"blindman" poems
This is not an accident. I used to call him
a lazy criminal. Scooping hearts and spilling blood,
leaving footprints, fingerprints. Stains.
Eyes folding over -- the blindman or the beggar?
Lips that blossomed into blueprints.
Hands that rhymed with dreams, instead.
The weeknights, dark and warm
in a season of curled paper.
No speaking -- guilt only follows
past the second trip through the door.
And then the mornings.
More sun in him than the greenhouse
where we watched dragonfly wings.
A pattern about him
like dragonfly wings.
In those days we knew
what it meant to point
without wounding.
We knew how to need someone
without wanting,
without loving.
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 9:57 PM UTC
Every time my father is late from the front line
Sickness strikes my mother
and I tour with her the hospitals of Najaf.
I write to him ‘come back to us now,
Make your sergeant read my words: I am about to die’.
He returns my letter, laughing:
‘We are the amusement of the blindman’.
Oh, you River of Jasim, you tore my years
Between my father’s assumed victories
And my mother’s wishes in the emergency room;
They used to plant hope in her mind
By sticking on the glass door,
Two notices confirming: (awaiting death certificate).
Her heart ages so fast
And I ***** from hearing the chants.
Every time the presenter says ‘Victory is on the horizon’,
My grandmothers’ eyes rise to the ceiling -
She hides a mocking smile.
With rage I scream at the screen ‘no victory’s coming’.
She whispers: ‘god is generous’.
‘You sound like my father when I asked for new toys’.
She quietens and we contend,
Awaiting his return before a new battle,
Fearing that a last fight may end the life of a dove.
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 12:54 PM UTC
In a dream I returned to the river of bees
Five orange trees by the bridge and
Beside two mills my house
Into whose courtyard a blindman followed
The goats and stood singing
Of what was older
Soon it will be fifteen years
He was old he will have fallen into his eyes
I took my eyes
A long way to the calendars
Room after room asking how shall I live
One man processions carry through it
Empty bottles their
Image of hope
It was offered to me by name
Once once and once
In the same city I was born
Asking what shall I say
He will have fallen into his mouth
Men think they are better than grass
I return to his voice rising like a forkful of hay
He was old he is not real nothing is real
Nor the noise of death drawing water
We are the echo of the future
On the door it says what to do to survive
But we were not born to survive
Only to live
2k
One fine day
About midnight
Two dead soldiers
Got in a fight.
Back to back
They faced each other.
Drew their swords
And shot each other.
A deaf policeman
Heard the noise.
Came out and
Killed the two dead boys.
If you don't believe
This lie it's true.
Ask the blindman
He saw it too.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 3:56 PM UTC
Deep ridge,
deplete elitists.
Gold flows, layers,
Dbridge,
enriched tone, gates golden,
heavenly.
San Francisco, incomplete,
switch robes.
Can't be beat, Klitchschos,
barking up the wrong tree,
rich tones.
Switch flows, risk it,
rich tea, gifted.
Unwritten, no gimmicks,
smooth months,
pale ale Guiness.
Wrap presents,
gift wrapped,
signed sealed delivered.
Dispatched,
Spit fires, spit facts,
die for the art.
Mismatched.
Calamity believe, nose dive.
Kamikaze.
No harder, fuel,
nose powder.
White knight in shing armour.
1688,
Spanish Armada.
Cut sharp like barber,
bananas,
permanent like markers,
malleable like lava,
pop like cava.
Polova.
Inscribe minds,
magna carter.
Magnificent bars,
gold tales told.
Slaves sold, reigns over.
Cold shoulder,
rainbow coloured mistakes,
shoulders shudder,
steer clear brother,
execute rudder.
Destitute,
Scuppered.
Destination under breath muttered.
Spread like wildfire,
butters, blindman, blackout,
blinds again, shutters.
Dunces, run ****
Jump **** loose lips,
loosing grip.
Tip of the iceberg.
Tip of the tongue,
no nice words.
Stigmata.
Godfather,
go harder for our forefathers.
The time is ours.
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 4:35 AM UTC
Lost
in the dark forest of flux
not knowing where to turn
unable to see what's in front of me
Hansel can see me
but chooses to toss bread crumbs
in the comfort of shadows
instead of saving me.
Unknowingly
he's led us to the Witch's Cottage
and we won't emerge the same
Forged in her crucible
we had no choice but to change
into the blindman and the trickster
Now we're burnt and tattered
singing the eerie hymn that becomes our story:
Silly circles 'round the mulberry bush
the blindman chased the trickster
the trickster pulled a nasty prank
Bang! goes the blindman.
Don't look me in the eye.
You may have led us there,
but I followed knowing where
we would end up.
My name is Gretel
and my Hansel has lost himself
in a dark forest of flux.
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 10:57 PM UTC
It's late at night when you realize she's not the one you loved,
or anyone for that matter.
It's late at night when your mind,
a towering serpent of indecision and malnourishment,
a rushing stream of water from the broken end of a fire hydrant,
tearing through steel and ice cubes that litter a middle age class of numeral reunion,
discover the over-keyed lock where metal bends and screams.
Covered in flies and rice,
it retains its bondages, exchanging freedom for self-loathing,
Dirty-dying in single file,
a honey-gilded tune not thrice too soon.
I seek the corridor where my true love will wait for me,
breathing me in, yet the cane of a blindman.
A clopping corridor, sleek and cobblestone,
artificial and vast, astral.
My true embrace will be that cold one of death, knocking at my door,
pleading my friendship,
sapping from me ***** and calloused hands.
A wet kiss on the nose, a reddened tongue.
I don't know the latitude of my existence.
I can't feel the reality of my throat,
of the gushing and the breathing of winds,
blocking the eternal stream of air.
The currents broke, and from within blew a heavenly melody,
that pierced cold ears boundlessly.
Again, that same street.
Lit faintly from above and from the participants in its ritual.
They burn the wax together.
And they sink,
O paradox!
Together, with their victories of mental triumph,
they recede further into torment and inefficiency,
quantified and numerical,
arrange themselves by merit and consequence.
Again, they sink and plummet and fall,
deeper into wonder and beauty.
Until it abandons them and spills over the edges,
splattering the circumscription,
dabbing alligator skin and sunglasses.
Inspecting the damage done,
he lifts from within its belly a tattered and worn skull,
that of a Man, no less.
Rusting in the desert, alone and among his gods,
bone-dry plains and dunes of dust,
rumbling agelessly the shaken scared earth.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 1:06 AM UTC
A light to shine in dark
With a torch tis blind man walk
blind from the day born
know he not night and dawn
In dark his torch shine bright
To them that see a path to light
deeds of human soul understood not
yet a torch tis blindman has got
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 4:11 PM UTC
Tired living like a blind man.
Because it was hurtful,
Cannot seeing thing,
Doesn't mean,
cut by knife,
wouldn't hurt.
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 2:34 AM UTC
Tried to living like a blind man.
Because it was painful,
To seeing thing,
without feeling,
of anything.
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 1:10 PM UTC
I've HAD it with these
motherfuçking snakes on this
motherfuçking plane
I have brain typhoons.
Swarms of moth-seraphs howl in
my skull. Lies vex them.
...you're the righteous man,
and I'm the shepherd, and it's
the world that's evil...
...wanna play blindman?
Go walk with the shepherd. But
me, my eyes are wide...
What the *** happened
to you, man? $hit, your a$s used
to be beautiful!
Oh, you were finished!
Well, allow me to retort.
It's almost over.
Motherfuçker do
that **** to me, he better
paralyze my a$s...
That, my friend, is a
clear cut case of him or me.
And you best believe...
...ain't gonna be me.
I ain't come here to **** you.
You believe this $hit?...
Correctamundo.
And that's what we're gonna be.
We're gonna be cool.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 3:58 PM UTC
Put an act is not a big deal.
Being honest would be a big shot.
Trying to be a blind man.
Act like can't see anything,
Maybe I can keep everything.
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 12:45 PM UTC
You are
A Long Train
And singed
Such a hard labour
A disfigured lump
In a pale chromosome
Your voice is perspiring
And your sterile tall slant -wise to the left
So
Petrified me
Your very soul
When she pack her luggage, as a blindman
Plucking vines in the dust
Let it be
A Let alone
Your Head Gloves
And learn the names for ten touching things
And see for all
Without sacking their faces with your eyes
And throw them so
A beggar coins casted away in a dish
Laid down on the the fear's pavement
Let it be
Let alone
Your heart
It depends on who pays more !!!
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 10:50 AM UTC
eat me in darkness, in the light of a dying grass,of a lifeless blue sand,take me and make me beg for a silent violent storm
throw me down like a bag of angry nuts,humble in hot *** in a hot -white winter, chew me like a greedy lion over lamb of a creepy camp without lame excuses,grind my toungue,stroke pull my friendly hair when my ******* are swollen
Have no mercy,keep it messy,to yourself and Shhh, i'll pay the bill and the pill
if you wanna prune
if you wanna sprout
I need a sound and a smell of A red rotten egg in a hard shell
it smells good life and make me long for a ride
a ride in a village
where saints aint invited
wanna mess up with the devil
I see his marks,it sees my fading tatoo
smell the good taste of a begging soul
hit my lip, kiss a tik, make me smile
the village i wanna visit, all **** and ***** shirts,red wine
fine hardships ****** and swagger
mixed up in a laundry where my heart sings with desire
mess it up tear a little bit fear no messiah
no priest or a preacher
saint and a sin wear same shoe
make a berry wish i'll give you every dish
of a lonely naked girl in her balgy falling pants
mess it up roll it out and aim for hell
this is a feeling
i have owned for a second
longed for days
wished for months
it flashes my mind when my *** flushes kindness
whu a u to make it holy
who begs a preacher when a ride is evil
just around the corner
where my neighbour sees it better
i freak and beat the seat before the blindman sees im weak
someone to steal me, feast ON me,
till i disappear in that neat ****
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 12:09 PM UTC
tenet fingers could ed braille,
hard-skinned fingers
could read nothing,
but morse-braille...
and then there's stenography...
why o why
is the diacritical tilde
( ~ )
used to vacate either m,
or the rattle-snake, trilling,
rolling implosion of the shape of R?
sure, b as 6... p as a copernican
north-by-north-west d...
P as chiral narcissus 9...
A as lambda (Λ)
and suma summarum:
a return to Phoenician
jurisprudence and lament...
or rather lamed, subtle variations
circa 90°...
E, I, K, V...
how much of injustice
is grounded upon the "logic"
of stenography...
which could introduce
tilde to replace either M, or R...
thus said...
compared to braille,
and the simplified braille via morse
encapsulation? stenography
is cuneiform by comparison,
what's the point of shorthand,
when certain cases are delayed,
and delayed...
and 20 years later on deathrow,
enough time to see Johnny Cash
die of old age... and still waiting...
needless to say,
braille combined with morse
makes more sense than
stenography...
almost as if...
you're begging to see a man
possessing a chronology of
20 years of sight,
attempting to discourage
braille writers from owning
punctuation marks, instead,
focusing on spacing...
of man's notion of serving
justice... culminating in the nonsense
of stenography...
with either M or R,
marked by a tilde...
should a blindman write
in braille... what the stenographer
writes in resurrected Phoenician...
as quickly as...
a death sentence becomes
a liberty,
for poor Xavier...
than the upper tier of
zoology, lodged in a life
measured by: x cubed...
man has another name
for passing law...
namely... imbedding itself in delay...
once a life, reduced to the frivolity
of micro-aggression,
culminating in, waiting for a bus,
five minutes late...
that death that sloth
that slouch, that... ******
Apr 7, 2018
Apr 7, 2018 at 8:56 PM UTC
They ask me what I like about you -
as if it could be said in a sentence or two...
As if words could even express,
all the ways in which you make me a mess.
Oh, mad heart, if you could just quit
wishing and yearning, just for a bit.
I need a rest, from this lasting ache,
to stop thinking about him, asleep or awake.
Just give up, just don't, there isn't a hope,
you delude yourself, just start to cope.
"It's better to know then to keep wondering" -
but could I stand the rejection's sting?
Just holding these feels, it's too much to bear,
Sorry, can't help it, I simply care.
This way, at least, I'm the one to blame,
this way, I don't have to face the shame.
Somehow, it feels, just like control,
I'm hurting but I made the call.
Giving up and losing are two different things,
one pain is dull, the other one stings.
This way you won't feel sorry for me,
this way I get to keep my dignity.
Gracefully retrieve, and bow my head,
it's better, for all, that nothing is said.
I can't fight for you, that's not how it's done,
stubbornness isn't how love is won.
Perchance, I pray, I am mistaken,
From this bad dream, I might be awakened?
You might be braver, reach out first,
finally quench this maddening thirst?
Oh, it's a fool's heart speaking again,
a dreamer's mist; wondering "when?"
when will you notice, what a blindman could see,
what I feel everyone notices already?
Darling, answer my silent plea,
don't be cruel, I pray thee.
For when you look deep into my eyes,
you must know, there cannot be any lies.
It's cowardly of me, to leave it to you,
Sorry, again; that's all I can do.
I'll stay nearby, since I can't get away,
an ember of hope, a dawn of a day.
But regardless of all, I need to say,
thank you, my muse, my sunlight ray.
Aug 27, 2020
Aug 27, 2020 at 7:42 AM UTC
While receiving the daily alms
From houses far and near
A blind beggar walked passed
Wiping off his sweat and tear
As he neared the temple steps
To praise and thank the gods
The people laughed at him
Leashing out hurtful words
Some sitting on the steps
Taunted him of being blind
***"O' blindman you can not see god"
"How will he accept your praise of kind"***
***"If I can't see, he who sits on the shrine"
"It's totally fine to pay my respect"
"Atleast my god can see me if I can't"
"And like you, he will never reject!"***
I watched the entire scene silently,
Of the people with the same beliefs
A blind can not offer praise
Coz his doings are based on griefs
How meek and judged, the people are
Believing in everything they see
Hearing people preach of god
Forget that god resides in you and me...
©sim
Aug 5, 2017
Aug 5, 2017 at 8:30 PM UTC
of making oaths, but serving one oath alone: faith.
what can be more overcoming
for a mumin to state,
if not the trust embedded
in a *****
what is belief thus?
to be as fickle as a leaf?
stitched to a tree in summer,
then un-stitched by autumn?
even as a ***** i sought
refuge, not as a "mumin"
in the sway of emotion of belief,
mingling doubt, fear & love...
i learned another kind of "belief":
firmly grounded, rooted,
with base stump, as the sole concern
of expressing... trust:
for i will fall, and trust,
rather than believe, that i will
stand once more:
and in that i am a *****
but at least, i am no blindman
stating that i am a "mumin",
who sets a vector of belief,
firmly, with a mingling of tiered
emotions, which become neither
fear, nor love, nor doubt, and certainly
no certainty...
i pity you in your belief:
for you have no heart of stone -
to be firm, to give yourself to
the one sway, of later solidified trust;
that perpetuated ****** of faith.
Aug 29, 2017
Aug 29, 2017 at 10:02 AM UTC