"bedouin" poems
The Kingdom of Morocco has a rugged mountain interior which reminds me of the British meal of mince and potatoes. But hold that thought, and examine our seemingly superior Western legislation. Just like the pickle, the dynasty of death is a brazen festival percussionist who is celebratory in her bitter and gustatory inevitability. Jizyah is that taxation which is imposed upon those who fail to conform to those expected societal norms. Although we have the status quo, one cannot help but wonder what happened to the rectitudes of individuality and paradoxical equality? So, where do we go, oh navigator of the great and mighty West? Marrakech or Rabat? I have no concrete awareness of where solace is to be found. I am lost! Therefore, I can only offer the following direction: Contemplate the ever-changing intricacy of the dunes in anthropological amazement and acknowledge the sky at night. Allow the celestial pole of the North Star to speak to your deep uncertainty. Our purpose is openly displayed if we simply open our heart in the midst of our Bedouin oasis. That, my friend, is the essence of being psychosocial.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 2:48 PM UTC
The bin lorry had been.
I picked up a fragment
of our neighbours lives,
litter they must have scrapped.
We do not know them.
They're always moving on.
Urban Bedouin,
with a thousand and one
domestic tales untold.
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 11:28 AM UTC
Of all vice in the world under discipline
Laziness – a Curse - is like a Saccharin.
Sweet as pipe, sonorous as violin
Wicked as a snake, ill-mannered as Bedouin;
Laziness creeps in secretly body within
And remains there undisturbed and akin.
It is seen when duty or slog does spin
Grinds us till in others found Lenin.
But that is a bad time as made us thin.
Hence precaution must be taken, O Kin!
Laziness, a Bad King, should not reign
Over us from beginning to let out jinn.
Of all vice in the world under discipline
Laziness – a Curse - is like a Saccharin.
Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 8:40 AM UTC
Through the fog of disenfranchisement he emerges
Gold watch, Gold rings, Gold hair, Lead heart
He has the resources...
He knows the secret to making money
He must know how I can make that money
So I can finally be happy
As happy as I was before I knew I needed money
Unless the secret of making money is me not having it
He has the influence...
Over those with crumbling foundations of knowledge
And foreclosed homes of empathy
Their situation is dire
They need someone to admire
What channels will this river of adulation lead to, though?
Their minds sneak across the borders of fear
into paranoia
Their hearts scale the walls of love
into hatred
He has the power...
The Botanist tells the customer that the flower is actually a ****
And he must **** it
There are Bedouin villagers who know nothing of the outside world
Except for our bombs
Will the sounds of love be heard over our tanks and guns?
He has no control...
No control of the thoughts of those that live
in the shadows of uncertainty
No control over the brotherhood all men share despite our differences
He is not the sun
And time waits for nobody
And misery finds everyone no matter what
And you can burn the witch at the stake of your fears
But her banshee screams will unleash the titan of retribution
Through all this hatred
Love will save us, right?
Or is love what led us here?
May 22, 2017
May 22, 2017 at 3:24 PM UTC
She never made it
To Morocco
Rode ’cross the desert
With her Bedouin lover
Shopped for bargains
In the Souks of Rabat
Sipped mint tea
From a frosted glass.
She never went sailing
In a catamaran
And on a moonlit beach
Made love in the sand
Or drank espresso
In a café in Lima
Or danced the flamenco
In Puerto Rico.
She married a man
Cause no one else offered
Had three kids
And moved to the suburbs
Wrapped up her dreams
In brown butcher paper
Tied them with twine
And shelved them for later .
She never made it
To Morocco
Her life was four walls
Plastered in stucco
And she sighed as she thought
Of the things that she lost
The dreams that she wrapped
And shelved in the past.
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 9:32 PM UTC
The
Decider-in-Chief
made
another
hard
decision,
rebebilitatin
a debilitating
Gaddafi.
The
Agog
Decider
sleekly
peeked
into the
bleak
soul
of the
master
Bedouin.
The
Pious
Decider
peered
pretty
deeply,
so its
hard to tell
what his
arcane
rebelations
revealed.
Some say
The
Jaundiced
Decider,
saw the
desert
bleeding
deliciously
malicious
sweet crude
onto the
scabby
tongues
of
Halliburton
Executives
while
Big Time
Vice
Dickey Boy
******
a petrol
nozzle
dry,
licking
the dripped
drops
that
drizzled
from the
shoot
hole,
so as
not to waste
a precious drop
to satiate
the black
viscous
goo
coursing
through
the ebony
veins of his
chingling
heart.
Others
say
The
Condoning
Decider
sized up
the man
and saw
a brother-in-arms
in the fight
against
The Evil Doers;
yet failed to
see the
revolting
obscenities
his new
comrade-in-arms
inflicted
upon his
own body
politic.
The
Forgetful
Decider,
blessed
with amnesia
forgot
Lockerbie and
applauded
BP's royal
court of
justice
for
pardoning
all perps.
The
Oblivious
Decider's
near
sightedness
failed to
foresee
a brewing
blow-back
amassing
in the
desert
winging
its way
home
on the
blasting
sands of
a blistering
Saharan
sirocco.
The
Pollyannish
Decider
envisioned
grand
spectacles,
only happy
visions of
Beyonce,
JZ, Usher
and the
Def Jam
Buddha
Russell
Simmons
yodeling
filthy
lucre
tunes,
sending
giggling
tweets
while
partying
down
with
Muammar's
posse
of martinets
and
way cool
far out
crazy
execs
drunk
with the
power
that blinds
the eye to
all discernment.
The Decider
decides.
Music Selection:
Lady Ga Ga
Beyonce,
Telephone
Oakland
3/3/11
jbm
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 8:11 PM UTC
resting upon a wet diamonte cloth a dew encrusted diamante goblet of sparkling bubbling classic champagne floating a jewelled ice berg the solitaire diamond encrusted the ring of Celtic gold thrice captured
indulged then held fast in your naked sleeping beauty - with visions of our night shared in driven imaginative love
the coloured reality of a nights unreality - soon both awake we will discover more
now we slip between reverie and gentle touch - this is our love in loves haecceity
within a darkened airy Bedouin tents comfort then thrice by the lonely beauty of the green oasis waves of guarding desert dunes beyond a mirage of dry high peaks here I await her dreaming heart
.
Aug 16, 2010
Aug 16, 2010 at 1:19 AM UTC
a deck
now with
Bedouin high
there dream
her red
quotient in
Catalonia with
Montserrat qua
mountain deem
hindmost their
trials to
independence back
to innermost
Barcelona as
watershed lariat
begun this
year Ole
Feb 20, 2018
Feb 20, 2018 at 3:05 PM UTC
They are the ones
That rule the world for fun
They disseminate the guns
And tell us to run
So we flee
From their disease
That will not cease
Power is control that money buys
Burying us in gold and petty lies
They tell us the well has run dry
While we watch them fly
Fences of barbed wire
For us to admire
Inferno funeral pyres
Burn our desires
When they rattle
We're the cattle
That goes to battle
They talk to us with false information
And real bullets
They say it is our fault for instigation
The trigger they pull it
When their saccharine voice
Offers a laughable choice
Forsake love and compassion
To adopt their fashion
Of society crashing
They used to use lashings
Now they use time
Punishing those who aren't complicit in their crimes
They put us in prison
If we don't agree with their decisions
Decimating Bedouin life
So they can profit from strife
People ask who "they" are
The easiest answer is not me
And the problems aren't too far
For anybody to see
That there is a "they"
Not intent on doomsday
But numb to the death of strangers
Which puts us all in danger
I could point to examples like Lockheed Martin and Shell
As two companies that put us in hell
Or a country like North Korea
That has violent ideas
Or a man like Donald Trump
Who is a parasitic lump
They convince us they don't exist
So we don't resist
While they insist
We enlist
In their army
Of harming
Starring
Them
We hem
And haw
While they write laws
That point out our flaws
That are minimal compared to theirs
Yet they are the fortunate heirs
Who decide the code of conduct
Which is whatever sells their product
From plastic to bombs
Killing dolphins and moms
They feel they can't be wrong
When might
Is right
The meek take flight
But there is poison in the air
And they don't even care
They **** the Earth
And ****** its inhabitants
What are we worth
When it's to the rich we gravitate?
There is an apostle
Who's turned into a fossil
That is converted into fuel
So they can keep their pull
And use us as tools
To unearth jewels
And hoard them
Because we can't afford them
We surrender our resources to a select few
To do what they choose
Until we all lose
And can't see the light of day
Who else to blame but "they"?
Dec 30, 2017
Dec 30, 2017 at 7:38 AM UTC
Fire burning, logs marching
A path daunting, ranting taunts
Chanting seamed Arabic hymns
Chargrilled silky toned offerings
The exquisite yurt tent warm
Enclosed in ethnic kaleidoscope
Bedouin tribal pneuma radiates
Tensed and cordially punted
Feral wild ones sociably awake
Reticent,drained in frail noises
Fainting in lapses, trailed to fail
Tidal noises permeates above all
Waved and enveloped in beats
A drummed goblet, strummed oud
Announcement of the lived life force
The tidal rhythmic music timed
All clapping and mesmerised
Drawn in dangerous curves
A continuum of introversion sorted
The ever censored extroversion summed
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 2:54 PM UTC
'Good evening', as I come through the door
shutting out the noise and dirt that now gathers at my welcome mat
where I wipe my shoes and leave my feet.
Hanging my head on the hat stand I am home,
today's news is getting older in the paper under my arm,
print leaves it's imprint on my white starched
office shirt.
In the kitchen there are dead animals in the oven,
cooking amongst things from the ground,
bubbling and boiling,
mother natures bounty bought from sterile supermarkets.
Fresh air is packaged in re-usable cans
re-cycled, made into planes that fly over great oceans
and mountain ranges, deserts,
where Bedouin tents blow in the breeze.
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 7:48 AM UTC
Streams light from moon
flows through window
in a different land though
I traverse to a dune
The Bedouin in white robe
on silhouetted camel
rides on a mystic trail
did his woman elope
Rise from sands spark
rider’s eyes glint
must find footprint
an end to disembark
Night a moonlit art
bounces camel’s ****
she left him in the dump
trampled on his heart
Overhead stars fade
weary hooves pine rest
in his hollowed breast
he finds of her no thread
Foams in mouth the beast
feels the deadly heat
hopes slow retreat
the eyes gather mist
His dagger sparkles white
closes eyes the moon
dawn comes too soon
burns his blood bright
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 10:15 AM UTC
Once
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Once when her kisses were fire incarnate
and left in their imprint bright lipstick, and flame,
when her breath rose and fell over smoldering dunes,
leaving me listlessly sighing her name . . .
Once when her ******* were as pale, as beguiling,
as wan rivers of sand shedding heat like a mist,
when her words would at times softly, mildly rebuke me
all the while as her lips did more wildly insist . . .
Once when the thought of her echoed and whispered
through vast wastelands of need like a Bedouin chant,
I ached for the touch of her lips with such longing
that I vowed all my former vows to recant . . .
Once, only once, something bloomed, of a desiccate seed—
this implausible blossom her wild rains of kisses decreed.
Published by The Lyric, Writer’s Journal, Grassroots Poetry, Tucumcari Literary Journal, Unlikely Stories, Poetry Life & Times. Keywords/Tags: kisses, fire, incarnate, lipstick, dunes, ******* heat, lips, breath, sighs, passion, desire, lust, *** bachelorhood, recanted
Mar 26, 2020
Mar 26, 2020 at 3:14 AM UTC
Denial was a predator,
And i, a willing prey.
The bubble of yellow roses,
Often surrounds the red ones thick,
But remains forever immune,
Perhaps even distant,
From the ****** of harsh reality.
Yet I have come to relish this bubble,
Like the Bedouin relishes the occasional muddy oasis,
Like the vanquished relishes the taste,
Of victory in defeat.
Denial was a predator,
And i, a willing prey.
I know you have told me,
How the season reeks of different roses,
Like the fragrance of your marriage bed,
But for the most part the bubble protects me,
And makes me forever immune,
Perhaps even distant,
From the winds of harsh reality.
Denial is a predator
And i a willing prey,
No more.
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 2:00 AM UTC
It was dark in the mountains of Sollum
Near Benghazi close by the sea
And the shadows of early September
They cling to the dark Euka tree
The night fell softly around us
The dunes brought a cool restful peace
The skies list their Orange-bursting thunder
As the shell-fire would finally cease
Our dead,(yes alas there were many)
Burning on with a smell oh so foul
Was mixed with the odor of dying
And the final expelling of bowel
We waited,(we numbered just five now)
Of the hundred that came to this place
While a victory we never doubted
It's now bitter finish we face
Our names and this battle forgotten
Again 'neath the soft desert moon
A lover and there his beloved
They rest by the old Moorish ruin
The desert will cover our presence
In less than a lifetime or so
O'er our graves the Bedouin wanders
And the laboring caravans go
Jul 3, 2013
Jul 3, 2013 at 6:01 PM UTC
(memories of a lost youth)
There is a desert in my head;
An emptiness of shifting sands
That houses a Bedouin of thought
Camped around an oasis of
Memories; Nomads of a childhood
They ride on a caravan of camels
Around an empty quarter
That was my youth.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 10:29 AM UTC
Words are depleting like the last drop of water of a Bedouin's ***
The first broken piece of heart knows the heaviness of anguish in a cloudy noon!
Distance after distance, making a way to forget sweet memories.
Today, the pale yellow day ends easily, fighting with the conscience.
Sudden howl of crazy wind shivers the dozing hair!
The little child comes only in the dream, talks like acquaintance.
Afraid of awaking myself, I might loose again.
She is lost suddenly like will never be back.
How my disobedient sleep makes me remember the people I miss!
My throbbing eye lashes wait moment after moment;
For the inner wave of rain!
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 6:26 AM UTC
They were the sons of silver,
Softly treading an angels web.
The last ******** of the ghost
Of winter living forever
Or so it was said.
The players of fools,
Though played from afar.
Distant and watchful
Removed from the heart.
Quick you sons of silver,
On you mercury child!
Your heart may be cold
As metal, numb against
The wilds.
Creaking in the tempest
That cries aloud and moans,
Remember you're never alone.
For they were the daughters of diamond,
Cut in the sandstorm of a bedouin desert.
A million years in the making
Forged in the torture of pressure.
Each impeccable, a priceless treasure.
But every diamond starts its life as coal.
The darkest of hearts made from the death of Old.
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 10:20 PM UTC
Bedouin woman
How far away you are
I cannot speak your
language
I do not wear your
veil
But we wait
together
In the hallway
For the doctor
In a clinic far from home
Trying, discreetly, to nurse
our toddlers.
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 3:11 AM UTC
Remote area where there is no screen
Timidity rules alone trying to save skin.
Of all evils in the creation under discipline
Timidity – a curse – is like a Saccharin.
Sugary as tweet, booming as a violin
Wicked as a fox, ill-mannered as Bedouin;
Timidity sneaks secretly physique within
And remains there undisturbed and akin.
When obligatory duty or slog is seen
Sharpens us, whet us till found Lenin.
This makes us skinny, lanky and thin.
Living timid for me is no than a sin.
Hence precaution must be taken, O Kin!
Timidity, a severe knight, should not reign
Over us from beginning to let out jinn.
Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 11:24 PM UTC
Be Quick
I’m on the back of His Enduro,
through the alkaline dust of the desert,
we ride by the full moon’s light,
the three Pyramids of Giza casting perfectly measured silhouettes,
so dark they could be shadows,
and we both know time is of the essence,
so we are trying to Be Quick,
I’ve got a train to catch,
a one way ticket to Luxor,
but they say life is the journey not the destination,
so we’re always going even if we don’t always know where,
here,
on the back of this bike,
I hold on to Him for dear life,
as the back wheel kicks up the Sands of Time,
His bike obediently continuing into the night,
I don’t know where we are going,
but I know if I live to write about it I will,
because I am a writer and writing is what I do,
it’s my way of showing gratitude and being thankful,
He’s a writer too,
similar to me,
or maybe I’m similar to Him,
because He’s 20 years my senior,
used to live the Hollywood Life,
made films and got famous,
and now He's a non profit doctor,
helping those in need that are nameless,
I see my future in his eyes,
so when we stop atop a dune,
at a bedouin camp with the three pyramids on the moon lit horizon,
I ask Him one question,
“Are you happy?”.
He pauses,
and He answers,
with something poetically metaphorical like,
“Happiness is relative.”
And then,
He proceeds to tell me the story of his life...
He talks about Hollywood,
He talks about love and about searching,
He talks about how he gave it all up,
to come to these deserts and help those that need helping,
He reveals so much,
so much more than any of these words can translate,
and as our evening comes to an end,
I realize as amazing as our lives may be we are only men,
alone,
atop a dune in Giza,
overlooking the Great Pyramids,
trying to share knowledge without sounding like preachers,
He is Jesus,
at least as close to Jesus as I’ve ever met,
quite fitting considering He came from The City of Angels,
and I see in His eyes that for society he has wept,
and I want to stay there,
because I love Him,
I see his struggle,
and His moral dilemmas,
but I've got a train to catch,
and life waits for no man,
so we wrap up our conversation,
and travel back across those Egyptian sands,
and it is then,
that I realize,
that He is me,
in 20 years time,
He is me,
in 20 years,
and as amazing as his ways seem,
I wonder if He’s lonely and if every effort he's ever made was worth it,
and that is why I asked Him what I now ask You,
“Are you happy?”.
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
Dec 12, 2016
Dec 12, 2016 at 3:58 AM UTC
Once, I had it bad for a girl
She let me play ******** music
in her living room,
and she had long brown hair.
she had a big *** dog.
it was a good dog,
nice to be around.
she was too.
I'm pretty sure
That they both
bit our bluesman friend
at one time or another,
but that's beside the point.
Once, we stared at each other for a long time.
Nothing really happened
Except that I fell into the chasm of her eyes,
And have spent every day since
Working my way up the cliffs
Outlined in shades of blue and green in her retinas,
a Bedouin for my affectation
and enamoration with the woman that I used to know.
For a moment,
I was even tempted to move into a cave in her mind,
But the spirits called me forward
Into the desert of my own mind.
It's been a few years.
She's in the embrace of methamphetamines now.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 11:37 AM UTC
Beaches and bed and Bedouin tents
I just wish you woke up in sands
My fingers softer than wind on you
My gaze a small wet patch of kiss on fears
Throwing your demons out to keep guard
Old friend spoke of angels on our walks
I corrected him that they flee from battles
That you and I cannot but walk in solitude
We're the two rebels who chose solitary confinement
Because we cherish our skin and soul
And it does not matter where I meet you
Or where I bid you goodbye
Just how long will our kiss last
How deep will your teeth be in my fears
How violet my fingers will be on your waist
How red will your flesh be and mine
Nothing but colors of you and pages
Of inks and coffees and wines and grass
Of the slow soft grind of your leaves
The smooth fire of my drinks
And a dessert of your lips and a desert of your fears
All this and even none of it but you.
This. This is the ideal. The you. The me.
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 12:56 PM UTC
Water and Gold
by Michael R. Burch
You came to me as rain breaks on the desert
when every flower springs to life at once,
but joy's a wan illusion to the expert:
the Bedouin has learned how not to want.
You came to me as riches to a miser
when all is gold, or so his heart believes,
until he dies much thinner and much wiser,
his gleaming bones hauled off by chortling thieves.
You gave your heart too soon, too dear, too vastly;
I could not take it in; it was too much.
I pledged to meet your price, but promised rashly.
I died of thirst, of your bright Midas touch.
I dreamed you gave me water of your lips,
then sealed my tomb with golden hieroglyphs.
Published by The Lyric, Black Medina, The Eclectic Muse, Kritya (India), Shabestaneh (Iran), Anthology of Contemporary American Poetry, Captivating Poetry (Anthology), Strange Road, Freshet, Shot Glass Journal, Better Than Starbucks, Famous Poets and Poems, Sonnetto Poesia, Poetry Life & Times
Keywords/Tags: Water, rain, desert, flower, joy, oasis, illusion, mirage, Bedouin, miser, Midas, gold, golden, bones, rich, riches, thieves, heart, price, cost, thirst, tomb, hieroglyphs
Mar 6, 2020
Mar 6, 2020 at 3:46 AM UTC
I will not be proud of anything of my own
for now I am nothing without you
I know that I have tried and I have strived
to be the greatest man, to be the strongest
to be the wisest and the best
to be kind and to be true
I know that all I need to be
I need to be for you
and you love me like a shining star
loves the moonless night
so that it may add its brilliance
to the velvet backdrop of the sky
I love you like a Bedouin loves the sand-sea deserts
like a wild and windswept dune
I love you like a drowning man loves the shore,
like birds love their feathers and
fish love their scales
For my love is not a moment
not a sigh, or a glance, or a poem
my love is my blood and my life
and this love, love, love,
it's truth
it's brilliance
its honest and wonder and fire
burning and renewing me each day
- my love will never let you go.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 1:49 AM UTC