Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Tauhid May 2016
b'ęránko bà p'égbá nigbò, kiniun lolori wøn
b'ęiyę p'øgøfa l'ødan așa l'øga gbogbo wøn
b'øba p'ęgbęrun laiye, ønirisha ni baba wøn
b'obinrin ti pøto laiye, iwø motunrayo ni mø yan layo

ifę rę n'pa mi bi øti
oyi ifę rę n'kømi o mu mi lotutu
gbogbo ara mi ngbøn bi ęni w'ędo
b'oba føwø rę kanmi , arami aya gaga

ololufe mi apønbeepore
o'nfa øfun ni kij'ęran pe lęnu,
ohun mi k'in wa ę m'øya , irinajo niøję
nișęju ișęju løkan mi fa si ę

ololufęmi abęfę, ibadi aran awęlęwa
ęwa rę tan bi mønamana
otan kaari aiye, omu imøle wasayemi
ofimi løkan bale, aiya mi o ja ęru o si bamimø

ifę rę mumi rinri ajo ayø
omumi de ebute idunnu ati alafia
mowoke modupę løwø eledua
to semilanu nigba ti mo șe awari ifę rę

bi ewe ba pę Lara oșę, a ma d'øșę
ekurø lala b'aku ęwa
bi inu ba șè șì, aworan rę lowa ni bę.
iwø ni monifę julø .

mawo ariwo øja rara.
mașe da awøn ęlętan løhun
iru ifę wa yii lowu wøn
ifę at'oke l'atørun wa.
it's a poem. in my native language to my beloved sweetheart
En el mar
tormentoso
de Chile
vive el rosado congrio,
gigante anguila
de nevada carne.
Y en las ollas
chilenas,
en la costa,
nació el caldillo
grávido y suculento,
provechoso.
Lleven a la cocina
el congrio desollado,
su piel manchada cede
como un guante
y al descubierto queda
entonces
el racimo del mar,
el congrio tierno
reluce
ya desnudo,
preparado
para nuestro apetito.
Ahora
recoges
ajos,
acaricia primero
ese marfil
precioso,
huele
su fragancia iracunda,
entonces
deja el ajo picado
caer con la cebolla
y el tomate
hasta que la cebolla
tenga color de oro.
Mientras tanto
se cuecen
con el vapor
los regios
camarones marinos
y cuando ya llegaron
a su punto,
cuando cuajó el sabor
en una salsa
formada por el jugo
del océano
y por el agua clara
que desprendió la luz de la cebolla,
entonces
que entre el congrio
y se sumerja en gloria,
que en la olla
se aceite,
se contraiga y se impregne.
Ya sólo es necesario
dejar en el manjar
caer la crema
como una rosa espesa,
y al fuego
lentamente
entregar el tesoro
hasta que en el caldillo
se calienten
las esencias de Chile,
y a la mesa
lleguen recién casados
los sabores
del mar y de la tierra
para que en ese plato
tú conozcas el cielo.
Danny Valdez Jan 2012
We're driving on the road at night
through the desert
between Ajo & Gila Bend
a place my Dad called
Crater Range
he told me lots of people died out there
he saw lots of scary stuff out there
and I would stare out the window
into the desert.
The headlights lighting up
the shrubs and rocks
the full moon in the sky
taking care of the rest
the arroyos
the rusty train tracks
the vast
neverending
stretch of white rocks, shrubs, and sand
illuminated and glowing blue.
And he'd keep talking to me
while my mother and sister slept.
We'd keep talking
forever it seemed
I eagerly awaited these talks
the green light in the radio lighting up his face
his beard moving up and down
telling me about all the family members & friends
that died on this road
he told me about them
as we passed through a large formation of rocks
on both sides of the road
Class of 79'
Martina & Ernesto 4 Ever
Peace signs & pentagrams
were spray painted all over the rock walls.
And from that green, glowing, radio
Morrison's voice
singing
about the killer on the road.
And then it'd get real quiet again
we both would
and I'd just lean my head against that window
staring out
into the darkness
and looking
squinting real hard
looking for something
anything
alive and moving
lit up in the light from the moon
down in the arroyo
or by the tracks.
There was something out there
I knew it.
Jesibell arz Mar 2015
Tu bebe y bebe sin motivo, yo Nama me pongo pensar que lo que contigo. Me hablas mal sin ningun rason, tu me majas el dia de FelizIdad a enojada Como un ajo al pelon..
  Mejor dejarte trankila en tu propio mundo, porque parece que tu y yo ya no podemos andar juntos. Y lo que me molesta es que somos prima de Sangre, pero cono a ti te gusta peliar y poner la situacion bien grande. Tu dices que ya uno es grande y somos adultos, so Deja tu mierda y ponte pa lo tuyo.
Enverdad ya yo estoy jarta de ti con la bebidas que tomes, tu cuando esta borracha hace mal aciones. Te quiero pero en esto no quiero esta en relajos, porque me imajino que algun dia nos fajamos.. So me voy a quedar 5000 milas de ti, porque la Vida tuya sera mejor sin mi. No me voy a poner Triste para na, ya lo dejo aki esto sera el final.  

                                      *me fui
Si vas a beber, bebe porque te hace bien no mal.
Chisporrotea
en el aceite
hirviendo
la alegría
del mundo:
las papas
fritas
entran
en la sartén
como nevadas
plumas
de cisne matutino
y salen
semidoradas por el crepitante
ámbar de las olivas.

El ajo
les añade
su terrenal fragancia,
la pimienta,
polen que atravesó los arrecifes,
y
vestidas
de nuevo
con traje de marfil, llenan el plato
con la repetición de su abundancia
y su sabrosa sencillez de tierra.
¿Qué es aquello que reluce
por los altos corredores?
Cierra la puerta, hijo mío,
acaban de dar las once.
En mis ojos, sin querer,
relumbran cuatro faroles.
Será que la gente aquélla
estará fregando el cobre.
Ajo de agónica plata
la luna menguante, pone
cabelleras amarillas
a las amarillas torres.
La noche llama temblando
al cristal de los balcones,
perseguida por los mil
perros que no la conocen,
y un olor de vino y ámbar
viene de los corredores.
Brisas de caña mojada
y rumor de viejas voces,
resonaban por el arco
roto de la media noche.
Bueyes y rosas dormían.
Solo por los corredores
las cuatro luces clamaban
con el fulgor de San Jorge.
Tristes mujeres del valle
bajaban su sangre de hombre,
tranquila de flor cortada
y amarga de muslo joven.
Viejas mujeres del río
lloraban al pie del monte,
un minuto intransitable
de cabelleras y nombres.
Fachadas de cal, ponían
cuadrada y blanca la noche.
Serafines y gitanos
tocaban acordeones.
Madre, cuando yo me muera,
que se enteren los señores.
Pon telegramas azules
que vayan del Sur al Norte.
Siete gritos, siete sangres,
siete adormideras dobles,
quebraron opacas lunas
en los oscuros salones.
Lleno de manos cortadas
y coronitas de flores,
el mar de los juramentos
resonaba, no sé dónde.
Y el cielo daba portazos
al brusco rumor del bosque,
mientras clamaban las luces
en los altos corredores.
G Popovic Jul 2016
I must have fallen in love a thousand times,
By glancing at every pretty girl,
Who passes me by,
On the sidewalk or the subway.
Whose tender glances and fleeting eyes,
Leave me rapt in utter ecstasy.
Those whom I wish I could entice,
With poetic words, or feeble attempts,
At honest love-making.
Those ignorant ones, whose ****** motions,
Are like those motions of the heavenly bodies.
Whose swayings and turnings,
And peripheral lookings,
Leave me catatonic, and in a silent admiration.
Those whom I wish I could flatter,
With poetic words or tender little love bites,
Or perhaps leave, as they have often left me,
Charmed, enchanted, and with heart burning.
Whose very hearts, hearts I wish that I myself could unlock.
And yet I do nothing.
Whose flaxen, raven, or curled hair, I wish I could entwine with the nimble figures of my hand,
And smooth over or fashion,
As if like an artisan, tying the knots of my shy love.
Whose batted eyelashes,
More so often than not,
Batter me, as if they were Borealic winds.
Whose eyes; green, blue, brown – or a mysterious black,
I wish I could gaze into, endlessly,
And drown in their luster.
So, yes, I’ve fallen in love a thousand times,
With sweethearts in the pomegranate flowers;
Like that sweet-sounding Hungarian girl in Podgorica,
And that German lass,
Wo weilest du jetzt?
Half of my own blood,
Whom I encountered in Ulcinj.
Ajo që ka sytë si në qiell.
And the plethora of ones I’ve never met,
Nor will ever truly meet,
But view longingly from the periphery of my vision.
I love them all fruitlessly.
1) “With sweethearts in the pomegranate flowers;” - Poem by Rumi “Come to the Orchard in Spring…”

2) Podgorica – Capital of Montenegro.
3) Ulcinj – A coastal town in south-western Montenegro.
4) “And that German lass,
Wo weilest du jetzt?
Half of my own blood,”                                                                                                       She was half Albanian but our conversation was carried out in German.
5) “Wo weilest du jetzt?” – Excerpt from Richard Wagner’s work entitled “Libretti” (Act One).
German - “Where do you now rest?”
6) “Ajo që ka sytë si në qiell.” – Albanian. “She who has eyes like the heaven.”
William Sep 2017
Viajar con ajo en tu regazo, mientras
te toco un rato y en la parada vomito
un pedazo
de mi corazón, que se
deshizo al caer.

Pantaleta, cantaleta, papelón
chupeta, y quería
seguir sacando similares,
pero recordé que
me iluminan tus tetas.

Aunque a veces me sienta mal y me falte inspiración,
siempre voy a terminar
acá.
Y perdón si estoy de nuevo acá.
-Pensé que habías preguntado por mí-.
No me vas a destrozar, ¿verdad?
No, el Sol hoy no explotará
y vos no huirás.

Te... Basta. No hace falta.
Ya lo sabes, lo sabías, desde
siempre.
Corazón mío, reina del apio y de la artesa:
pequeña leoparda del hilo y la cebolla:
me gusta ver brillar tu imperio diminuto,
las armas de la cera, del vino, del aceite,

del ajo, de la tierra por tus manos abierta
de la sustancia azul encendida en tus manos,
de la transmigración del sueño a la ensalada,
del reptil enrollado en la manguera.

Tú con tu podadora levantando el perfume,
tú, con la dirección del jabón en la espuma,
tú, subiendo mis locas escalas y escaleras,

tú, manejando el síntoma de mi caligrafía
y encontrando en la arena del cuaderno
las letras extraviadas que buscaban tu boca.
Ken Pepiton Dec 2024
Your time's worth, valued
at the end, when the hour's used
and next is asking our attentions

might we redeem an hour slept
dreamlessly lost completely

for what it's worth, price of freedom

paying to pay attention, loose disbelief…

PECUNIARY
PREDICTION

poet's persistance
perceived posed
pennywise

punctual precise

This being where we become persons
known to have left thoughts
erected by others of our kind
stood saying see,
never forget what we can be
we builders with stone,
we tellers of enculturating stories

that stand still, holy ordained order
persistant towers
let this mind be

"the perceptive
and intelligent faculty."

"I leave Sisyphus

at the foot of the mountain! "

he say okeh, take it easy.

You can always ease his toil,
but you need not think him unhappy.
Camus… at my finger tips
fact check m'self
"One always finds one's burden again. But Sisyphus teaches the higher fidelity that negates the gods
and raises rocks.
He too concludes that all is well.

This universe henceforth
without a master seems
to him neither sterile nor futile.
Each atom
of that stone,
each mineral flake
of that night filled mountain,
in itself forms a world.
The struggle itself
toward the heights is enough
to fill a man's heart.
One must imagine Sisyphus happy."

Context and loci, this enclosed space
mind's time accumulate within,

cool, agreeing we lack the same tastes,
some smells are too knotted in old
first psyche professional gnoshit wows…
cheese, I was thinking how anyone can eat…

I suspect this happens to any person,
individuated, culturally, thinking
curds in whey,
butter and honey,
take and chew and swallow.

Think how energy is life, sugars
sweeten equally,
were you born into Sugar Pops,
and Nickle candy bars,
and Talkie Radio Shows,
eh?
intimating to little pitchers with big ears,
we are learning things grown ups can't believe.

Oh, radio days, as seen
on TV
in 256 shades
of gray.

Hey, NDA, disbelieve you were ever briefed,
there is no debrief, your time is yours,
carry your own weight, or lighten up.

any attention paid is purely accidental//

Sorry, sort, indexed not good enough,
for prime time, well, then, let's say

we became free f
rom the pressure
to pay,
to learn each lesson life exams passed call for,

all ye,
each time, you heard, call
all ye,
outs in free, means somebody got caught,

and you are not it,
and your personal hiding place,
remains air tight, like a granite box
with an 8 ton lid.

Pried loose, hissing sigh
es sence we already knew
it is not good
for mankind
to be without knowledge,

in its most indigenous cognosis form, spirit shapened

the at to which your attention ties

your time investment, panning placer gold,
continuing
to feed the idea money is,

as a lovable thing, personified as Mammon,
shapeless as a wild ebullience emerging
from the mire
of lonesome disbelief,

walking while using herbs and spices,
breathe, breathing pollen and dust and smoke
- drift at cross purposes
- realized in times past

be slow to say I know
I know where this path leads, outward north

from Chaco,
maybe, but

put distance outside, put curiosity, the knack,
pastless points essential for mind travel
old ones
with sidereal recollections, point
to point, with earnest effort put
into praying
on earth as it is, even as we prayed,
we were children, we must believe

effectual, fervent prayers
of a right used, mind
made up art
form, idea modeled
on imaginable ideals, minds

in the winds,
in the inexplicable,
ration, measure
of good sense discernible

by you, dear, rare,
really weform informed
reader ready
to right think the reasons wars use
eh,
novice evangelists, and
experienced bishops and such,
strictly holy god business, no lie…
the proof of the pudding,
is in the fat folk who love it…
sweet American as apple pi

hero with the digital pen,
wirelessly offering up peace,
to happen
by chance
at touch
we let be
in us while we relax, let loose, unwind

threads
of thought first formed
from twisted cotton,
gently tugged, tightly held
pulled from a hand made chenille bedspread,

to be a twirling string I waved in a sunbeam,
I think I was three, using the life anchors
we all attached to during alone times,
less rare in the MAGA olden days,

latch key kids had plenty of time to read…


napping me, in a house I turned upside down,
in my mind, and imagined the fun of war games
with the ceiling for the floor,

transoms, windows above hallway doors,
for circulation in feng shui science useful

for creating flow
from first breath
through last
I imagine, I believe, I think I know, meaning
dhe, put here, as weform I, we think middleway
meeting where we each feel the other's knowing,
we understand the peak signal sensed as knowledge

being
used
to loose complexity, unravel the rug we pray on
without perceiving the patterns life makes
with no sense but beauty made with effort

to catch the spirit of sublime state past simple living…

Seeing the threads
in his trousers, during recollection
needed to write a record of the experience,

Aldous Huxley, public intellect
of whose work
most know some,
and many know much,
few even now experienced his as he wrote
we
however, The Doors of Perception, passed through,
as we morphed into living words,
pretending to make poetry
what it was, as mind numbing fun
San Pedro suffered from the frost, so we

made tea…
as we are the first
to have been granted highbrow access
to lectures and performances of orchestrations

inconceivable,
before the age
of information, heralded
by the late
to be ortho-canonized redacted works

of Daniel, the Babylonian bureau of internal affairs
chief, during the days of a king so deep in the orders
of esoteric missing weeks and elongating days,

as we pay creative attention, make worth
waiting for it, eh, the juice we use to anticipate

great reward, eh, Daniel,

he of lion's den and missing week fame, also spake
of the events alluded
to in Revelation 1… if symbols make us think,
might interpretations of symbols make us doubt…
rhetorically, while running
with the horsemen,

we eat what we brung.

Both vate and bard, hesitate,
has my return
on your invested a
t tension

lost meaning, morphed
into midbrow psychedelia

just looking, nothing
to buy, no clerk offering specials.

Today, the artist who works
in winds, awakes
in us,
we who happened
to share this view, Ajo, squeel

soar, look up
and see how far we are
from when this mind we used

to think ourselves wise…
once, upon a wild time…

in referential comprehension
of gaseous weformations,

clouds of unknowing, fogs
of loosed conceptions,

persistant insistance
on gravity defying perpendicularity,

at Pisa, there were Pepitons,
on Sicily, as well

to tell the truth, as far as names hold status,

according
to gens, patrimony
for the surnamed son
of my post adulting phase, so strange

- vain means many things beauty cannot.

every first phase boomer cohort, clusters
of children born
into the post fortis reality,

as the explosion in the emptiness

through which we ride the gentled bull,
Sazen,
and watch.
What time is worth while imagining a new reader, never read
the initial point made to stretch to here, where if it is fun to write,
it might be fun to read, and fun does good things to reading earthians.

— The End —