"banish" poems
Sometimes, I am in love with myself.
I force them to witness my love for my melanin
because they would love for me to hate my melanin.
I know that I am seen, but I want to be heard,
The first amendment allows me to speak, but they refused to hear a word-
that comes from my mouth.
My lips stereotyped as too black.
My diction too proper to act like this,
yet my slang is too ghetto to act like that...
Sometimes, I wonder what it's like to be white.
I hate being stared at when I speak in Spanish.
I never know if it's in disgust or in comfort,
because the sound of the double "r" rolling off of my tongue
sounds like the ricochet of the bullets they fire from their guns.
Since they no longer can enslave us like animals, they slaughter us
because, "if I can't have you no one can."
I refuse to be put down.
I refuse to shutdown.
My brown skin threatens,
and you all should be afraid.
Because I will banish your negativity with my Latin American flow,
speaking in Spanish with the Bachata tempo filling my veins.
My Ebonics is iconic,
and I refuse to be put in a box when the world is a sphere.
I... am more... than this.
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 2:16 AM UTC
♪♫♪♪
Your beaded snakeskin loincloth
strung beneath humid palms
cool rippling breeze that calms
our hammock hung under thatch
what a catch . . .
your Amazons running into my Congo
lost track of my bongo
back about one mile
from the sources of the Nile:
your jungle smile.
Restoring all celestial things
deep within your tropical clearings . . .
flowing slowly, going loco
at the mythic mouth of the Orinico;
shake your nut-brown biospheres
and banish all my worldly fears.
Dusk is nearing — clearing the hill
insects trilling a sinuous thrill;
the yuca half-mashed in the clay ***
the witch doctor hungover in his hut
while our little fire smolders
near the mountains of the moon
—or are they only boulders?
Come soon
Jesus, Lord of the Jungle . . .
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 9:22 PM UTC
Make it through make it true
Lay it bare if you dare
Banish doubt make it count
Look around you’ve made it there
Shout it far show your scars
Fill the day with twenty-four hours
This is it what we’ve got
Looks like **** but it’s ours
You see this life filled with strife
So much hurt so much pain
Now you win now you lose
One’s loss another’s gain
It wasn’t meant to be pretty
Empty towns ***** cities
People all around have issues
Insecure, lost and misused
You can choose to stay and fight
Assert yourself claim your rights
Or decide to turn away
Make your mark another day
Showing up is half the battle
Knocked down back in the saddle
It’s not the wins and the losses
It’s the learning it’s a process
At the end of the day
Stop and do the math
Those who've made hay
Don’t have to look back.
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 12:38 AM UTC
by— Josiah Israel
Twas oft the way in days of old,
When knight would battle brave and bold,
The damsels hand in hopes to hold,
Worth more then polished Stone, or Gold
For this is what a boy is told
When day is done and night is cold…
“One day my son, thy chance will come
Though courage oft may waver,
When lady waits, through sable gates
For thee brave lad, to save her!”
For when a dragon stole a maid,
Awaiting ransom duly paid,
Twas bravest knight, armor arrayed
With noble steed and burnished blade
Rode swiftly to the damsels aid…
“You have not birth of high degree
Yet be thou brave and fight,
For low in rank thy birth may be
Yet heart makes noble knight!”
And after facing beast and foe
The knight with maiden free would go
Away to fields in need of ***
For seeds ere winter need to grow
And none can reap who do not sow…
“Not all you do will win a prize
Of gold or silver bent,
So reap a harvest good in size
And be thee well content.”
And when the battle horn he hears
The knight must banish all his fears
And ride to war, with battle cheers
On maidens cheek alight her tears
Fearing death, she spends the years…
“To win renown in battle
Might also be your path,
May your enemies armor rattle
As they feel your righteous wrath!”
But after kings campaign is done
The knight to home will swiftly run
From dusk through night to rising sun
Till maiden sees her hero come
Heart moving swift, a beating drum
Her heart a prize which first he won!
“Home is best at warring's end
To be with those you cherish,
A place to rest, your wounds to mend
Where love will never perish”
Though all the kingdom knows his name
And minstrels spread the brave knights fame
His love for she, remains the same
And they live happily, Knight and Dame…
Jan 5, 2017
Jan 5, 2017 at 8:58 PM UTC
Power is indeed a corruptive force,
Through all of mankind’s history
This has always been true.
Emperors, Kings, Potentates,
Popes, Presidents and Despots too.
Gathering near the Throne are the
Eager Courtier leeches reaching to
touch the anointed one’s robe.
Declaring their undying loyalty,
In the process selling their souls.
Their rewards, a speck of personal power,
Castles and new riches of gold.
Like their Master, the entitled ones
will lie and cheat, while ignoring
The principals of right and good.
Believing “Decency” is but a
poor man’s word, Never uttered
within the hearing of the Ruler.
Never a considered artifact of
absolute power.
The slaves, serfs, the common people
Matter not, but to serve the Ruler.
The power elite will start needless wars,
or offer up sacrificial lambs, all to distract
the unrest of the common man.
They will suppress human rights,
free speech and defame, banish
or imprison their detractors.
All merely smoke and mirrors to conceal,
Controlling agendas of personal greed.
From ancient times down to today
This cycle repeats. Now we are living
our own Textbooks history of tomorrow.
Kingdoms and Nations have perished
From this kind of poisonous corruption,
Needless to say, it will happen again.
Perhaps it already is.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 9:15 PM UTC
Waiting for spring to return this winter’s day.
Straining to touch warm breezes of the past.
Caught in this prison of gray and white.
Wishing to break these dark chains that hold me.
Remnants of fall, crumpled like brown paper on the ground.
Straws of pale brown growing up through the snow, ******* it dry.
Seeds and freeze dried fruit lay scattered about under trees.
Bare limbs and stalks drip with liquid glass.
Trees hanging bare, gray in lifelessness.
Winter birds call out, single in their pursuit of leftover meals.
Tracks of animals unknown dot the landscape with patchwork.
Waves of ridges etched in white lead off to nowhere.
Sparse, sun filled days bring brief glimpses of hope.
With the promise of warmth waiting to banish the cold
that holds me to my past and this existence;
waiting for spring to return and thaw this frozen heart.
Aug 20, 2012
Aug 20, 2012 at 9:29 PM UTC
Flora and Fauna, the sisters of Season
Of Spring and of Summer
Allow now our drummer
To drum out the beat
For the feet of the sisters
To glide and to creep
Like the encroaching sleep
Which may perch on your shoulder if we cannot keep you awake
And on the edge of your seat, sir.
Now the former, sweet Flora, will finger the flute
While the other continues to glide and to slide
Like a sequined Venetian harlequin bride;
And now Fauna will mimic the movements of bird and of beast
As she graces the work of our landscape artiste
And all is completely unfeasible
Completely lacks reason
We guarantee.
Presently
In the eye of the beholder
Sweet Flora seemingly draws from the aether a lyre
And with flourishing fingers she plucks from the heavens
A song of the seasons, a pagan ode to Pan!
Behold! No aid of hoops, no strings
The vestal-virgin-harlot sisters sing
Of beautiful Persephone
And with unseen damselfly wings
Ascend from mediocrity
All melody forgotten
All the drums create cacophony
And you will find serenity in chaotic monotony
Now let this climaxing crescendo banish all your sorrowing!
No more that light; no more that sacred realm
Life’s door was dappled gloam; now all is black.
A man of wax with saintly, hollow eyes
Devoid of sin, devoid of love and light
That golden room is lost – you can’t turn back.
Now love has lost its lustre - lust lost joy
And coy eyes turn to watch the empty man
Struck by eternal beauty, and condemned
To haunt the broken world of mortal men;
And shrilling wind caresses empty hand.
Jul 2, 2012
Jul 2, 2012 at 12:01 PM UTC
1005
Bind me—I still can sing—
Banish—my mandolin
Strikes true within—
Slay—and my Soul shall rise
Chanting to Paradise—
Still thine.
7.6k
we kissed.
"are you happier now." you said.
nobody's ever going
to
love
me.
but at least sadness doesn't devour me as easily.
i got thoughts to banish the
sadness
and
pain.
the only thing i've ever wanted was for someone to love me.
it's a tragedy.
this is a love story that will end like r + j.
but unlike shakespeare, my brain isn't dead.
i will fight for love like the capulets and montagues.
i will die for this love to last.
and i will do anything just to make you happy.
but yet,
i'm
still
not
loved.
it's impossible for someone like him, my romeo whose eyes are darker than the night sky,
to fall for a vulnerable juliet, who on the inside is a weak, emotionless girl who doesn't ever
get
what
she
wants.
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 1:44 PM UTC
Lipstick cigarettes and the empty soul of modern rock n' roll
laid in ruin amongst my collection of black soul addictions and sultry benedictions.
MIDI saxophones and an ex-girlfriend on the telephone
directing me to find my home, to rebuild the comb, to banish the bartender and the Reverend ******
Alamo idiot stand and a neon Jesus
waving newcomers into the whitewashed port town known as "Cuba North".
At the Caged Gorilla, Linda, the waitress,
laughs through yellowed teeth, while my bloodshot eyes crawl up her red gums.
Binge'd and my brain keeps parallel with the ceiling fan
while a plain clothes cop tries to give me the reprimand for nostalgic mischiefs.
Handcuffed and looking for that old fiend, Freedom,
while Miranda spews on the back of my skull, slides down my shoulders, dots the cement.
Out the door and tourists with cameras looking for evil behind my irises,
but I can assure my handshakes feel the same, I'm front pew tame, and I blend with the parade.
Jan 12, 2012
Jan 12, 2012 at 7:13 PM UTC
the first drop of water
not ice
from the sky
signals the season’s
change
new england
so pretty
looking angelic
drew me in
a venus fly trap
locked in a prism
snow reflecting
back to me
eerie thoughts
shrouded in black
no place for a runner
where I can escape them
locked in by the fireplace
tattered ashes
mockingly laugh
i flee and i run
minus eight reads the meter
frostbitten
returning
trapped with my thinking
blocked in on all sides
the icy walls
fold in on me
forced to see the reflection
looking back at me
go away brightness
banish your glow
i need the shadows
where hidden feelings
quietly cower
another storm coming
madness engulfs me
searching for pen
grasping at paper
salvation
words spilling out
parts of me
buried so skillfully
long ago
finally see light
just for a moment
the respite’s exquisite
then longing for springtime
oh god,
why can’t it rain?
©2016janetaylor
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 11:59 AM UTC
642
Me from Myself—to banish—
Had I Art—
Impregnable my Fortress
Unto All Heart—
But since Myself—assault Me—
How have I peace
Except by subjugating
Consciousness?
And since We’re mutual Monarch
How this be
Except by Abdication—
Me—of Me?
5.8k
Forgive me
Never forget me
Though I'm out of sight
Don't let me out of mind
Don't banish me from your heart
You were never mine,
But I've loved you from the start...
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 3:09 PM UTC
I used to stand in awe and watch Grandma making biscuits.
She’d take her wooden bowl, then dip the floor and sift it.
As snowy flour would drift to form a mound of just so much;
She’d form a crater lake of buttermilk and shortening with her loving touch.
She would smile and watch our faces as she squeezed the flour to goop
And transform the mess she made into dough that she would scoop.
A pinch she’d take and make a ball to flatten in her palm.
Then with her thumb she’d press it down, so gently and so calm.
With care she next would take the dough and place it on a pan;
A thumb print etched in dough as she continued with her plan,
To place the pats side by side until the pan was filled
By perfect rows all laid out with hands so quick and skilled.
That cozy pan she placed into an oven warmed just right
And closed the door to seal them in and cook them out of sight.
In timely care she’d pull them free, delicious golden browns
Setting fresh hot biscuits on the table, to banish morning frowns.
Now I stand in awe and think of all the biscuits she has made,
Of all the time her thumb has pressed, as her heart has prayed.
Life finds us now, her children, in life’s wooden bowls
And we feel her loving touch as she leaves her thumbprint on our souls.
For Grandma Mary Grace Kindley Davis
On the occasion of her 105th birthday, February 9, 2007
Presented to her at her Birthday Party the next day.
©2007 Michael S. Davis
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 12:28 PM UTC
i'm a broken compass and a delayed train and a set of faded curtains that don't quite keep the sun out and the glare they make in your eyes, but i love you in ways i don't know how to say.
so you can spill your guts to me and i'll clean them up with rags made of "sorry's" and that won't make it better but at least i'll have tried. i made this mess.
you are gasping for the air that i took from your lungs and my betrayal-bruised hands are much too slow to fill them at the same time i'm trying to patch up the holes.
eventually we lay together in a swallowing and somber silence, too many god **** miles apart, until i break it in half with not-good-enough words that serve as my version of an apology.
but i swear that i will shatter every bone in my legs before i run from you when you need me most and curse at the doubt that plagues my mind like black death.
i will shake my fists and scream obscenities at the uncertainties and banish every "what if" that begs access to my consciousness.
i will slit the throat of yesterday, and watch it bleed out - know you're more than enough for me, and hate myself for the pills in your body.
for you, you, are more than oxygen and no amount of salted regret that pours from my eyes could ever convey the thoughts my lips can't seem to form.
so i am shrunk to a pitiful half-whisper, muttering over and over and over and over, "i'm right here. i'm right here." and somehow we manage to be okay.
- m.f.
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 4:54 PM UTC
There is something beautiful about two sad people who agree to hurt each other.
Something comforting.
It is a comfort only very damaged people understand- the tacit agreement to cause pain, and to receive it.
Pleasure is for people who have what they want.
But for those of us who are starving, ours is best peppered with suffering.
Being with someone who understands that carries its own worth-
I don't want you to make me feel good.
I couldn't stand it if you did.
I don't want you to touch me gently, or ask if I'm alright, or stop to look into my eyes.
I am starving, and so are you: I want your teeth.
I want you to make me hurt. And I want to hurt you.
I want you to hurt me because I'm not him, and I want to hurt you because you're not her.
We want to see each other suffer because we are starving and we need to feel that someone else is.
Don't hold back. I want you to lower me because I'm too good for her.
Don't love me, don't caress me. Dig your nails in. Drip candlewax on my stomach.
One step down from torture is all I can stand in the way of human connection, when it isn't her.
Punish me for looking at her like a baleful puppy tonight, even as you waited in my room with your soft skin and your sharp teeth.
There is nothing you can do that will be too violent, too brutal, too sadistic.
I don't want to be loved right now.
I am too raw.
I want to be touched. I want to be ruined. Leave marks. Smear lipstick.
Lower me because I am
Too
****
Good for her.
Let this heart know on no uncertain terms that its needs don't matter.
Help me **** it. Help me pin my demons to the bed and make them writhe, and I will do the same for you.
Let's exorcise our loves tonight and banish them to hell.
Let's tell our skin that it is irrelevant.
Let's say **** you" to the things that bind us. I will cut your heart out for him.
I will kiss your scars, not to heal them but to remind you that when you put them there you fought for something, something we both fight for now.
Hurt me. Fight her. Do it for her.
Do it for her because I'm not good enough to hurt.
Do it for her because I'm TOO good to hurt.
Crush me.
You could boil me alive and it wouldn't make up for her, so at least leave me bruised.
I will give you what you need, and you will give me what I need: not love, but contact.
Please,
Let my heart know on no uncertain terms that its needs
Don't
Matter.
There is something beautiful about two sad people who agree to hurt each other.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 3:55 AM UTC
AALI DIWALI
Excitement already there is in the atmosphere, our very air!!!
Goodies, gifts, flowers, lights we wish to, with dear ones, now share.
As citizens good, let's also exhibit some environment friendly care.
Banish Chinese items, I will, because I care for my India n also dare !
Use let us earthen Diyas, decorated in hand; Beautiful ones, beyond compare !
Candles Beautiful can be made or bought n decorated in a bright way.
Colourful Rangoli let us make with organic compounds, indigenous n rare.
Designs, with colours innumerous, one can create if one has a flair.
Same way, why pay so much to buy torn jeans, buy let's a decent traditional pair.
Traditional dresses so colourful are and look pretty n (no wrong meaning) gay.
Pizza, pasta, pastries boycott; try laddu, chakri or Khaja jo mawa se hei bhare.
Instead of flowers, gift Bamboo or money plants or other saplings; what say ?
Gift let us, things made in India. From China, let's willingly sway away !
"Aali Diwali" but create let us noise n smoke less. we must on this, an emphasis lay.
Innovative one can be, using imagination vivid to cute gifts make; n less amounts pay.
No WA, try and visit Grandparents, Mama, Kaka, Aatya, Maushi, is all I have to say !!!
HAPPY WALI DIWALI.
Armin Dutia Motashaw
Sep 25, 2019
Sep 25, 2019 at 3:55 PM UTC
***All that mush
What's the fuss
Life is to live
Oh yes
Love it and live
Love you Zindagi
Love you Zindagi
A crazy you and a crazy me
Holding hands breaking rules
What a lovely pair together we make
Love you Zindagi
A simple smile and a twinkle in the eye
Take away the tears and banish the fear
A beautiful art , warms up the heart
I do what I like
And I like what I do
Right or wrong
Responsibility all mine
A Believer
More of spiritual
Forgive me , Oh Lord
Follow not too many rituals
I do what I like
And I like what I do
Works of a complicated mind
That's what you'd find
In retrospect
Reflect
Yet not regret
A quirky me
Yes that's true
And
Today I turn 42
Love you Zindagi
All that mush
What's the fuss
Life is to live
Oh yes
Love it and live
Love you Zindagi
Love you Zindagi***
Nov 27, 2017
Nov 27, 2017 at 11:04 PM UTC
Warrior
You fight for meaning
Live for justice
Celebrate life
Warrior
Your life is a flower
A ray of hope
Encouraging all
Warrior
You fight depression
Defeat anxiety
Banish inertia
Warrior
You bid ‘Welcome!’
To life’s true joy
And all are with you
Warrior
You battle illness
Defeating all sorrow
Extinguishing doubt
Warrior
You open the door
Bringing all peoples
Into your home
Warrior
You cure all illness
Bring peace to the world
Eliminate war
Warrior
You live for others
You are yourself
You die triumphant
Dec 23, 2015
Dec 23, 2015 at 4:15 PM UTC
The friend zone has two sides:
On one, the poor soul is trapped
Hopelessly longing for one who turns a blind cheek.
You sympathize with them,
because they suffer for having emotions.
They cannot be asked to stifle their passion.
Yet here in this pit, all emotions are paralyzed,
Who could be so vile as to banish someone to this place?
The other side is much different.
Not many strong emotions.
But there certainly isn't happiness, or even peace.
The overwhelming feelings are pity, solemn, and overwhelming power.
This vile person has so much power over the poor soul.
But did they ask for that power?
Did they even want that power?
No, they want to be equal, not above.
Fully aware of the pain they have caused, they are sorry.
To all of you. Not just the people they have personally caused pain,
But to all of you who have fallen for someone like them and was burned,
It is unintended, and is painful for them too.
They feel evil and wrong, but have their own obsession.
They love their partner as much as you think you love them.
And they want nothing more than for all of you to find the person who is really meant for you.
Like I have.
You won't be happy with me.
Because I won't be happy with you.
But someone will.
And while you're wasting your time over me,
the person meant for you is waiting for you, longing for the hole in their own heart to be filled.
Don't continue to suffer, and don't keep them waiting.
I feel responsible for your scars. But only they can heal them for you.
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 8:48 PM UTC
...
***I've got a few visitors tonight;
they're all associated with the wolf under my eyes***
I.
*I've left loneliness to starve on a stone table,
while jealousy can bleed me a lake;
fear and I are equals,
on the battlefield of fate.*
"Pay no mind to the rebel."
II.
*Forked tongues recite wickedness; of all
the shadows gaining power as the sun was slain.
Black flames banish all that is golden,
as darkness bent my silent skeleton;
but it didn't break.*
"I'm just some sin you committed...right?"
III.
*A basilisk waited for me at my chambers,
it requested a lullaby, and a glass of iron wine.
Who knew poison would be my new best friend?
Who knew my company would be kept by
an oracle of silver'tongue?
Dead languages clutched my
lively secrets.*
"Every wolf gets tired of the moon at some point."
IV.
*And just like that;
We were splintering at your wolfsong
auburn poems at the feet of trees
waist deep in misery you sat,
head crowned in autumn's diseases.
Witnessing you tilt your head to plant a kiss
on the night's wings;*
***"Oh, it's ******* agony."***
*Watching your eyes harvest hurricanes
love sinking in tongues
of ebony sorrow.
they don't belong to me
you don't belong to me.*
***"I suppose I can't change the world
but I will leave it colder."***
V.
*And sometimes, love is just the aftermath
of a tragedy.*
...
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 6:27 PM UTC
We've only got a week left to last you know,
Thank every deity that ever was or ever will be.
I've aced the class now I've gotta go!
Had a wake for Wellness, and Spanish is buried -Now a funeral for Chemistry!
Banish those 'noble' gases and all that higher math.
What's a word smith need with polarity, molarity, or stoichiometry?
Well at least now I can tell an asymptote from a hole in the graph.
The freshies have it next year, but us -We cheer and sing, "BETTER YOU THAN ME!"
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 1:21 PM UTC
What if dawn never comes
No more bright light from the sun
With no sun the moon won't shine
In the total darkness will you lose your mind
Will you be able to face your fears
When your monsters are closing in and getting near
Or will you keep running trying to out distance them
Feeling like you have been condemned
Or will your turn and face those demons
And find the greater meanings
Will inside yourself you find that gem
Will you find where your darkness stems
Will you be able to restart your spark
And leave in this world your wonderous mark
To show the world your true being
To let the world know you are no longer fleeing
To destroy your mask can be so freeing
To banish the dark with the light thats inside
Because that's what happens when you have nothing left to hide
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 11:23 PM UTC