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Jim Davis Apr 2017
In the last
three decades,
after we became one,
I touched
amazingly beautiful things,
horribly ugly things,  
unbelievably wondrous things

I touched nature's majesty;
hued walls of the Grand Canyon,              
crusty bark of the
Redwoods and Sequoias,
live corals of the
Great Barrier Reef,
dreamlike sandstone of the Wave

I touched magical and strange;
platypus, koalas and
kangaroos Down Under,
underwater alkali flies and
lacustrine tufa at Mono Lake,
astral glowing worms
in the Kawiti caves

I touched holy places;
Christianity's oldest churches,
the Pope's home in the Vatican,
Hindu and Sikh temples and
Moslem mosques in India,
Anasazi's kivas of Chaco canyon,
Aboriginal rocks of Uluru and Kata Tjuta

I touched glimmers of civilization;
uncovered roads of Pompeii,
fighting arenas of Rome,
terra cotta armies of Xian,
sharp stone points of the Apache,
pottery shards from the Navajo,
petroglyphs by the Jornada Mogollon

I touched fantastical things;
winds blowing on the
steppes of Patagonia,,
playas and craters of Death Valley,  
high peaks of the Continental Divide,
blazing white sands of the  
Land of Enchantment

I touched icons of liberty
and freedom;
the defended Alamo,
a fissured Liberty Bell,
an embracing Statue of Liberty,
the harbor of Checkpoints
Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie

I touched glorious things
made by man;
the monstrous Hoover Dam,
an exquisite Eiffel tower,
a soaring St Louis Arch,
an Art deco Empire State Building,
the sublime Golden Gate Bridge

I touched sparks from history;
the running path of an
Olympic flame just off Bourbon,
the last steps of Mohandas Ghandi
at Birla House before Godse,
******'s Eagle's nest and the
grounds over Der Führerbunker

I touched walls of power;
enclosed rings of the Pentagon,
steep steps of the
Great Wall of China,
untried bastions of
Peter and Paul's fortress,
fitted boulders of Machu Picchu

I touched strong hands;
of those conquering
Rommel's and ******'s hordes,
of cold warriors of
Chosin Reservoir,  
of forgotten soldiers of Vietnam,
of terrorist killers of today

I touched memories of war;
the somber Vietnam memorial,
the glorious Iwo Jima statue,
the cold slabs at Arlington,
the buried tomb of USS Arizonians,
Volgograd's Mother Russia  

I touched ugly things;
shreds of light in
Port Arthur's prison,
horrible smelly dust
in the streets from 9/11,
ash impregnated dirt
in the pits at Auschwitz

I touched oppressed freedom;
open ****** plazas
of Tiananmen Square,
smooth pipe and concrete
of the Berlin Wall,  
tall red brick walls
of the Moscow Kremlin

I touched constrained freedom;
heavy ankle and
wrist slave chains
in the South,
little windows
in Berlin's Stasi prison,
haunted cells in Alcatraz  

I touched remnants of madness;
wire and ovens of Auschwitz,
stacked chimneys and
wooden bunks of Birkenau,        
Ravensbruck, and Dachau,
the tomb of Lenin,
toppled Stalins

I touched hands of survivors;
of Leningrad's siege,
of German POWs and
of Russian fighters
of Stalingrad's battle,
of Cancer's scourges  

I touched grand things;
deep waters of the Pacific and Atlantic,
blue hills of Appalachia,
towering peaks of the Rockies,
high falls of Yosemite Valley,
bursting geysers of Yellowstone,
crashing glaciers of Antarctica and Alaska    

I touched times of adventure;
abseiling and zipping in Costa Rica,
packing Pecos wilds and Padre isles,
flying nap of earth Hueys to Meridian,
breaking arms in JRTC's box,
fighting Abu Sayyaf, and Jemaah
Islami in Zamboanga City

I touched through you;
wet sand beaches of  Mexico and Jamaica,
mysterious energy of the monoliths of Stonehenge,
rarefied air in front of the
Louvre's Mona Lisa,
ancient wonders of Giza,
Egypt's tombs and pyramids

We shared soft touches;
drifting in Bora Bora's
surreal waters,
joining hands camel trekking the
Outback's dry sands,
strolling along Tasmania's
eucalyptus forest trails

basking in swinging hammocks
under Fiji's bright sun,
scrambling in
Las Vegas' glittering and
red rock canyons,
kissing under the
Taj Mahal's symphony of arches

We shared touching deep waters;
propelled in gondolas
through the city of canals,
Drifting atop Uru cat boats on Lake Titticaca,
Swooping in jet boats
up a wild river in Talkeetna

Racing in speed boats
around Sydney's great harbour,
skimming in pangas in Puerto Ayora,
paddling the Kennebec for
East's best petroglyphs,
cruising Salzbergwerk's underwater lake

We touched scrumptious things;
Beignets and chicory coffee at DuMonde's in the Big Easy,
Hot *** with sesame sauce
in the walled city of Xian,
Peking duck, dimsum, scorpions,
snake and starfish on Wangfujing Snack Street

We touched delicious things
Crawfish heads and tails at JuJu's shack
and ten years at Jeanette's,
Langoustine at Poinciana's, Fjöruborðinus and Galapagos,
Cream cheese and loch bagels
at Ess-a' s in the Big Apple

I touched your hand riding;
hang loose waves of Waikiki,
a big green bus in Denali's awesomeness,
clip clopping carriages of Vienna, Paris,
Prague, New Orleans, Krakow,
Quebec City, and Zakopane,
the acapella sugar train of St Kitts

We shared touching on paths;
the highway 1 of Big Sur,
the Road of the Great Ocean,
the bahn to Buda and Pest,
the path to the North of Maine,
the trail of the Hoh rainforest,
and time after time, the way home

Yet,
I could spend
the next three decades,
in simple bliss,
having need for
touching nothing,
other than you!

©  2016 Jim Davis
A poem I wrote last year for my wife!  Posted now since it matches the HP' theme for today - "Places"
CK Baker Dec 2017
sages and brethren
gather, and share
and slowly souls
are bared
their tempered voices
and quiet eyes
reserved of judgment
with passing smiles

moments blend
in current trends
opinions wide
and reflections deep
the concepts
and irregularities
once murky
now clear

they prioritize
and familiarize
that staunch resolution
of generation net
will remunerate
and illuminate
through the checkpoints
and formal reviews
through the purple curtains
and open stage
nothing tainted
or bitter
left for taste

cause its they
who’ll plant the seeds
the captains of commerce
healers and jugglers
the coaches and councilors
negotiators and compromisers
the kings and queens
hustlers and hellcats
(who've all found their way!)
let us tip our hats
and salute them
Lou Jul 2017
4
At the Zoo

Patriots and faux exhibit and binge on synonyms of liberty printed on beer and underwear
Advertising what should be unspoken and inspired to pervert and romanticize
Preludes to the parades and finale above us all
Weeks of saturated irony
Cuckoo bird irony and BBQ
As they reform Phoenix, rebirth of distractions and thievery
Predators in ally ways pursing America's diamonds and legs

Then gunpowder
Gunpowder of colors and cuckoos
Layers of streets in gunpowder
Towns built of gunpowder
Sky is gunpowder
We are born addicted to led and gunpowder
Gunpowder ****** in the air
Success, display and diversion and more gunpowder to ingest.

The Grand Finale
The Volta of the evening
The hammer of the judge
*** appeal of death and nature flexing it's muscles-  
show us some skin!

Covering your ears
Eyes fastened-
Ready to burrow back to mothers womb
Binged and free
Chinese celebration hijacked
Red, White and Blue
And a moment of silence  

Orchestrated onomatopoeia in heaven
Chorus of arousal on Earth
Band marching war machines in hell

The showdown of 241 years!
This freedom we are all grateful to only talk about

Only free to battle shackling intoxication
Men and women tugging extra weighted offspring
Sulking for indoors and portable addiction  
Chanting three letter obedience
God being counted by his blessings
Fear and Statism in every breathe for salvation from our stick swatted enemies
Checkpoints that serve and protect asking for a toll;
liberty synonyms.
Arresting the too free

At the Zoo,

The cuckoos regaining reality.
The phoenix red eye and held under oath
To the next day where we are back
To hate each others freedom, again.
Written on the 4th of July.
Danielle Rose Oct 2012
Naked body scanners
Internal checkpoints
Peaceful protesters maced
GMO unlabeled
Depopulation through vaccination
Half of America under sedation
..I can barely stomach today's headlines
Martin Narrod Oct 2015
Under the legs of giraffes falling in love by being licked to buy a deer deer licking giraffes Gareth Pugh transforming signs pigs that can't **** but **** bricks in the tea cups personal Hispanic designers transforming into anorexic girls tornadoes in Pennees that buildings can't stop where pro-skateboarders take millions of dollars of drugs that are crystals and mugs and improve haircuts to make mugshots better who go to bathroom the stress says this transvestites in British airways first class airplane ride bathrooms **** **** ******* ******* **** in and list ***** used who's spending money and and aunt uncle and uncle gay and lesbian **** show putting faces in the toilets and wedding the water stopping at rest stops work carnival junkies pay tolls and gas station attendants charge super fees going to grocery stores to buy cream soda likes Sprite flavored train send peanut butter cup chocolate **** sores and send aunts uncles and uncles undulates and pigs passing by signs changing words miss read words changing over and over again passing through Stardome popularity celebrity. Rachel Lynch by skinny victory over and over groups of people lost in bathrooms starting outs in the story telling each other being wet by Harry Potter. In the beginning their hair was wet eyeballs were sore they took drugs text transform them into night sweats and their minds ate breakfast as they arrived at the circus storytelling they wore black costumes and shrunk like Alice in Wonderland having to **** and **** and eat but they were silent until the drugs came back into their systems and then they remembered each other. My father's brother Jim's son was lost abandoned me inside a marketplace in Colorado roadrunner was treated having a disease rather than being a drunk and given medication while lost in the end of the world's apocalypse. Symphony after symphony lost and returned and lost an overturned enveloped in the mall or people in different sections provided different offerings like curiosity giving oral *** or rubbing ankles or kissing on heads or **** ******* each other to death. Moving through security checkpoints falsifying drugs by providing sticky chewing gum pulling it from their mouths while Hispanics were extradited to other South and Central American countries. Oh my God insanity bliss favoritism chocolate peanut butter cup Carnival riding red neck necking car crash crashing insanity. Goblins introduces lighting fuses of other uses oxymoronic hyperbole of onomatopoeia and sounds raking the ears, breaking Pap smears in the vaginas of men with penises of early surgeries. Michael Gottlieb as a hog, tigers and dynosaurs, Jim Morrison poisoned, Transformers rising to the Chicago skyline TIE interceptors of cellular structures musing youths. Hallucinations of blasphemous miniature creatures giving faith to words transforming to the name of this movement this movie: The Shīt Shūw.
RILEY Jul 2013
Explosions in the sky
That certain rush of words covered with ideas I am not so afraid of
That simple touch of a pen poets picture as their current heaven
And heaven lies within the lies where real people exist and in-concrete dust flies
And flies surround the inner spaces between my heart and yours
Those inter dimensional cracks that keep us alive together
Yet those same cracks cause the
Explosions in the sky
When a million thoughts tremble under shattered glass
And glass becomes rain over a nation
That had no occupation
A station
Where all the emotions find a leak
Where all the leaks lead to leisure
The flood of blood narrated to form a spring out of Arab's fall
And freedom is attained with the sound of
Explosions in the sky
When betrayal becomes the living scenario of a very normal human being
Who believed that his sanctuary is in unison with his sanctions
Strategies structured his not so subtle approach
And after that he fell into her
Explosions in the sky
When a man loses his vision upon a mild smile
When a cry for help becomes an invite for suicide
Come…help me be the
Portrait of clay you'll form with your delicate hands
Shape my image
And imagine a shape for my form
Form a set for me to follow
Follow my moves for if I fall of your track
Track me back to the first point
The playstation of life saves checkpoints
Yet my life is full of glitches…
For when I look at you
I am supposed to be looking at you
But all I'm seeing is
Explosions in the sky
When a trouble-free man becomes the complex notion of a firework
Those little pieces of fiery smoke
Grabs it
And smokes the last buds of life out of his people
The governor governing the covers he created
To alienate the truth
I found in your eyes
And I shall never be mislead
Instead
I shall be steadfast and ready
For you
I shall be ready for you
And your
Explosions in the sky
When a poet has no words left to write
In the right time
Literally the speaker is speechless
He's too busy wondering in total observation
The explosions…
The explosions we create
The skies that unveil
And that little feeling of satisfaction
With the last bits of an ink written
Poem.
SassyJ Jan 2016
Wailing walls, howling fences
Encaged and blocked by barriers
All smashed, sorted in security fence
Miles of humanity and flesh torn apart
Why is it that we can’t live together?
We bleed the same coagulating blood
Lined up and humiliated in alleyways
Paths of iron bars and imprisonment
My veins wringed, intensive torment
Mentally distracted, strained by grief
Settlement, conflicts and border struggles
Governance, religious trickles of disunion
The biblical birthright verses human rights
The unsighted straining peace settlement
Shadows of the peace blueprint screams
Ongoing reconciliation, milked in small doses
Whose home is whose? Subdivided in areas
Controls of disillusionment undisclosed
Unmanned checkpoints evokes fears
Revolving cameras tossed and turned
Bansky slogan “make hummus not war”
Smashes freedom to uproot  and merge
Constitute and construct peaceful resorts
All horns blowing to collapse duality
Passing through the Palestine-Israel controlled areas hit me really hard. Walls so high evoking fear. More so, lining up for few hours was draining, as got cleared to end up again on the Palestine area . This time the queue was longer than before. Another traveller got very upset and passed the line. The locals were complaining asking me to "speak to your friend" but she would not listen and passed the queue. I had decided to line up again and this made me become more empathetic about people who have to undergo such security checks on regular basis.
Breanna Nicole Sep 2015
Do be sure all passengers are comfortable
Human and not quite human alike

Don't ask non-human passengers to be in charge of the map
Those from the sea especially

Do try to entertain your passengers
Your idiocy will surely do

Don't act suspiciously when trying to avoid checkpoints and borders
Police officers are not stupid

Do make sure your passengers are well cared for and given everything they need
Even the comatose ones

Don't. Ever. Stop. Driving.

Do hope you get there in time
Lexander J Jun 2016
By the time he got out of the front door the morning sun had fully risen. Surrounding it lay a sea of blue sky, light coloured and peppered here and there with trails of white left from distant airplanes. The birds sang in the trees, all in harmony, and a light breeze whispered, left over from the night before.

As he jumped into his car, a dusty red little Citroën, he realised that in his rushed efforts to get ready he'd put his shoes on the wrong feet. A little while ago he'd seen a documentary based on people with abnormal deformities, and there had been an American 30-something year old with two right feet. Right now, looking at his shoes, he looked a little like him; all he needed now was a group of cameras and a well-spoken, polished presenter pretending to care but really just thinking about the paycheck at the end of night. He figured all TV presenters were pretentious, fixated on climbing up the great showbiz ladder rather than helping those in need.

He grabbed them off, scuffed black business shoes to match his tattered jeans and faded blue shirt, and swapped them over. Once both shoes were on correct, he lit up a smoke and set off down the road.

Ahead of him was Lancaster Road, a sprawling stretch of asphalt tarmac that served as the primary mode of navigation through Manchester. If you were to turn left it would take you all the way into the main city, and also a stodge of backed-up traffic, and, if you chose right, to the quiet town of Penitence which was where his works was based. Going right would technically be quicker, as the road to the left led to a series of zig zag-like curves where the road layout had been forced to compensate for the huge cliff several miles to the north. That being said, Will almost always chose left, as the dual carriageway that branched off Lancaster Road was always jammed up with traffic, comprising mainly of angry motorists and haulage lorries driving in from the east. Choosing right would easily add three quarters of an hour onto his journey, and quite frankly he'd rather stare at a wall than be surrounded by blaspheming mouths and ugly red faces.

This time however he went right, joining the steady stream of cars that were already beginning to slow down. There was no apparent reason for this, for over 4 years he must have consistently turned left every morning, but today his mind had thrown a curveball - albeit a stupid one. Already running late, it had chosen to go on the longest route possible.

Good work there mate, brilliant.


50mph - 45mph - 40mph

The speedometer slowly crept down, the shudder of the lower gears gradually increasing. Clouds had now gathered in the sky, not quite bloated nor dark enough to threaten rain but it was enough to dull the sunshine into a pale, white, glow. He was now going slow enough to see the bits of clutter and ******* - discarded newspapers, cans, broken bottles - littering the pavement. Then it suddenly gave way to a rudimentary dirt road and steel crash barriers as he approached the dual carriageway.

35mph - 30mph - 25mph

Sighing, he fumbled for the radio and flicked it on, momentarily averting his gaze from the road to the numbered buttons, tuning for a station.

--- Ssssshhhh ---

Nothing but static.

**** radio! If only I could -

When he glanced up his heart nearly stopped - directly ahead of him, on the highway, stood a man. He stood with his back toward Wills car, shoulders slumped, stock still.

What-?!

Will froze as the car lurched on, the distance between the bonnet and the mans body rapidly closing. No thought came into his brain, his legs distant from his body as if untethered.

Nothing but numbness.

The future series of events played like a stop motion video inside his mind; finding the brakes and jamming them down - only too little, too late. The old man would first lean as the bumper pressed into his lower back, then snap sickeningly in half, the momentum of the car causing his body to jackhammer up the bonnet and roll over the back of the car. There he would fall once again onto the road, spine splintered and blood soaking through his shirt into a puddle on the tarmac.

STOP! Will stop the **** car!!!

He smashed the brakes down and closed his eyes.

Although the first thing taught in driving lessons is to never close your eyes, particularly during an emergency stop, the overwhelming panic threw his nerves into a spasm, and in that split second everything he was told - brake hard, clutch down, don't let the car stall - was forgotten in an instant. He knew what he should do, knew that if the wheels were even slightly turned he could cause the car to skid, or worse, flip.

Brake down, clutch down, engine off, a mantra his instructor had once sang on one of his first lessons. Will had a feeling that if Ruth Carotene could see him, see this, now she'd have some sort of coronary, or maybe an aneurysm. She'd always been set in her ways of teaching, starting each lesson going through her seemingly endless list of checkpoints, and this right here smashed every single rule she'd taught him.
Break, clutch, engine off -
Eyes, open your eyes
He did, the windscreen before him doubling for a second. His heart was pounding away, nervous sweat lining his forehead and arms. The car had stopped, and in his dumb paralysis he hadn't the faintest idea how much it had skid. Safe to say it hadn't flipped over though, unless he was upside down and didn't realise it.
Nope, the sky is still above me, he observed, and it was then he also saw the fat bald-headed guy rapping his hands against the drivers side window. The world washed back slowly, the sun white and the air filled wit beeps and the Ssssshhhhhh static of the radio. He lowered the window, allowing the honking horns to fully enter and consume the inside of the car.
"What the hell are you playing at? I nearly ran into the back of you!" the bald guy barked at him, his pudgy face both pale and angry. Will glanced in the rear view mirror and saw about a dozen or so more cars behind him, scowling faces and gesturing hands sending out messages far from morning greetings or amicable hello's.
"Sorry... There was someone in the road," he croaked, pointing to the blank space in front. Empty, nothing there.
Can't be, he was right there! Stood right there! For a second he thought the figure had been an apparition, or maybe hadn't been there all along, merely a figment of his tired mind. That's when his gaze shifted to the opposite side of the road and the mis-shapen entity clambering over the crash barrier. Whoever it was, they had crossed the road while Will had been in his daze, and it was now he could fully see it in it's ghastly glory.
"I must be ****** blind 'cause to me there ain't nobody there -"
Grotesque was the only word he could think of to describe it. Under the pallid glow of the sun its skin glistened sick-white, partially covered by a tattered grey t-shirt that billowed in the wind like torn flags. It wore shorts, also grey, it's long stick-like legs poking out like splintered tooth picks. And it's face, oh God that face. He only caught a vague view as it glanced over its shoulder, but what he saw reminded him of the ghouls that would creep out of the crypts, the nightmarish beings that stalked late night TV shows such as the Twilight Zone seeking fresh flesh to feast on. But it was human alright - it's normal, albeit disintegrating, clothing the only sign of its former non-twisted self.
Oh God -
"Hey, are you even listening? There ain't no one there *******!"
Will faced the guy, now stood so close his flabby face nearly poked through the window, and then back to the crash barrier. The fiend was gone, much to his relief.
"Sorry it must have been a bird or something, I'm really really sorry mate I thought it was a man, or a kid."
"Yeah yeah whatever, just get going and get out of my way." With that he stormed off, only stopping briefly to exchange disapproving looks with the car behind him. He drove a black sports-like car, probably a Vauxhall, and Will briefly wondered how such a small car could carry an overweight ******* like that.
*******, he muttered to himself as he restarted the engine. Turns out he'd let the car stall as well.
Back to school I guess, what would dear old Ruth say?
Setting off was easy, the fat guy overtook him almost instantly, slamming his horn as he went, but looking over to where the misfit had been was not. He wanted to look, to check in case it hadn't really gone away and was instead lurking, contorting it's swollen lips into a grin.
Grinning at him.
"Gooood evening listeners, this is RADIO XFM!"
Halfway down the radio finally clicked on, interrupting his line of thought - quite mercifully, if he was being honest. The sight of that thing not only made him feel uneasy, but he also couldn't shake off the feeling of foreboding as well. Like it was some sort of warning, a sign.
Of what?
[smashing glass smashing]
He didn't know, didn't dare to think, and as he cantered down the carriageway in the steady stream of traffic he sat silently, the radio singing out its tunes like an uninvited guest. It was an oldie that was on, maybe Boston or Bowie, he wasn't sure, but as it played on he sat in silence, the shadows in the car cutting harsh lines into his face.
Aaron LaLux Nov 2016
Welcome To Egypt


You want to know what a military dictator ship is?

Checkpoints at every crossing,
police disrespecting the citizens,
guns gripped tightly in the hands of teenagers,
bleached white suits with fake brass stars.

Welcome to Egypt.

You want to know what becomes of fallen empires?

Dusty streets of broken dreams and failed endeavors,
uptight men in loose jellabiyas hawking Chinese made junk,
descendants of kings catering to the whims of ignorant tourist,
and a once pristine river now so ***** it’s dangerous to swim in.

Welcome to Egypt.

You want to know what irony is?

Here denial is a double entendre,
it’s a river and a state of mind,
where the people can’t see they are biting,
the very hand that feeds them.

Welcome to Egypt.

You want to know what it’s really like here?

Well I was just harassed today,
accused by the police of trying to pray,
because in Egypt it is illegal to pray or even meditate,
I had to threaten to call the US Embassy before I was allowed to go on my way.

Welcome to Egypt.

You want to know what the real atrocity is?

The States gives this country over a billion dollars a year,
but the people that really need the money don’t see a single pound,
the money is used to further oppress the people,
and anyone that tries to stand up for their rights is beaten down.

Welcome to Egypt.

You want to know what happened to democracy?

The Muslim Brotherhood won the election,
then the military staged a coup,
kicked out the democratically elected government,
and assassinated anyone that dared to speak the truth.

Welcome to Egypt.

You want to know what the real Egypt is about?

Come witness the horror for yourself,
mothers dying in doorways children eternally crying,
horses beaten to death in 106˚ heat,
then left for dead no burial for the dying.

Welcome to Egypt.

You want to know what equality is here?

What equality woman have to cover everything up,
wearing all black in a torturing heat,
and if I man tries to hold a woman’s hand,
then they both get rounded up by the Moral Police.

Welcome to Egypt.

You want to know how bad it really is?

People die every day on boats trying to escape,
desperately attempting to flee this god forsaken country,
what a travesty and shame it all is,
how poor this country’s become that was once so wealthy.

Welcome to Egypt.

You want to know the truth?

The oppression is so bad in Egypt,
that anyone that says anything about that,
can disappear courtesy of the secret police,
seriously it happened to my dear friends dad.

Welcome to Egypt.

You want to know what?

Luckily I am not Egyptian,
so I can escape this country that’s become a prison,
leaving in a few hours and to anyone that’s considering a visit,
I’m leaving behind this welcome warning here that I’ve written.

Welcome to Egypt.

∆ Aaron La Lux ∆

The Holy Trilogy Vol. 1 available worldwide 11/11/16
A harsh reality from Poetic Journalism
Kyle Kulseth Jan 2014
Orange skies alight above urban blight
blinking motherboard of these city lights
the circuits begin fraying
all these alleys lead away from me

I'm only out for the time it takes
for messy thoughts to catch clean escapes
at bus stops and in dive bars,
lonely strides scuffling on sidewalks

               save me something
              just one ******* bite
              run-off melts were raging,
          I aged fast floating through city streets
                          at night

And I----
----Keep on glancing at my wristwatch
tugging collars, setting time bombs.
Doors are locked after the last call
I'll head home, turn my bed down
let my head assess the damage while I dream

Ashen nights are mine to walk borderlines
off-rhyme steps enjambed  as the clocks unwind
I tick off all the checkpoints;
all the scotch sinks and the gin joints

                send me something
              call or text to just say hi
               arctic fronts converging
              I'll be excavating frozen feet
                           all night


Slip and fall out on the sidewalk
          on a frozen pool of puke
                    I'm growing
Old and so detached
          and I am
                    losing all context
But, when the Springtime rolls around
I'll shave my face, stick out my neck
until again I'm winding watches,
strolling sidewalks, naming faces
                    and the lines
                        erased
                       tell tales.
Lexander J Jun 2016
By the time he got out of the front door the morning sun had fully risen. Surrounding it lay a sea of blue sky, light coloured and peppered here and there with trails of white left from distant airplanes. The birds sang in the trees, all in harmony, and a light breeze whispered, left over from the night before.

As he jumped into his car, a dusty red little Citroën, he realised that in his rushed efforts to get ready he'd put his shoes on the wrong feet. A little while ago he'd seen a documentary based on people with abnormal deformities, and there had been an American 30-something year old with two right feet. Right now, looking at his shoes, he looked a little like him; all he needed now was a group of cameras and a well-spoken, polished presenter pretending to care but really just thinking about the paycheck at the end of night. He figured all TV presenters were pretentious, fixated on climbing up the great showbiz ladder rather than helping those in need.

He grabbed them off, scuffed black business shoes to match his tattered jeans and faded blue shirt, and swapped them over. Once both shoes were on correct, he lit up a smoke and set off down the road.

Ahead of him was Lancaster Road, a sprawling stretch of asphalt tarmac that served as the primary mode of navigation through Manchester. If you were to turn left it would take you all the way into the main city, and also a stodge of backed-up traffic, and, if you chose right, to the quiet town of Penitence which was where his works was based. Going right would technically be quicker, as the road to the left led to a series of zig zag-like curves where the road layout had been forced to compensate for the huge cliff several miles to the north. That being said, Will almost always chose left, as the dual carriageway that branched off Lancaster Road was always jammed up with traffic, comprising mainly of angry motorists and haulage lorries driving in from the east. Choosing right would easily add three quarters of an hour onto his journey, and quite frankly he'd rather stare at a wall than be surrounded by blaspheming mouths and ugly red faces.

This time however he went right, joining the steady stream of cars that were already beginning to slow down. There was no apparent reason for this, for over 4 years he must have consistently turned left every morning, but today his mind had thrown a curveball - albeit a stupid one. Already running late, it had chosen to go on the longest route possible.

Good work there mate, brilliant.


50mph - 45mph - 40mph

The speedometer slowly crept down, the shudder of the lower gears gradually increasing. Clouds had now gathered in the sky, not quite bloated nor dark enough to threaten rain but it was enough to dull the sunshine into a pale, white, glow. He was now going slow enough to see the bits of clutter and ******* - discarded newspapers, cans, broken bottles - littering the pavement. Then it suddenly gave way to a rudimentary dirt road and steel crash barriers as he approached the dual carriageway.

35mph - 30mph - 25mph

Sighing, he fumbled for the radio and flicked it on, momentarily averting his gaze from the road to the numbered buttons, tuning for a station.

--- Ssssshhhh ---

Nothing but static.

**** radio! If only I could -

When he glanced up his heart nearly stopped - directly ahead of him, on the highway, stood a man. He stood with his back toward Wills car, shoulders slumped, stock still.

What-?!

Will froze as the car lurched on, the distance between the bonnet and the mans body rapidly closing. No thought came into his brain, his legs distant from his body as if untethered.

Nothing but numbness.

The future series of events played like a stop motion video inside his mind; finding the brakes and jamming them down - only too little, too late. The old man would first lean as the bumper pressed into his lower back, then snap sickeningly in half, the momentum of the car causing his body to jackhammer up the bonnet and roll over the back of the car. There he would fall once again onto the road, spine splintered and blood soaking through his shirt into a puddle on the tarmac.

STOP! Will stop the **** car!!!

He smashed the brakes down and closed his eyes.

Although the first thing taught in driving lessons is to never close your eyes, particularly during an emergency stop, the overwhelming panic threw his nerves into a spasm, and in that split second everything he was told - brake hard, clutch down, don't let the car stall - was forgotten in an instant. He knew what he should do, knew that if the wheels were even slightly turned he could cause the car to skid, or worse, flip.

Brake down, clutch down, engine off, a mantra his instructor had once sang on one of his first lessons. Will had a feeling that if Ruth Carotene could see him, see this, now she'd have some sort of coronary, or maybe an aneurysm. She'd always been set in her ways of teaching, starting each lesson going through her seemingly endless list of checkpoints, and this right here smashed every single rule she'd taught him.
Break, clutch, engine off -
Eyes, open your eyes
He did, the windscreen before him doubling for a second. His heart was pounding away, nervous sweat lining his forehead and arms. The car had stopped, and in his dumb paralysis he hadn't the faintest idea how much it had skid. Safe to say it hadn't flipped over though, unless he was upside down and didn't realise it.
Nope, the sky is still above me, he observed, and it was then he also saw the fat bald-headed guy rapping his hands against the drivers side window. The world washed back slowly, the sun white and the air filled wit beeps and the Ssssshhhhhh static of the radio. He lowered the window, allowing the honking horns to fully enter and consume the inside of the car.
"What the hell are you playing at? I nearly ran into the back of you!" the bald guy barked at him, his pudgy face both pale and angry. Will glanced in the rear view mirror and saw about a dozen or so more cars behind him, scowling faces and gesturing hands sending out messages far from morning greetings or amicable hello's.
"Sorry... There was someone in the road," he croaked, pointing to the blank space in front. Empty, nothing there.
Can't be, he was right there! Stood right there! For a second he thought the figure had been an apparition, or maybe hadn't been there all along, merely a figment of his tired mind. That's when his gaze shifted to the opposite side of the road and the mis-shapen entity clambering over the crash barrier. Whoever it was, they had crossed the road while Will had been in his daze, and it was now he could fully see it in it's ghastly glory.
"I must be ****** blind 'cause to me there ain't nobody there -"
Grotesque was the only word he could think of to describe it. Under the pallid glow of the sun its skin glistened sick-white, partially covered by a tattered grey t-shirt that billowed in the wind like torn flags. It wore shorts, also grey, it's long stick-like legs poking out like splintered tooth picks. And it's face, oh God that face. He only caught a vague view as it glanced over its shoulder, but what he saw reminded him of the ghouls that would creep out of the crypts, the nightmarish beings that stalked late night TV shows such as the Twilight Zone seeking fresh flesh to feast on. But it was human alright - it's normal, albeit disintegrating, clothing the only sign of its former non-twisted self.
Oh God -
"Hey, are you even listening? There ain't no one there *******!"
Will faced the guy, now stood so close his flabby face nearly poked through the window, and then back to the crash barrier. The fiend was gone, much to his relief.
"Sorry it must have been a bird or something, I'm really really sorry mate I thought it was a man, or a kid."
"Yeah yeah whatever, just get going and get out of my way." With that he stormed off, only stopping briefly to exchange disapproving looks with the car behind him. He drove a black sports-like car, probably a Vauxhall, and Will briefly wondered how such a small car could carry an overweight ******* like that.
*******, he muttered to himself as he restarted the engine. Turns out he'd let the car stall as well.
Back to school I guess, what would dear old Ruth say?
Setting off was easy, the fat guy overtook him almost instantly, slamming his horn as he went, but looking over to where the misfit had been was not. He wanted to look, to check in case it hadn't really gone away and was instead lurking, contorting it's swollen lips into a grin.
Grinning at him.
"Gooood evening listeners, this is RADIO XFM!"
Halfway down the radio finally clicked on, interrupting his line of thought - quite mercifully, if he was being honest. The sight of that thing not only made him feel uneasy, but he also couldn't shake off the feeling of foreboding as well. Like it was some sort of warning, a sign.
Of what?
[smashing glass smashing]
He didn't know, didn't dare to think, and as he cantered down the carriageway in the steady stream of traffic he sat silently, the radio singing out its tunes like an uninvited guest. It was an oldie that was on, maybe Boston or Bowie, he wasn't sure, but as it played on he sat in silence, the shadows in the car cutting harsh lines into his face.
In damp
cellars of
Baba Amr,
women and
children
huddle,
waiting
for the
Arab Spring
to arrive.

They are
arrested
emigrants
on the road
to freedom,
now hostages
to tyranny
seeking asylum
from a season
of discontent
lashing another
poor generation
cowering
deep within
the bowels of
a crumbling
city.

The hajis share
the solace of
desperation,
pressing
this wretched
commune to haunt
dark catacombs
where collective
hope takes refuge
only to discover their
dream of freedom
lying in state
waiting for
a struck match
to consume
the decrepit
effigy in a
final funeral pyre.

The chill of winter
moves through
these poor
pilgrims like a
messenger
of death.

An indifferent
world has allowed
the scrapes of
the besieged
to fester;
growing
into mortal
wounds.

The grim reaper
chuckles from
a dark corner
in these
underground
rooms.

He deeply
inhales the
exhilarating
stench of death
creeping in from
the street,
musing about its
complementary
qualities to
the soiled rags
robing colic
infants.

Allah’s beloved
are famished
from the feast
of acrimony
playing out
on the streets
above them.

The hunger
for peace
dances on
their tongues
like the taste
of a mocking
Hors d'oeuvre
for a starving man.

The wages
of dissent,
protests, the
armed resistance
of revolutionaries
have led them
to the shelter
of this profane
place.

Outside this
god forsaken
bivouac, the
sounds of
cold blades
threshing
insurgents
have entered
the city,
moving with the
facility of a
frigid wind.

The terrible
sword of
a Baathist’s
revenge
eagerly slits
the voices
of dissent;
silencing
the last
songs
of an
Arab Spring,
once joyfully
risen from
the streets
in a chorus of
militant
insistence,
replaced
by mournful
dirges of
horrific
lament.

The
realization
that the
promise of
an Arab Spring
will never arrive
for some
strikes
winter in
the heart
of all.

Have our songs
of liberation
been nothing more
then the baying
of a starving
dog begging
for meat
from a
terrible
master?

The dialog
of gun battles
on the street
above have
abated.

The soliloquy
of grenade
launchers
have been
silenced.

Partisans
defending the
city have left the
streets.

The taste of
recrimination
will be the
prize for
those still
remaining.

The sound
of insurgents
fleeing
boots
gives way
to the pinch
of hissing
bayonets
deflating
the lungs
of prostrate
children
kissing the
dust of
the streets
that will
entomb them.

Abandoned
fighters
too wounded
to retreat
face skyward
to glimpse a
last mortal
vision of
heaven
from their
beloved
city;
gargling
final
prayers
from the
bubbling
blood
of their slit
throats.

It is time
for the
hoveled
pilgrims
to leave
the dank
basements
of Homs.

Care
must be
taken as
we
travel
the midnight
roads,
avoiding
checkpoints;
ducking into
dark doorways
to evade being
caught in the
headlights
of passing cars.

We must
remain
invisible.

We must
be one with
the black
midnight
that swaddles
us in darkness.

We will
follow
the trail
well marked
with the tears
of Hama’s
survivors.

We hear
the whispers
of unresolved
vendettas
leading
to unrequited
sanctuaries
of revenge.

The last
to exit Homs
will follow our
trail of tears as
we trudge
toward Mecca
in search of our
Arab Spring.

We pray
that Allah
will rendezvous
with his tired
wanderers
there.

Music Selection:

Bob Marley, Exodus

Oakland
3/6/12
jbm
lina S Jan 2014
I went to the airport today , as my mom was traveling I was there my sister ,my father and we kept doing our goodbyes as my father expressed how much he will miss her about 10 times .. even though she's coming back in a week.
While I was sitting there a man caught my eye he was with a lady a smaller asian lady , she was dressed very simply looks like she doesn't have much, her hair was messy .. she doesn't seem to care about how she looks , he was pushing her from her hand joint and not her actual hand .. his grip firm .. like she was a stray dog and he was containing her from runing wild . He was dressed more decently and he seemed from the gulf and he  seemed like he wanted to get this over with .. he kept pushing her as my eyes involuntarily followed their every move he had a passport in his hand seemed hers and a small bag .. no luggage.
I saw her passing throught the    checkpoints and I lost them for a while Finally it was time to leave my mom at the check point where only the travelers can pass .. that's when I saw that lady again and the security was behind her again guiding her like a stray puppy to the man who happened to be next to me .. the security handed her over to the man who didn't seem so happy to see her again as the security said " the captin won't allow her on his flight like this, she needs to wake up from whatever she's in" ... that's when I lost them again as my mother was waving to us the final wave I got occupied by waving back and then watched her leave .finally we decided to leave the airport and for the last time I found the lady agian sitting alone starring into the ground her head waving back and forth like her neck was not strong enough to hold her head .. as I saw the man leaving the airport door with a key in his hand .. he left the bag and passport with her and left .. and we left too
But she stayed there
Unaware and rejected
lost but no one was searching
Eulalie Jan 2014
There is something intrinsically enchanting about traveling—
Meeting small destinies,
Feeling the flow of life sweep you along—
It’s not all about running away,
Or where you end up,
Or how fast you go—
Rather, it’s about the actual act of
Moving Forward.
You sit in the car, or on the plane, or in the back of someone’s pickup, and you can see the landscape undergo its natural metamorphosis again and again
Into unique multifaceted checkpoints down the list of
Things To Experience:
People to laugh with,
Hands to hold,
Memories to make…
I look out into the alternating horizon and see
‘Opportunity’ spelled out in the clouds.
I look out and can see all the reasons why I should just
Take to the wind,
Flit and float across vast spaces of life—
Set free my spirit of all societal burden for the sake of introspective sentience and honest self-discovery—
I get the appeal;
I have tasted from the goblet that decadent ambrosia,
That flavor by which coats and balms my self-criticizing soul—
Soothing away all the hack marks,
The pocks and nicks and dents that blemish and tarnish the delicate skin protecting my psyche—
I am healed by travel,
By taking life seriously as that journey by which to merely ‘enjoy the ride’,
By making a literal journey out of life,
(Via journeying.)
Ah, even as I drive onward,
Even as I am propelled ever forward along the Devil’s Backbone, and Montezuma’s Castle, chasing the setting sun,
I am already thirsting for more
Road trippin' is so much ******* fun. Watch out world, here I come.
Got Guanxi Dec 2015
heart weighs heavy like a rifle.
scope vision obscured
shades of humanity,
blurred peripheral targets
in the near distance.
loud foreign frantic phrases,
similar tones back home,
borderlines, checkpoints to pass
to get back to your own.
Long way to go.
bullets, bombs explode.
shrapnel brings us back to task.
in a flash,
bangs - commonplace,
comrades mates,
a fine line,
between me and the enemy.
Take me back to the catacombs,
Crushed skulls, broken dreams.
Declared conflict, conscripted kids.
Join the battle with me.
Are you ready to die?
Luke Gagnon Feb 2013
First things first,
you’ll have to remove your hat and
the plank strapped to your limbs.
Your body will be used to thumb-wrestle with
gravity.

Please remove the staples from your chest.
Find your new set of lungs.
There is space to breathe here.
Take this new heart.
You’ll beat slower, suspended.
Circadian rhythms will not help you.

Your body will become a willow in a storm,
never breaking.
There are no mistakes here.

You’ll learn to drink silence for sustenance,
washed down with madness and tepid water.
You’ll learn to compensate for lacking conversation, hold secret meetings
in the basement of your mind.
You’ll learn how to disappear in a room.

No matter how hard you pound against walls
they remain padded,
concealed behind billowing drapery.
No one will hear you.

But, you’ll fit in fine.
You’ll stretch your skin as a tattooed leotard.
You won’t grow up,
You’ll grow inward
fortifying your lungs with weeds.
L’appel du vide, your distinctive urge to jump down from
high places will be quelled
by the grace in lifting.

Take respite,
There is nothing left to destroy here.
There are no checkpoints to neglect.
There is no need to be a hero.

Still,
you’re not convinced this is so much better.
Matt Feb 2015
The Sunni minority were marginalized

Sectarian killings were commonplace
In 2012 alone,
There were more than 1,600 deaths

The interviewer talked to a motorcycle gang
They said they wanted freedom

But some said they missed the way things were
Under Saddam Hussein
Some would trade the freedom they had
For the stability of Hussein's regime

The Shiah cleric
Says there is an assault on Iraq
Exemplified by the copying of corrupt Western culture.

The cleric wanted to eliminate American influence
Of any kind

Checkpoints make getting
Around the city a hassle

Subcultures in Iraq are under attack
Rap, metal, emo, and classical
All are looked down on

Gays are persecuted

The military uses a faulty device
That is supposed to detect bombs
But has been proven not at all effective

The city exists between extremes
There is the religious extreme
And people who want to be westernized
Without understanding what that is

The infrastructure was ruined by the war
Hopefully life will get better
As they continue to rebuild the infrastructuree
www.youtube.com/watch?v=zhnNIhV4EsU
Derek Yohn Oct 2013
i have no right to have feelings.
i tried to smuggle them past the
checkpoints, metal detectors and such,
but i was foiled, tarred and feathered.
A big ******* chicken.  Awesome.

If i had feelings, i would have no right
to allow them to be hurt.
I am the giver of hurt, not the receiver.
Things are not hurtful to me, for i have asked for them
and knew what i asked.  Happy Days.

i should not discuss feelings i don't have
or hurt i don't feel with anyone,
for any reason, because i have no reason.
i should be grateful to be stoic
and rejoice in the fruits of my labors.

When or if i cry, it is only because
there is something in my eye, a
speck of sand or something like it.
Merely a body's natural cleansing
action, a normal automatic response.

i don't feel alone when i cry.
besides, i chose to be alone, that
is why i walked away in the first place.
Isn't it?
...yeah, maybe not so much.  That didn't end well...
mikhaltsov Feb 2021
you store olden clothes in rear closets
smaller size doesn't fit
but you're slow to release it
you drip golden particles from under the sleeves
blue scent just soaked in
he couldn't move on

red wine bottles grow dusty
waiting for someone
to slop it all over the floor
I see
three-year race was puzzling
five-star, I still chime you
to slip back in my door

laying eyes on all my sweaters
through lens
you scan breaches in my polished facets
sticked out are
the tiniest strings

busy streets are our checkpoints
same curly haircuts
and same curvy outfits
all facets of yours in a walking men

haven't told you
you booked rent-free place
in my wardrobes
when squeezing your hand
but man, you're stale as bread too

**** you blue smell
from that dressing room
anastasiad Jan 2017
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A hustle flow, trips to Buffalo, Women annoyed by bricks, in contrast to when the cabin air hits her lips. You wonder why i do this ? I do this because I find it therapeutic for all my enthusiast to love my poetry, you stupid, my brain faster than cray computers,

This tone this poem's micro processor is submerged in cryogenic fuelers on some rude **** because you better not use it or confused it.


Her voice is my music.

 She's a Mortal atomic element

her circular third eye sees all ingredients

,  Atlantis was surrounded by four sea walls,  reading one fourth of the library of Alexandria before it was burned to the floor, every time she draws I see the shapes of sacred geometry I wish I can see more, before it gets lost. As we start reminiscing about the scripts that was written before the beginning. Can't even count the art I expended so far ,I don't really write anymore it's been so long I wish the clock will hurry up and tick, understand I'm timeless to this ****. You wanna laugh now and cast your belligerent doubt? I will show you what poetry is really about. The more pretentious the more apprehensive the sentence! Your time equals a purchase, these verses have perennial purpose, these other writers are worthless when it comes to me approaching the podium, I delivered my encomium, to a selected few, see I don't like compliments because it's counterproductive to my mood, but that's just you being you. I rather you learn off me and tell me what your about to do, about to create, weld and shape. Close your eyes , ritualize relax your spine ,without trying you can shift your mind.  It is my understanding  when I'm high I'm channeling but when I'm with people who can't "be" I'm animal handling. What is jean determine to ascertain for himself? There's a proverb that goes one should know thyself before one can know the world, so I showed myself. Checkpoints require all concentration I can muster, submitting specifics about the operation I'm running, but no details are public.  I've apologized, but I can't change who I am , I've tried to change the future but you can't budge the past. Jude, our uniforms match so we look the same from the sky, the only time you see a difference is when we die. An unrelenting  pace creating the main route sulfuric nitric acid burns through the labyrinth you need to take action rigid hommagnized metal I mix words that shouldn't happen.........................
The way to win a race
                                                                ­                                                                 You have to start somewhere
                                                       ­ There has to be somewhere to begin
There may be checkpoints along the way
                                                             ­                                    Hurdles and Speed Bumps
                                                          ­       Granted--
No one said it would ever be easy
                                                            ­                                     No one ever promised that you wouldn't sweat But shouldn't everyone at least have a cheering section?
                                                       ­    Someone to chant your name
People to sing your praises
                                                                ­                                                                 ­                              In the end
All
                                                              th­at
                   really
                                                          ­                             matters
                                                         ­                                                                 ­                            is
                                  ­                 that
            you
                                                     won
                                                             ­                             your
                               ­                                                                 ­                                      own
race
                  ­                                   *No matter who kept moving the finish line.
Be kind. In a rotten mood and wanted to write something. I may go back and change things.
James Lindsay Nov 2011
i don’t claim to set the boundaries on my freedom.

checkpoints tend to become distractions


the trees shapeshift in the night buried deep in the sinking kingdom

frightfully stirring, unconsciously aligning through permeable borders


forwards cowards

onwards or bend backwards


a gripped touch shuffled past emotions, lowering and cowering

concealed by a brash rhythm.  


subtle inclinations shiver your frown

freedom can be locked in a box unruled.

the kingdom with a forgotten crown

and a lonely clown not fooled.


What you made will fade.
Like the sun creating shade.
cd Oct 2015
I am 8 checkpoints on a world map
I am red curtains filtering sunlight into soft pink washes on bedroom walls
I am the elephant (lover) in the room
I am want of knowledge
I am a poet
I am french lavendar and cotton pajamas
I am sharp and unwelcoming
I am black coffee
I am full of knowledge
I am a daughter, a sister, a cousin, a granddaughter, and a care giver
I am an adult
I am a student
I am an avid listener of 60s folk music
I am a terrible listener
I am a well presented mess
I am a performer
I am terrified

I am not decisive
I am not ready
I am not young
I am not unaware
I am not an extravert
I am not a poet

the fragments that make up a human are often broken and many
memories and aspirations
Inspirations dedications
liberations
the fragments are only fragments
the human announces and defines it itself
introduces itself

I am human
I am me


c.d.
Mohammed Arafat Mar 2019
They ask me about Palestine,
what we have there,
what we live for,
and why it’s so special?

I shake my head,
looking for the words to explain:
We have both the bad and the good.

We have an occupation to oppose,
and to end.
We have checkpoints restricting our movement,
armed soldiers ready to shoot.
Armless citizens
trying to avoid being shot
while protesting the decade-long siege.

We have fighting factions—
brothers, uncles and fathers—
who warn us to keep our mouths shut.
Jails and jailers waiting for us,
if we speak up.
We have users, abusers and losers.
Corruption and patronage.

Hate has invaded us,
but we still have love.

We have an endless, azure sea
that gives us at least an illusion of freedom.
Fields of the world’s brightest red strawberries
and ancient buildings whispering
about a history once noble and proud.
Close-knit families, with faces of children still hopeful and proud.

We have a beautiful capital with a golden dome
that lights with the sun when it appears from the east,
where worshippers gather from everywhere.
Friday’s call for prayers merge into Sunday’s church bells.
In the same capital, we have Muslims, Christians and Jews
who drink the same carob, eat the same hummus,
speak the same Arabic.
White, black and brown tourists come and go,
Smiling and buying from the elders of Jerusalem.
In it, we have mosques, churches and temples,
where those with righteous hearts
kneel to God at dawn and pray
that hate one day will end.

Mohammed Arafat
08-02-20
This poem is written for those wanting to know the reality of the Palestinian case
Secret Whispers Jan 2019
He believes that everything transcribed for a purpose
That every moment that came to be,
Has taken him through impactful checkpoints
Has guided him to me.

We walk around lost a while,
With no physical map.
Just two kids adulting
Cautious not to fall into some kind of trap.

We are on a trapeze now
sensing no fear, we twirl and dance
Not haven’t had much luck in the world of romance
We are not afraid to fall now,
But more so afraid of not taking up on this chance.
I do not know if you are the one for me,
but what I do know is that I want you to be.
The New Kestrel Sep 2013
Will you lose yourself in a maze with me?
A lot of steps and checkpoints,
Eight foot tall walls of corn stalks.
And secluded circles where the paths don't lead.

Split off from the rest of humanity,
Just us in that labyrinth.

Will you go with me?
Mohammed Arafat Jun 2019
While Praying, Hymns for Jerusalem

Like the rest of worshippers,
I pray to God,
every morning,
every noon,
and every evening.

On a prayer rug made in Jerusalem,
I kneel in passion,
like nobody else does,
giving up my pride,
crying while talking to God,
while connecting to him,
while doing my best,
so he can accept my prayers,
in this world full of oppression,
arrogance,
and injustice.

I remember the old city,
When looking at the prayer rug.
I can imagine every corner it has,
and every alley.
As if in front of me,
I see prayers worshipping the same God I worship,
but with different hearts,
hardened and softened.

I am still weeping.
None is around me to wipe my tears.
I am all alone,
but with my God,
talking to him,
and crying while bowing down to him,
Not because I am scared of him.
no!
He isn’t scary.
But because I am honoured to talk to him.
He is merciful.

I prostrate,
with seven of my bones touching the ground,
like all Muslims all over the world.
Closing my eyes,
I see the high walls dividing our lands,
our farms,
our people,
and dividing Jerusalem,
into two,
East and West.

I see checkpoints,
a lot of them,
surrounded with armed soldiers,
and a lot of police dogs,
security checking the prayers,
who come to Jerusalem just to pray,
and to complain to my God.

I prostrate again,
this time I see a light,
a strong one.
My tears ceased.
It seems a light of hope,
God sends me.
telling me occupation will be over,
peace and freedom are coming.


Mohammed Arafat
June 27th, 2019
Since Jerusalem is being left alone, I am writing this poem to remember it in my days, nights, dreams, and nightmares.
GENIE May 2020
I long for my old guitar
I'm no rock or pop star
But a broken soul
Seeking to be whole
I long to play my old guitar
Alone on the road with mud for tar
In the shack building I'll stay awhile
Where life is no more than a mile
I long for my old guitar
Nothing wrong with the new one named peter
But I'm one with my old guitar
My excesses cannot be shun by peter
I long to play my old guitar
It's old tune still without mar
Tells me if I've come this far
Just a mile, I'll touch the star
I long for my old guitar
My old friend and adviser
Whatever it says, I'll say yes sir
And it tells me to find glory in my scar
Though the storms around me roar
Though the waves against me soar
Though life be cold as Mars
Though I be falling from the effiel tower
Though u be caged with a wild boar
Though strength fails,and I have no power
Though I have A newer better peter
Though life breaks me with terrible shatter
No matter what, it's no matter,
Even if condemned as a matyr
I'll still long for my old guitar
Whose tune unlike that of Peter
Says truth that's bitter
Life's a mile, then hereafter
Checkpoints are chaos and disaster
No more than a millimeter
These checkpoints may your character alter
Or even make you better
How you handle them,says what comes after
If you must win and become master
Defy these gods here, and hereafter
FEAR,HATE,MISTRUST,EGO,PRIDE,ANGER
THOUGHTS THAT MAKE OUR MIND CLUTTER
THOUGHTS OF ESCALATING DISASTER
THINGS THAT MAY HAOOEN, BUT SURELY NEVER
If we think positively time and time after
Think right now, you'll do right later
Think wrong now, and you're a time rigged disaster
Which happens sooner or later
There are things you can't alter
So beware what you sacrifice on what altar
Find what your will always muster
Your life depends on it like water
Never forget God, never ever,
A brother, foe, or sister
Who helped you in disaster
Disaster may be but a nanometer
Many miles it has shattered
Many more it will shatter
Still it can make you better
If only you listen to my old guitar
It's tunes sweet, truth bitter
You will emerge better,
Now and in the hereafter.
I love my guitar though I know not how to play it well yet.
I love poetry,and hope to master its every set
Damaré M Jun 2018
Our minds will continue to race evermore. Most will circuit exhaustingly around the same tract; repetitively crossing the same checkpoints. However very few are ****** with the judgement of dissatisfaction even whilst nudging at the summit of enlightenment; he who will perpetually bring enthusiastic evolution onto society.
dye Aug 2014
X.
when
you
left,
i
stopped
believing
in
second
chances

however,
i
started
realizing
what
terminals
and
checkpoints
are
for
Men refuse to reveal their fears , death blows about soldiers grown accustomed to its wretched aroma ! Attachment fosters weakness which shines like a bright light late into the night , revealing location , drawing fire ! Exhaustion , constant battle with uncertainty from ****** , mortar or artillery ! Twenty three hours of nothing followed by an hour of Armageddon ! Choppers retrieving our dead , dropping off much needed ammunition , food and water ! Slowly going out of sight , leaving the platoon left to their own devices , the night filled with cries from the other side , men are dying in the dark tonight  , calling for their Father or Mother ..Day five on perimeter protecting a hilltop , surrounded on four sides by thick forest ! Building pill boxes , fox holes , fortifications , fields of fire and Claymore mines , checkpoints and landing zones ..Fighter jets shoot by at tree top level scattering dust and debris behind , temporarily blinding sentries on watch , bringing soldiers at rest to their knees !.A hundred and twenty days plus a wake up ! I'll never get through it , regardless if I come out dead or alive !
Copyright October 24 , 2015 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights reserved
Zach Schuller Apr 2016
You see this?

This pain, these loves, these moments

We call it life.

And maybe, just because we don’t feel

like this is going anywhere

doesn’t mean it isn’t.

Maybe that’s just how it is supposed to be.

Floating.

No checkpoints.

Just life.

So forget those sorrows.

Forget these pains.

Remember love.

Be happy, though it is hard.

For no reason at all.

Its life.
Sara Brummer Dec 2019
Invisible non-bodies –
collective elctrodynamics,
fast and furious nano-flares
of hovering incandescence.

They need no permission
to cross borders, leap checkpoints,
falsify fingerprints, scramble eye-scans.

They converse in a code
of wrangling fury, one alias
to another, true identity
unknowable.

These migrants can’t be detained
or deported, They assemble
out of nowhere, instigators
of disruption, provacators
of destruction.

There’s no stopping their attraction
or repulsion. They represent our
deepest fears, for their clandestine
agenda is not at all what it appears.

— The End —