"bastille" poems
“The essence of reality is contradiction”
- Hegel
Ang tao ay likas na malaya, nabubuhay na malaya at dapat na maging malaya. Walang karapatan ang sinoman na mang-alipin. Hindi tayo pag-aari ninoman at walang taong ‘pweding umangkin sa kapwa n’ya. Ito ang batas ng kalikasan at ng uniberso. Walang panginoon at busabos, walang dapat na nag-uutos, at wala dapat mga alilang tagasunod. Sana ang buhay ay puro na lang Rosas at walang posas.
Subalit nagdilim ang kasaysayan nang maghari ang kasakiman na pinukaw ng matinding paghahangad ng iilan sa kayamanan. Kailangan na makakuha ng maraming kalakal nang lumawak ang merkado. Pero teka sino ang gagawa nito? Edi kunin ang mga mahihina at gawin silang mga alipin, pilitin na magtrabaho sa ilalim nang hagupit ng latigo. Hawakan sa leeg o di kaya naman ay kitilin, sa ganitong paraan sila dapat na pasunurin.
Tanang pagmamalabis ay may wakas. Hindi lang si Spartacus ang nag-alsa kundi pati ang mga itim na alipin. Sumiklab ang himagsikan sa paghahangad ng mga alipin na kumawala sa kanikanilang mga tanikala.
Dumating ang panahon ng Piyudalismo, nagbagong anyo lang ang halimaw at muli n’yang inalipin ang mga kapos-palad at mahihirap. Nangibabaw ang Aristokrasya na parang maitim na ulap na lumalambong sa himpapawid kaya hindi makita ang sinag ng araw. Salamat na lang at bumagsak ang Bastille at nagtagumpay ang rebolusyong Pranses.
Mula sa mga guho ng lipunang piyudal ay lumitaw ang mga bagong panginoon, ang mga Burgis. Sila ang mapagsamanta at naghaharing-uri sa ating panahon. Mga kapitalista, elitista at mga burgesya komprador.
At tayo na nasa baba, tayo na ang puhunan para mabuhay ay dugo’t pawis, tayo na mga proletaryo ang s’yang makabagong alipin. Mga alipin ng burgesya na ating pinapanginoon, tayo na lumilikha ng yaman ng bansa ang s’yang laging pinagsasamantalahan at binubusabos. Tinatakot na gugutomin kapagka hindi nagpa-ubaya at sumunod sa utos.
Habang tumatagal ay tumitindi ang mga salungatan at kontradiksyon sa pagitan ng mayaman at ng mahirap. Bulkan ito na sasabog sa bandang huli.
Ang batas ng kasaysayan ang nagsabi na ang lahat ng uri ng pang-aapi ay magwawakas. Nag-alsa ang mga alipin, naghimagsik ang mga pesante hindi magtatagal gustuhin man natin o hindi titindig ang mga proletaryo at sama-sama nilang ibabagsak ang kapitalismo na itinataguyod ng mga burgesya komprador.
Nov 15, 2017
Nov 15, 2017 at 1:25 AM UTC
I got a plan
You all are part of my caravan
My cousin went to Paris, France
Here was my chance
I told her to bring back a Paris Cap
So what do you think of that?
But thinking now, I should have asked for the foundation of the Eiffel Tower
Now that would have taken a lot of power
My cousin couldn’t store it in our bag
Perhaps top security and that would be a drag
My next idea was to take the Eiffel Tower apart piece by piece
This is some plan I love Lucy show would do
But I wouldn’t expect my cousin to pursue
But the French would be losing an art
I would really be telling the French, the Eiffel Tower must depart
Yet I must be clever and smart
However, would I place instead?
Why not a Giant Crepe Suzette
Do you think the French would notice?
Obviously they would
It is my thinking of should
Then the possibilities of could
I guess the Eiffel Tower I will never get
It was a hope but now a regret
The Eiffel Tower being its Paris stay and being my let.
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 7:07 PM UTC
I'm a prisoner of love, in this unguarded cell,
The warden whistles my name you'd think it hell,
but she knows my case all too well,
Her piercing eyes as resolute as the Bastille,
Dodging Cupids arrows at will,
Across this broom is forever, I'm gone for a life long spell,
With Joy as my bars and happiness the rubber shower mats,
Blissful ecstasy is its escape deterrent traps,
I pass the time a whittling hearts and sharpening this rap.
See those chalk lines on the wall of my heart?
They record the memories of my days since the start,
Her smiles are more prized than jailhouse art.
At inspection and roll call in the morning,
The smirk under the cap then a whispering,
Keep careful watch on our "Prisoner Prince Charming",
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 1:35 PM UTC
We all have flaws, and we know it. No one is perfect, and perfect shouldn’t even be a word in the dictionary, because what use does it have? Perfect body? What makes some of us think it’s perfect? Oh yeah, that’s right, the ******* media. Trying to tell us our flaws won’t be accepted in the real world so we must change ourselves to look like the ‘perfect’ celebrity. The lyrics are saying that he didn’t accept his flaws, and kept them hidden. But the person being addressed to accepted their flaws and is trying to help the singer accept them too. ‘We’ll see that we need them to be who we are…’ We must all accept them. We are scared of being different because it’s not ‘normal.’ If we were all the same, there would be nothing special about us. The internal struggle of not accepting who we are is normal. We are struggling to hide ourselves, because we are ashamed of whom we really are. We single out our flaws and try to ‘fix’ them and try to be perfect. But in the end, we’re not.
a.a.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 6:55 PM UTC
Midnight in Paris
oui, oui Missour, excusez-moi s'il vous plaît,
may I take your bags, welcome to the Ritz
I am most sure, you will enjoy your stay
Paris is most happy, to see you Mr. Fitz
Paris in the spring is such a lovely sight
the flowers all in bloom, the skyline at night
bright sun shinning now, maybe an afternoon shower
plan your day well before you ride up in the tower
strolling past the cathedral of Notre Dame
thinking of the bell ringer the old hunchback
like the Philadelphia liberty, the bell has a crack
the storming of the Bastille, to relieve the shame
to the Louvre for the most exquisite art
Rembrandt and DaVinci at their best
so many things to see this is just the start
to see it all would be a fantastic quest
time for a ride down the Seine river
astonishing sights this old city can deliver
a bottle of nice Vouvray to enhance the ride
a lovely local woman right by your side
now you might ask her if she likes to dance
for the clubs in Paree are oh so fine
club Lido also a great place to dine
a wonderful time, Midnight in Paris, France
Gomer LePoet
Sep 1, 2011
Sep 1, 2011 at 2:29 PM UTC
Minuit à Paris
oui, oui Missour, excusez-moi s'il vous plaît,
peux je prendre vos sacs, être bienvenu au Ritz
Je suis plus sûr, vous apprécierez votre séjour
Paris est le plus heureux, vous voir M. Fitz
Paris au printemps est une si jolie vue
les fleurs tous dans l'éclat, l'horizon la nuit
le soleil brillant shinning maintenant, peut-être une ****** d'après-midi
planifiez votre jour bien avant vous le trajet en haut dans la tour
le fait de promener devant le cathederal de Dame Notre
le fait de penser au carillonneur le vieux bossu
comme la liberté de Philadelphie, la cloche a un craquement
le fait de prendre d'assaut du Bastille, pour soulager la honte
au Louvre pour la plupart d'art exqusite
Rembrandt et DaVinci à leur meilleur
tant de choses à voir c'est juste le début
voir tout cela serait une quête fantastique
le temps pour un trajet en bas le fleuve de Seine
les vues étonnantes cette vieille ville peuvent livrer
une bouteille de Vouvray agréable pour améliorer le trajet
une jolie femme locale directement par votre côté
maintenant vous pourriez lui demander si elle aime danser
car les clubs dans Paree sont oh si parfaits
le club la Plage aussi un grand endroit pour dîner
un temps magnifique, le Minuit à Paris, France
Gomer LePoet
Sep 1, 2011
Sep 1, 2011 at 2:30 PM UTC
Charlie and D sitting in a tree, Henry VIII comes along, chops down the tree.
part of me constantly and perversely anticipates
what Islam holds dear, the cult of the moon
rather than the sun - sleeping nudges of inquiry
and reminiscence of Freud rather than this constant
pulverisation of scientific safety-nets -
the sun and the scam of diet - Narcissus myth
all too apparent, too self-conscious to feed
the beauty, laboratory type beauty,
statistician's paradise - sun and skin cancer collective,
i'm not an Arab, and i never will be,
but this sort of weather and jet-stream excess isn't
exactly helping either - Einstein might have
saved you from exacting the thought process
(never experiment with it, never)
behind Newtonian cause & effect, but this ****
isn't going away, and you won't be exactly barnacle
jumping mad with Jack & Jill if you voice your
concerns; for all that urbanity the village life
is having a comeback - hello brick, hello tree,
hello tomorrow: the day of never-be -
the Spaniards had a second try at an inquisition
via Gibraltar - the Scots sailed to Brussels -
the village life is having a comeback -
the Americans are hoarding guns prior to enacting
scenes from Bastille Sq. with the guillotine -
they don't know it yet, but they're hoarding guns
to topple the government over - elsewhere
a bunch of Palestinians were throwing stones
at bullseyes for a fluffy toy in a theme park.
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 11:35 AM UTC
subway
ed sheeran, especially give me love, our ******* wedding song
black and white photos
england, you wanted to show me everywhere
6"2'
the fault in our stars
always
italian, why did you even feel the need to say ti amo
***** you were drunk when you said it the second time
5.30am
scars on people's wrists, don't be silly, you said it was an accident
collar bones
tumblr
dreams, the good ones were mine, the bad ones were yours
voice recordings
11.11 wishes, the ones you promised you'd help make come true
the word ****
succulents, like on your windowsill
bastille and cars, you would always sing along in the passenger seat
postcards
airport and train station reunions
all those songs i played just for you on my guitar
my sister's birthday, why did you have to choose that date
you're perfect for me, you swore you weren't a liar
***
the anne frank house, where you were ******* texting me from
february 26th
melbourne's federation square
your name was in a movie and i started to cry
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 9:27 PM UTC
I am a sucker for your laugh, your smile, your soul
living life in your bastille curled up in a hole;
owning up to your walls, guards up, just standing by;
voraciousness owing and yearning lest I die.
entranced by your beauty, I find myself struggling
your eyes, locked with mine, a passion that is stifling
obscured from plain view is the thirst to surrender
undeterred by respite, a pledge of forever.
allow me to stand beside, inches from your world
my desire is to consume each flesh of your word
I can no longer bear the longing for you
nary a howl of protest what you put my mind through
amidst the ocean of divergence, I tell thee:
“hold fast and hold steady, as mine you will be.”
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 11:22 PM UTC
. revolution?!
what revolution?!
i can't see a guillotine!
****
hey! guys! there's no guillotine!
there's no talk
of a revolution
when there's no guillotine...
your talk of, a, "revolution"
would make Marquis de Sade
cringe,
and shout down a toilet
than out of window
of the Bastille..
this isn't a revolution,
it's on;ly 2018....
you have to wait!
why are tthe people so slothful,
yet at the same time,
eager, to work?
we're looking at "changes"
come 2045...
the year...
that apparently stabilized
the 2th0 century for
20 / 30 / 40 / 5...
no...
let's keep it with
sucker-punch Billy...
i love being a drunk...
makes all the sober
people look...
******* stupid;
and i don't even mean that....
it's just a military
fatigue...
it akin to:
coulrophobia...
yeah... big time... women making
excursions
for fatigued wool and silk
dresses...
one question does the job...
*honey, can i play the clown
at our honey- berry's birthday
party?*
do women go into
mascara parlors,
window shopping,
with a man tagging along?
honey...
do you really need me to tag along
while you shop for
make-up chemical
parade of tested adherents
for your beauty of your
expectation of fur...
Mike and Moany - the gerbils...
i thought you liked them?
no...
i can do the sheered
woolen artifacts...
when it comes to spreading
lipstick on frogs
and testing their
pyrotechnic susceptibility potential...
watching the Mike Myers' twins...
no... really...
count me out of
the necessity to make
an argument for a race...
i'm out...
done...
i never liked the English
existentialist argument to begin with...
too individualistic,
too finite...
too much of:
enjoying a hell
of a good time...
it's a simple economic logic
focus...
what you're selling?
i'm not buying.
it's that simple!
i don't have to buy what you're
selling!
stand with it all stacked up...
i'm not buying!
somehow i think
the English intellectuals
forgot the basic principles...
i'm, not, buying!
savvy?
god... ugh...
i know the French are bad...
about their oversee of diacritical
application,
and how they make no
sense when syllables
come into play...
and the Germans... yeah yeah...
i get their scrutiny of
method and dedication...
their teutonic charge within
the confines of ******** screws
into place...
but i'm still not seeing
an clearer...
there's talk of a revolution
in the English tongue...
so...
where's the guillotine?!
oh...
so...
what revolution?!
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 6:51 PM UTC
"BUG"
I saw a Bug Battle,
in the cracks of the street Blood and Struggle
Their plastic screams and cellophane curses were almost like yours and mine.
Until a brave one crawled to my ear,
and he told me of his trial in the street crack theater,
I grinned as if I cared, he smiled like he had the time
He said "in whose camp does your banner fly, and can I have you on my side?"
He loaded a Pistol while I replied:
I said: I'm anti-pro no shout catechist, so keep your pamphlets political activist,
You take your cause for lack of a purpose in life,
pursuit of happiness, "eudemonia" good spiritedness
you're living proof that ignorance aint bliss
Pray "Libira nos a malo!" and Free Tibet!
But you never prayed for the souls with affixed Bayonets;
so I wave like the man being shot from the cannon;
born on this chunk of warm rock hurling through nothing;
who only on the front of spirit can fight;
Storm the Bastille of desperate life;
and dance in the street every night till the day I die.
The Bug Replied:
Know All, Know all, in the dialog to win,
two grants are a Franklyn one Lincoln's just a fin?
Posit value for this bug since you're so well balanced,
gaining perspective from the outermost valence;
you never killed what you eat and confuse "labor with action,"
but you think you're to evolved to fight for my faction;
We're currency baby as we live and breed,
BASTILLE for you ATTICA for me!
better get in the frae my anti anti teacher
before it ***** you along with every other fighting creature;
I'm going back to me cell where I breathe a little freer;
but let me give a final though like I'm Jerry Springer:
If happiness is purpose than you can call my purpose love,
to survive I fight the Battle and to me you're the bug.
Thunderstruck, I sat on the curb,
realizing I could be a "social surd;"
then I saw my small confessor get killed in a raid;
I would have stomped out his assassin if I wasn't so afraid;
instead I rose to my feet, and walked straight home,
locked myself in, and wrote out this song,
I think of the bug while I'm dancing in the street,
every time my neighbor throughs a sneaker at me;
I feel his wrestles spirit longing to fight,
while I'm drinking and singing in the middle of the night,
than it hits me:
The bug was right
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 9:04 PM UTC
You abandoned me
Love don't live here anymore
Just a vacancy
Love don't live here anymore
When you lived inside of me
There was nothing I could conceive
That you wouldn't do for me
Trouble seemed so far away
You changed that right away, baby
Love don't live here anymore
Just emptiness and memories
Of what we had before
You went away
Found another place to stay, another home
In the windmills of my eyes
Everyone can see the loneliness inside me
Why'd ya have to go away
Don't you know I miss you so and need your love
Bastille
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 2:08 AM UTC
How can I ever explain it?
Not without a full disclosure
I will tell you every bit
Your kindness to which I demure
Soldiers fight their own private war
Mine to protect the Hill Tribes
Willing to suffer all the gore
All credit to them I ascribe
Upon arrival in Da Nang
I gathered my field gear and rifle
A mission with Colonel Vang
Preparation seemed but a trifle
My kind mountain Hmong Tribal ladies
Give a great gift to me, your sons
I will escort them through Hades
I'll teach them to ****** with guns
Wet their tongues in cobra's blood
I have come to save you from doom
The coming communist red flood
Boys already made their own tomb
We shall fly the flags of the Hmong
We'll rally boys from the villes
We must slaughter the Minh and Cong
The Hmong will have their own Bastille
I will take a dragon to wife
Boys will nurture in her foul breath
They will worship their ****** knife
We'll dance the ritual of death
I’m the lost soul forest monster
Others have come before today
They are pathetic impostors
We will flow through the night to slay
Other boys born beneath the palm
They have come to steal your life's breath
It's them that we target to bomb
I'll walk among you as Macbeth
My Duncan is among your kin
Banquo will haunt me til I rot
I will be fixed with mortal sin
Unable to wash away the spot
I will hide my hands from Odin
A conundrum in which I'm caught
Future will be among the Jinn
My destiny from this foul plot
Your sons buried in sacred ground
They'll not be stained with my darkness
Peace for them will be so profound
How many thanks can I express
Those boys in valor's selfless crown
From gallantry, their future gone
Sins I keep and can't beat down
For many years, I must atone.
I, far removed from battles roar
Do fondly remember those boys
Their smiles and laughter before
Stand out among life's greatest joys
No more the fierce warrior am I
Just an old man with memories
I am needing to just say goodbye
And maybe, maybe my conscience appeases
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 6:33 PM UTC
Come For Me
Come for me
In darkness
Like all cowards
Come for me
When I am starved
And deprived of
Comfort
Come for me when
I am crazed
For want
Of a woman's lips
Come for me
When my days
Have outlasted
The portion in my
Beggar's bowl
Come for me
When I have
Watched the mongrel
Suffer in the ditch
Come for me on
Lorcas's birthday
And Akhmatova's
Wedding night
Or Bastille Day
Come for me
In my darkness
And I will show
You how
I write poetry
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 10:52 PM UTC
Feel free to self-govern;
rebellions have shown consistency of
bringing more rebellions
but does this actually bring change?
Boston lead to Bastille
****** Sunday to Bolshevik
Each a milestone for this
sophisticated species.
Accomplished aliases of these turning points
were the pioneers of a never ending cycle:
discontent, revolution, reconstruction, new order.
To control brings demise
To revolt changes tides
and as long as the moon circumnavigates the sky,
the tides will predictably relapse.
Oct 17, 2011
Oct 17, 2011 at 3:34 AM UTC
a man
of Bastille
that Canandaigua
march till
Pacific with
their referendum
suffrages to
really inhabit
kingdom that
welcome a
pickle as
this ancestry
written petition
must declare
doom but
again with
fur trade
Oct 11, 2017
Oct 11, 2017 at 9:06 AM UTC
Her shape is a hidden map
For hundreds of conquistadors
Seeking what’s beyond her lap
Owning her juvenile allure
In the breadth of her landscape
Her once wilderness is tamed
Her soul locked in a bastille
While her lone temple awaits.
All she ever desires is a traveler
She deemed she once knew
Still, the stars won't the answer
When her love is due.
Mar 23, 2019
Mar 23, 2019 at 4:04 AM UTC
“Sometimes I feel
Like I've been tied
To the whipping post
Tied to the whipping post
Tied to the whipping post
Good lord I feel like I'm dyin””
Allman Brothers
<•>
two words arrive unscheduled no comprehension no intention;
a great taunting for the guy who claims he plucks ‘em
from passing breezes and hazelnut trees
creation capture
meaning just a biting ******* feeling,
Allman brothers Pandora in on it too,
playing to make sure
I’m in touch with my roustabout feelings
*“Sometimes I feel
Like I've been tied
To the whipping post
Tied to the whipping post
Tied to the whipping post
Good lord I feel like I'm dyin'”*
got it - the poems revolting
and they are...making it hard
the lesson i’m learning
the poems are the boss
you ain’t nothing but a whipping post boy
wright right what you’re given, no misgivings -
a treat you don’t deserve
you ain’t nothing but our
creature captured
forty years in the desert and maybe then
the promised land
let you know when you suffered enuf
meantime meet us and Leon in Atlantic City;
poetry ain’t nothing but rolling dice, playing craps
mostly you lose
Bastille Day 15:00
a country tune for a county boy
Jul 14, 2018
Jul 14, 2018 at 3:12 PM UTC
Overkill, that's what this is, a battle uphill
Who cares? We're just in it for the thrill
Excuse me, miss, can I have the bill?
Pay it off with a twenty-dollar bill
Gotta get to the bullfighting in Seville
This is what I do, you could say I'm mentally ill.
Better get a check-up with Dr. Phil.
I'll just tell him rhymes are what I instill, its a unique skill
Keep doing this even when the world is spinning like a windmill
Like the Storming of the Bastille, there is no escape, take a sleeping pill
Deep water runs still, I'll toss you on a George Foreman grill
Make your Last Will and Testament, because this is overkill.
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 10:36 AM UTC
if I am the frying pan then you are the fire
in a way you’ve always been my gateway drug
[oh her]
and I’ve always been their gateway to you (we have never
really been that similar) if I am the street lights then
you are the stars (you have always made that one
pretty clear)
I am covered in your footprints
your hair kind of looks like mine
spit on my face and we’ll see if I start to look more like you
[oh it’s you]
we were born in hospitals and since then my infant skin
has felt like plastic in your hands
(I’ll sit down in the dirt to see if I can blend in
with what you say you really love) smile and maybe
I’ll remember
what I really love about the grass growing through the sidewalk
(I remember once you told me you would love me
if I could show you where the sidewalk ends)
if I am the bridge then you are the untamed river
I’m sorry if I couldn’t see below my feet but you never bothered
to look up either
you have always been my gunpowder and I
have always been your bastille (whether you are rogue or royalty
has yet to be determined) you have always said
that I was hollow and I held matches in my teeth hoping
it would prove me volatile
[always you two]
I used to think our bones were the same metal but you’d
be the first to tell me yours was forged in a hotter fire
I think
mine will be harder to break (and we will both be melting
for years) if I am holding their hands then
you are bleeding beneath their feet if I stand alone
then you are standing on their shoulders
(I remember you like charcoal on a cave wall
like a name carved in tree bark
there are sets of your fingerprints next to mine all down
the highway
hold my hand against the dirt and we’ll see
if the heat of battle in the blood red riverbank will be enough
to burn this skin from our bones) we are not friends and
we are never going to be strangers (and more than anything
I am sorry for that)
if I am midnight then you are three am
if I am the sun then you are (not the moon)
arcturus
in a way I’ve always been your gateway
in a way you’ve always been my coup de foudre
[oh this again]
in a way your poetry was always my first love
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 10:54 PM UTC
Talk the walls down and drought the moat of emotion
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 1:49 PM UTC
He ascended to the room
That seemed to have blocked him from reconnaissance
For it takes the form of overlapped ropes
He explored the bastille
Where affection was imprisoned
For it was located in prison cells
He always knew
That freedom was sacred to the body
That exploration was claimed by the soul
But his love for adventures, uncertainty and even endangerment,
Has kept him close to both
Her brain and her heart
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 5:17 PM UTC
He couldn't
not take off
the backward cap
that hides
his tousled hair
as he pulls back
the high-backed stool
he'll perch himself on
next to
this unfamiliar beauty.
He couldn't
not accept the bourbon
shot, a pert bartender
offers to keep
his pint company
and lend him
extra courage.
He couldn't
not exchange
an inquiring smile
then a glib remark
about the heat
and the sudden
appeal of dank taverns.
He could
watch her
small gestures for hours
and never
lose interest.
The way
alabaster fingers
tease auburn hair,
they pull at his longing
for a moment
they'll land to still
his right hand
nervously tapping
so useless against
the emptied glass.
He couldn't
guess where
it all might lead,
but he couldn't
not take the chance
it might,
somewhere.
Her accent
sounds French,
and it is Bastille Day.
Anything's possible,
n'est-ce pas?
Jul 28, 2010
Jul 28, 2010 at 4:40 PM UTC
She spun a scarf to hide her shamed head
from a silken thread of equivocations
that led her lovers into walls.
She ate from a spoon of clay and earth,
saturated by her tongue
mud in the depths of her bleeding throat
and the towns people said
'May her mendacity lead her into hell's bastille,
may her sins bury her before the breath leaves her lungs.'
and she was silent.
While her judgment day had arrived
and she marched on quietly towards the grave
of the rogue,
I felt her eyes catch mine in the crowd
and I tasted the humanity,
I smelled the anguish.
Sentenced to death by the thirsty fingers
of an un-dead society,
feeding on the remainders of true, unyielding life.
She walked on towards the land of slumber,
a conscious antithesis
of justice.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 10:54 PM UTC
I looked at the beggarman
Wrapped in a bundle
Of cardboard, rags and dirt,
With a royal smirk on his face
As his eyes pierced mine
For the second or less
It took to wander by
His space of rest,
His makeshift nest
Of cardboard, rags and dirt...
Today he laid
On his side,
Knees slightly bent,
A blue Bic gripped loosely
In his right fist,
Notepad white
In his right...
What does a beggarman write
From his sanctuary
Of cardboard, rags and dirt,
I wondered?
Could it be a sign,
A plea for a penny
Or a piece of bread?
Or was the beggarman
A thespian well-read
With a tale or two
Trapped in his troubled head....
As he was,
In his bastille
Of cardboard, rags and dirt...
A Danielle Steele
Undiscovered....
An Amiri Baraka
Reborn...
A literary genius trapped
In a bundle
Of cardboard, rags and dirt
With a royal smirk on his face.
~ P
(#TheBeggarman)
2/28/2014
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 10:38 PM UTC