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"castro" poems
You lived alone in the solititude Of pure hundred years in Colombia Roaming in Amacondo with a Spanish tongue Carrying the bones of your grandmother in a sisal sag On your poverty written Colombian back, Gadabouting to make love in times of cholera, On none other than your bitter-sweet memories Of your melancholic ***** the daughter of Castro, Your cowardice made you to fear your momentous life In this glorious and poetic time of April 2014, Only to succumb to untimely black death That similarly dimunitized your cultural ancestor; Miguel de Cervantes, a quixotic Spaniard, You were to write to the colonel for your life, Before eating the cockerel you had ear-marked For Olympic cockfight, the hope of the oppressed, Come back from death, you dear Marquez To tell me more stories fanaticism to surrealism, From Tarzanic Africa the fabulous land An avatar of evil gods that are impish propre Only Vitian Naipaul and Salman Rushdie are not enough, For both of them are so naïve to tell the African stories, I will miss you a lot the rest of my life, my dear Garbo, But I will ever carry your living soul, my dear Garcia, Soul of your literature and poetry in a Maasai kioondo On my broad African shoulders during my journey of art, When coming to America to look for your culture That gave you versatile tongue and quill of a pen, Both I will take as your memento and crystallize them Into my future thespic umbrella of orature and literature.
0
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 4:57 AM UTC
alexander-k-opicho
GABRIEL GARCIA MARQUEZ
You lived alone in the solititude Of pure hundred years in Colombia Roaming in Amacondo with a Spanish tongue Carrying the bones of your grandmother in a sisal sag On your poverty written Colombian back, Gadabouting to make love in times of cholera, On none other than your bitter-sweet memories Of your melancholic ***** the daughter of Castro, Your cowardice made you to fear your momentous life In this glorious and poetic time of April 2014, Only to succumb to untimely black death That similarly dimunitized your cultural ancestor; Miguel de Cervantes, a quixotic Spaniard, You were to write to the colonel for your life, Before eating the cockerel you had ear-marked For Olympic cockfight, the hope of the oppressed, Come back from death, you dear Marquez To tell me more stories fanaticism to surrealism, From Tarzanic Africa the fabulous land An avatar of evil gods that are impish propre Only Vitian Naipaul and Salman Rushdie are not enough, For both of them are so naïve to tell the African stories, I will miss you a lot the rest of my life, my dear Garbo, But I will ever carry your living soul, my dear Garcia, Soul of your literature and poetry in a Maasai kioondo On my broad African shoulders during my journey of art, When coming to America to look for your culture That gave you versatile tongue and quill of a pen, Both I will take as your memento and crystallize them Into my future thespic umbrella of orature and literature.
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30
I come from New Orleans where the swingers hook up with the singers, and the boxes have a person inside who speak to you through a thick horizontal slot in the door. You come from Minnesota where the most aggressive sentence is “Hi, how are you” and you’ve attended church every Sunday of your life, even though you don’t really believe in god. We came to the West to skate with the surfer junkies. But then the harbors got bombed and we moved out East to see the hipsters and the artists beggin on the streets. We went to the South with the racists and bigots were dying for a good show. We moved up North to escape from the 70s, and with the 80s on the rise we figured we’d best stay away. The 70s were rockin’ with **** and LSD in parks and concerts, and on benches on the streets. The smoke in the air was everywhere, from the slums in Wisconsin to the cities of Dallas. Even the poor were lost in the haze. When the 80s arrived with Rock ‘n’ Roll and techno beats from windowsills upstairs. The music was groovin’ and the ladies were fine. We saw billboards of our names in neon orange lights. The *** was replaced by coke, and the LSD with ****** singing and swinging with delight in our eyes. When the AIDS broke out we were sick in our beds listening to Pink Floyd and Elton John, and still we were singing. The 70s got us high while the 80s made us die We lived through wars in Vietnam, and Korea; we fought back the communists with red ink on our hands. We broke down the door into China and got them to arrive in the present and join the world. Although their chairman sits on a chair of lies he leads them with an angry fist in the air pumping “three cheers for Mao”. “Three cheers for Mao”. When the Soviets launched themselves to the moon we responded with our money and flashed our shiny new machinery in their faces. We marked our territory and claimed triumphantly that “We’re the best”. And we launched our war nukes and pinned them into intimidation. Then the Cubans sought revenge for the death of the Pigs on their Bay. With rifles in hand we stormed the beach and unearthed Castro and his regime. With our beds soaked in blood, and our dreams covered with fog, hand in hand we lay. We recalled the dances in the backs of old Cafes where the passwords were as simple as three quick knocks and two slow ones. We remembered the guns that pierced the heavenly chorus for the negros in the south. And we thought about the music of the 70s and the death in the 80s and I thought about you for a minute more.
0
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 4:29 PM UTC
connor-thomas
Untitled
I come from New Orleans where the swingers hook up with the singers, and the boxes have a person inside who speak to you through a thick horizontal slot in the door. You come from Minnesota where the most aggressive sentence is “Hi, how are you” and you’ve attended church every Sunday of your life, even though you don’t really believe in god. We came to the West to skate with the surfer junkies. But then the harbors got bombed and we moved out East to see the hipsters and the artists beggin on the streets. We went to the South with the racists and bigots were dying for a good show. We moved up North to escape from the 70s, and with the 80s on the rise we figured we’d best stay away. The 70s were rockin’ with **** and LSD in parks and concerts, and on benches on the streets. The smoke in the air was everywhere, from the slums in Wisconsin to the cities of Dallas. Even the poor were lost in the haze. When the 80s arrived with Rock ‘n’ Roll and techno beats from windowsills upstairs. The music was groovin’ and the ladies were fine. We saw billboards of our names in neon orange lights. The *** was replaced by coke, and the LSD with ****** singing and swinging with delight in our eyes. When the AIDS broke out we were sick in our beds listening to Pink Floyd and Elton John, and still we were singing. The 70s got us high while the 80s made us die We lived through wars in Vietnam, and Korea; we fought back the communists with red ink on our hands. We broke down the door into China and got them to arrive in the present and join the world. Although their chairman sits on a chair of lies he leads them with an angry fist in the air pumping “three cheers for Mao”. “Three cheers for Mao”. When the Soviets launched themselves to the moon we responded with our money and flashed our shiny new machinery in their faces. We marked our territory and claimed triumphantly that “We’re the best”. And we launched our war nukes and pinned them into intimidation. Then the Cubans sought revenge for the death of the Pigs on their Bay. With rifles in hand we stormed the beach and unearthed Castro and his regime. With our beds soaked in blood, and our dreams covered with fog, hand in hand we lay. We recalled the dances in the backs of old Cafes where the passwords were as simple as three quick knocks and two slow ones. We remembered the guns that pierced the heavenly chorus for the negros in the south. And we thought about the music of the 70s and the death in the 80s and I thought about you for a minute more.
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8
We live in a time of uncertainty No jobs Climate change Mass killings warnings of pandemics Where is our utopia where is our heaven on Earth 1900's we had San Fransisco's earthquake McKinley was assassinated First Nobel prize The Tunguska Event nothing as changed in my eyes 1910's we had Spanish flu The sinking of the unsinkable ship, the Titanic and World War 1 What else is needed to say about this decade nothing changed as the human race lived on 1920's we had Discovery of penicillin The great depression and prohibition 1930's we had Bonnie and Clyde Hindenburg disaster Discovery of Pluto Al Capone imprisoned 1940's we had World War 2 Mount Rushmore completed Big bang theory formulated Israel founded Nothing changed but who knew 1950's we had Castro becomes Dictator of Cuba Laika the dog goes into space Korean War began History never changed and neither will the Human Race 1960's we had The rise of the Berlin wall First man on the moon Vietnam War Nothing changed and won't any time soon 1970's we had First test tube baby Tangshan Earthquake Kent state shootings Elvis died 1980's we had Chernobyl Tiananmen square massacre Exxon oil spill Nothing changed and never will 1990's we had Oklahoma city bombing Princess Diana died Columbine massacre World Trade Center bombed End of the Cold War 2000's we had Hurricane Katrina Pluto reclassified Obama elected September 11th 2010's we had Haiti Earthquake Japan Earthquake Bin Laden killed BP oil spill England riots Brazil riots China banned time travel. We're only 4 years in. **** sapiens are nearly 200,000 years old nothing changed and never will
0
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 6:07 AM UTC
craig-harrison
Nothing Changed
We live in a time of uncertainty No jobs Climate change Mass killings warnings of pandemics Where is our utopia where is our heaven on Earth 1900's we had San Fransisco's earthquake McKinley was assassinated First Nobel prize The Tunguska Event nothing as changed in my eyes 1910's we had Spanish flu The sinking of the unsinkable ship, the Titanic and World War 1 What else is needed to say about this decade nothing changed as the human race lived on 1920's we had Discovery of penicillin The great depression and prohibition 1930's we had Bonnie and Clyde Hindenburg disaster Discovery of Pluto Al Capone imprisoned 1940's we had World War 2 Mount Rushmore completed Big bang theory formulated Israel founded Nothing changed but who knew 1950's we had Castro becomes Dictator of Cuba Laika the dog goes into space Korean War began History never changed and neither will the Human Race 1960's we had The rise of the Berlin wall First man on the moon Vietnam War Nothing changed and won't any time soon 1970's we had First test tube baby Tangshan Earthquake Kent state shootings Elvis died 1980's we had Chernobyl Tiananmen square massacre Exxon oil spill Nothing changed and never will 1990's we had Oklahoma city bombing Princess Diana died Columbine massacre World Trade Center bombed End of the Cold War 2000's we had Hurricane Katrina Pluto reclassified Obama elected September 11th 2010's we had Haiti Earthquake Japan Earthquake Bin Laden killed BP oil spill England riots Brazil riots China banned time travel. We're only 4 years in. **** sapiens are nearly 200,000 years old nothing changed and never will
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77
Some times tremors of foolish wise thoughts, pass man's mind like waves of earth quakes across the muscles of unsuspecting earth, to day one of the type has visited my brain, i ask myself why John F Kennedy committed suicide, with all the resources and riches in America of Kennedy's time, The FBI, CIA, NATO and the shrewd Mozart, the security masters of the world's vogue all guarding the Kennedy the president, how came that the public imbecile had claim on his life, money overflowing like the waters of River Congo, into insatiable Atlantic basin is the simplest measure of American riches that Kennedy headed at his time of demise, full backed with intellect matchless muscle from study of history, eloquent like the weaver birds of Uganda in the city of Mbale, sending all packing in the likes of Nehru, Nyerere and Nkrumah, perhaps subdueable in single phase to the mighty of Castro, how comes that a madman killed Kennedy in the fullness of the day, was it the invisible hand of the Ku klux **** Synagogue of Satan or Freemason, the death of Kennedy is none other than beautiful suicide or the active curse of fate, misfortune and violent death. Why Nkrumah died out of power was political suicide, his knowledge of the world set African pace, towering mentally above all else in the chronicles of consciesism, he stood like a tor on the African mountains against Senghor Why Colonel Afrifa putsched Nkrumah is none else other that suicidal politics played at helm of power. why Tom Mboya died is suicide of suicides to believe that reason can overwhelm ethnic sentiments in a tribal consciousness of country like Kenya in time of Kenyatta, to foolishly conceive that Kikuyu can assassinate a Kikuyu was Luo foolishness of that particular century, it is Mboya who bought the gun that shot him dead, it is Mboya who bankrolled his own assassin he brought to the world political suicide of the century.
0
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 5:52 AM UTC
alexander-k-opicho
WHY JOHN F. KENNEDY COMMITTED SUICIDE?
Some times tremors of foolish wise thoughts, pass man's mind like waves of earth quakes across the muscles of unsuspecting earth, to day one of the type has visited my brain, i ask myself why John F Kennedy committed suicide, with all the resources and riches in America of Kennedy's time, The FBI, CIA, NATO and the shrewd Mozart, the security masters of the world's vogue all guarding the Kennedy the president, how came that the public imbecile had claim on his life, money overflowing like the waters of River Congo, into insatiable Atlantic basin is the simplest measure of American riches that Kennedy headed at his time of demise, full backed with intellect matchless muscle from study of history, eloquent like the weaver birds of Uganda in the city of Mbale, sending all packing in the likes of Nehru, Nyerere and Nkrumah, perhaps subdueable in single phase to the mighty of Castro, how comes that a madman killed Kennedy in the fullness of the day, was it the invisible hand of the Ku klux **** Synagogue of Satan or Freemason, the death of Kennedy is none other than beautiful suicide or the active curse of fate, misfortune and violent death. Why Nkrumah died out of power was political suicide, his knowledge of the world set African pace, towering mentally above all else in the chronicles of consciesism, he stood like a tor on the African mountains against Senghor Why Colonel Afrifa putsched Nkrumah is none else other that suicidal politics played at helm of power. why Tom Mboya died is suicide of suicides to believe that reason can overwhelm ethnic sentiments in a tribal consciousness of country like Kenya in time of Kenyatta, to foolishly conceive that Kikuyu can assassinate a Kikuyu was Luo foolishness of that particular century, it is Mboya who bought the gun that shot him dead, it is Mboya who bankrolled his own assassin he brought to the world political suicide of the century.
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35
They are building a house half a block down and I sit up here with the shades down listening to the sounds, the hammers pounding in nails, thack thack thack thack, and then I hear birds, and thack thack thack, and I go to bed, I pull the covers to my throat; they have been building this house for a month, and soon it will have its people...sleeping, eating, loving, moving around, but somehow now it is not right, there seems a madness, men walk on top with nails in their mouths and I read about Castro and Cuba, and at night I walk by and the ribs of the house show and inside I can see cats walking the way cats walk, and then a boy rides by on a bicycle and still the house is not done and in the morning the men will be back walking around on the house with their hammers, and it seems people should not build houses anymore, it seems people should not get married anymore, it seems people should stop working and sit in small rooms on 2nd floors under electric lights without shades; it seems there is a lot to forget and a lot not to do, and in drugstores, markets, bars, the people are tired, they do not want to move, and I stand there at night and look through this house and the house does not want to be built; through its sides I can see the purple hills and the first lights of evening, and it is cold and I button my coat and I stand there looking through the house and the cats stop and look at me until I am embarrased and move North up the sidewalk where I will buy cigarettes and beer and return to my room. from "All's Normal Here" - 1985
0
4k
Charles Bukowski
The House
They are building a house half a block down and I sit up here with the shades down listening to the sounds, the hammers pounding in nails, thack thack thack thack, and then I hear birds, and thack thack thack, and I go to bed, I pull the covers to my throat; they have been building this house for a month, and soon it will have its people...sleeping, eating, loving, moving around, but somehow now it is not right, there seems a madness, men walk on top with nails in their mouths and I read about Castro and Cuba, and at night I walk by and the ribs of the house show and inside I can see cats walking the way cats walk, and then a boy rides by on a bicycle and still the house is not done and in the morning the men will be back walking around on the house with their hammers, and it seems people should not build houses anymore, it seems people should not get married anymore, it seems people should stop working and sit in small rooms on 2nd floors under electric lights without shades; it seems there is a lot to forget and a lot not to do, and in drugstores, markets, bars, the people are tired, they do not want to move, and I stand there at night and look through this house and the house does not want to be built; through its sides I can see the purple hills and the first lights of evening, and it is cold and I button my coat and I stand there looking through the house and the cats stop and look at me until I am embarrased and move North up the sidewalk where I will buy cigarettes and beer and return to my room. from "All's Normal Here" - 1985
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59
This is my favorite dress. I bought it from a store I managed on Haight Street in San Francisco when I was 24. It was a sample, one of a kind and I felt like a fairy in it. It required no bra and I required no restrictions. We were a good match for each other. Some might say it looks delicate as the lace flutters around my thighs, but, I know. This dress sat on sidewalks chain smoking cigarettes in the Castro. It danced in drug induced trances with new and old friends where we lived like sardines. This dress moved to NEw York City with me and we endured cat-calls and harsh words. A casting director called me plain in this dress. He explained, to a room full of people, wasn’t it amazing how my talent shown so bright while I was so very plain. And as I walked along side Madison Square Park I saw myself shining in car reflections and my dress told me I was beautiful, and I knew it was right, and that man was insane. In New Orleans I was invited to a party and I went because I didn’t know anyone. I was New. I wore my favorite dress and as I put it on I thought of the cold California beach breeze grazing my underwear throwing up my skirt, I thought of that mad man calling me plain, and I thought how scary it is to go to this party alone. I rode my bike in the humid air and I felt my pink slip clutch my waist. I felt safe. I sang a song out load. I felt like me. And when I got there you were there. You looked at me like I wasn’t just my dress or what was under it. You told me one truth and one lie and it made me smile. And now when I turn to my favorite dress like an old friend, for comfort or confidence, you are in its history too.
0
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 12:38 PM UTC
MissTaylorOtt
My favorite dress
This is my favorite dress. I bought it from a store I managed on Haight Street in San Francisco when I was 24. It was a sample, one of a kind and I felt like a fairy in it. It required no bra and I required no restrictions. We were a good match for each other. Some might say it looks delicate as the lace flutters around my thighs, but, I know. This dress sat on sidewalks chain smoking cigarettes in the Castro. It danced in drug induced trances with new and old friends where we lived like sardines. This dress moved to NEw York City with me and we endured cat-calls and harsh words. A casting director called me plain in this dress. He explained, to a room full of people, wasn’t it amazing how my talent shown so bright while I was so very plain. And as I walked along side Madison Square Park I saw myself shining in car reflections and my dress told me I was beautiful, and I knew it was right, and that man was insane. In New Orleans I was invited to a party and I went because I didn’t know anyone. I was New. I wore my favorite dress and as I put it on I thought of the cold California beach breeze grazing my underwear throwing up my skirt, I thought of that mad man calling me plain, and I thought how scary it is to go to this party alone. I rode my bike in the humid air and I felt my pink slip clutch my waist. I felt safe. I sang a song out load. I felt like me. And when I got there you were there. You looked at me like I wasn’t just my dress or what was under it. You told me one truth and one lie and it made me smile. And now when I turn to my favorite dress like an old friend, for comfort or confidence, you are in its history too.
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7
i'm not proud of nicknames... but then again, i find nicknames to be the archetypal form of endearment - a "belittling" with warm affection... i didn't have a nickname in primary school... the girls tried, rabbit... Danielle... i remember Danielle calling me rabbit, why? the way i ran... jumping in between running steps... i like Danielle,a brunette, with enough freckles to make her a ***** ginger... high school? Goldilocks named by Graham... or Chewbacca by Barry.. i was the only man attempting to grow long hair.. a mullet wast the running joke, among the Ian crowd... university? no nickname... shitty time... while industrial roofing took off, working for my father? Picasso... i was meticulous with the tar... but lately... my grandmother has a nickname for me... because of my beard... these days i'm know as Castro... i'm not proud of nicknames... but i didn't make them up! i wish i had... that being said... nicknames are quiet endearing... i'd love to see Danielle once more... see how much the freckles took over her complexion; Danielle... **** me... what an ****** name... like m first love in the English tongue... the moment i heard it... Sam-anth-a(h)... curly hair, darkened blonde, mingling an autumnal-cherry mahogany with chocolate cinnamon... **** i've been so erotically mobilized / motivated... from such an early age... Danielle & Samantha... nicknames... and the rest is, history.
0
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 10:04 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
i'm not proud of nicknames
i'm not proud of nicknames... but then again, i find nicknames to be the archetypal form of endearment - a "belittling" with warm affection... i didn't have a nickname in primary school... the girls tried, rabbit... Danielle... i remember Danielle calling me rabbit, why? the way i ran... jumping in between running steps... i like Danielle,a brunette, with enough freckles to make her a ***** ginger... high school? Goldilocks named by Graham... or Chewbacca by Barry.. i was the only man attempting to grow long hair.. a mullet wast the running joke, among the Ian crowd... university? no nickname... shitty time... while industrial roofing took off, working for my father? Picasso... i was meticulous with the tar... but lately... my grandmother has a nickname for me... because of my beard... these days i'm know as Castro... i'm not proud of nicknames... but i didn't make them up! i wish i had... that being said... nicknames are quiet endearing... i'd love to see Danielle once more... see how much the freckles took over her complexion; Danielle... **** me... what an ****** name... like m first love in the English tongue... the moment i heard it... Sam-anth-a(h)... curly hair, darkened blonde, mingling an autumnal-cherry mahogany with chocolate cinnamon... **** i've been so erotically mobilized / motivated... from such an early age... Danielle & Samantha... nicknames... and the rest is, history.
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68
I called her Duchess. and I called the other one Sweet. The third was too dry, so I called her Meat. Three different rooms, they wasted the space, i brought them food, and sometimes things with lace. I gave them purpose, I loved those ***** without me, they'd be on the street unloved. I love them they love me then why did they leave
0
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 10:27 PM UTC
alyssa-torres
Castro
I called her Duchess. and I called the other one Sweet. The third was too dry, so I called her Meat. Three different rooms, they wasted the space, i brought them food, and sometimes things with lace. I gave them purpose, I loved those ***** without me, they'd be on the street unloved. I love them they love me then why did they leave
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10
We know there is peace               The Scorpion's tail is down                                 How rare this occurs ~Tyler Castro
0
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 12:08 AM UTC
Philosophicalyoungmind
Safe and Secure
We know there is peace               The Scorpion's tail is down                                 How rare this occurs ~Tyler Castro
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4
Turn the lights off so that I may know you In this safe space, I invite you to indulge in our mutual vulnerability Feel protection in my arms as I guard your heart As I keep it warm between our chests Set your gaze to mine while you share with me your aspirations I yearn to experience them through the windows to your soul Share with me your fears so that I may put them to rest May this bed be a holy and sacred place for us May this bed be our confession booth free from ridicule May this bed be a tithing basket for you to receive love with no boundaries In this bed, allow divine pleasure to overwhelm you Let your ****** match the depth of your trust Let your tears turn to sweat that trickles down the valley of your spine Let your ****** fluids baptize you; cleanse you of any guilt Share with me your spiritual awakening As I receive communion with your raw, unfiltered, liquified emotion running down your body Toss out your bible, for the only religious text I need is your diary Allow me to tie every inch of your glorious body to a memory I wish not to **** but to love I wish to fulfill all your fetishistic urges For I know they are tied to a psychological yearning By the end of the night I wish to know every inch of your flesh I want the knowledge to be accompanied by the memories that make you, you And if I fail, there's always round two after we cuddle Tyler Castro 3/19/17
0
Mar 20, 2017
Mar 20, 2017 at 2:11 AM UTC
TylerIam
Scorpion's Best Night
Turn the lights off so that I may know you In this safe space, I invite you to indulge in our mutual vulnerability Feel protection in my arms as I guard your heart As I keep it warm between our chests Set your gaze to mine while you share with me your aspirations I yearn to experience them through the windows to your soul Share with me your fears so that I may put them to rest May this bed be a holy and sacred place for us May this bed be our confession booth free from ridicule May this bed be a tithing basket for you to receive love with no boundaries In this bed, allow divine pleasure to overwhelm you Let your ****** match the depth of your trust Let your tears turn to sweat that trickles down the valley of your spine Let your ****** fluids baptize you; cleanse you of any guilt Share with me your spiritual awakening As I receive communion with your raw, unfiltered, liquified emotion running down your body Toss out your bible, for the only religious text I need is your diary Allow me to tie every inch of your glorious body to a memory I wish not to **** but to love I wish to fulfill all your fetishistic urges For I know they are tied to a psychological yearning By the end of the night I wish to know every inch of your flesh I want the knowledge to be accompanied by the memories that make you, you And if I fail, there's always round two after we cuddle Tyler Castro 3/19/17
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26
Children, gather round Your second parent calls A simple box Wooden and metal A face of glass Adorned with two knobs Take your seats And take off your shoes--naughty! Elbows off the table Legs crossed, hands clasped Black and white Levittown Like your mary janes and stockings Your president birthed And mourned Mother’s in the kitchen The window outside your little world Is black and red but not white Malcolm X, and all the rest Standing up for their territory Little girl, the country’s changing Pick your daisy We’re not crazy The bombs come closer every day Haven’t you seen Castro And our fiascos by the bay? Great Society Social Security Aid for the old and poor Dinner’s ready Mother’s specialty Credibility on a plate Crudely disguised Plastic, fantastic, and uniform Yet your mind is so hungry That you eat it all the same And give it no thought The window’s widening Its light reflected On that glowing omniscient face Color! Color! Bright and vivid Dancing at your fingertips Brother’s gone off to Nam Off with your skirts, your stockings, Your mary janes, And that awful ribbon in your hair Burning dope The rainbow bathes you In its splendid glory The birds in the sky Like rolling thunder Hawks tearing at the doves ****** falling to the trees Agent Orange Fire, death, destruction Where’s your meal now? Johnson stumbled, Faith has crumbled And so have the foundations Of your enclosed walls Bobby’s groovy-- No--he’s gone And King’s dream Escaped with his last breath White rabbit, Gentle rabbit Sing your peace The country’s ablaze At home and away Stand your ground Chicago, Ohio Each one’s a battlefield Time for dessert-- Licking lollipops LSD Clear your plates For a second course
0
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 10:04 PM UTC
imperfect-visage
TV Dinner
Children, gather round Your second parent calls A simple box Wooden and metal A face of glass Adorned with two knobs Take your seats And take off your shoes--naughty! Elbows off the table Legs crossed, hands clasped Black and white Levittown Like your mary janes and stockings Your president birthed And mourned Mother’s in the kitchen The window outside your little world Is black and red but not white Malcolm X, and all the rest Standing up for their territory Little girl, the country’s changing Pick your daisy We’re not crazy The bombs come closer every day Haven’t you seen Castro And our fiascos by the bay? Great Society Social Security Aid for the old and poor Dinner’s ready Mother’s specialty Credibility on a plate Crudely disguised Plastic, fantastic, and uniform Yet your mind is so hungry That you eat it all the same And give it no thought The window’s widening Its light reflected On that glowing omniscient face Color! Color! Bright and vivid Dancing at your fingertips Brother’s gone off to Nam Off with your skirts, your stockings, Your mary janes, And that awful ribbon in your hair Burning dope The rainbow bathes you In its splendid glory The birds in the sky Like rolling thunder Hawks tearing at the doves ****** falling to the trees Agent Orange Fire, death, destruction Where’s your meal now? Johnson stumbled, Faith has crumbled And so have the foundations Of your enclosed walls Bobby’s groovy-- No--he’s gone And King’s dream Escaped with his last breath White rabbit, Gentle rabbit Sing your peace The country’s ablaze At home and away Stand your ground Chicago, Ohio Each one’s a battlefield Time for dessert-- Licking lollipops LSD Clear your plates For a second course
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78
Looking at me, you see a pure, young soul. But look inside me, you sweet summer child. Inside me are so many people I am Che Guevara with the lance of poetry I am Vladimir Lenin with the shield of quick wit I am Petőfi Sándor with the armor of ambition I am Mahatma Gandhi with the horse of music I am Fidel Castro with the arms of an endless mind I am Spartacus with the flames of unending hope But I am The Uncharismatic Man with the burdens The burdens of a tired arm The burdens of a twisted tongue The burdens of clipped wings The burdens of a deaf ear The burdens of numb thoughts The burdens of a dying sun I've risen up and gone down just as quick My rebellion was for naught this time I've grown exhausted from the fights But I'll never put down my arms. I'll never cease the struggle. This war never ends. So fight with me, brother. Fight yourself, goodfellow. Defeat the oppression, comrade. And never give up... Not until I give you the call to surrender.
0
Nov 23, 2017
Nov 23, 2017 at 1:23 PM UTC
oculiquetzal
Storms Can't Quell the Flames of Revolution
Looking at me, you see a pure, young soul. But look inside me, you sweet summer child. Inside me are so many people I am Che Guevara with the lance of poetry I am Vladimir Lenin with the shield of quick wit I am Petőfi Sándor with the armor of ambition I am Mahatma Gandhi with the horse of music I am Fidel Castro with the arms of an endless mind I am Spartacus with the flames of unending hope But I am The Uncharismatic Man with the burdens The burdens of a tired arm The burdens of a twisted tongue The burdens of clipped wings The burdens of a deaf ear The burdens of numb thoughts The burdens of a dying sun I've risen up and gone down just as quick My rebellion was for naught this time I've grown exhausted from the fights But I'll never put down my arms. I'll never cease the struggle. This war never ends. So fight with me, brother. Fight yourself, goodfellow. Defeat the oppression, comrade. And never give up... Not until I give you the call to surrender.
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27
The world is aging It's years are increasing Goodbye 2016 The year filled with Doubts and bad choices How can Britain exit? How can America vote for trump? How can Zambia re-elect Lungu? Zuma and Rousseff are corrupt Ali,Castro and King Adulyadej are dead Is this not the Apocalypse of The downfall of humanity And good morals? In a few days this world Will be turning 2017 years old On the first everybody will celebrate But for the bad choices made No body knows What the year has for them That's why I entitled This poem untitled 2017.
0
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 4:05 AM UTC
nexus-sammy
untitled 2017
The world is aging It's years are increasing Goodbye 2016 The year filled with Doubts and bad choices How can Britain exit? How can America vote for trump? How can Zambia re-elect Lungu? Zuma and Rousseff are corrupt Ali,Castro and King Adulyadej are dead Is this not the Apocalypse of The downfall of humanity And good morals? In a few days this world Will be turning 2017 years old On the first everybody will celebrate But for the bad choices made No body knows What the year has for them That's why I entitled This poem untitled 2017.
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21
I had a dream last night that I put you in danger that you were hurt because of me is that why you left? please please i need you i need you 1 am fresh presto after castro movies i need you orange juice and dark *** forget me nots and tangents forget me not how can you forget me so faster moving you must i miss you reggae and sunshine freckles and flakiness i can't do this without you acoustic guitar in laundromat halloween princess hiding away and scaring me for years come back cooking and japanese tea garden explorer and keep exploring with me come back wanderer you have made a home within my heart you must not part.
0
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 2:45 AM UTC
deana-luna
come back wanderer
I had a dream last night that I put you in danger that you were hurt because of me is that why you left? please please i need you i need you 1 am fresh presto after castro movies i need you orange juice and dark *** forget me nots and tangents forget me not how can you forget me so faster moving you must i miss you reggae and sunshine freckles and flakiness i can't do this without you acoustic guitar in laundromat halloween princess hiding away and scaring me for years come back cooking and japanese tea garden explorer and keep exploring with me come back wanderer you have made a home within my heart you must not part.
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26
What’s so funny? I was remembering an Army Barracks day. A day before Boot Camp graduation We get our first set of official orders. Assignments posted on bulletin board. Striking me now so hilarious; How the dumbest among us, Got picked for Intelligence Corps. Amusing the thought that Thugs with lowest class standing All seemed G-2 bound. Jesus, the anchorman, got Fort Meade, Considered The Bigs by talent scouts. Although I was 6 foot-one, In this or that corner Weighing in at one hundred & 95 pounds, My Yerkes scores too high for NSA duty. They sent me to college instead, Doing COINTELPRO field Campus surveillance of Jewish intellectuals, John Birchers and Radical, anti-Castro, Cuban exiles. The University of Miami, Known as “Suntan U” back then. Miami: the eye of the storm in 1972. A Republican Convention in progress. New wine in old wineskins; No thing to write home about.
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Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 1:17 PM UTC
giuseppi-martino-buonaiuto
“BOOT CAMP”
What’s so funny? I was remembering an Army Barracks day. A day before Boot Camp graduation We get our first set of official orders. Assignments posted on bulletin board. Striking me now so hilarious; How the dumbest among us, Got picked for Intelligence Corps. Amusing the thought that Thugs with lowest class standing All seemed G-2 bound. Jesus, the anchorman, got Fort Meade, Considered The Bigs by talent scouts. Although I was 6 foot-one, In this or that corner Weighing in at one hundred & 95 pounds, My Yerkes scores too high for NSA duty. They sent me to college instead, Doing COINTELPRO field Campus surveillance of Jewish intellectuals, John Birchers and Radical, anti-Castro, Cuban exiles. The University of Miami, Known as “Suntan U” back then. Miami: the eye of the storm in 1972. A Republican Convention in progress. New wine in old wineskins; No thing to write home about.
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30
A POLICE MAN CAN DO ANYTHING Why compromised are the police men? From all over the world, policemen are sellouts, Policemen arrested Jesus Christ and flogged him, Others tortured Galileo Galilai for intellectual cross purpose, Some of them vandalized Martin Luther King, and his wife, As they also put Fidel Castro on the tilted trial, The same are the ones that arrested Mahatma Gandhi In the same tandem of Colonel Afrifa organizing a coup To effect putsch against Kwameh Nkrumah, or Mandela to Robben gulag, They tortured Rubia and Matiba in Kenya down the abyss of mental breakdown, They kicked in the teeth Abdulla Abdalladiff at Kamiti prison Then they ran off for a decade to effect the ****** of Robert Ouko, Their evil tendency was never quenched until They abducted the County parliament speaker Of Maembe hamlet in the Nyake Kingdom of potato eaters And held him in the spine chilling captivity for days and days Only to release him when he sufficed to stay in dumb freedom.
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May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 4:11 AM UTC
alexander-k-opicho
A POLICE MAN CAN DO ANYTHING
A POLICE MAN CAN DO ANYTHING Why compromised are the police men? From all over the world, policemen are sellouts, Policemen arrested Jesus Christ and flogged him, Others tortured Galileo Galilai for intellectual cross purpose, Some of them vandalized Martin Luther King, and his wife, As they also put Fidel Castro on the tilted trial, The same are the ones that arrested Mahatma Gandhi In the same tandem of Colonel Afrifa organizing a coup To effect putsch against Kwameh Nkrumah, or Mandela to Robben gulag, They tortured Rubia and Matiba in Kenya down the abyss of mental breakdown, They kicked in the teeth Abdulla Abdalladiff at Kamiti prison Then they ran off for a decade to effect the ****** of Robert Ouko, Their evil tendency was never quenched until They abducted the County parliament speaker Of Maembe hamlet in the Nyake Kingdom of potato eaters And held him in the spine chilling captivity for days and days Only to release him when he sufficed to stay in dumb freedom.
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18
Stay, rivulet, nor haste to leave The lovely vale that lies around thee. Why wouldst thou be a sea at eve, When but a fount the morning found thee? Born when the skies began to glow, Humblest of all the rock's cold daughters, No blossom bowed its stalk to show Where stole thy still and scanty waters. Now on thy stream the noonbeams look, Usurping, as thou downward driftest, Its crystal from the clearest brook, Its rushing current from the swiftest. Ah! what wild haste!--and all to be A river and expire in ocean. Each fountain's tribute hurries thee To that vast grave with quicker motion. Far better 'twere to linger still In this green vale, these flowers to cherish, And die in peace, an aged rill, Than thus, a youthful Danube, perish.
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1.6k
William Cullen Bryant
From The Spanish Of Pedro De Castro Y Anaya
Stay, rivulet, nor haste to leave The lovely vale that lies around thee. Why wouldst thou be a sea at eve, When but a fount the morning found thee? Born when the skies began to glow, Humblest of all the rock's cold daughters, No blossom bowed its stalk to show Where stole thy still and scanty waters. Now on thy stream the noonbeams look, Usurping, as thou downward driftest, Its crystal from the clearest brook, Its rushing current from the swiftest. Ah! what wild haste!--and all to be A river and expire in ocean. Each fountain's tribute hurries thee To that vast grave with quicker motion. Far better 'twere to linger still In this green vale, these flowers to cherish, And die in peace, an aged rill, Than thus, a youthful Danube, perish.
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20
aggression must be denied. ****** Pol *** The Duke, Kim Jong, Mugabe, Fidel Castro, Saparmurat Niyazov, the living bad the dead. XiJinping proudly announces in November 2013, the year of our lord, they are doing away with labor camps in China. ******** total, renamed them drug rehabilitation centers. evil must be refuted. who will call them out? not us. coming home from the opera, some big **** SUV, played chicken with me. I refused to let him cut in the line. He followed me for ten blocks, honking his ******* till he quit, cause I would not give the satisfaction of letting him spit and sputter. Took the woman home. Went out looking for him. searched hundred blocks. found him, took out my jack. (trust me I did not key his car). when he saw what I had done, I quoted him Verdi's Rigoletto: He is crime, I am punishment. you see opera ain't for ******* aggression must be denied locally, before it becomes a national treasure.
0
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 4:23 AM UTC
nat-lipstadt
Rigoletto: He is crime, I am punishment
aggression must be denied. ****** Pol *** The Duke, Kim Jong, Mugabe, Fidel Castro, Saparmurat Niyazov, the living bad the dead. XiJinping proudly announces in November 2013, the year of our lord, they are doing away with labor camps in China. ******** total, renamed them drug rehabilitation centers. evil must be refuted. who will call them out? not us. coming home from the opera, some big **** SUV, played chicken with me. I refused to let him cut in the line. He followed me for ten blocks, honking his ******* till he quit, cause I would not give the satisfaction of letting him spit and sputter. Took the woman home. Went out looking for him. searched hundred blocks. found him, took out my jack. (trust me I did not key his car). when he saw what I had done, I quoted him Verdi's Rigoletto: He is crime, I am punishment. you see opera ain't for ******* aggression must be denied locally, before it becomes a national treasure.
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42
Tearing off Imperialists' mantle True to his name Fidel He had lit To the oppressed masses And to those in the dark An much-needed candle. Weighing things from Fraternity's angle And the truth, Fidel was not remiss In dispatching own troops In far off beyonds To fortify for freedom Mounted battle. Considerate Fidel had taught Innumerable orphans, Whose combatant fathers lost. Frowning up on Amassing personal wealth, He was building The human power Of the 3rd world like Ethiopia, Among others, In agriculture and health! Stooping To glittering things While many leaders worried To hanker for personal gain, Fidel Castro,magnanimous, Opted to assuage The marginalized's pain. For doing so The shameless&bloodsucker; Imperialists were trying To **** him again and again. Yes, Fidle was their bane! Though Fidel is no more His legacy we shall live to adore!// Fiedel Castro was a true friend of Ethiopia!
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Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 8:39 AM UTC
alem-hailu-gkristos
Fidel(Faithful/Fiddle)
Tearing off Imperialists' mantle True to his name Fidel He had lit To the oppressed masses And to those in the dark An much-needed candle. Weighing things from Fraternity's angle And the truth, Fidel was not remiss In dispatching own troops In far off beyonds To fortify for freedom Mounted battle. Considerate Fidel had taught Innumerable orphans, Whose combatant fathers lost. Frowning up on Amassing personal wealth, He was building The human power Of the 3rd world like Ethiopia, Among others, In agriculture and health! Stooping To glittering things While many leaders worried To hanker for personal gain, Fidel Castro,magnanimous, Opted to assuage The marginalized's pain. For doing so The shameless&bloodsucker; Imperialists were trying To **** him again and again. Yes, Fidle was their bane! Though Fidel is no more His legacy we shall live to adore!// Fiedel Castro was a true friend of Ethiopia!
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40
God help us, Imamu—stop playing the fool as you babble unhinged in your kente hat. Bebopping Mao is so very uncool; what up wit dat ? Flirtations with Castro (Fidel to the faithful) and free Cuba Libres imbibed with the Beats inflamed discontent when your verses turned wrathful in the streets. Predictable tirades where Whitey’s the foe, attacking your hosts like an Afro/eccentric gets old. It’s a stagnant unmusical show: dull dialectic. Who knows why the liberals that bankroll you love it? Who cares what your most recent pseudonym is? You old and you mad cause’ you can’t rise above it, mired in the shizz. Your lines are pure mannitol: dumbed-down ******* (The blow on the head by that riot-cop lingers!) The syntax is whack in your ghetto refrain. Snap fingers . . . Still you wait for your war—or the Black Star-Liner . . . Your rage was your royalty, paid in white money. Your verse sought to give the right wing a dark shiner— it’s not funny. Insulting, belittling others more noble; your legacy leaves nothing hopeful or witty Just putrid black waters, the flow uncontrollable under the city. Inside of your Kabaa are yet many idols. Your New Ark of verse did not save from the flood. You mau-mau and bludgeon with words all your rivals but draw no blood. Lighten up, wise Imamu. Your age is soon closing. You wrote for the stage and said some of it well. But your verse has gone rotten and yields, decomposing, a nasty smell.
0
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 8:50 PM UTC
connecthook
Lines for LeRoi Jones (the Imamu)
God help us, Imamu—stop playing the fool as you babble unhinged in your kente hat. Bebopping Mao is so very uncool; what up wit dat ? Flirtations with Castro (Fidel to the faithful) and free Cuba Libres imbibed with the Beats inflamed discontent when your verses turned wrathful in the streets. Predictable tirades where Whitey’s the foe, attacking your hosts like an Afro/eccentric gets old. It’s a stagnant unmusical show: dull dialectic. Who knows why the liberals that bankroll you love it? Who cares what your most recent pseudonym is? You old and you mad cause’ you can’t rise above it, mired in the shizz. Your lines are pure mannitol: dumbed-down ******* (The blow on the head by that riot-cop lingers!) The syntax is whack in your ghetto refrain. Snap fingers . . . Still you wait for your war—or the Black Star-Liner . . . Your rage was your royalty, paid in white money. Your verse sought to give the right wing a dark shiner— it’s not funny. Insulting, belittling others more noble; your legacy leaves nothing hopeful or witty Just putrid black waters, the flow uncontrollable under the city. Inside of your Kabaa are yet many idols. Your New Ark of verse did not save from the flood. You mau-mau and bludgeon with words all your rivals but draw no blood. Lighten up, wise Imamu. Your age is soon closing. You wrote for the stage and said some of it well. But your verse has gone rotten and yields, decomposing, a nasty smell.
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36
it's visual anthropology, I swear. it's everything can't you see!? I'm on my bed. I had a great dream about you, I'll even say it, you said you'd make love to me, so I anxiously listened to Pull My Daisy by Allen Ginsberg afterwards, he certainly was mad but was genius but I do care about my health, though. So, I ordered the speeches of Abraham Lincoln and Martin Luther King. Lincoln said a lot, he advanced a conversation but appeared to lord over the common man, the man who works in the field, the man who goes to war to fight. Martin Luther King didn't say much, although Common says freedom is free. I smoked a cigar and poured some orange juice, too. I can now smell the cigar and enjoy orange juice. I saw a white bug outside and felt deep. The specific kind, unknowable. I'm nervous tho' about today. I have to be up at five AM. I could sleep more but I won't, instead I'll write a clear and coherent prose-poem about the circus because I do care about my health. I will love myself and maybe take a shower because I do care about my health. Molly Casey, who knows, I forgive you if you forgive me, and if whoever said "ugh" apologizes, I'll be happy. But first, or later, we'll have to  accept that life is unfair, and that you have to be professional to make it through. Here, look it, I'll tell you everything and more, and all the time, if you tell me I'm sane and beautiful. How badly do you want bad? I want bad, sometimes. I want good more often that's why I do this dear Molly Casey. And when you said you'd sleep with me, did you think? No, I don't think you thought and I don't think you mean it. No, when you said you'd make love to me, in my dream, did you think? No, I don't think you did. But know, you inspired me. As a conciliation for my inability to be profound, or for being too profound, or too much of a thinker, or for being overly cautious, I want you to know that biology is interesting and that when I write several words down in my poem book and in my phone to use later, I think I'm working. Here are those words: 1. faced 2. changed 3. is 4. cognitive 5. multiple 6. vision 6. droplet 7. positive everyday experience 8. I lie 9. ought to listen to that song 9. cause 10. zeal 11. prudence 12. in the dust 13. self-criticism 14. work 15. chill Castro 16. not SA - SF although SA isn't bad 17. me 18. my friends 19. All encompass dropper 20. Only human 21. All too human 2:38 AM December 12th 2018
0
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 6:54 AM UTC
David_Zavala
To Molly Casey: I'm Inspired
it's visual anthropology, I swear. it's everything can't you see!? I'm on my bed. I had a great dream about you, I'll even say it, you said you'd make love to me, so I anxiously listened to Pull My Daisy by Allen Ginsberg afterwards, he certainly was mad but was genius but I do care about my health, though. So, I ordered the speeches of Abraham Lincoln and Martin Luther King. Lincoln said a lot, he advanced a conversation but appeared to lord over the common man, the man who works in the field, the man who goes to war to fight. Martin Luther King didn't say much, although Common says freedom is free. I smoked a cigar and poured some orange juice, too. I can now smell the cigar and enjoy orange juice. I saw a white bug outside and felt deep. The specific kind, unknowable. I'm nervous tho' about today. I have to be up at five AM. I could sleep more but I won't, instead I'll write a clear and coherent prose-poem about the circus because I do care about my health. I will love myself and maybe take a shower because I do care about my health. Molly Casey, who knows, I forgive you if you forgive me, and if whoever said "ugh" apologizes, I'll be happy. But first, or later, we'll have to  accept that life is unfair, and that you have to be professional to make it through. Here, look it, I'll tell you everything and more, and all the time, if you tell me I'm sane and beautiful. How badly do you want bad? I want bad, sometimes. I want good more often that's why I do this dear Molly Casey. And when you said you'd sleep with me, did you think? No, I don't think you thought and I don't think you mean it. No, when you said you'd make love to me, in my dream, did you think? No, I don't think you did. But know, you inspired me. As a conciliation for my inability to be profound, or for being too profound, or too much of a thinker, or for being overly cautious, I want you to know that biology is interesting and that when I write several words down in my poem book and in my phone to use later, I think I'm working. Here are those words: 1. faced 2. changed 3. is 4. cognitive 5. multiple 6. vision 6. droplet 7. positive everyday experience 8. I lie 9. ought to listen to that song 9. cause 10. zeal 11. prudence 12. in the dust 13. self-criticism 14. work 15. chill Castro 16. not SA - SF although SA isn't bad 17. me 18. my friends 19. All encompass dropper 20. Only human 21. All too human 2:38 AM December 12th 2018
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35
I would bring you lunch just to watch you walk across the field; you reminded me, then, of a young Fidel Castro. I had just read his prison letters, and was feeling like maybe we didn't set enough things on fire. At night, we played games; I would call you Comandante and undress you, trying not to smile when I spoke of the uprising, but I always did. Some nights, my mouth on your skin and all of those fires not lit and all of those things  left standing made the world seem too big and my torch seem too small; I could never be brave enough. On those nights, you kept my heart in my chest with your grenade-throwing arm, tenderly.
0
Sep 15, 2011
Sep 15, 2011 at 11:05 PM UTC
marsha-singh
Insurgence
I would bring you lunch just to watch you walk across the field; you reminded me, then, of a young Fidel Castro. I had just read his prison letters, and was feeling like maybe we didn't set enough things on fire. At night, we played games; I would call you Comandante and undress you, trying not to smile when I spoke of the uprising, but I always did. Some nights, my mouth on your skin and all of those fires not lit and all of those things  left standing made the world seem too big and my torch seem too small; I could never be brave enough. On those nights, you kept my heart in my chest with your grenade-throwing arm, tenderly.
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15
Dear Ernesto Hugo de Castro, Keep breathing and keep thinking, we'll **remember that somewhere, along the lines, you were there**, since you have something to gain. I like reading your poems and poetry, I also like that you express yourself clearly, I also like that you know how life does hurts and I like your ruthful and inspiring works. I love knowing your writing and trueness, I also love how reaching perfection you do, and, last but not least, I also love you. - Ludapoetry
0
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 9:51 AM UTC
ludapoetry
Dear Ernesto Hugo de Castro
Dear Ernesto Hugo de Castro, Keep breathing and keep thinking, we'll **remember that somewhere, along the lines, you were there**, since you have something to gain. I like reading your poems and poetry, I also like that you express yourself clearly, I also like that you know how life does hurts and I like your ruthful and inspiring works. I love knowing your writing and trueness, I also love how reaching perfection you do, and, last but not least, I also love you. - Ludapoetry
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