"chieftains" poems
There are old ways that we have forgotten,
sacred to our ancestors generations ago.
Far before men named Jesus Christ
Muhammad and Confucius,
our ancestors knew the ways to live
as enduring and resilient as the seasons.
Songs and rites, gods as ancient as the
deep green forest, and stories
of the rise and fall of great men:
Chieftains, farmers, warriors, musicians
whose songs echoed over young world.
The world was harsh then, as cold
as the towering bedrock of the mountains.
We gave thanks for what we had,
both to the gods and to ourselves.
The choice was to live strong, work hard
or die like a wounded animal.
The world was fair in the days of old,
our cares cleansed through sweat
and blood, and in the crushing weight
of the labor of survival we found peace.
Today, our peace is lost. We have
nations, such foreign things,
a group of people enslaved by custom.
The green forest has become
the fireplace of a world too gray,
the unforgiving mountains mere pebbles
beneath our trembling, dying feet.
Though our lives are calm our minds
are shattered, the breezes of indifference
blowing away the forgotten ways of old.
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 11:45 AM UTC
she lay next to him at night
dreaming of a ghostly icon, gold
little-headed monkey god on an island nigh the cape of bone marrow.
& now
she bounds into humble years, house cat, domesticated
little smiles, little daughters, little
flowers at the supermarket.
good morning.
pull her hair, as if to tree
& family. seed shoved down her throat
& diamonds.
she remembers the jewel runners, their chunks of wet rock.
& birds
slipstreaming away their days above africa.
slug to the chest &
she awakens in a hyundai
under the beaming heat of a vacant strip-mall sun.
gravity feels soft
in this lesser pungent life.
dreamt only, of choking temp and humid archipelago nights,
the gibbons & the thieves.
the treasure chest lairs of chieftains and tribal nobodies.
war profiteers.
men of fang island fantasy.
fake it.
p.t.a. and butter spread it, to toast and/or corn.
the sun is rising
& falling
& truly just travelling ‘round.
marinated artichoke hearts.
[baby dreams] of waves
on shore and handshake, of altered mother moons, she
is hidden in reflection
& time.
happy with the furniture.
plentiful on extra lunch meat.
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 8:03 AM UTC
Arapaho Bride, Chieftains Dearest.
Early Fortnight, Gros Ventre Headdress.
Indian Jubilee, Kindred Lavishment.
Mornings Noontide Oluksak Pulls Quiet River Streams, Terrapins.
Unabated Vas deferens Wedding Xyris Young-begetting, Zea mays rugosa.
Sep 17, 2012
Sep 17, 2012 at 10:28 AM UTC
Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses!
In you let the minions of luxury rove:
Restore me the rocks, where the snow-flake reposes,
Though still they are sacred to freedom and love:
Yet, Caledonia, belov’d are thy mountains,
Round their white summits though elements war:
Though cataracts foam ’stead of smooth-flowing fountains,
I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr.
Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy, wander’d:
My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid;
On chieftains, long perish’d, my memory ponder’d,
As daily I strode through the pine-cover’d glade;
I sought not my home, till the day’s dying glory
Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star;
For fancy was cheer’d, by traditional story,
Disclos’d by the natives of dark Loch na Garr.
“Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices
Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?”
Surely, the soul of the hero rejoices,
And rides on the wind, o’er his own Highland vale!
Round Loch na Garr, while the stormy mist gathers,
Winter presides in his cold icy car:
Clouds, there, encircle the forms of my Fathers;
They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr.
“Ill starr’d, though brave, did no visions foreboding
Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause?”
Ah! were you destined to die at Culloden,
Victory crown’d not your fall with applause:
Still were you happy, in death’s earthy slumber,
You rest with your clan, in the caves of Braemar;
The Pibroch resounds, to the piper’s loud number,
Your deeds, on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr.
Years have roll’d on, Loch na Garr, since I left you,
Years must elapse, ere I tread you again:
Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you,
Yet still are you dearer than Albion’s plain:
England! thy beauties are tame and domestic,
To one who has rov’d on the mountains afar:
Oh! for the crags that are wild and majestic,
The steep, frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr.
1.7k
the sun,
the moon,
the both of us.
portland to portland,
we are genocide: america.
we are teen murders & horror sitcoms.
globally tuneforked sacrifices,
with commercial breaks.
land of the plumed serpent.
built on the burial grounds of chieftains tall,
but dead men.
public access: watch the tallest towers fall.
in them, men of manifest.
a beast shook.
land of the war artifact.
our birth.
our thousand tongues.
our endless hovering demons/drones/droids of the bomb.
of the eye always watching.
destroyer.
a solar born son of aquarian blood.
prince of the death cult prestigious.
skull & ***** & throned with the boom-button ready.
aligned to die for great glory and bury the dragon one hundred thousand light-years into the dark rift.
heart of milky her.
history favors the bomb.
flavors the chip
dipped.
there was that death of the last cowboy.
his dreams returned to the stars.
his planet returned to chaos,
&/or love.
but both.
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 6:37 AM UTC
When Building the cities, roads, bridges and dams,
Blood, toil, sweat and tears
will never suffice;
The Romans, Phoenicians, the Hitites and Egyptians,
they all knew the score, they used it for years:
Mortar, water and stone were never enough.
Foundations were crumbling, the bridges fell tumbling, the roads went asunder, the cracked dams' water pouring;
Rulers and Chieftains, Pharaohs and Mighty Heads of the State,
Convened with their Wizards, Druids, Grand Mages and Magicians:
"Solutions", they clamored,
" Solutions at once!".
Bonfires were lit, the goat's blood spilt, the entrails were read, the tea leaves deciphered.
The Oracle rose, in a whispering murmur, She muttered:
"When Building the cities, roads, bridges and dams,
Blood, toil, sweat and tears will never suffice".
The Gods, in their infinite wisdom, had spoken:
" the elemental truth" they said
"that runs at the core, of all human enterprise
since the days of Gog,
for the formula to be true,
It needs a special glue,
a magical brew,
a mixture of fear, innocence
and tears
that can
only be found,
in the wide-eyed
Son of Man;
An infant is needed,
for Stone, Water and Gravel,
will eventually unravel."
"When Building the cities, roads, bridges and dams,
Blood, toil, sweat and tears
will never suffice".
So it has been said, it has long been sung, the basis of Civilisation
is Human Sacrifice...
The Romans, Phoenicians, the Hitites and Egyptians;
they all knew the score, they used it for years,
Mortar, water and stone were never enough...
J Eduardo Ramos©
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
Listening to “The Chieftains” again,
Their Long Black Veil CD: a gift to
Marijuana smokers. N'est-ce pas?
**** Jagger singing the title track,
A sweet, lugubrious ode to black widows.
Could there be such creatures?
Women you would **** for,
Offing your best friend for?
She had better be as good as it gets.
Could such women exist?
Beautiful & toxic;
Duplicitous, cunning,
Cunnilingus-worthy.
*********** | *** Risk and Prevention | HIV/AIDS | CDC
https://www.cdc.gov/hiv/risk/oralsex.html has a low *** risk, but it is not zero. Learn ... Involves using the mouth to stimulate the ****** *********** (www.ads/right/in/the/middle/of/fucking/poem.com) $$Ka-Ching! Ka-Ching$$
**** would have licked her **** as
They led him up the scaffold steps,
She was a woman worth dying for, to be sure.
And Sinéad Marie Bernadette O'Connor?
Isn’t it time we forgave her?
So she shaved her head.
So she shredded the Pope’s photo on SNL.
He was, after all, the Polish Pope,
The one that kissed the ground
Whenever he got off an airplane.
How could you not love the guy?
Shot while riding in his Pope Mobile,
He later visited Mehmet Ali Ağca in prison,
Forgiving his would-be assassin face-to-face,
Exonerating the Bulgarian kreplach, for all
Special Victims Unit “especially heinous offenses” &
Proto-Islamic terror.
Surely, he could forgive the little Irish ****
Can’t we? Leading by example?
I don’t know what you’d call it.
In any language: powerful.
Oh, Sinead, my sweet Sinead,
We miss your sweet sad dulcet tones.
Consider yourself exonerated.
Consider yourself free to be loved again.
And let’s not forget Tom Jones,
Come on ladies: you threw your sopping
Wet ******* to the stage for him.
His “Tennessee Waltz” breaking my heart,
Losing my wife to my best friend.
No wonder I shot the Sheriff.
Surprised I did not also shoot the Deputy.
And “The Chieftains” themselves,
Transporting us to the Coast of Malabar.
We are all Irish sailors
Infatuated, hopelessly enchanted by a
Swarthy Dravidian shiksa.
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 5:05 PM UTC
They push us to the sea
amongst their garbage and their humanity
there is power in the depths of what you don’t understand
decline all that isn’t cash in hand
you push me, you pull me along
but when I straggle, like an old man, you do little to help me along
to the grave that awaits me in this dirt
to the mother and her clay earthen rebirth
for this I cannot stand
for you or your foolish demands
I find my legs pulling me into the soil, into the sands
To a core of nourishment, as the earth reprimands
My spirit
And unprofitable wisdoms
Nursed off these primordial urges
Sprung from these primordial waters
They wish to nourish you too
Take you to the land your ancestors always knew
But take what you may, take what you can, you’re too fast to sit, to reminisce, to even understand
The power, in your ways
you dismiss
your mind is despondent, to you, your body and your long days
Disturbs and aches away
The life in you decays
The irritation in your eyes flare
For the young and the ancients to prepare
For the rains
They do come
From the druids and their amphibian lungs
The chieftains move in their sunken ocean bed
Heave their damaged corporeal forms unto the shores
As far as their breath can take them and their blindness can see
To where that body dies, and the eternal walks eternally
To walk amongst you, to change you and heal the old and the forgotten ones
those you’ve left cleaved and torn
From the wisdoms their ancestors had weaved for them, to be worn
To you, do we sing
Those who are connected to a place that feeds the heart and the mind
Clears all of which was not fore-designed
For this body, for this soul, for all of the wonders the earth ponders to show
Do your deeds
Do them well
If they serve your soul
The earth as our united soul will tell
We have contract
our secrets, with composure, will yell
Amongst the rolling rocks, to the aggravated layers, to those that move above you, to those that travel in the thin air when you kiss.
You would do well, not to dismiss
To no longer remiss
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 7:26 AM UTC
Underinterrupted silence,
none to gather at the gates.
Sell your warey wagon's axle,
feed, the castle masticates.
Oh the joyous altercation,
angled, dangling neatly down.
Hold your elder father's picture
underneath your writing gown.
Words defy the lonesome meeting
of the dogs in golden chains.
Herds arise of loathsome chieftains.
Battlecries as arrows rain.
Open book of monstrous brethren,
teach them how your pages turn.
Loving violence, kindred-hateful;
gutted, for a beat you yearn.
Dec 19, 2018
Dec 19, 2018 at 4:26 PM UTC
Thud Thud, The Boots of Warriors thunder onto the Boat.
Crash, Waves bang against the mighty longship.
Boom Boom, under the Jarls orders the drums of war sound.
Bang Bang, The mighty ships land on scottish shores.
***** ***** Viking Mail and shields clash with the Claymores of Highlanders
Bam, Bam, The chieftain and the Jarl do battle.
Bounce, the Jarl deflects the massive sword with his steel shield.
Whoosh, the Jarl has fallen to the ground, Will a sword clash with the Chieftains or does the Jarls Saga end in Valhalla.
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 11:31 AM UTC
Top notch legal scholar Erin Go Braw
(less concerned about being fair versus
abominable, irrevocable, and execrable
unforgivable oversight most holy "M" & *****
cabinet of high priests,
sans spelling chieftains ready to claw
your person to bits,
and they presage remote clemency
which decision told, when Jeff Sessions
decides final punishment to draw
now, (see excerpted lines
visited with glaring flaw
"Benediction For Lord Apple Macintosh"
where ...bot sized wetbacks, setbacks,
and drawbacks, required a secret char),...
intimates a "hee haw"
and rock'm n sock'm pull no punches
square at yar triangular jaw
YES, on account misspelling,
whence Grammarian Jude Law
at the least aims (to topple a prospective
title of eminence grise), banning access
to such undeserved
catbird seat, sans Rhetorical perch
laughing while ja plaintively call for maw
**** Oxford English Dictionary - but naw
can do, and hence paw
mister trumpeting
"FAKE" wordsmith raw
flesh will turn into....
unreadable print until closing text
that elaborates how holiness felt vexed.
To ye (a freshly minted scalawag),
these 20/20 eyes bulged agog
while steaming with invective
at what attempted
to pass as sacred poetic blog
when thee (Matthew Scott Harris),
now pronounced, an illiterate,
immoderate, and inveterate å!@#$%∑
with a severe cerebral clog
(meaning prefrontal lobotomy
not out of the question),
you m~r mangy whelp of a she dog
(my humble apologies to canines),
less deserving than being
whipped near death's doorstep flog
after henchmen (strongly
resembling Alaskan BullWorms
guarding this royal hutch,
herein Cupertino, California.
Jul 2, 2018
Jul 2, 2018 at 2:46 AM UTC
The sleep of the sword does not answer my call
Sweet Jezebel sways with the winds of the fall
While the Goosegrass loudly beckons, singing to stay
The Foxgloves, they whisper “one day, one day”.
I’m longing to be respectfully flame-farewelled
But the Lion’s Tooth sees that my dreams are dispelled
In the sweet summer madness, my Devil’s Milk pride
Shrivels and dies; looks like Ring-a-Bells lied
With a wave of my hand the swan of blood lands,
And the spear-din begins
With a noble glance the troops advance
Chieftains or kings, breakers of rings
The winter begs death and the is-ness of song
My soft sophomania playing along
A hymn on the psaltery drifts for a dime
Of seven sweet maidens missing in time
Tell me plainly, why does the spring make me ill?
Pale, shaking hands cling to the old timbrel.
A melodic pain, the kind honey can’t draw out.
And the whispering doubt, **** as sauerkraut
With a wave of my hand the swan of blood lands,
And the spear-din begins
With a noble glance the troops advance
Chieftains or kings, breakers of rings
You were never cautious with your art,
I was always careful with my heart
Unless I poured it out like a dove
Are you mourning me from heaven above
I am mourning you from hell below
I guess that freedom was not the way to go
And the old dried herbs sing from above my grave
I’ve never behaved, I’ve never been brave
With a wave of my hand I watched your blood land
On my ***** kitchen floor
Without a chance, in a frightened stance
No longer poor, I walked out the door
The final test, was it for the best?
No belt hook swings, pale, wicked things
My freedom came at the price of the flame
Farewell my lover,
Fare thee well.
Mar 1, 2019
Mar 1, 2019 at 8:40 PM UTC
Attuned to the ligaments of her passing mood
the contortionist shows her teeth to the dust,
In East London by Singapore, Hong Kong
all of those places-
Bow legs rip open the universe, in one
style, then, the practice meditates inside her again
Haemorrhage blue curtains warp into several layers of eyes
so that her knees dance up past her molasses joy
The tube-stations scream, the cadillacs sing,
the catacombs crack their knuckles and laugh
The chieftains know in time that all sand is red
as the sepulchres pass into and with her mouth
The Camden markets shake into hybrids of summer;
the neophyte ways that a bat breaks down a tree, eats its coal-
And I wish that people would stop hanging her,
like a dead man with bad breath from a branch
And using the symbol for their own gains, limiting fear
which numbers their tongue in fermenting numbers;
She is just one fly whizzing from one tree
to the next.
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 12:43 AM UTC
Our undercroft had housed our dead
Unseen, in gloomy sepulture.
But pagan chieftains much prefer
Barrows, where height can show instead.
And the busier departments need
Those lowest levels for their work.
Glib passers-by avoid that murk,
And absent bosses don’t impede.
Ensconsed where corpses decomposed,
Those in cubicles will thrive, unvexed,
And never taken from their desks,
They’ll finish the great work imposed.
Interrers from a raucous age
Buried their kings and queens in mounds.
Since robbers filch, and greed abounds,
The wise entombed their heritage.
Sarcophaguses, then the norm,
Are too chilly for a comfy bed.
The dawn should kiss those lids of lead,
To heat what blankets cannot warm.
Rather than burying in hills,
Top those barrows with their occupants.
These somber monuments enhance
What would be dowdy domiciles.
Coffins as cenotaphs and plaques,
Allow the dead to bask in sun,
And feel what veneration’s done.
Hilltops make the best catafalques.
Oct 11, 2021
Oct 11, 2021 at 12:27 PM UTC
Slipping through rhyme and reason to feasibly change the seasons, we eat the morals of our peoples chieftains and horde the gored crown of misbegotten dreams, choking down muffled screams of rotten abhorrence at the center of our beings essence. Our minds are not our own, but we condone the ill because the foreign mind is a relentless drill that plants it's seeds deep and in supplying hindsight keeps us dull and meek. The food is the weak and the strong do eat to complete the endless cycle and compete for success in survival to the hindrance of oblivious brilliance and the benefit of passive resilience.
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 2:25 PM UTC
*honest to god, stay away from this horror island... stay away from this paedophilia haven that includes the parliament foremost, as the chieftains of practice... stay away from this wretched place, this ***** and Gomorrah.*
you ever live in a house with 30 other
migrants? yeah, near Valentines' Park,
spend the time trapped in a room
with your parents who decided to
"make a better life for themselves"
in a foreign country while John Paul Pope
became branded a saint rather than
the catalyst, a... i'm thinking of the word
donkey... but it's a synonym of usurper...
ah... traitor! ever spend your childhood
in a house filled with adult men providing
for their children? spending your childhood
with Sonix? i spent mine, taken out from
the mud-pit where i would have hardly
cared to be Barabas without a second thought
(i.e. a conscience); you didn't spend that time
in a house run by a Jew and a Tsarina of
polish descent... you didn't...
and you weren't deported having acquired
the tongue in order to unlearn it...
having only two books of the english tongue
to relearn it in order to go back,
and receive a smack on the head by a school friend
you played happy birthday to on the guitar
**** your fiance, who bore your child,
and who decided that being a lawyer he was
also the judge and jury and the executioner...
with god ****** his way into your life
with dislodged stars moving to no known
comet orbit... yeah, in the west we're all
given "a better life", justified with that famous
export to Iraq rather than Saudi Arabia
from where the culprits came...
so... now... say bye bye to genes, ethnicity and
Darwinism being fingerprinted.
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 2:16 PM UTC
A smudge of poverty marks an oilskin cloth that rides up the tables on the gravy train and
but for the stain we'd all forget that some live life offset against the rim and only look but can't get in.
I challenge riches to a duel, a fool I am
I am the richest man I know and yet that smudge of poverty haunts me,
undaunted though and still I am the richest man I know.
If third class was any class at all
If going steerage entitled me to some armchair peerage then I am a Lord, a master,
I survey and sight the disaster that looms ahead.
But just a smudge and the stain well fed by droppings from the chieftains jowls,
the gravy train howls through the night
and a bare light behind me marks my passing.
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 8:14 PM UTC
Deep within the bowels of the Earth
immensely distant from the sheltering sky
amidst a thick fog enveloped landscape
with here and there a projected
craggy, derelict chasm
precipitously crooked pointing toward
an infinitely wide yawning abyss
dwelt kindred spirits comprising a soul asylum
where grateful dead (albeit marked
via weathered tomb stones) hermetically sealed
once vibrant corporeal mortals
betook their eternal slumber
One among their number
included a misanthrope
who sported long straggly hair
bushy eyebrows shielding cold eyes of steel
straggly bearded clammy chin
in tandem with a hairy body
which when alive (long time ago)
upheld upon unshod feet a severely
hunchbacked ******
Within dense pitch-black terrain
(Mother Nature enlisting
a menagerie of life forms
accustomed to hellish environment)
awash with unrecognizable
alien sights and sounds
mollycoddling bewitching warlocks,
mailer daemons,
imps of the pervert chieftains, fiery
long and fostered Golems
who called underworld
their private demesne
also alluded to Marcy's playground
holding hostage Alice in Chains
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles,
The Beastie Boys, The Human League, and
Village People a Crowded House
Emitting wisps of ethereal matter
appearing a small medium at large
chat snap ping, flickr ring indeed joyus minions
exalting piety a plenti
Prone ounce sing proud purgatory
promoting protean phantasmagoria
hideous hulu hoop dancing holograms
highly distorted grotesque
silent screaming sinister banshees
slithering across escarpment.
Jan 20, 2018
Jan 20, 2018 at 3:45 PM UTC
Fisherman's intro, from "The Floral War."
FISHERMAN
Well well, what have we here? Some field of view:
The turquoise circle of the dazzling sea
Blazes her setting of bright-banded sands,
Where on this first, chill morning of the year,
Our sun arises to peruse his course,
And I, to tease my living from the deeps.
Come, gilded fishes, hither to my net,
You shimmering schools of perch, soft octopi,
White-shingled shad, and jade-scaled terrapins,
Plump, krill-fed dwellers of the pickling brine,
Come now to me. To pray you have no fear
Would shuffle with the truth, as I intend
To angle for your lives, yet spoil me,
For I who come to act unneighbourly
Am poor, and strapped, and only bother you
Compelled by leaky-seamed necessity.
I have my wife’s own hatchery at home,
And you, my friends, must make their maintenance.
So, rush my meshes and forgive my faults.
Whoa there! What vision’s this? Green goddess, say,
What monstrous marvels wander on your face?
This cannot be! I am awake, and sane,
Yet seem to see a wading range of hills,
A chain of dizzy-peaked and scraggy steeps
Whose groundworks bob like buoys in the surf.
Yet now this restless reef flows closer still,
Resolving as spray-freighted citadels,
Wave-buttressed towers romping on the breakers,
Their canvas banners snapping at the breeze,
Whose men wing down from ropes to pace the decks,
And screen their eyes as if to locate me.
I’ll hustle to my chieftains with this news,
And let their cry of ominous novelty
Alert each ear from here to Mexico.
My life thus far was bright and fancy-free.
Oh, why must change then come to quiet me? Exit.
Oct 3, 2016
Oct 3, 2016 at 11:43 PM UTC