow
strikes and the opposing team scored.
Transit strike. Part-time tutor,
food deliverer, illegal immigrant,
school bus driver, supermarket bagger.
Let labor flow like capital! Full tank of gas!
In your dreams, you kick ***
In your daydream, you’re breaking bones, killing mean dogs with bare
hands .
In my childhood dreams, I fought side by side with my best buddies
against the Army of the Dead.
I wake up to a lightning strike and my dream incinerates.
The strike is over, like a thunderstorm.
Still a half dozen or so episodes of Thrones
before it sinks into the past.
Will women save the world?
Anything’s possible.
Nothing changes in Williamstown, Willie, except the seasons.
The wee hours, the bored minutes, the second guesses,
the town sewer department, the collector of taxes.
Pitcher’s elbow, runner’s knee, reader’s eye,
you live until you die.
That’s no answer.
Without the Mexican and Canadian borders
the White Walkers would dissolve like an aspirin in seltzer water.
The sun is up, the strike is over
next episode of Game is Sunday
the White Walkers attack
some of our favorite characters croak
but humanity survives
although the weather is ominous.
The habitable zone around the sun
is moving outward as the orb expands
getting hotter as it grows older.
Earth a billion years ago
was smack in the middle of the turf
but we’re now half-in, half-out
exposed to the sun’s ardor, agony,
a dragon eating its babies, torching cities.
We’re gonna hafta outsmart it
hold Labor Day barbecues on Mars.
Jul 6, 2020
Jul 6, 2020 at 8:53 AM UTC
the smell lures you in.
all you want is food
until you're suddenly
fighting for your life.
you can never catch a breath
without someone behind you.
because when you rest
for even one second
that's when they strike.
Apr 19, 2020
Apr 19, 2020 at 7:52 PM UTC
A smile that lights the darkest corner of this unforgiving world.
You are my fire, cinders in my soul constantly burning
Your touch melted my icy heart, all it ever knew was unrelenting cold.
My soul you armed with confidence, gave it strength, worth It's weapon, it's so bold.
Life handed me a bad hand, without you in it, I would have to fold.
Together we travel this winding road directionless, even if it is unknown.
Every moment love shared, a river of love, we prayed to find each other
Between us it religiously flows.
We both wholeheartedly without any doubt feel the same, our love knows.
You my heavenly Angel, your words divine,
Your heart your Angelic halo.
Feb 11, 2020
Feb 11, 2020 at 2:01 AM UTC
A clanging, banging, colossus
Creating cavital void until glowing orange apricot
Bear no more at this youthful age
Before fate of day lets fly another
Don't wait and fade
Strike hot, hot
It is the iron and the sound away
Jan 2, 2020
Jan 2, 2020 at 1:49 PM UTC
Volley with the moon
A ball
.
Stretch as horizons
Stretching out
..
Leap until the stars, your ears
Are all about
...
And never fall
Push back the creeping ground
....
When you’re tall, be tall
And strong
.....
When your voice is alive with song
Sing loud
......
And when they say, your hammer strike has lost its might
Pour down a rain of blows like a bursting cloud
.......
Showing all the might and rush of youth
In a Springtime unexpected so soon
........
No anvil ever lived without a thousand strikes
Or snowfall ever cared for open eyes
.........
Because where you see them looking up
Strike, with a forceful meaningful down
..........
As if we were never meant to be
Anything but alive
...........
Arise, and find your former self
Awake alive, your hammer rise
Nov 14, 2019
Nov 14, 2019 at 12:13 PM UTC
I am thunder
Silver fire
Felt like a hot tin roof beneath young feet
And scolding
Smoking like the copper wire
Paper on a guillotine
Slicing through an echo chamber
I am the terror of a plastic souls desire
That is
Until only bane of self remains
And all once again are made the same
Oct 21, 2019
Oct 21, 2019 at 5:41 PM UTC
Doors close like conversations
Cold as attics below basements
So we are an abandoned home
Until I light a candle and rekindle
Always me
Sep 15, 2019
Sep 15, 2019 at 8:46 PM UTC
I fantasize
about marching with my friends
down wellington
forcing the government
to look below,
and think
"maybe they're right."
but instead, they think
"shut it down."
i fantasize
about taking care of the wounded
doing my part
and truly feeling
that there is power in unity
forcing the government
to look below,
and think
"maybe we're wrong."
but instead, they think
"send more troops."
i fantasize
about singing "l'internationale"
with thousands of my comrades
as we fight for justice
arm in arm,
hand in hand
forcing the government
to look below,
and think
"maybe it's us."
but instead, they think
"casualties don't matter unless the goal is reached."
Jul 8, 2019
Jul 8, 2019 at 9:25 PM UTC
another page
with words
on it.
another extraction
from , spilling
free. ashes from
ritual to the
dexter , projections
of intimacy to
the sinister.
this space does
not allow
anything and yet
is open to everything.
a lightning strike
s l o w e d
to the
length
of a
l i f e t i m e ,
happening
behind your eyes.
the circuit is
already complete.
but not fate , not
determined , not
catenary.
don't you remember ?
you already let go.
Jul 2, 2019
Jul 2, 2019 at 8:48 AM UTC
नेपाल बन्द हुँदा, खुल्ला हुँदा
माहुरीलाइ के फरक र ?
उ फुलमै बस्छ, रङ्गको बैचित्रय
Jun 29, 2019
Jun 29, 2019 at 7:33 AM UTC
Demurring dreams
In solitude,
A feeling came.
It came too soon,
Concomitant
With feeling due.
Annex the black
To white to blue,
Diaphanous,
And dormant truths.
Convivial
To ones "forsooth".
Jan 31, 2019
Jan 31, 2019 at 1:02 AM UTC
She came home
Still in her school outfits
She hugged me tight
With tears rolling down her eyes
She was filled with fright
'it happened so fast,
' This is all i have'
She mumbled as she cried
Apparently there had been a strike
Students burnt down the dormitories
And refused to attend class
The teachers to afraid
Were out of sight
The police had to intervene
Causing a clash
With rubber bullets, mallets
And tear gas
The police squashed and beat
The students hard
With stones, sticks and any tangible object that could be held
The students retaliated
Just to **** off the armed blue men
Thumping of boots
Shouting and screams
Bullets fling
There was circus in school
The students were sent home
Suppressed without giving
Them a chance to talk
A conflict resolved
With no interest in the
Root cause
Two nights are long
Another school catches
Fire
The dormitories are down
Then you'll here them ask
Where have we gone wrong?
Akwana Wa Odera
@the_real_akwana
© 2018
Jan 8, 2019
Jan 8, 2019 at 8:41 AM UTC
strike my eyes lovely
for S. B.
by way of introduction,
when you have gone to confession,
freely admitting you have nothing left for others to harvest,
no seed to plant a new crop, and lies and laughter, interchangeable,
there is no poetry left, not even raisin scone crumbs,
one good friend informs that a forgotten five month old poem,
a computer has selected & resurrected, for distinction
so months later you snicker for you have been seriously
self-kicked away from writing, all your vocabularies,
trite and yellowed overused, and you read
really good poetry and are
slapped-seen-outed by the impoverishment of
your own no-winsome word-smithy,
no delusions, even this, but a-quick script, more a thank you note,
and it’s the only lasting quality is the
genuine nature of its intent
but the poem itself falls bottom of the cliff, short on quality,
a victim of your dissatisfaction
let me explain better
she messages you while the time difference works in her favor,
she reads while you sleep the sleep of the soul-exhausted,
she, scoffing at your claims of motivation deprivation,
as she cherishes this forgotten one,
with words that cannot be ignored
the poem**
strikes her eyes lovely
daggered, this morning phrase cannot go unchallenged
for this a compliment that any poet would
weep for, be inspired by, stung into action,
provoked, ego flattered and challenged to-do more-better,
what writer could want for anything more!
who can own this ability
accept this ultimatum of success, a cross-word crucification
to strike down lovely
the readers eyes, almost all once,
almost excuses me forever
for trying and failing so many times
you smile
but not in the chest where
lovely
needs to strike you
for if you cannot strike the readers eyes again and again, then...
let the moment gleam, and then disappear,
again and again, stored but not restorative
11/21/18
Miami
Nov 22, 2018
Nov 22, 2018 at 7:49 AM UTC
A lance is such a different thing
In a different age
Perceived by those who turn and ride off, away
But best?
What is the best way in modern day?
To avenge unrest, to strike and sway
In a time when the world throws words away
Catch truth and cradle it in trust
Till the strike rings true
Till the passive armor falls and is stripped away
Nov 18, 2018
Nov 18, 2018 at 11:15 AM UTC
There are those who wear masks to hide,
Those who wear masks to show us what they stand for,
to inspire,
to unite,
to define,
to strike fear,
There are those who wear masks to protect themselves.
And there are those who wear masks to protect us all.
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 4:52 PM UTC
Blood has risin
Fallen under the demise of gluttony
Throats shutter in a flourished gleam
Spilling out their smokes; the evil stream
With closed eyes the horizon did strike
I was the one who favored spite
Invisible to eyes the mind grew thin
Wearing down from the mask of sin
Oh sweet child have you strayed so far?
In the final moment did I become a star
Ripples of triumph
I have fought death
Swimming towards light
For one last breath
Decrepit old sun burnt out and cold
Heart wondered beat less
Fortune favored the bold
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 11:15 PM UTC