"conscripted" poems
the rat ******* has been re-purposed
(conscripted in a somewhat fodder task)
brandishing irons
and quarter lines
coiled and unwavering
insidious and cunning
pent up and fired
in his dripping shoes
and peel back skin
wheel bug and hookworm
are stolid in his wake
(all bursting grossly at the buckle!)
the heel on task;
slithering and rogue
merciless and coy
resolute and contemptuous
with his cotton mat
and quick ready quill
pungi and clapper
raise the clever snake
(croker sacks and wicker backs
dot the gasoline rainbow)
carnival barkers and kraken
(lewd in the distance)
taunting and vile
with their red beakers
and deep purple hearts
cicada and louse
high on alert
(ready to wreak havoc in the hog wallows)
the perverse cornered rat
snapping and soiled
foaming and inflamed
lurking and primed
inside his carefully crafted plan
easels and cover alls
suit this jackal well
(keefer’s little helper or so they'd say)
pickers running rough shod
all stirring up the stench
***** and conkeys
poised
and ready
to lime this cornered slug
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 10:57 PM UTC
They are silent and beautiful,
gorgeous in in the white halo,
cemented in a beautiful terrazzo,
baring the names of fallen soldiers,
the European soldiers that fell in Wars;
second and first and the heinous silent wars,
i hope this is why they have a proverb; white sepulchre,
only baring the white dead, only chiefs but no dead Indian.
Common wealth graveyards are all over in Africa,
in India , panama , Latin America and europe,
the active fronts in which the allies fought ******
they are beautifully placed in silently posh areas,
in langata when in Nairobi, in Mbaraki when in Mombasa,
in Matisi when in Kenya, In Namusungui when in Lodwar,
They bear horizontal silence with white names engraved
on their beautiful face shouting the glory of European empires,
which provoked the evil sense in the heart of the king's horseman
in Kenya, in the city of Nairobi, to steal the graveyard lands,
he made them his urban home with an uppish courtyard,
for him the dead white neighbours are better than in-corruption.
I walk around the commonwealth graveyards,
in the all quarters of erstwhile British empire,
looking for the names of African soldiers ,
who died in thousands fighting for the queen
the royal bloodied woman of England;Elizabeth,
Looking for the sons of Ethiopia who stood with
the second duce Benito son of Mussolini,
fighting for Hitler,for Shintos in the European war,
i have seen no name of any African,
I have not seen Wandabwa wa masibo,
who was conscripted into the first world war,
Along with his father Biket wa Khayongo,
Biket back after seven years in 1918,
carrying Wandabwa's Belt,
Wandabwa died in the field,
Where was he buried, he is nowhere
Not anywhere among the soldiers in cemeteries,
I have not seen Nasong'o wa Khayongo,
who was conscripted in 1940,
to fight against ******
he was conscripted on his nuptial evening,
even before he had had the first ***
with his new wife, he went away crying,
he never came back, his name is nowhere in the graves
the commonwealth graves that bare names of the fallen,
Fallen soldiers, but they all bare white names in the black world.
you come to Africa, Kenya, Nigeria, Malagasy,Egypt,
whatever the geographies of Africa, and you keep keen,
you hear someone is called Mr. Keya, or Madam Keya,
or you come to Bungoma county of Kenya,
you meet a man that is of the circumcision age group,
Known as Bakikwameti Keya, Bakinyikewi Musolini,
Keya is subverted sound for Kings african rivals; KAR
the African sound for KAR is Keya,
in reference to mass conscription of Africans
into the KAR, to fight ******
A child born during that time is Keya,
A man circumcised during the time
is in the age group of Keya,
A simple lesson in regard to our people,
taken away to fight the colonial power
and left to died and rot away in the bush
with a simple courtesy for ceremonial burial,
that come along with the death of soldiers,
who passed away in the battle field.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 4:13 AM UTC
Priti Patel's quote on EU migration - whatever it was...
list of common surnames: cropper, cross, crouch,
dabney, dalton, daniels, eads, easton, eccleston,
fairclough, farnham, fay, gardner, garey, garfield,
haight, hanes, hailey, ibbott, irvin, isaacson,
jack, jackson, jacobs, kay, keen, kelsey,
lacey, lacy, lamar, macey, mann, marchand,
neal, nelson, neville... sure pati japati patel -
i'll be an albino in Gujarat
if your play the sitar in a sari;
but your name sounds a bit migrant
revealing, what a weird 'back of the bus'
you seem to stand on -
you want the Mongolians resurrected?
i swear we were being ousted in line
of what Queen Sheba said to Solomon:
'olive skinned throughout the geography
and the unwelcome green men on
sponged-knickers creaming for an ******
a french dessert...'
yes pretty prior, you found home on a
continent when half of the european nations
didn't practice colonial antics -
i guess it's easier to pick on them.
but with a Patel surname you sound british
already, the great experiment worked
the anaesthetic of former colonialism
numbed via recreational Ketamine use
really numbed the skull and jaw mandibles -
i hate, i hate being conscripted into
post-colonial affairs of "why it all failed"
what a waste of the urban hubs of
Manchester or Liverpool -
where once artistic expression thrived -
i hate these post-colonial societies,
it's as if they were castrated en masse,
and they're wondering why no one has a permanent
suntan in scandinavia - maybe the raw herring diet -
cinnamon up your *** magician's trick with
space between fudge of digestion, disappearing trick
but then the cough that blinds you sweetly -
i guess post-colonial nationalism wanted to
listen to non-colonial nationalism -
a former migrant like pretty plated smell
olive skinned exploited inversion of angers
but dunked a footstep into a trip-up
with non-colonial nations -
a bit like the greek bail-out - pretty patel
is a name least likely associated with migration;
you teasing the beast out?
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 9:33 PM UTC
winter's after-the-noon shadow lights,
fused-tinged with early-onset grays,
harbinger of one for whom death
detaches the answer from that question
too soon asked, so long unanswered,
why me?
those gray lights, a violin accompaniment,
mourning pitched wailings unasked for,
yet always in attendance, court courtiers,
feelings of insufficiency, angry angst insects
envy days when simplistic unknown fears
were the worst enemy, never lingering,
for unknowns have no answers and
cannot obtain permanent resident visas
but reality, another matter, mad hatter,
asking repeating what is this, why is this,
even comprehension partial gives
no comforting answer satisfactory logical
envy innocence past, for newer questions now *****
comfort by the lies in the essaying, trialling,
if, but, for, the distractions most affordable,
so grasp the pen that is the envy of thy companions
let the ink wail louder than you,
make paper shed what you have used up,
let envy of lost and found, found, yet still lost,
salve, but not solve, soothe, but not save
in the winter afternoons, those shortest days
of indeterminable longevity, words received,
offer little, but words self-conscripted,
a mortal transcript of pain immortalized by pen, relief will yet be,
for the pen is the envy of all
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 6:10 PM UTC
I only have one photo of Grandad
from his years of service in the Great War,
and in it he’s wearing a leopard-skin leotard.
My paternal grandfather, Grandad,
was brought up in Brockley, South-East London
In his teens he was conscripted
and became a gunner sergeant in the Royal Field Artillery.
I still have his stirrups and his French/English phrase book
which includes useful words, like dysentery,
(think of the movie, ‘War Horse’, and you’re almost there).
He fought in the mud in France and put a lot of horses out of their misery.
Apparently, he enjoyed the stage – a song and a dance,
and almost went professional after a string
of successful nights at the local Roxy,
all of which makes me want to have known him better,
but he died in my teens.
He laughed a lot, loved his vegetable garden
and had a collection of handy-sized, hard-back books
giving details of how various circuits and wiring worked.
I recall his bear of an armchair
and how it was in easy reach
of a slim stack of shallow drawers
from which he would take slender tools or small curios
and sit and explain their significance to my bemused child self.
I have the brown photo somewhere -
it’s not one I’d like to frame as it raises too many questions for me.
Like – is that bloke next to grandad meant to be Robinson Crusoe?
Like – what prompted grandad to ‘black up’ from head to toe – is he Man Friday?
And now, I stare at the photo handed to me by my friend of his grandfather, complete with rifle and medals,
and again I silently ask my grandad – why?
Jun 19, 2022
Jun 19, 2022 at 3:11 PM UTC
Vanity
Me?
Me?
Heightened sense of security
Me?
Me?
Vanity
Felt through everything
We’re the echoes through eternity
Me?
The fibers snap, snap conduct
Feverishly
Sending to benevolent web
Me?
I was there it was a ******* tragedy
You remember
That day?
Vanity
Me?
We’re more important than anything
This is the turn of the century
What we do
Echoes through eternity
Me?
Heightened sense of security
Big bro
He knows everything
Me?
We know everything
Anything we find
Quite conveniently
BLIND
Me?
A sarcophagus of time
This happened before in some other land
Before we knew of this
Time
BLIND
Me?
Vanity
Me?
Me?
Heighten sense of security
The fibers they snip snap tap
Feverishly
Conductivity
But we still don’t know ANYTHING
Me?
Vanity?
I was there it was a ******* tragedy!
Why’d they take the towers away
Did it really happen that day?
To
Me?
***** Monster
Narcissist Pharisee
Conscripted pet
Atrocity
I was there it was a ******* tragedy
Why’d they take the towers away?
Must have been vanity…
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:40 PM UTC
They marched off with no idea of the forthcoming horrors
For thousands and thousands there would be no tomorrows
They were summoned, no choice, they just had to go
The fodder that falls when the big weapons bellow.
Men who yesterday were working out on the farm
Sent to **** other men who’d done them no harm
Young men who’d answered the clarion call
Went to The Somme, to die, and to fall.
The nightmare of trenches, the cries in the night
The black lines through letters home to cover-up the plight
The new men conscripted who died the same day
Who fell from the bullets before their first pay.
The young soldier killed at the point of a knife
The sad telegram to his new pregnant wife
The horror for one man as he killed another
Standing next to a stranger he now calls a brother.
The smell of the cordite that lingers everywhere
Accompanies the stench in this deathly nightmare
The noise that so deafens, that damages ears
Fearing cowardice charges young men hide their fears.
Men started this obscenity in quiet comfortable rooms
They don’t do the dying nor end up in war tombs
They’ll take all the glory any victories afford
That belongs to those buried beneath foreign green sward.
©JRW2014
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 1:14 PM UTC
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?
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 3:53 AM UTC
I make myself so happy for no reason then stick my own back,
melancholic acts of treason, cut and measure my own lesions;
a line between pleasure and pleasing.
Not an pessimist nor a type of optimist but a realist who has mastered the execution of delusion and illusion.
Oxymoronic, Guess I'm just human;
Apparently the semblance of a god,
so making something from nothing isn't odd,
but I was given everything from a soul to my bones, hair to my toes;
Even to me who stays in this, sinew and ivory, home the reason is unknown but I know the weight of this form has its toll.
Ties made are rarly cut
more than the material is used,
bonds spirt imbued,
that which feeds hate and love.
My soul is the ocean my form the soil my mind the heavens so it's wisdom guides the toil.
What I put on to my body will seep to the sea, be it poisons or ointments that is to be seen, my wish for foresight seems obscene,
a noxious tint colors the scene
Ah this is but a show, how else can I explain the tragedies sown.
Who wrote this play?
No
Who paid its commission,
who conscripted us to suffer, no need for permission, no fine print played off as a simple omission?
Actors with no access to backstage
so it is do or die,
freedom in a cage,
the 4th wall blocks our eyes.
we get no reactions for our performance
no real feedback,
so we face our troupe like opponents, for no real reason.
Whilst some seem to flourish in a limelight others perish in darkness
some disappear through trap doors others fly with out harness.
seasoned thespians sometimes show us a way; how to perform our parts, from when they entered the play.
We are told there is a script, so I would say some have forgotten thier lines
but honestly the script has never passed these eyes,
all I know is that somes voices are drowned out by the soundtracks of anxiety and sadness;
The polyrhythms of fear and deafening sound of loneliness and madness
How could the director have this?
That's the purpose of a tragedy; make the watcher feel like they are living lavishly.
Wanted a reason why I find it so tragic.
In the words of Life 'There, you have it.'
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 5:57 PM UTC
Natalie. Basic
Basic flight training was like dancing to The Elementals. Basic, scary and fun. Did Nat know that in a year she would be at the controls of a deadly multi million dollar warplane in the wrong war, with the wrong enemy? No amount of gothic looks would appease her situation over the coming months. Was it all real? That was a distant question, not for now.
The girl danced and flew with equal passion and ferocity. Her brown hair was all over her face and she danced like a spinning airplane. Eyes shut, she was somewhere else. In her mind, she was in the cockpit of her red coloured training plane. Her flight instructor, Alberto, allowed Natalie to acrobat the little plane. She flew it with wildness that surprised everyone, including her.
Rolling upside down and pulling the control stick to her guts, the red airplane moved like a kid’s toy. Diving straight downwards, picking up speed. Alberto was going to take over before top speed was reached but Nat second guessed him and pulled back into a half loop. Up they went into the blue, a hawk in the heavens. Free. Natalie screamed in joy. Looking over at Alberto, her smile said it all. She was a born pilot.
When the record changed, Nat went to the bar and ordered a glass of red wine. Joining her friends, they chatted on guys, music and Nat’s new air force career. Several of her friends had nice boyfriends or lovers with them. In close embraces, they kissed and made small talk. Nat chatted to Katie, on the fundamentals of aerobatics and flight, demonstrating how to loop and roll with her hand. Her other held her wine. Time passed, music played, wine was drunk and Nat slow danced with Roberto.
Being Catholic and part of a close knit family, the girl was a bit of a rebel. Her mother wanted Natalie to marry and have children. Nat was having none of this; it was music, flying and the air force. Not even men like handsome Roberto swayed the girl for marriage. He was local and conscripted in the army. His passion was films and he had to give up college to serve his country. After a year he would finish off his film studies, if fate allowed. Both were friends and occasional lovers, now they danced in Sacha’s.
Feb 6, 2018
Feb 6, 2018 at 5:16 PM UTC
she was obsessed with this idea of rebirth because she messed up too many times; she believed everyone deserved a Rennaisance, and it was her vision of the circle yeats drew,
and it was for dreamers who squatted in gutters along alleyways hoping to find a muse fallen and buried in the filth;
and it was for realists who really had fallen and buried themselves in filth because their homes were lower than that;
and it was for addicts, who believed they had really been to the moon and conspired against naysayers;
and it was for conspiracists who knew all along the moon simply didn't exist because they had it manufactured in their kitchen;
and it was for sleeping girls with trembling hands who sought out this kitchen in the night whilst everyone merrily slept;
and it was for the sleeping boy who really wasn't asleep but lying naked under sheets and limbs;
and it was for the tangled limbs that still quivered next to him from a dissolved ecstasy, boyish and sad and hungry;
and it was for that hidden starving hunger that still plagued the neighborhood's homes and lingered on doorsteps, begging;
and it was for begging peals of laughter that his mother sent up from the rooftop when the sky went dark and only her kin across town, reeling, beastly, gorgeous, could ever reply;
and it was for unsent replies, for conscripted soldiers, for wars fought by better men and surveyed by lesser;
and it was for less-than-scrupulous masters who hid under their solemn cathedral art that spoke higher than god himself;
and it was for god who left the world to fend under his illusory cloak of stars, so dim it only mocked his fiery wrath beneath;
and it was for that fiery wrath, the kind that incited and ravaged and devastated, merciless with abandon for all of mankind's own misgivings;
and it was those misgivings that had started her renaissance, her quest for glory cores and sovereign minds, for signs and streets and women and colors and light and the end of all suffering;
it was for restart (like a death, but shorter), somewhere between termination and a genesis in vitro (the liminal space found within and without); for her alone, solitary line cleaving the shadowy folds of time, defiant, windswept, miraculous, insignificant glitch through the eternal night; for her, until she commanded time to stop; for her, hungry; for her, powerful; for her, terrified; for her for her and only ever her: the regifted universe.
Apr 20, 2019
Apr 20, 2019 at 10:11 PM UTC
What have I done but obey the cynical dogma that plagues the patriots?
(then to be rewarded with the cutting rattle of the guns
that dehumanised the holiest saints.
MIA the pawn who obeyed.)
Can we sacrifice to "the Cause", for the end?
(without the other side sacrificing more.
Men should press toward the enemy.
We will win because ten minus one equals nine
Rip the glorified general.)
Possibly **** the man I call brother for hesitation.
(with the gun that conscripted me to his side.
"killed for the disobeying of orders".
They will say that I was a traitor
But never a man of his country
RIP the brother that hesitated.)
Justify the sin that will be forced upon my brother.
(As I will not commit the sun that will be forced upon me.
RIP the holy deserter.)
The multination of a child.
(Thats what Devils do.
That's what they did to me.
Destroying what I took for granted.
RIP the young amputee.)
Glorification of the war as some sort of game.
("Come sign up you be a hero"
I lied in front of them
But back then I even believed myself.
RIP the gulibal propagandist)
In war winning is living
(Yet not a one I am willing to play.
RIP the veteran)
Destruction of the family tree
(Destiny was not prepared for the irrational.
RIP the mother that worried)
What can possibly justify the glorification in destruction?
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 5:22 PM UTC
Take the flower
from the garden
twist the stem
it will bleed bitter sap
a single perfumed
tear
will stain one leaf
Conscripted
To blossom
a w a y
she will hold her carbon dioxide
Breath
And scorn a blessed sun
Petals dry an elegant
Death
Beauty
Wilts
In
isolation
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
Soury water flow
Ceaseless tears last till death days
I die a millionth living years
Lesion of wound reddish show
I am a victim of war relic
Can't you see, my burnt house
My pair of rag clothe
My battered ink of ignorance
Queuing for a feed
Begging for a drink
**** in a homeless bridge
Conscripted as a child soldier
Can't you see, I am the war relic ?
Voice of refugees status I am
Rebel to my homeland I run
Deprived by mortal quest for power
Politics of hatred wash me to bank of ocean
Can't you see I have one arm, one eye, one embroidery parts
Can't you see am a victim of power mongers
I have foolishly support their quest
I have shouted for the nuke to be test
Justifying their foolish context
they ran away to have a succor of rest
When the war bullet penetrate the wall
I am decorated as a zeroed hero
Holding crutches leaping like a dog
So bad I am abandoned in a refugee camp
Can't you see I am the worst victim of war with relatives buried and burned
with fire of sand and the gods watch without intervention
by
Martin Ijir
May 18, 2017
May 18, 2017 at 5:35 PM UTC
Sweet waters rushing from our source
Cutting paths deep and clear
Watery sentinels for the Garden of Eden
Rumbling thunder and flashing swords
Feared and worshiped, conscripted gods made into a cradle
Rage and foam, rising from our beds
Driving all the wanderers away
We watched the Tower under construction
A thousand tongues searching for a mouth
Follow the paper boats
Eons later, we still guard the rubble
Broken bricks and fires in the distance
Yearning for our glory days
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 9:08 AM UTC
Blessed are they who are conscripted, when they are dragged into wars not of their choosing
- for they will be remembered.
Blessed are they who are convinced by politicians' rhetoric, when they are shamed into service by posters and speeches
- for they will be remembered.
Blessed are you when leaders lie to you and lead you to your slaughter, sing and be brave,
- for you will be remembered.
Blessed are you when men shell you and seek to **** you, sing and be brave, my brothers
- for you will be remembered.
You are the salt of the earth, thrown out and trampled underfoot.
You are the light of the world, placed in darkness and buried.
But truly I tell you, until heaven and earth disappears, not the least drop of your blood will by any means disappear from this soil.
Therefore anyone who sets aside one of the least of these and encourages others to forget, will be called least in this kingdom.
But you,
you
will be
remembered.
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 8:00 AM UTC
flying over Harrisburg (Seat 8C)
transcontinental traveller this day,
from a city island onwards to a city by the bay,
the mileage sum greater than a lifetime of M31 bus trips,
but the in-transit poem-notion-potion elixir in blood stirring,
when a seated poet greets the jet stream
motion turbulence
,
one more rightful writ to the
flying poem chapter,
additive motivated and self-commandeered
airborne in the selfsame real clouds
where the poems are plucked from,
their distance to my body’s poem functions,
vastly abbreviated so they arrive more wet, chilled and urgent,
we become heated tango paired
already approaching Indiana, crossing Ohio,
over whose living souls have I traversed,
over whose stored poems have I flown through,
ruffling their crinkled white wrapper covers, the decorative ribbons,
whose hand waves have I discerned,
and whose cheeks have I gently kissed?
this land is my land, this land is our land,
and from the soft cream of moisture white,
stumbled on my long lost and well forgotten poems, thereby
freshly creasing and dampening yellowings
with the renewable tears when greeting old friends
of the who and when poetry was a secret garden
where I hid and withdrew and transpired the essential oils
of my deconstructed constitution
see this poem is more me just checking in on you below,
you up ahead, and those in arreared reared view mirror,
and on me, composing at an altitude of 31,824 feet to
strings of violins, my one true plane
as compensator for this ramble unfocused I gift you this:
*conscripted by the thin atmosphere,
constricted by my failings, my limited stock of words,
my extra clouded judgement, my heartbeats rapido speak,
telling me to tell you my brothers, my sisters,
mine own adapted children,
we have never been closer than we are today,
until that day I knock and grinningly embrace and erase
that tiny space between our ******* and in unison breathe*
8:50am EST entente
entering into Illinois
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 9:16 AM UTC
Such a shame
Whose cause is the effect?
Where are the shoulders
that should carry the blame?
Why and how
could one ignore
the awesomely
tragic regret?
Who are the they?
Those whom to blame
The guilty one that bares
little or no remorse
Should that one be indicted
tried and judged convicted
of High Crimes unto
Unspeakable Treason?
The unforgiven, unforgivable
...unforgiving Patriot
Purposed to rebellion
against the established order
Conscripted from birth unto the Eternal Blessed Revolution
Running insubordinately
when instructed to stand still
Walking when ordered to sit
Standing when advice from all is to lay down
Blame me for surely
without doubt
it must be all my fault
Such a shame
Blame Me.
-R.
(6.1.10)
-Hlywd
Aug 16, 2017
Aug 16, 2017 at 1:27 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
I’m hurt and I’m confused
Got a bad case of the blues
Opioid addiction’s old news
'Cos someone lit the fuse
And now you find it everywhere
In places where they didn’t care
But life indeed can be unfair
So they’ve become aware
Just say no was like denying
That whole communities were dying
Then we discovered they were lying
Iran Contra revealed them buying
Drugs that kept our communities addicted
Not in the least were they conflicted
‘Long as they thought it was restricted
To the areas that they conscripted
Because it has become systemic
Now it’s called an epidemic
And treatment is the new polemic
The rest I guess is academic
And so I wonder where to begin
Treatment was the thing back then
Until prevention made its way in
Now maintenance happens to be back again
Medical professionals now treat the affliction
That politely is known as opioid addiction
If they didn’t it would be dereliction
Of office treatment in their jurisdiction
Some of you may not be aware
That opioid addicts can get office care
For many of ‘em it’s an answer to a prayer
A stigma free environment beyond compare
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2017. All rights reserved.
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 3:01 AM UTC
Platinum wishes; handfuls of disease
Ostentatious, drifting memories
They meld into one, fall to your knees
Conscripted love, forced to believe.
The pleasant hours often show
The check is signalled, liquor flows
Kisses stick like rain upon clothed skin
Every touch a knowing nod to sin.
We’re all that’s left
Mere animated corpses on the Earth
The adults of our dreams are trees instead of ants
Ambition while it’s stable never lasts.
All complex emotions hide beneath
Nothing of the topics which we’d agreed
Slights as smooth as slippers on our feet
Insults fly like hail; dense as sleet.
Your warmth is my addiction, doomed to always splinter
Sneaking bottles inside of psych wards
Voices prized above, not untoward.
The faintest of conclusions lack the foresight to predict
Complications always rise
They never sink.
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 6:35 PM UTC
It was a long long way
through dark days
and dank nights
taking dark sides
against the other
against the distant
against the odds.
Trusting the relay of work horses
to drag our destruction
to haul our backsides
to dredge our pain
to our hollow -
to some kind of victory
that I'll never speak of again
outside of my nightmare prayers
for some kind of forgiveness.
-----------------
Blessed are you, who are conscripted , when you are dragged into wars not of your choosing -
For you will be remembered.
Nov 4, 2017
Nov 4, 2017 at 2:59 AM UTC
“Every herd is a refuge for giftlessness…Only the solitary seek
the truth, and they break with all those who don't love it
sufficiently.”
― Boris Pasternak, Doctor Zhivago
You cannot write with your fist clenched in hate
You cannot sing with a conscripted voice
You cannot dance if you are made to march
You cannot love if your heart is not free
You cannot think if they slogan your mind
You cannot play if they deny your joy
You cannot dream if they program your spirit
You cannot pray if they poison your soul
You are an artist, a seeker of truth:
And no one should finish this line for you*
Mar 9, 2019
Mar 9, 2019 at 3:08 PM UTC
before the fireflies
made an appearance
about the time cicadas
began their buzz
when the men were lighting
after dinner ****
and moms clanging dishes,
a noisy resentment
I was on the street, with brothers
named Harry and Johnny
playing baseball, mostly
missing our catches
it had not registered in our grade school heads
dusk was not good light for hardball
nor had we learned what it was like
to see anything die
save the bees we suffocated in jars
(forgive us our sins, Father),
though that night, the last day of school,
the stars were all aligned
IF the creator wanted us to see
mangled mortality:
he came around the corner of
Vandenburg and Vine
in his graduation gift--a hot new Chrysler,
all chrome and crank
the telephone pole he hit didn't see him, or
complain--it remained straight, tall
when the driver went through the windshield
and his skull introduced itself to wood and pitch
my dad was the first to come through
the door, though other fathers followed
I recall colors, though muted
by the fading light
red, red, pink, even white and gray and blond--his hair,
flattop still in place
well, it was on the half head I saw
from across the street
where Harry, Johnny and I were conscripted
to stand
my mother brought a yellow towel,
to stop bleeding I thought I heard
but my father never used it, telling her
instead to bring the green army blanket
which he draped over the boy's body the very second
before we saw the ambulance lights
by then, the fireflies were beginning
their dance
we were told to go inside, to hide our
eyes from the body on a stretcher
the slamming of the ambulance doors,
which I watched through our window
while my father used Lava soap to wash his hands;
then my mother pulled the drapes
blocking from view the pole, the crushed car,
and the glow of fireflies drifting above it all
May 15, 2017
May 15, 2017 at 3:00 PM UTC
to give back to the enemy and fleeing from the battlefield at the time of fighting(Sahih Bukhari: Volume 4, Book 51: Wills and Testaments (Wasaayaa), Number 28:)
Sahih Bukhari: Volume 4, Book 52: Fighting for the Cause of ALLAH [S.W.T], Number 65:
Narrated Abu Musa (R.A):
If a religion celebrates war
What then is religion for?
To instigate battle, to encourage ******
to perpetuate belief, or aims yet absurder?
Instigating empire from the corrusive sands
innocents slain as religion expands,
tolerance and nurture dispelled-
difference culled.
Religion will corrupt the mind
turning even the best of us morally blind,
actions scripted by dubious text
lives pretenaturally wrecked-
civilisations devastated
ideologically impregnated,
hoary beards and hoary words
twittering with dim-witted birds.
Books provide touchstones
for antique bones,
inflammable phrases
for religious actors caught in symbolic mazes,
inspiring hatred
in undeveloped souls, hate unabated.
Fighting to expand a creed
is planting the very seed
of pain and injustice,
of terror in music festivals
knives that rise and fall
in a rythmic toll
Young girls displaying flesh
hacked to death.
In such imaginings ethics fails
like the frightened child in ferocious gales.
Can we celebrate war
through religion's constant gore,
acolytes acquired
through spear and sword?
Expanding the umma through contemporary states
the unenquiring priest convinced of heroic fates,
of suicides enrolled in heaven
amongst similarly conscripted brethren,
for a god complicit in ******
what, oh what, is absurder?
Sep 4, 2017
Sep 4, 2017 at 11:02 AM UTC