"birthplace" poems
They put red tape over lifes speaker.
All that is real is now lost.
They try to supress you,
Replace all you are with lies.
They want to make you all one being.
They fear the rise of a greater power.
They fear freedom and individuality fore it is the birthplace for rebellion.
The brainchild of longevity.
They hollow out your mind,
Make you numb inside.
So raise your voice,
Burn the tape.
Life is calling,
Shout out in reply!
Jul 17, 2011
Jul 17, 2011 at 8:19 PM UTC
the earth is curved - sure y’all knew that.
but to get to the Northwest,
Interstate 84
ain’t le route plus directe
nope curve north to Ontario,
wave to Bex as I cross over
London and Toronto, also can’t recall
which poet from Rochester hails,
or did they shuffle off to Buffalo?
Crossing Erie, Huron, and Michigan Great Lakes all,
brings to mind
my mother’s birthplace,
Last of the Mohicans,
and the three years I did in the Cleveland Penitentiary,
where sun was illegal and baseball was a pretend play
of cowboys and Indians
but by god, it made me
the penitent fella I am today
Look skyward to Montreal,
yes, there he is, the Leo Priest,
the baffled king,
blessing this poetic meet ‘n greet trip
with a smiling unsurprising
hallelujah
Apparently some US citizens still can traverse O Canada,
even if one forgot their passports,
and are not PNG’s (Persons Not so GREAT)
over Minneapolis shed a tear for Diane,
a poet- gone-missing, and wonder if you reader come from
St. Cloud, Fargo or Duluth, Bismarck or Aberdeen,
surely they still speak poetic English there
in a twangy metering methodology - well, message me asap
wow there really is a Saskatoon!
the pilot asks us to lean left in our seats
to help turn the plane
so we go to Portland and not to Vancouver...
me thinks he might be a touch Rockie Mountain High,
considering we are at 30 thousand something Imperial,
as he walks the main cabin with an oxygen mask and a
huuuuuge grin
see the distant Cascades
through a crack in the shuttered windows,
must be close to “the coast”
(as if, harrumph, there were but one)
ah, words in the clouds, ripe for the plucking
must be getting close to Oregon,
where poets grow on trees, woody words like ****
and log-float poems down the Columbia to the sea
gonna drink me some poets
under the table cause this
trip I ain’t no driving and I am already
“flying” ‘n scribing and arriving
on a high tide and a good wind
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 5:47 AM UTC
My cat child
brings order where there was none.
Let's not talk about the walnut shell of my womb,
empty birthplace of dust.
Let's talk about my cat child, proud with powers, handy with struts.
Now, listen--
I have forgotten all about you.
I've heard that I was in love once, but who knows?
Show me the evidence; I'll yawn elaborately, and my cat child will agree
that such stuff is dull in the extreme.
Dead fish, on the other hand, become more riveting every minute.
You would not have understood my cat child.
At least, that's my foggy instinct about it.
You would have objected to the damage, the **** and the fleas.
The rumor is, cats were royal once,
and I need the reflected glory and the chance to sleep during the day.
Right now, my cat child is away.
She is hungry for mice, songbirds, or someone's leg.
Me, I don't eat anymore, can't recall why I ever did--
I remember nothing, value nothing, aspire to nothing.
But once,
The feel of my mouth closing gently over the curve of your soft lower lip
seemed such an urgent thing,
like warm waves for mermaids,
a place I would do anything to get to.
Yes once,
the sight of your dark hair sent warm honey over my heart,
my belly,
my ***
and everywhere, my love, from my skin to the stars.
Now, though,
I have forgotten all that.
What were we talking about? I have no idea.
Now there is only the glare of afternoon
and the magnificence of my cat child who has given me nine lives--
none of them worth a ****
all as dead in the mouth as a finch with a broken neck.
Sep 6, 2025
Sep 6, 2025 at 10:59 PM UTC
Why scrawl any
pattern or
family of bitemarks
or caresses
The illustrator has
children of his own
and loud red
wine to waste
Visiting your birthplace
in your example
suggests antique
weaponry
Through sublime sense
Puritan watershed
Jan 4, 2012
Jan 4, 2012 at 2:22 PM UTC
The world's on fire, peace is extinct
Look how fragile peaceful minds can get
All hostile minds are having a ball right now.
It's like peace got embellished in chaos.
Where's peace at, what happened to her?
Regional, global local, peace is in short supply.
This is the renaissance of a new world order
Where partial peace coexists with total chaos
People only search Google for mostly facts
Not for solutions to some distorted peace
What is peace then, how can it be?
Just a routine rhetorical question
Coming from the disturbed mind in me
Listen, One-minute partial peace
Bang, another minute total chaos!
Nowadays, Instability everywhere is commonplace
As unscripted hate rhetoric freely echos,
From jihadic podiums to confused minds.
The conspicuous birthplace of premeditated evil.
The mind, soft spots of those totally confused
Call it the hotspots and playground for the devil.
I, the skeptic, to say the very least,
See this quiet storm as a distorted peace!
twitter @ivaclappers
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 12:44 PM UTC
#prairiegrass dreams
*Across the Sandhills
wading into the untamed Niobrara
barebacked.. brown, and beautiful
Within her Misty Mountain dreams
she is heading my way.
Ah, sweet lord God almighty,
look at her go..
Westbound, she is best-found
right there.. on the edge
of these dreams of my own
Oh my lord..
look at that beautiful horsedream go
Will I be able to survive her..
I don't know
. . .
You feel him.. don't you, sweet one..
my beautiful Snickers
on that Gordon, Nebraska hill--
his home, his birthplace..
Until his beautiful spirit
one day.. finally found me
Striated and stoic
he is waiting for you..
To bring, you
the rest of the way home.
North now, into Dakota
as you bleed
with the Lakhóta
on a trail, split
between Pine Ridge..
and Wounded Knee.
Feel your war-torn Spirit
melt in to them
(you will not fall)
As you ride this black-maned dream
just a bit further North..
towards a man, named Paul
Within my own, I can feel you both
Ah hell, babe..
I can feel you all*
#
Sep 30, 2021
Sep 30, 2021 at 9:09 PM UTC
You are glancing out of the window
Taking a look at nature's creation
Wisps of your hair gently stroking your face
Feeling a cold wave against you
Walking slowly amidst the misty clouds
The endless curves of the mighty mountain
Spinning your head around
Deep down there lies deathly valleys
Defining life beyond explanation
All you can see is plush green colour
Ranging from warm to tender
While I travel,I try not to grasp at people
By their devotion towards work
An independent river flows curvily to reach its destination
Given much ore of its freedom
Captivating nature in just one go isn't enough
You have to soak in as much as possible
Sure one becomes perplexed at the first sight of the beautiful sunrise
And I bet the day couldn't get that better otherwise
The air had its own charm,its own charisma
While the chants and prayers of monks completed the atmosphere
I smile as I currently jot this poem down
Words fail to express my happiness crown
I say to myself-" This isn't imagination,This is reality"
Confused, are you reader?
My heart beats and quenches for the aroma of green tea leaves
Hmm,I'll miss this heaven on earth,
This place,these people,their lives,their struggles
Their homeland.
Their Birthplace.
So this is my travelogue
And currently you were into my experience
My "Darjeeling Experience"
And not a dream,or a part of paper
Cause its far more than your mere imagination.
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 5:36 AM UTC
Shropshire the outback of hives and mires
A birthplace of industrial revolution
Built with ***** iron and bricks
submerged in the depths of the water beds
Shropshire the strength in the metal structure
A cast of firm shields and fields
The greenery of contrasting yellowy yields
A mirage of hills sat on pillar heights
The breeze so fresh as sun prints on the canal
The warmth so intense as the bird hums in the nests
Labour artisans and metalsmith at the heart of coalbrook dale
Bricks aisles of pathways along the river
Bordered by vintage delicacies of the magnificent nature
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 9:28 AM UTC
Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou
That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day,
Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow:
Thou hast been out upon the deep at play,
Riding all day the wild blue waves till now,
Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray
And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee
To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea!
Nor I alone--a thousand bosoms round
Inhale thee in the fulness of delight;
And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound
Livelier, at coming of the wind of night;
And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound,
Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight.
Go forth into the gathering shade; go forth,
God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth!
Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest,
Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse
The wide old wood from his majestic rest,
Summoning from the innumerable boughs
The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast:
Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows
The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass,
And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep the grass.
The faint old man shall lean his silver head
To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep,
And dry the moistened curls that overspread
His temples, while his breathing grows more deep:
And they who stand about the sick man's bed,
Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep,
And softly part his curtains to allow
Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow.
Go--but the circle of eternal change,
Which is the life of nature, shall restore,
With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range
Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more;
Sweet odours in the sea-air, sweet and strange,
Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore;
And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem
He hears the rustling leaf and running stream.
3k
Hark! The sea-faring wild-fowl loud proclaim
My coming, and the swarming of the bees.
These are my heralds, and behold! my name
Is written in blossoms on the hawthorn-trees.
I tell the mariner when to sail the seas;
I waft o’er all the land from far away
The breath and bloom of the Hesperides,
My birthplace. I am Maia. I am May.
2.7k
#***Blackwater rise up from artesian fountains
Upsurge from the provenance of earthen soul
Mingle unto a river of willow’s bend and sway
Rooted in boulders***
*scattered within
milestones
and*
***riverbed Cornerstones
Gray
As though empowering sown seeds mightily strewn
With intent a higher law's freshet flows
For to stream from silence in a satiating tongue
Rolling currents thickly bestow
A river of simple truth lay bare
A stream of random kindness betides,
Rivulets of unconditional love abounding
Rootstock birthplace coursing passage from whence
Unbounded rivers' silent reverie manifests
Rippling cadence immersing pulsing whispers
Unbounded rivers rushing deep and wide
Blossoming undercurrents gushing,
resounding,
rhythmic ebb and flow
Verve undulating wholly alive
Genesis of soul marrow's enlightened shine ―
Wellsprings arise from bedrock
ancient mother earth
A surmounting light leavens abidingly
From imploring water's flowing river song
To illuminate the beckoning pathway's bearings
divergent from thither and yon
Through which to portage
A way to carry back home in psalm***
h.a. rivers ... November 4th, 2017
Nov 9, 2017
Nov 9, 2017 at 7:59 PM UTC
Oh, my birthplace
You're filled with goodness
Oh my motherland
You're filled with happiness
Oh, my birthplace!
The cold air in the early sunshine
these all pleasure are mine
There really is no place
without your loving things
Your melody plays in green forests
give me joy and gladness
and the hair of your paddy field
makes me surprised!
These things make me happy.
The tunes and songs of birds
and the pretty smelling flowers
make my soul smile and cold
I'd catch your moon shines!
Nov 21, 2017
Nov 21, 2017 at 1:29 AM UTC
So, our hero of tha day waz DJ Herc
He b driven’ lil Mizz Dazze ‘round, in a pimped out Merc
Queensbridge waz tha birthplace of Hip-Hop
Red alert, it just won’t stop
It will hurt uz a bit
No more than a **** wid a hit
Wee all thank Merc 4 puttin’ on dat show
Smokin’ sum **** n angel dust, wid sum real blow
A bro named, Coke LA Rock, waz also a financier friend of mine
Handin’ out goodies 2 tha children in-line, all tha time
Nickel bag half n ounce, quarter pound pow, now wee poppin’
Az long az tha music izn’t stoppin’ and tha rocks r still droppin’
If champagne waz still a flowin’, then tha freaks wood b steppin’ in line
Hotel, Motel, u don’t tell, wee don’t tell, one-time root 9
There’s notta man dat can’t b thrown, a horse dat can’t b rode
A bull dat can’t b stopped, a disco dat can’t b rocked, can u decode
Were u @ dat famous house party, thee dope
Spinnin’ tha holy crates of hip-hop, wee hope
A1 B-boy from every known neighborhood, wid a scent
From JC, Tony D’, Sweet n Sour, 2 super DJ ‘Fcukin’ Clark Kent
Sellin’ nickel bags of cannabis, 2 miss layD hoes to mi crew
Made mi coin roll into notes, helping outta few dat I knew
Hip-Hop waz made 4 peace, love, unity n fun
Still b countin’ mi riches, retired n still layin’ in tha hot sun
Apr 8, 2020
Apr 8, 2020 at 1:50 AM UTC
Supple and smooth, silky soft skin,
Sensual, secretive and seductive,
It curves, full of curvaceous curls,
Hips glisten and warm to the touch,
Flawless flesh full of flirtatious discovery,
Horizons hatch with moist mystery,
Lascivious legs luscious and long,
And there nesting was a stark naked message,
It was sculpted in lines shaped with skull bone,
At the source where beautiful Life is birthed,
Right there at the doors of delirious desires,
Death held seat on the throne of Life.
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 5:08 AM UTC
Golden sand tickling your toes
Pebbles gleaming, glistening, slushing
When the tide comes back to shore.
Sand dunes hiding wildlife,
Multitudes of migratory birds,
Safely returning every year to
This beautiful, marshy paradise.
Skies so orange, pink and red,
An artists palette of natural art
Greet you at sunrise and sunset.
***** kippers, cod and plaice
Shrimps, cockles and whelks,
Mushy, minty peas and chips,
The show at the end of the pier.
The lifeboats and their hardy crew
Risking their lives to save others,
When visitors run into trouble
At the mercy of the cold North Sea.
Crumbling coastlines, cliff walks
And nature reserves full of the
Scent of wild garlic and herbs,
Norfolk lavender. Steam engines,
Fishing boats, river boats,
Paddling boats and cycles
Take you on journeys
Around the Broads or
Past the famous Castles.
Tigers and leopards peer
Through the bars of their
Zoo homes by the sea.
Easterly winds that bite your
Fingers as they whistle and
Howl through the City.
Guest houses closed for
The winter as you stroll
The lonely promenades
Breathing in the air.
Queen Bodicea, Normans,
Vikings and Romans all
Marched through this
Historical landscape
And yet we remain
Stalwart and strong
Proud of our heritage,
Our roots, our birthplace
There's only one place
Better than Norfolk,
And that's the
Beautiful Ozarks.
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 6:56 PM UTC
Could this be the butterfly
that brings about a change
The birthplace of the hurricane
that cause things to rearrange
Could it sweep across the nation
from the bottom to the top
Could it be the inspiration
that makes us finally say "Stop!
It's time to end this madness
turn off the war machines
We the people, we want peace
do you remember what that means?"
Sep 1, 2010
Sep 1, 2010 at 7:35 AM UTC
At the moment of conception
In the warmth of Mothers womb
Let this be the beginning of my birthplace
Not the ending with my tomb
My life will serve a purpose
I have so much to give
I am not here by random chance
I am a life that want's to live
If there are choices given
What choice is given me
If you were free to choose to win or lose
What choice do you think that'd be
There are those in life who are childless
There are those who can't conceive
To tell the truth they would be begging you
Please just let me be
So at the moment of conception
In the warmth of mothers womb
Please let this be the beginning of my birthplace
Not the ending with my tomb
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 7:15 AM UTC
To be looking for giants
And seeing nothing but dust.
Can we make our own legends
And tower over all
Even though the world is so big
And we are so small?
We are not heavy enough
For our steps to leave a trace
A whisper in time,
A forgotten face
So we will die
Disappear
Please just remember
that we were here
Welcome to our home,
our birthplace and our grave
Hello and Goodbye
Welcome to planet earth
This is where our bodies lie
May 27, 2023
May 27, 2023 at 4:04 AM UTC
The neighborhood is gone
Familiar faces
No where to be seen
Portland cements hides
The dusty street below
Progress left its scars
Razed our shotgun house
And poured an interstate..,
The corner gang no more
So precious few
Can be accounted for
They are the ones
Who lie so still and cold
Beneath incongruous slabs of stone
With names of barefoot friends
I used to know
Copyright Louis Brown
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 11:58 AM UTC
I feel as If
I am basking in the warm light
of a star that died long ago
As if I am the moon
refusing to disappear from the morning sky
I am the raccoon
who could escape his trap
if he would only let go of that shiny metal object
A trout swimming against the current
to a birthplace no longer there
A man trying to fill the void of lost love
which he knows was one of a kind.
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 12:52 PM UTC
The sound of small plastic wheels
On the ridged metal lip of an escalator
Bookends each trip between home and birthplace.
The first two uptempo, eager
To race to the smell of marble and leather,
Perfectly cooked fish and pastries with blueberries
The next two, piano, as I cross back,
Result of exhaustion, arms full of clothes and sorting small bottles into bags.
But on exit
Not due to vents, air conditioning, or the sensory assault of shopping under halogens,
Home smells of rust.
Of dirt and smoke - burnt.
Home smells more damaged and ****** up than its neighbour
And it's apt position on the map
Behind our back
Peering over the shoulder of the small ursa, overbearing and controlling.
But it's not the smell of burning petrol and tissue in glass,
Nor riot shields and plastic armour,
And only slightly of over emphasis on Northern Irish poetry during exams.
It's the stench of friendships, bouquet of break-ups,
Awkwardness and overconfidence,
Fake tanning and too much tea.
And like bonfires and cigarette smoke,
Burnt wood and tobacco embers,
It's the one perfume I can't get out of my clothes.
Sep 15, 2011
Sep 15, 2011 at 9:25 PM UTC
I am a rebel to their sight;
I have destroyed their lovely night;
My birthplace is displeased with me;
My plain fellows loathe what they see.
I am a rebel to their souls;
I have not understood their calls;
What forms a day, in their daylight;
What is a morning, at their night?
I am a rebel on the run;
In search of the sweet midnight sun;
In need of certainty and awe;
In want of clarity and law.
I am a rebel on the go;
That the unspoken dawn shan’t know;
The insane poet the crowd shan’t meet;
The unwritten course they shan’t read.
I am a mad rebel that haunts;
A fragile fool none near shall want;
Too hushed to their noisy sleeps;
Too quiet to their talking lips.
I am a quiet rebel that screams
The sun is a threat to my dreams;
And the thousands that live thereof
Shall not ingest my kindred love.
I am a rebel that denies;
I could not fathom their bronze skies;
That, on such endless summer’s days
Asked me to find my own lost ways.
I am a stunned rebel that cries;
My world floats just like butterflies;
I have too many tastes and fears;
My fate is anywhere but here.
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 11:35 PM UTC