"americas" poems
The timeless waves, bright, sifting, broken glass,
Came dazzling around, into the rocks,
Came glinting, sifting from the Americas
To possess Aran. Or did Aran rush
to throw wide arms of rock around a tide
That yielded with an ebb, with a soft crash?
Did sea define the land or land the sea?
Each drew new meaning from the waves' collision.
Sea broke on land to full identity.
26.5k
A melancholy ***** we came to adore
in mournful tone, finish the tale abruptly
and sob, uncontrollably;
"Memories of my melancholy ******
including "Love in the times of cholera"
are now part of our folklore, this land
of cashew groves and banana plantations
in Indian landscape, far far away from Latin American shores.
Her lascivious days are over
death visits the house of love, blood splattered
and a haunt of dark happenings, that begets children with tails,
shame, honor and secrets creep out of manuscripts.
Gabo is no more, no more"Living to tell the tale"
the Part Two, promised before.
Gabriel Garcia Marquez, after three false starts
goes to his final abode for rest, now.
A coded manuscript, written in
in classical Sanskrit,
(the language of all divine texts
of Indian sages of yore)
scripted by the mysterious gypsy,Melquiades
predicts the wipe out of Buendia clan
of five generations
Torrential rain and deluge engulf Macondo,
ends "One hundred years of solitude".
Gabo you point towards east
what is the answer to the conundrum of Buendias?
In Mexico city
they were preparing to take Gabo to his last ride
to the origin of all magical realism he'd return
In a land far away,
yet exactly the same landscape as Latin Americas
we grieve his death as that of one of our own
Gabo, in past thirty years, you mysteriously taught us
to discern the magical realism of cosmos
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 12:35 PM UTC
Clayton
How I know you
Paternal parenting
DNA infused
Carbon contribution, to my physique
Father
In everything
My skin, eyes toes,
Unfortunately; inside my mouth
Spitting plaster-walled
Copy-paste personality
The same
Intimately
Close-dangerously
Different
Me a bold-faced fraction of ill abated love
Something that didn't work out
Photocopy
Blond-blasphemy of useless flesh
Reminder of her
Mom
Enough!
Teeter tottering
Tip-Toe tangling opinion
Excuses
Words fermented
Rotting-rigor
I know you.
Slit-eyed palefaced ****** of bigot ideas
Bearing pronged poker
Clicking glinting-clawed finger fondling fake religion
Suppressing supplement thought
********
God's love the good life
Living a life to be proud of
Excuse me!
For not being as I am "supposed" to be
Eatting rancid lies
Your reality relative
To kiss-ass preferred siblings
Who like the taste of ****
What you shovel
Hung on lipsucking harlot, hinged hip hung-over
Descending oppressidly upon willing wanton will of man
Letting cracked-cackled toothed
Field Gap-smile
Decide your next move
I know you
I see what you push into hidden corners
The bias, nasty film of your character
Under whitecollar shirttails
Citizen, Patriot
Americas American
I know you
Your oppression
Not new
As underhanded and seedy as it was
And still is
I know you
As much as I'd like not too.
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 4:18 PM UTC
they are soldiers fighting a war
across the ocean,
but their hearts are at home
seeking love and devotion.
love from our country,
devotion from their family.
that is all that they need.
they joined the military to
fight for what they believe
to defend from foes, seen and unseen
in their hearts we are the greatest nation
from the farmlands to the greatest plantations.
it does not matter if they're black or white
they will never give up freedoms fight.
we have people here from every nation
fighting for americas salvation
women have been the backbone in every war
death they've seen by the score.
the plains indian women who fought
alongside their men
it became a common trend.
joan of arc- who lifted the seige
in only nine days
the greatest role a woman could portray.
the uniform does not necessarilly
make her a soldier, but her heart
and strength that make her bolder.
bold enough to cover your back
and pick up all the slack
she will always be there in command
and pick up the rifle from the sand
she will do whatever she must
for in her you put your trust.
she is the female soldier, she stood her ground
of that we should all be proud.
give credit where credit is due
this is what i say to you.
louis rams :
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 9:46 PM UTC
Now through night's caressing grip
Earth and all her oceans slip,
Capes of China slide away
From her fingers into day
And th'Americas incline
Coasts towards her shadow line.
Now the ragged vagrants creep
Into crooked holes to sleep:
Just and unjust, worst and best,
Change their places as they rest:
Awkward lovers like in fields
Where disdainful beauty yields:
While the splendid and the proud
Naked stand before the crowd
And the losing gambler gains
And the beggar entertains:
May sleep's healing power extend
Through these hours to our friend.
Unpursued by hostile force,
Traction engine, bull or horse
Or revolting succubus;
Calmly till the morning break
Let him lie, then gently wake.
5.2k
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
I don’t don't how much the world is tired
Of hearing again in this year that
Still tribalism and negative ethnicity
Is Gog and magog with Africa, I mean Africa
The second largest continent in the world
After Asia, being seconded by Americas,
Her only cultural overture is tribalism and tribes
Large tribes swallowing small ones
Small tribes making desperate moves
Like bush ****** in the lethal fangs of the python,
Large tribes swallowing political fruits as the small ones
In despair look, being choked by forlorn appetite,
Tribalism, listen! Leave Africa alone; stop messing up the African youth
Tell the Dinka and the Nuer of the southern Sudan to put down the arms
The arms made in the old Russia, the AK 47,
Tell them to go to Russia not to buy
Arms but books of poetry and literature
To buy Dead souls of Nikolai Gogol and
Brothers Kamarazov of Fydor Dostoyevsky,
Tribalism, listen! Am tired of introducing myself
By my clan, I don’t want to be known by my clan
I want to be known by my work; I am a poet
I sing and chant the African incantations of freedom
I do not perpetrate feelings of tribal terror
It is never my work to cement ethnicity
Tribes are good but tribalism is evil, or satanic or impish
Or gnomic or macabarous or ghastly insidious,
As its hatred is the most heinous.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 8:53 AM UTC
Mitakuyapi,
My name is Standing Elk of the Yankton Sioux Reservation. This is my formal apology to all The Elders of Turtle Island. I accept full responsibility for my words and actions in the future concerning the Spiritual Knowledge we are about to share with the People of the Americas and the World. My actions and words are none other than my own based upon the Spiritual Teachings of the Tunjkaśila and the Spiritual Knowledge of the Star Nations. If any Elder of the Red Nation feels that I am wrong in my actions or in any verbal statement, feel free to correct me according to the Laws of the Kit Fox Society that we spiritual human beings have chosen to live by. "If it be necessary to punish a child, do so in such a way that will improve his spirit or mind, but do not lay a hand on him for you may damage the possession of the Great Spirit, His gift of life to you."
As a Red Nation we have lived through dreams and vision of our Spiritual Tunjkaśila, and we have chosen not to stray beyond our limits of the power of our spirit. My personal dream has directed me to contact certain Ikċé Wiċaśa to greatly increase the spiritual awareness that is to be shared with our Brothers and Sisters of the Four Directions. Through my personal contacts, I know some medicine men have agreed 'it is time' because of the closeness of the fullfillment of the prophecies that are vital for our existence as a human race. This sharing of dreams and vision of the Tunjkaśila will strengthen the Foundation of Nations that are sincerely interested in being that element that will be the foundation of the "Thousand Years of Peace."
My hand is open to all those Elders of Turtle Island who wish to share their message, dream and vision with the People of the World; for, I cannot do it alone. Through our teachings, we know that not one individual holds the Knowledge and Mysteries of Life. We were all given a piece of the puzzle. We are all a part of The Sacred Hoop that needs to be mended, and we must make a humble effort in this task if the Seventh Generation, our grandchildren and unborn, are to survive this next awareness. My life was molded around the teachings of the Tunjkaśila that they instilled in our spirit as children. My spirit has directed me in this effort to help our Brothers and Sisters of the Four Directions. I have already chosen not to fail the Tunjkaśila.
*Mitakuyé Oyasiŋ
Héhaka Inaziŋ*, Standing Elk
Ihuŋktoŋwaŋ Oyaté (Dakota Nation)
February 1996
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 10:34 PM UTC
In his glass world
he seems to float
embryonic smooth and white,
not pure white but rather yellowish
watched by thousands of eyes
far from his ilk,
alligators in green, out there,
innocent, harmless
it seems as if they, in the evening
after the last visitors have left,
pull the valve out of his back
and let the air and life leave him
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 10:47 AM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
Daughters,sisters and brethren in the African womenfolk
Hail you, you are blessed among all the diversities of nature
You are blessed for all peace and love beahviour in all of your times
You are blessed for resilience and spiritual energy to soldier on
By being a woman,wife,a girl , a mother and a grand mother
In the African conditions which have no time for the women,
Daughters of Africa both at home in Africa and the diaspora
In Americas , Cuba,Brazil,or the whole Caribbean
Be blessed for your virtue of love and forgiveness
That swells your hearts as you ever treat to oblivion
Those who **** you whether in war or in peace
Even in marriage and the the offices
On the platter of polygamy, rituals and crudeness of culture
In the selfish farm labour where your spouse
Gives you a remote encounter with brutality of bourgeoisie culture
You always pick up the pieces and go for your stitches
Whatsoever the number, like the appalling one
Of above six stitches for the **** victims of Congo wars,
You have always consolidated poor Africa from
Smithereens of war and terrors of selfish male war,
You have often mocked the cult of dictatorship on its face
You have enticed social inclusions as societal virtue
You have snooked to tribalism,racism and class bigotry on the face
Them the cultic vices that have cemented Africa’s cult of dictatorship,
Daughters of Africa stand up and make Africa the a temple of God
Entice humanity with your wholesome fibre
Restore Liberia to a national state in the song of Sirleaf
Restore central Africa to a national family in the song Catherine
Restore art and poetry to Africa in the arms with Marriama Ba and Micere Mugo
Sire and Nurse African ecology unbowedly in the spiritual realm of Wangare Mathai
Restore and forge Africa forward you dear daughters
For the strength of your beauty my dear ladies
Has a global testimony in the prime of your motherhood.
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 9:10 AM UTC
It was June and not summer,
Splashy, muddy, slimy,
wind-kissing roads of Chennai in sight,
I hear, "Jennifer, Jennifer."
Aloysius' wife answers in.
Break - in the movie, I sip my coffee.
Water was rising in the southernmost state of India,
Destruction or development,
Recovery or renovation,
Right words struggled to meet right arms,
Jennifer and Aloysius buffered in the background,
House I was not in was sinking.
I stopped watching snowflakes in the Americas,
Wished for a sun-feast in Kerala,
I lapsed to places sitting at the window pane,
Netflix didn't help the cultural fix.
here, thoughts succumbed, coffee mug dried up.
While uninvited ants,
swept my coffee off the sugarcoat...
May 14, 2019
May 14, 2019 at 12:42 PM UTC
its tha return of tha gangsta thanks to ya
too many blacks out here livin' they life in fear
families seeing tears problems tier
blurry visions make it hard to see clear my dear
cant get through the atmosphere
feel me it's the return of the gangsta I'd like to thank ya
Malcolm for giving me the principles and reaching a few people's
opening minds to grinds and you'll find
me chilling on the corner puffing marijuana yep I'm a gonna
in society outlaw outcast put my thoughts on blast
techs is humming cuz I smell war coming armies drumming
po folks crying innocent victims dying
for no apparent reasons caught in daily treasons which gives me a reasons to put an end to Americas sin but too many folks stuck in
a fantAsy called reality in actuality
they plotting our burials G
troops overseas findings empty caves so the government can make saves war profiteers racketeering gangsters hustlers
exposing lies don't be a busta like a Douglass no diamonds in my cutlass couldn't move so I had cut less people out of my circle I'm nerdy as urkel yea my intellect carefully selects
what's real from reality I envision myself as well as my enemies in a fatality so battling me I was made for war built off the backs of my ancestors sore yea white house was built by the slaves for white supremacy kind of irony they sayin' my folks was lazy?
worked up from Sun up to Sun down
I can't believe my folks walking with they heads towards the grounds
how bout we get mad and let off gun sounds pound for pound
you know they can't hang with us
that's why they had to make laws against us
scared of rise and corruptions ain't a surprise through the eyes
of real people who realize pain ain't a substitution for happiness bliss
I guess I was sunkissed
by wisdom mouth open hail Mary entered me and told me
we all family eyes lit no **** no fit nothing
but a glowing brain exemption of fame down goes my name
in the book of life made wisdom my wife
she took my arm she's my charm
as I glance at the souls gunned down on plantations farms gangsta....
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 2:49 PM UTC
Ink in the bowl goes on to skin
Culture from Africa to Americas Indians
Ink that is absorbed into the mind
Held in place forever in time
Ink that controls the blood in veins
Moving through the pulses and chains
Not strong enough to hold the soul
Ink that lives infinite in the world
Smooth grooves in nights and bars
Jazzy blues, singing croons through guitar
Villages and huts where elders bang drums
Leaders dance songs for rain and sun
Music through words transferred through ink
Thoughts held in mind brought into links
That form into the soul of the world
Blood that stains as ink swirls
Tantrums and storms that guide the spirit
A spirit so combative you can't come near it
It won't come if you hear it or read it
Learn to live the life, words true when you feel it
Artist from autism, loose thoughts bridge cataclysms
No cure for the self, wealth grows, pace kept slow
Races to save victims and glorify human conditions
Giving thoughts and heart to help, it is felt, is it felt?
Writing soul, from heaven to hell
Spiritual fire, culture is furthered
For my blood flows parallel to ink
Ink that flows and grows from me
Me goes to you, then travels beyond
We show growth, all faces of God
One voice seeks to speak
Through songs, poetry, love in the ink
****** lovely ink
Muddy purity links
The ink the ink
The ink the ink .
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 7:27 PM UTC
A lone god, as Shiva, standing upon a rock upon the sea upon the earth upon the tear of the Christ who wandered forever in the bloodstream of the savior of your own debt to darkness.
Standing as the waves crashed upon the wizardly and nostalgic jeans crafted from the dreams you had once when drama and a storm sat dormant in your heart.
Extending one hand towards the North Star, in a salute of desperation and longing to return via apotheosis to the realm of one's own dreamland home.
Desperation, like the thirst of 10,000 beetles who drink blood like golden honey which drips from space like stars that melt and die in the winds whom are the kings of the middle americas.
Kings, like the standing stone.
Shiva, a tear, a stone...Is You or I.
The Stone, remember, is the dream you let die.
The ocean which swallows you all, is the death of nostalgia and hope.
Split the sea with the Trident of Shiva.
You are a God, if you choose.
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 2:35 AM UTC
The memory of her sits on a balcony ledge, cigarette in hand.
My green light at the end of a dock.
And this time I am reaching out
like many before,
in pages and poems past.
Macbeth’s face is a book.
Her body is an atlas
tracing a beautiful continent.
Follow the long tributaries that lead to shallow deltas.
This shore begins softly and forms into slender feet,
quiet but powerful when outstretched an angler waiting for prey.
Odysseus, only, can hear this Siren play.
Follow her legs, those tawny plains,
unbroken, guiding along welcomingly,
inviting curiosity and conscripting imagination.
An oasis.
And her torso is a valley from which
her laughter is ****** upward and resisted until uncontainable.
Dimples break and burst like earthquakes.
A ridgeline is all that awaits until we see her face.
She is the Americas from bottom to top.
Follow her decorated canyon mouth
but know it is merely a diversion.
Her eyes are icebergs, which shyly reveal themselves
to sink ships and drown lovers, for always.
Her hair is aurora borealis,
the northern lights,
dancing colorfully
to an unaccompanied waltz
heard by everyone but her.
As the memory of her sits the smoke billows around
like clouds traveling down a coastline
only to dissipate
and disappear.
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 3:23 PM UTC
The bones of this earth
grind down our fates
our hopes
our dreams
our lives
And a feathered serpent rules
over these climes
this western hemisphere
these Americas
have you heard?
Something elemental shapes this
world
and tempers our lives.
Unknown to most.
The old ones
the people who lived here before
knew him
Quetzalcoatl
Kukulkan
God of learning
Wearer of the wind jewel
the one who whispers life
and death
through his lips.
And you must drink it.
Alive or dead.
The morning star is his sign.
The evening star
his farewell.
He carries the sun
as a shield
and your fate
your fortune
as a good luck charm.
Listen and look.
You will see
You will hear it.
Whispers like water
from the heart
the skin
the bones of this sweet earth.
Listen.
You will hear it.
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 10:06 PM UTC
When the government does not lend a hand
To those who work and those who till their land
And they silence their own peoples voices
Making all the wrong federal choices
But maybe my voice is precious to me
Are my eyes the only ones that can see
They are herding us like a shepherds flock
simply running down the time on the clock
to lead us into a massive brainwash
Independence an enemy to squash
so open your eyes before they're sewn shut
Remove the blindfold, it's time to wake up
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 11:00 AM UTC
Jean Bartel, born Jean Bartlemeh;
on October 26, 1923 & died March 6, 2011;
Miss California and Miss America 1943;
She won the talent and swimsuit awards
at the national pageant. At 5 feet 8 inches tall,
Bartel was the tallest winner up to that time;
Jean Bartel was the first college student
to win the title of Miss America & after
visiting her sorority sisters in Kappa Kappa Gamma
around the country, she developed the idea
of awarding scholarships to those who competed;
The Miss America Organization is now
the world's largest provider of scholarships
for women in the world;
Bartel worked for many years on Broadway
and in television, including starring in her own
travel series, It's a Woman's World, as well as
performing for seven months in South America;
She appeared in an episode of The Love Boat
in 1984, w/ Marian McKnight,
Miss America, 1957;
Nancy Fleming,
Miss America, 1961;
& Vanessa Williams,
Miss America, 1984.
Bartel died in Brentwood, California,
on March 6, 2011, aged 87; The Miss America
Organization issuing a statement calling her
"one of our most beloved Miss Americas"
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 5:19 PM UTC
I belive it was in a rest stop outside of Nashville when I first discovred just what lost truely
was.
The people moved ants to a hive.
Ghost's to the shell so to speak.
Looking up routes streching worn stiff leg's and existing in personal bubbles.
Affraid a seconds conversation would burst a moments ******** cast
existance.
But I only sat watching happy to be a viewer to many seperate acts in a bound for nowhere
play.
Hey you have the time?
I dont even have a watch.
I replyed to some lost south bound kid more ******* up looking
than myself.
He said nothing more as he simply faded into the herd.
They were all bound for somewhere and me I was just killing time.
My home was wherever I could catch a few hours sleep.
And hopefully I'd be outta this state befor long.
I was a nomad most called me a ***
A traveler of fate and a lazy ******* to caught up in my own personal gains to settle down.
The voices of reason would seem to echo through strangers.
Whenever I'd take time to speak like some twisted record player
they'd always repeat.
So where you heading?
Nowhere and hopefully it has a bar.
Why you on the road?
Well really I just decided to take a walk one day.
Where from?
North Carolina.
Wow why you in Texas.
It's a long walk.
Man your weird!.
Arent we all in some way?
And with that the conversation would fade into my beloved silence.
And I would view the highway and it's ever changing landscape.
The mountian sunset's ,the desert in the moolight ,
A city slum to a rest stop outside of Nashville where you find me now.
I'd seen Americas watercolors and her sharp edges and still charming sleeze.
And from a shared ride to a cold park bench.
I was embracing the forbidden fruit spoken of by
far better fools and writers than me.
For true freedom was seldom safe.
But I viewed this world a travller a stranger to all including myself.
And from strange looks to even more bizzar remarks from thoose who couldnt fathom
someone existing with no true purpose.
The question always was asked
from so many forgetable faces.
So where are you going?
Im just taking a long walk home.
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 8:23 PM UTC
In your metamorphosis I've found that you've been sifted straight to grounds
but to replace our A-B hits and fits and
midnight tricks followed by
cop car lights lit
is much like watering down
coffee
but I'll choose to take those sips so I take
one for the taste
one for the high
one for guilt free trips during 2nd period to the girls bathroom
and in three sips
I've fulfilled everything with innocence
but innocence doesn't leave a mark
and innocent
wasn't what you were
and being innocent can't tear down christmas lights on 53rd street at 3am for no other reason but to say we did and to say we did it together
but
who am I to disturb external forces
with my rhythmic manifestations to a personal God who only puts me in favor
when it's deserved
but is it my fault
for having tasted something that I swear only exists on some
uncharted astronomical coordinates and
is it my fault
for having tasted 1/4th cup rain water and 3/4ths cup regret
so is it my fault
for only asking for what makes the lady at the cafe counter cringe and
in your metamorphosis, I've found my own
and found it
slightly sweeter
slightly less drug induced
yet slightly less symmetrical to yours than I had hoped
and although I'll live without the hits and **** we did
just for kicks
it's hard to shed the addiction, of Americas favorite morning
fix.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 4:17 PM UTC
WHY DO I KEEP WRITING THESE POEMS
WHEN THE AMERICAN PEOPLE DON'T CARE
MY FATHER, MY BROTHER, MY NEIGHBOUR
IDENTIFY THEM IF YOU DARE
TO BARE ARMS IS A NASTY RIGHT
IT COSTS A LOT OF AMERICAN LIVES
WHY DON'T POLITICIANS HAVE THE STRENGTH
TO KEEP AMERICAN PEOPLE ALIVE
BE STRONG HAVE STRENGTH STOP THE GUNS
OR AMERICAS FUTURE IS BLEAK
FOR YOU WILL ONLY HEAR SCREAMS
FORM THE INNOCENT PEOPLE
GUN REFORM YOU MUST ALL SPEAK
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 3:33 PM UTC
Americas favorite thing is sports,
We call our smartest people dorks,
You get paid more to throw a ball,
Than you are to work at all.
Our economy is a failing state,
And what makes me really irate,
Is we spend all our money on sports.
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 10:05 AM UTC
Thine hours shed themselves,
Moment upon minutes upon hour
curtsy to thy shining name,
leaden with embellishments
of snow and americas of golden
tears.
Stained time, spilt;
to denounce thine image.
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 1:52 PM UTC