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Karijinbba Jul 16
There is a legend
about a bird
which sings just once in its life. more sweetly than any other creature on the face of the earth,
From the moment it leaves
the nest it searches for
a thorn tree,and it does not rest
until it has found one.
Then singing, among the savage branches, it pales itself upon the sharpest spine. And dying, it rises above its own agony
to outcarol the larkand the nightingale.
One superlative song,existence the price.
But the whole world stills to listen, and *** in His heaven smiles.
for the best is only bought at the cost of great pain....Or
so says the legend.This resonates deeply within me
because being an RHO negativeMother every Gyno MD advised
termination of my unborn a malicious prejudice
even called me hybrid race! the medical database is WRONG  
I SAVED three of my children they were born
they live the loves of my life
Its true with me too the best is only acquired at the price of great pain and sacrifice
If lucky and awake our heart and own intuition will know to aim for the best  Thanks for your time dear poets.
The legend piece is anonymous
but it came to me
and I accepted it as my very own.
Outside Words Sep 21
On a gusty autumn night
Another husband was swept,
Somber under the porch light,
Abigail watched and wept.

No men were happy,
As they dealt with poor Abby –
Day in and day out,
So miserable and naggy.

Nine is such a tender age
For a father to leave his daughter,
In horror, Abby waved,
Her mind underwater.

Crimes of parents, what a shame
Those with good ones count your blessings,
Lest we forget little Abby’s pain
And teach our children similar lessons.
© Outside Words
Ilion gray Nov 2014
I have sat on my rooftop,
Smoking slowly in lower mid-heaven
Watching the meandering march of workers stalk
Across the land, a cigarette,
Cold fingers,
a spine of smoke rising,
rolling over
My knuckles,
Then dancing in the ever
with the holy unseen
Offspring of anguish
and gut strings,
Chopin,
E minor No.4,
A song of boots
Stamping upon stone,
Shouting voices
Jousting
with the echos of dawn,
A war of decibels
Amid narrow rows,
walls and windows,
an unknown world beneath,
Shadows thrown between brownstones
in the ghetto.
Too many feet traveling
On this spinning stone,
Sabotage the salvation of silence
And steal the golden solitude of the sun.
The old white man winter,
Has gone, and never again will he come..
It is always summer here,
By the sea,
below clouds that are not free, but bound by
The heavens...
In this city,
All the light is connected,
Controlled, switches and grids fenced in by fields of steel.
there are no light bearers Here
There are no saviors
No talk of better days-
Just myriads of souls in search of signals,
Unaware of themselves and untamed.
i used to climb the tallest tree
just to leave behind the ground
sing as loud as i could breathe
about the shapes of passing clouds

mum would haller up to the heavens:
             "STOP IT !"
... "they’ll think you’re Mad!"

... whoever  "they"   were  (?)!
    i naively pondered thence  ―

    now,     the tree is gone,
       "they" chopped  it  
         all the way down
to memories and decomposing roots

    but i still see life unspool
    in the silent shapes of clouds

                    and
  hear the birds sing sweetly
     without a single word


☁  ☁  ☁  ☁  ☼  ☁  ☁  ☁  ☁
                   jesse
26th  April  2018

Notes:
  the memories reach much deeper than the roots
Ilion gray Jan 2015
In an instant with clash of
Anxious elements
You came reaching into existence
the moon that does not belong
To earth, told me you would
Come,
She fortold,
how you would be born
Between the great extremes-
Of Summer's light that
Gives us smiles,
The joy of love
Yet long are her days,
Her rays shining relentlessly
setting  fire
To forest,
Sweeping
Through cities
Yet,
Leaving ,
It's
Dust and ash in piles
Of us,

Until there is not a sound,
Nor a single rooftop left
Atop any building/
Now
the heat warps  the wood
Peeling back the ceilings
the fingers of
Flames digging in
Through the opening
Like a child
eating cereal out  of the box
Devouring every piece,
Even the broken
And crumbled
Eating up everything
******* up the emptiness
Until
The air is weak adrift
Scarcely ,
in strips of space.

  Parts of those things are in you
Yet,  you were also drawn from,
the strength of
Winters hands,
Reaching
Through stairs of clouds
And Suffocating the heat from the sun,
Then Walking over the earth
His feet a raging wind
Leaving footprints,
Of dead men.

You, are the first son of the first son.
Only *** could name you..
That day, I stayed in the field
from morning
Till the hour became blue
I waited in the wild,

Waiting for a storm-
when it came,
I stood at its feet,
I listened to the myriads of voices
Of the rain
Listening
for a single word
Entering mid heaven
A word that only I could
Hear, spoken in a language
That was written in my blood.

You my son, were given a name
That will never end,
You who will rebel against the tyranny of time,
You who will preserve the tablets
Of the days I have witnessed
Of the things seen and what is yet to be
Of the things that only you will know
Of the choice that you must make
To search for the almighty
Or live silently among the liars
waiting through the seasons,
Until the dreamless nights endless come to you.
Of these days it seems *** has left us,
Know this: he is there,
look for him..while he is still to be found.


And you will sing ‘til your lungs give in
To the killing wind
And though *** no longer hears the children cry
You will transcend in a roar
Shall raise a sea of stone eyes
And in the darkest place
upon the eldest star
in the emptiest stitch of heaven
Where the angels go to die,
*** will hear your song
wrapped In whispering drops
Of rain traveling in reverse
Towards heaven
Perhaps he will remember
that we are here,
My son,  you must try..
To raise the eyes of men
When forced to use the public loo,
there's something you must always do:
before you sit to do your biz,
make sure there toilet tissue is.
Travelers wisdom....
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