"condemning" poems
You will never know
The peace of acceptance
Once you are finished
Put to earth
Life was harsher than the dirt
Parents made you feel worthless
Cause you wanted to wear a short dress
Because you felt different
Cut off
Disowned
Disavowed
One friend after another disappears
And no one hears
The sobs
No one feels the salty tears
No one holds your hands
Or offers you a hug
You were ******
By the those who demand
You conform
Where there was no warmth
The clock cuts you bitterly
Condemning you to be lonely
And I cry all the more
Knowing you won’t be the only one
Not the only daughter wanting to be a son
Not the only male that wants to be female
Not the only soft face harden
Or hard face softened till the sorrow overflows
Till everyone you know closes the door
And you disappear forever more
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 7:05 AM UTC
she was a poet,
and he was her pen.
in him,
she always found words to write,
songs to sing,
thoughts to think.
he'd smile,
and kiss her softly,
and say,
"write me a poem."
and she would.
she'd put poe,
and whitman,
and shakespeare to shame,
and she'd write a poem that made his eyes water.
she'd compare him
to a rose with no thorns,
a book with no end,
a world with no poverty --
the things we all wish for,
but can never attain.
//
he asked her one day,
"what am i?"
and so she picked up her pen,
and began the usual:
*you are the shining sun after a hurricane,
with rays that open the eyes of the blind.*
but he stopped her after those two lines,
and said that this time,
he didn't want any metaphors,
or similes,
or analogies.
he wanted the truth.
and so on that night,
as he slept,
the poet picked up her pen,
and she wrote.
she wrote,
then thought better of it,
then started over again,
and this cycle continued well into the early hours of the morning,
until suddenly,
she wrote, frantic,
*if i can't love you for what you really are,
have i ever really loved you at all?*
this, too,
she thought better of,
condemning it to the trash.
the next morning the poet was gone,
her final work a mere two words:
i'm sorry.
(a.m.)
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 12:27 PM UTC
The King of Victory
It was a Sunday not quite like any other. The time was near that Jesus would be handed over to the rulers of this world and be subject to them so that he might save many. On their way into the city of Jerusalem, Jesus sends two of his disciples ahead to bring him a donkey to ride in on and to say that the master has need of it. Jesus rides into the city on the back of a donkey and all around him celebrate and rejoice singing praise and giving glory. They lay their cloaks and palm branches which represent victory on the road ahead of Jesus for him to walk on. It truly is a joyous day in the city of David. No one there seems to have any idea that in one short week this parade of celebration would be no longer and many of these very same people would be parading him through these very same streets condemning him and calling for his death.
Jesus your life came full circle. Before you came into this world you entered Bethlehem outside of Jerusalem riding on the back of a donkey in your mother’s womb. A week before your death you would humble yourself once more and come ride into Jerusalem on the back of a donkey. A humble beast of burden, an animal that carries a heavy load and serves. You bore the weight of the cross and the weight of all of our sins and you served us faithfully even when we were not faithful to you. We are so much like the crowds that gathered on Palm Sunday; rejoicing, singing your praise and giving you glory one moment and the next moment we are also the ones who are calling for your death, mocking you and jeering. Still, you look upon us with endless love and mercy. You forgive us, you redeem us, and you call us quietly to return to you once again. You would suffer and die so that on the third day, we might finally see that no power on earth or hell or anything above can separate us from your love, and showing us once and for all you are the King of Victory! AMEN!
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 9:07 AM UTC
Every time people start to rise up, a whole buncha problematic mess gets thrown around regarding VIOLENCE.
So, what is "violence" really?... It's the use of force. Plain and simple.
What makes folks uncomfortable (who are otherwise comfortable in this system) is that UPRISING IS A SOMETIMES VIOLENT (read: forceful) REACTION TO SYSTEMATIC VIOLENCE: Yes, just like the Hunger Games...
Thus, there are many types of violence...
The fact that we are paying taxes that are funding the genocide and ****** of people of color (here and abroad) is violence.
People with guns (former slave patrols and overseers, now cops) who come from outside our community and treat our folks as criminals on the daily is violence.
Capitalism, i.e. wage/property/ecology-based exploitation in the name of profit is violence.
The fact that LA County spends more $$ than anywhere in the world on prisons and police is violence.
The fact that the US locks up more of its own people than any other country on record is violence.
US aiding/funding the genocide of Palestinians at the hands of Israel is genocidal violence.
From Congress, to the boardrooms, to the classrooms, from the gaze, to the unwanted touching, to the **** to the pay, Patriarchy everyday, is violence.
A few people jacking some **** at Walmart or breaking a window is really minimal violence in comparison.
A couple people throwing **** at armed cops is not serious violence.
The idea of owning property that other must rent to live is violent.
Systemic, chronic, global insecurity in the form of material poverty is violence.
Wage slavery is violence.
Gentrification is violence.
The War On Youth, i.e. the School-to-Prison pipeline, and, thus the War-on-Drugs with its attending 76% recidivism rate in the prison-industrial complex, whose populations are disproportionately black males, is violence.
The fact that people can't go to the doctor and dentist, or eat food every day is violence.
Deportations are violence.
Homophobia is violence.
The world's largest global military that vaporizes people without due process in dozens of countries violating their biophysical and national sovereignty is violence.
The United States government sanctioning the ****** of non-white, but especially Muslim bodies across the world... is violence.
So, when you condemn violence, do you mean resistance?
Because there is a whole lot of violence you should be condemning instead.
Adapted from Emilio Lacques-Zapien
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 11:14 AM UTC
Discoboli of African poetry has now sparked above aphasia
The aphasic silence today breaks eardrums with cacophony
Of the world audience in the by standing duty of workshop tubes,
Executing poetic experiment on the origin of **** poeticus
To link the archaic baboonish proteins to the black chimpanzee
Cradling African man, the sire of all and their poetry.
That when the Chimpanzee blood we poured
Into the African veins of vena cava and aorta,
Feeding the heart with viscosity of nutrition,
And the Chimpanzee blood fell into deadly
Tomperousness like Shakespearean impetuosity
Once seen in Romeo and Juliet, giving timely Birth
To untimely half the yellow Sun
That juxtaposed planet of poetry
Behind the star of tribe as a priority
Condemning to stark oblivion all the fated,
in full uniform of tribal dimunitions, or mimesis.
Ever predated on when tribes form nations.
A time to try the chimpanzee blood in the veins
Of white humanity, battling cynosure
Historically evinced in Antony and his father,
Or Tybalt and Mercurial of mercutio,
Or Macbeth and counterparts
Or Hamlet the Danish and the inheritors of his mother,
As the white blood cells of the white blood,
Militantly attack the white corpuscles
Of the misfortunate chimpanzee,
Converting the later into
A chewer of misfortune.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 11:55 AM UTC
In 1963
Mahalia prodded
the good reverend...
“tell them
about the dream
Martin”
transfixed on
a yonder time
he recounted
prophecies of
a near future
from a mountaintop
he foretold a
history of a people
returned again to
gardens of paradise
thriving in friendly
democratic soils
overflowing with a
colorful biodiversity
governed and
nurtured with a
vibrant sunshine
of divine justice
welcoming all
weary sojourners...
from the
pinnacle of
a Birmingham
jail cell
Martin burst
the bars with
the clarion peel
of a golden trumpet
proclaiming the gospel
of liberation to
the wardens of
unholy gulags
“free yourselves”
the horn emblazoned
in streaking lightning
across the sky
cowed by
prophetic truths
of righteousness,
shamed by
lies the pride
of arrogance
bespeaks to
placate the
intransigence
of dominion,
we prayed the
the walls of racism,
bigotry, prejudice
would tumble down as
Martin lit the Battle
of Jericho
today our country’s
profit driven gulags
overflow with people
of color as justice
lingers on death row
begging for a plea bargain
of a life sentence in
solitary confinement...
from the
****** Sunday Bridge
in Selma, Martin
offered a prayer for
peace, rebuking
the dogs of war
admonishing
the tenders of
blood thirsty
machines to
beat the gears
of war into
pruning hooks
and plowshares
advocates of peace
hope to steer
the plow across
the battlefields of
acrimony to sow
rich seeds of
reconciliation, planting
new gardens where
the rich yields of peace
will be consumed
by all God's children
yet these gardens
remain unplanted,
untended and defiled
by the machinery
of war that churns
churns, churns...
Martin last
dream occurred
on a balcony
in Memphis
witnessing
to the divinity
of those considered
untouchable after
a hard days work
collecting a city’s
refuse
he insisted all labor
was worthy of dignity
and the economic
justice of a fair wage
Martin looked squarely
into the eye of the gun sights
of those who thought differently
he never blinked, he dreamed
Martin formed his last
testament to an angry nation
yearning for the reconciliation
of stability and peace,
unmoved that it’s violence,
exploitation and bigotry only
stoke bonfires of acrimony
and division, condemning
the reprobate principality
to the bleakness of a
smoldering discontent and
continued generations
of recurring nightmares…
Martin's dream continues
in awakened hearts
sojourning on
Music Selection:
Mahalia Jackson
Joshua Fit the Battle of Jericho
MLK Day
2014
Oakland
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
A hymn to paired planethood: Venus hits Pluto
as death, in cold orbit, collides with biology
smashing to fragments: demonic astrology
(more a black hole than a love-star, it’s true though).
Cynical cure for Eve’s womanly grievance
Concupiscent consequence: lust’s bitter fruit –
ah the thought… changing Sin into mere inconvenience.
Margaret sang her seductive refrain
about weeding the garden and progress and light.
Her sisters should view her with scornful disdain
but instead have adopted her murderous rite.
With sang-froid she promoted her racist eugenics
(as if she had never herself been a fetus),
condemning her heirs to postmodern polemics
while nurturing ardent desires to defeat us.
Suppressing the lives that she flushed down the drain
she would liberate Death – and resistance was vain.
As a midwife to modern life (though on the “anti” side)
Old Matron Margie racked up quite a legacy
singing the praises of sanctioned infanticide
calling the shots for the coming sick century.
Planning, quite calmly, to “cleanse” certain races
her zeal was empowered by murderous graces.
She labored to bring us such pearls of subduction:
“dilation and curettage”, “women’s autonomy”
“viable fetus”, “procedure”, a “suction”
Hippocrates retches to hear the taxonomy;
words that turn Life into mere reproduction.
She enters the realms of the ****** and the motherless
roundly condemned by her feminine otherness.
Man’s first protection: the God-given womb
which no infant should have to regard as their tomb.
Dismembered dark cherubs, assembling, greet her
as demons (in scrubs) holding baby-parts meet her.
Long may she burn with the medical cynics
this mother of Moloch, this founder of clinics.
Convenience is king when abortion’s the Queen
and the profits swell big with each nubile teen…
yet the fruit of such carnage remains to be seen.
I send her this song as a funeral wreath
and a card inked in blood. You may read what is there:
“To the Matrix Supreme of our culture of death
from the souls of the infants you slew on the earth.
May your torment increase with the children you bear.”
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 9:09 PM UTC
I've never felt a red rose,
never pricked myself on a thorn,
never smelled it in or got lost in eyes.
My mother has a red rose -- my father gave
it to her, and it is beautiful, and it is kind, and it
is loving, and it is something I have never seen.
This pink rose is something trying too hard to be red.
Slashing and ripping at clothes with sharpened words,
claiming it’s merely the thorns of a red. This pungency
is blamed upon me: I can not handle the sickly sweet
succor stuck under my suffocating nose. He holds me
by the chin, condemning eyes borrowing into mine, grip
tightening. This pink rose is dead, withered, wilted
and weathered by the storm we’re caught in.
Everyone sees red where there is none
-- o r p e r h a p s t h a t ’ s j u s t t h e b l o o d ? --
this pink rose has me trembling, fearing
his appearance and his eyes; knowing
he’s stronger than me, but the
uncertainty of “would he?” scares
me more. I can’t leave because
that same knife he used upon
me, he threatens his own
skin. It’s such a small
world, such a small
town, such a small
neighborhood,
such a small
building.
I can’t walk these halls
with comfort or safety
anymore, not with those
eyes burning blame into
my back and face.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 10:28 AM UTC
you can tell by the way she swings her hips
and pulls your hair
and licks her lips
and whispers in your ear
that she's easy.
you'll know her by the short skirt
and the tight top
and the high heels,
by the butterfly tattoo on her lower back
and the drink in her hand.
if she carries condoms
or takes birth control,
if she can't say no,
if she takes no convincing,
you'll know.
she's the girl at the party who drinks the most
and laughs the loudest.
she's the one you discarded the first night you met her,
when she gave you
the only part of herself that you deemed worthwhile.
you'll figure her out
from the tar trails of mascara,
the untouched meal,
the word "worthless" carved into her thigh like a brand,
marking her flesh as property
to which you are entitled.
pay close attention to her need for validation.
a **** will have the audacity to seek your approval
just because she's been told all her life
that she is nothing without your love.
she will measure her worth
in units of attractiveness
and desirability
because that is the only system she's ever been taught.
you'll know she's a **** when they find the defendant
not guilty,
and he arrives at the ten-year reunion in a limo.
you'll know she's a **** when she doesn't arrive
at all.
it's easy to spot a ****
in a society that teaches her that her lips are for kisses
and not battle cries,
that her hands are meant to be cradled in yours
and not ****** into the sky,
that her body is your wonderland
and not her home.
it's hard to miss a **** in a culture that paints women as ****** objects
while condemning any expression of female sexuality,
that glorifies the "good girl" who becomes whole
when the right man comes along
and stakes his claim.
the women you ****** in the lifetime before you met your wife
weren't marriage material;
you need a girl who's saved herself for you because
a girl who lets you **** her
crosses the threshold from ****** to ****
in a bizarre coming of age ritual in which your **** is *so ******* important*
that its temporary entrance to her body
renders her worthless.
you can tell she's a ****
because for her, there is no right answer.
you can find your **** at rallies
and in body-baring photographs,
alive in the anxious triumph
of finding something in herself that she can love,
of digging through a lifetime of rubble
and reclaiming small shards of forgiveness from the dirt.
her self-identified status
rips away your long-established privilege
of dictating who she can be
and defining her worth;
your resent her new autonomy.
you can march beside her,
or you can step aside.
she has stolen back her power.
she was made for revolution.
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 6:09 AM UTC
There was a man on the bus
today
with hostile eyes...
steely blue and suspicious.
The thirty something woman
across from me;
with black eye and split lip,
her's were wet with tears and fear.
A young couple
only had eyes for each other.
Glistening
with love and desire.
The bigot’s eyes
were all a glower;
hostile and condemning...
The couple was interracial.
The old woman’s eyes
tired with many years,
looked back with memories
and forward to release.
The little child’s eyes
wide with wonder
took everything in,
grist for the mill.
As I wander from
face to face,
I wonder what stories
my eyes offer?
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 7:43 AM UTC
Within these Rumours I have read past-date
Are Cheeky Darlings I will not observe
Why? Will adding Pepper improve the Taste
And lower the Pressure our Brains deserve?
The Stanford Machine was the Heretic
Condemning my Peace to un-needed curse
This Drama - a Theatre's immature Tick
Delivered my Intellect to your Hearse
Then, this Scene: Mercy bleeds on your Sweet Head
That Moment my Entire View did change
Prayer drowned my Tears as I knelt on your Bed
Asking the Father to heal you Today.
Yet, in Solemn's Fine, I beg you to see
Those Kneeling Hands over yours wasn't me.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 2:22 AM UTC
wind's cool lips envelop and chill
protruding listeners, speckled stamps
on crinkled noses
or sun-bit, stacked vertebrae
dabbing each one, I count the
anatomical stars, fibers of you
glancing over with the brim of
my own beginning, parted just so
maps unwind, sighing deeply
but robustly seducing the depths
of our curiosity, condemning
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 3:58 PM UTC
lulling comfort of uninterrupted sleep subsides
replaced with an involuntary state of sedation
the emergence of an all too familiar presence
paralyzed by the force of a lingering sensation
choking internalized fear
timeless inaudible cries for help
unknown visitor condemning you to an everlasting silence
physical horror encroached the night
a lone passenger aboard an eternal voyage
bound for relief from this crippling fear of uncontrollable stillness
remaining prisoner to this petrified state
concrete walls of stirring madness
hallucinations of strange alien formations
faceless entities strike infinite fear
in the core foundation of sleep tonight.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 7:13 PM UTC
Her life was run on the oil of synchronicity
planted in the seduction of abstract hypotheses.
The moons and ebbs of tides
Swoop in like thunderclaps
on wing'ed lightning bolts,
Capturing synergy
Wiping out energy
Till she huddles in a pile of her own failure
Tucking up her toes to avoid the floods
Admiring and condemning
The rain soaked
Howling at her gate.
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 9:58 PM UTC
I want people to know
That we don't have to fight each other
We don't have to fight ourselves
That we don't have to suffer
That it's possible for us all to live in peace
We would rather justify war
It seems like it's really hard for people
To think of what life would be like
If we weren't constantly at war
Or fighting
Or hating
Or somehow condemning someone else
Well it's those people who are causing the problems
It's those people that need to be dealt with
If it weren't for those people over there
There wouldn't be any problems to begin with
Do you see those people over there
What right do they have to be here
Taking up our space
Taking up our land
That's for us and us alone
We have to get them before they get us
We have to keep ourselves constantly ready
Constantly waiting
For someone to attack
To destroy our way of life
To upset the status quo
That we have established today
I think we need to be willing
To change the status quo sometimes
Because the status quo as it is
Is just not working
As long as we continue to feel hate
And we feel like we need to be at war
And we need to hurt other people
To propagate the status quo
We will never be able to live in peace
And know what it means
To live in a world without war
Nov 28, 2011
Nov 28, 2011 at 4:37 PM UTC
*"So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee."*
Shall I compare thee...
...to the Iguazú Falls River, where legend serves that a serpent; Boi, demanded a sacrifice each year of a young female, and the day two lovers; Tarobá and his beautiful maid Naipí, took to escape, and in revenge of such an act, Boi exuded such anger that he parted the river, thus forming the Iguazú Falls, splitting the river and condemning to two lovers to the falls.
or
...to Cristo Redentor; Christ the Redeemer, the Art Deco statue, protecting and looking over the city of Rio de Janeiro, to whom in all its glory cannot escape the force of nature, struck by lightning, causing damage irreplaceable.
or
…to The Hanging Gardens of Babylon, hundreds of metres into the sky, a place that to this day is unknown, myth being that King Nebuchadnezzar recreated the homeland of his precious wife Amyitis, who was deeply depressed and homesick, allowing her to find comfort and happiness.
or
…the Taj Mahal, of Pradesh, constructed using marble by the emperor Shah Jahan, in loving memory of his third wife; Mumtaz Mahal, the jewel of Muslim art, a calligraphy written Great Gate reading; "O Soul, thou art at rest. Return to the Lord at peace with Him, and He at peace with you.
or
…the Temple of Artemis; Istambul, on sacred land in honour of the Greek goddess Artemis, the most apotheosized of Greek deities, the supposed daughter of Zeus and Leto, the temple also known as Diana, one of the goddesses who vouched never to marry; alongside Minerva and Vesta.
or
… the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus, of the Persian Empire, whereby Mausolus ornamented four sculptures created in relief for his wife (and also his sister); Artemisia II of Caria, generating an above ground tomb that would become to be listed as one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World.
But of all,
I compare thee to the Goddess of Love, Beauty and Sexuality; Aphrodite
arising from the sea, floating ashore on a shell;
Venus rising from the sea,
a lover of many,
later depicted as a painting of the Birth of Venus,
by the sufferer of unrequited love; Botticelli,
using his muse Simonetta Vespucci as a model.
© Sia Jane
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
For every person there is damage.
Damage caused.
Damage seen.
The damaged live and the damaged die.
The damaged save and the damaged hurt.
The damaged forgive and the damaged condemn.
For every damaged person there is a condemned.
Condemned, they are so the damaged can move past them!
"I condemn those on the street so I may walk by".
"I condemn those in their adultery so I might save them."
"I condemn those that hurt me and made me condemn."
"I condemn myself for ever condemning."
So what are we? Surrounded by the ******
For everyone who bares witness to those who affect them.
Who damage them.
And those who condemn themselves for damaging.
All are guilty.
And with that, chaos.
To fight the ocean of the condemned is as simple as condemning.
Only through condemning can we ever forgive.
Only through forgiving ourselves can we hurt again.
Only through forgiving ourselves can we save our soul.
Which one will you choose.
I'm still on the fence.
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 2:54 AM UTC
I have a dream, no not that of Martin Luther king,
but that which is beautifully flawed, making you perfect.
I am no writer so bear with me as I try to put into words
That which my heart cries out. I pray that I will one day find you
And not because I was searching but because it is written.
I pray that our friendship will not be a toxic one
Where one gives and the other takes it all.
Oh dear future friend,
I pray that you won’t spend so much time self-
Proclaiming your worth that you forget mine,
When in matter of fact we are all worth life to the one
Whose opinion only matters.
I pray that you will love me enough to not have to
Play the victim always, nor I for that matter.
I pray you won’t have to raise your voice,
Just so your opinion matters for no one knows it all.
I pray you won’t abuse my nature so much that even
The lashes I’ve taken have no hold on your words.
I pray I won’t go to bed hurt because you failed to care
Oh dear future friend,
I pray you will show me my wrongdoings without condemning me,
Or proving again how much more righteous you are than I am.
I pray you won’t count the grains of rice I lend from you
To one day reclaim them all.
Oh dear future friend, I have a dream.
A dream where I will wake up everyday wanting
to try and be a better friend to you
Than I was the day before.
I pray that you will not only remember that you have a friend in me
Only when storms surround you, but that you will remember me too
While you dance in the summer rains lit with rainbows.
Dear future friend, I pray that we will write our own meaning
Of friendship, one that has no laws or subtle terms
And conditions applied.
But mostly oh dear friend
I pray that we will become friends
Not ‘because of’ but because
Just because
Dear future friend
I think I’m already in love with the thought of meeting you……..
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 3:45 PM UTC
You're a leftist and a Marxist and a socialist and you're right
There ain't no politics for real justice in this all condemning strife
So when the cause goes to war
And you're floored by the flaws
As the totalitarians scoff the Trotskyists
With their insufferable prejudice you abhor
Stand firm to the fore
And demand something more
Cause their aint no justice in this life
Till we all answer to those silenced
By the ringing of that call
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 8:00 AM UTC
He hit the canvass
cold last night;
that impressive frame
and charismatic soul
father, son
and consummate brother
went down for
the proverbial
10 count;
complete with iron band
and Iroquois
tap out pipes
and that fashionable
Frank Smith vein
there was no grudge
in this match
no condemning contest
or mad cap bout
just mano a mano
with the dark apparition
and it played out
precisely
(despite the bills
and pressing deadlines
and calls from Christ)
it came with tears
and fear
in that decisive
and surrealistic
voice from the ridge
they all arrived;
on plains
and trains
valiants
and fat boys
from across seas
and remote hills
bringing tales
and sorrow
angels,
laborers
and mourners
in mass
with eagle wreathes
and adorning pine
it was cited
as natural
but there ain’t
nothing natural
about The Heater
going down
nothing natural
for the
mauy thai bossman
with black leather gloves
and golden heart
the giver of hope
to those blue
collar dreamers
Jan 16, 2017
Jan 16, 2017 at 1:33 PM UTC
A rain of bullets hit Las Vegas, leaving blacken skies
From disgraceful clouds of a loose cannon.
From the first 911 call to storm's demise
72 minutes downfall took human companions.
For them, life for one minute enjoying country songs
In the unbridled company of each others innocence.
Then good faith served the merry goers wrong
As the concert venue became the tomb of dissonance.
It hurts my heart to follow this story unfold
Of the climbing death toll, making this the worst ever.
Harder to imagine a mass killer cut from this mold
Of being so heartless and desensitized to life he severs.
To the victims accept my cries of condemning this worm
While paying homage to harmonious humans imparted from the eyes of the storm.
Logan Robertson
10/4/17
Oct 4, 2017
Oct 4, 2017 at 6:36 AM UTC
OUR POVERTY HAS COLOUR
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya; [email protected])
Most illusive and elusive
Like the devils of Congo forest
Is the impish poverty
Permeating all seals with vicious wily
Into the midst of callous humanity
Biting country men and country women
With carnivorous dentalities so ruthless
Putting man to a forlorn shame
As the wife looks in desperate flaggerbastation
Putting matriarchal womenfolk to humiliation
As the expectant sire wallow in the askance of looks
Condemning communities to status ad absurdum initio
Thinning man from man, culling woman from woman
Eating flesh by flesh social koprpers of man
Eating the native flesh in the farms of Brazil
Tearing the ***** steak into ghetto lacerations of Chicago
Whizzling sombre morning tunes to the Zulus in the black tundra
Cementing pale casted clusters for the Patels of India
Commanding suave drills to poor (wo) menfolk; left! Left! Left! –abouuuuturn!
With its accomplice Mr. Hunger son of starvation, they both command drills
For black factory workers, Maids and gravediggers to dance
Watchmen, thieves and prostitutes to match
In the hinterland of Africa all the riff-raff in deep despair
Dance in a tandem to the irritating drills of the duo;
You come on! Left! Right! Left! Right!—fowaaard match!
Backward match! Left! Right! Left! Right! Sharpp uuuuuuuturn!
The duo communiqué; Go home and wait for your pay announcement.
Surely; what colour is our poverty?
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 11:13 AM UTC
A pale sky hovered above me as I walked
Through mountains and valleys vast,
Passing folk who chattered and talked
About days of old and the past,
Of when dragons roamed freely
Bringing terror and fire and fear,
Of when people breathed heavily
Wanting life while the end was near.
“For only beasts could bring the end of man.”
Although man was one of the greatest,
Condemning kin to their bedpan,
Truly, the worst ever created.
And yet they fear the children of time!
As if marvelous creatures so divine
Could bring harm to those without crime!
Who only care to build temple and shrine!
While the true masters of mankind
Are the ones breathing fire in the sky…
Dragonborn, the last of my kind,
As I wandered, I chose who to glorify.
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 2:34 AM UTC
What a world that I live in.
Oh my, have the times changed.
The 21st century, so glorious and new.
Society's changing and it's not well to do.
Strange religious cults that spew arguments of hate.
Condemning our soldiers, government, and state.
Young teenagers lust without a care in the world.
Ignorant to the consequences that can be deterred.
They give birth to lovely children whom they cannot feed.
Too busy partying and fueling their own need.
The need to feel loved, or young, or alive.
Consumed by desire and refusing to shrive.
With the presence of drugs, crime is on the rise.
The stealing, the killing, the fooling, the lies.
******* ****** **** Crack.
Young women are ***** by addicts in packs.
The corruption of those who swore to protect,
The very same people that they choose to neglect.
The big name companies make the products we buy.
Thirsting for money until we all die.
Some are expensive, others are cheap.
But all the big companies call us, "the sheep".
We follow the trends and lust for what's new.
Believing what they say even if it's not true.
I'm young and I'm curious; an observer of life.
Feeling the love, and avoiding the strife.
What a world that I live in.
How ugly can life be?
Because in all these sad truths, I see a reflection of me.
Living in in this world; the new turn of the century.
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 1:23 AM UTC