"convened" poems
the committee
has convened
(kangaroos corralled)
the agenda
is set
(scapegoats framed)
the politicos
are preened
(perfect patriots)
hair coiffed
teeth whitened
(fangs sharpened)
correct talking
points bulleted
(minds closed)
puffed chests
perfectly postured
(bombastic bravado)
freedom fighters
stand firm
(Constitution usurpers)
American flag
lapel pins
(sparkling bright)
liberty's spirit
and tolerance
(roundly condemned)
special interests
are watching
(payola earned)
partisan lines
clearly drawn
(democracy doomed)
Music Selection
Cream: Politician
Oakland
10/1/10
jbm
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 7:46 PM UTC
This is a place on the way after the distances
can no longer be kept straight here in this dark corner
of the barn a mound of wheels has convened along
raveling courses to stop in a single moment
and lie down as still as the chariots of the Pharaohs
some in pairs that rolled as one over the same roads
to the end and never touched each other until they
arrived here some that broke by themselves and were left
until they could be repaired some that went only
to occasions before my time and some that have spun
across other countries through uncounted summers
now they go all the way back together the tall
cobweb-hung models of galaxies in their rings
of rust leaning against the stone hail from Rene's
manure cart the year he wanted to store them here
because there was nobody left who could make them like that
in case he should need them and there are the carriage wheels
that Merot said would be worth a lot some day
and the rim of the spare from bald Bleret's green Samson
that rose like Borobudur out of the high grass
behind the old house by the river where he stuffed
mattresses in the morning sunlight and the hens
scavenged around his shoes in the days when the black
top-hat sedan still towered outside Sandeau's cow barn
with velvet upholstery and sconces for flowers and room
for two calves instead of the back seat when their time came
2.7k
To the warmth of life
And passing through with grace
Of a woman in hand under veil,
Lavished in her unconquered beauty,
Enamored with her saving grace
Amid the elation of first kiss,
Under the spell of first eternity.
And through the veils of silence
When the swarm of sounds of
Making love have devoured the hours
And he stares into fertile eyes,
The truth of his belief in them,
And the prelude to forever's nest,
The dove returns upon white unifications.
But soon the dove will deny the embrace,
And the cold lonesome dove
Will be forgotten in the skies blue,
The touch of ****** prowess ,
The soft moist of lips that convened
A destiny of adornment with kisses
So deep and meaningful that it vibrates
Through times like a phantom flame
From forever's fire,
The bitter flight of the dove with passion
To ravage her body,
Upon the return open does the veil.
Before passion abandons,
Let them return home to nest
The kisses from that eternal night,
That journey for the taste your
Of your sanguinary fruit
Provoking the eternal flight.
Before her lips close at the dove's
Return, lift the veil of forever
On the romantical threshold,
The death and purity,
The light and the venom,
What white veils may hide.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 2:09 PM UTC
I heard the flutter of a thousand feathers above me,
black birds convened at tomorrow’s end
I saw a ****** of crows encircling the sky
rushing downward into a vortex
Clattering straight for my skull
aiming for divvy morsels that fell off my body.
There’s not much left of me,
their blunt bills perforated most of my skin
Unveiling the skeleton inside this closet,
Unraveling the secrets this mouth can’t
In hoping to shut my heavy eyes to rest
and dig me a bed six feet under
so I can tumble to eternal slumber.
The tears running down my eyes diluted
the colors of my blood stained hands
as I wipe them away
Raindrops, tears, and blood
doesn’t differ much from each other
For they’re all just liquid substances that symbolizes pain.
I sight these black birds
sitting by the branches of a dead oak tree,
their claws clenched against the aged wood
Bathing in the ashes that fell like snow.
But I’m just lying perfectly still,
my back flat on solid ground
Facing the bleak sun
remaining numb and frozen
This is how I picture death
like sketching a mausoleum.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 9:39 AM UTC
You may feel about the planet what
you feel about a great baseball team or band:
that once there was a moment when, unknown
to us at the time, we convened
and lost and found ourselves in what we created.
Who should I thank for this day?
A fresh-mown lawn is a robin's repast.
A bear a black bear a rolling delicately dancing
graceful as silence sailing through the ferns and understory
unafraid and in no hurry.
My musician referral service, vacation rental business,
nonprofit management system, plant identification database,
great American songbook and anthology of poems. Coach says
in a thousand years back and forth games like lacrosse and soccer
will be played against genetically engineered primates
but baseball will be played solely by humans.
In a thousand years, amen.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 7:20 PM 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
"The pity of war, the pity war distilled" - Wilfred Owen
Somewhere in the after-haze,
Jesus sought Mohammed
who was on his way to see him.
Moses met them on the ridge
and without a mike or gavel,
the meeting was convened.
They fell to their knees in sorrow
hands cupped to catch their tears -
shed for the smoldering chaos below -
so far from what was meant to be:
Sworded and chain-mailed crusaders,
suicide synagogue bombers,
machine guns stuttering in Palestine,
fire raining from the skies
bombs igniting at the speed of death,
slaughter at a Parisian concert.
Fathers of the light rise up
from your lofty provenance.
Unite your tear-drenched hands
and come dwell within us.
Breathe healing truth into the ears
of every foe of love and life.
So much more was meant to be!
Come to us now
before the setting of the sun!
November, 2015
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 10:54 AM UTC
Twas there they convened
framed by a doorway
a triangular composition
with gods light shining
on their grey and balding heads.
an oratio ad contemplatio
of an evening.
Jan 4, 2012
Jan 4, 2012 at 11:41 PM UTC
New York City has just published
the Doomsday Book.
Highlights include:
* They will ration life saving medicine.
Sarah was right. They have convened
the death panels.
* They will enforce quarantines. They will
separate the infected from the unaffected;
hoping the infection of fascism
spreads into the mind
of the entire
body politic.
* They plan the destruction
of domestic animals.
Even little Joey's
Teddy Bear will not
be spared. As
we speak,
its furry head
lays upon their
guillotines of
justice.
* They will seize property. The
thieves running the county
are carefully planning
a final plunder.
* They will search our homes.
They see us living in our
glass cages. There is
nothing left to monitor;
but we will all be
compelled to make
daily entries
into our
Facebook
accounts.
John Q Public
believes these
measures
are good.
The terrorists
frighten his
banal
imagination.
His sound
reasoning likes
the idea of
another brick for
our prisons of fear,
another bar
to strengthen our
cages of **********
Music Selection:
Rory Gallagher,
Walk on Hot Coals
2/16/11
Oakland
jbm
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 8:01 PM UTC
I am at random,
And the lines formless
In my mind:
A lover and the pain,
A cat and a dying master,
Memories while walking
Among the tombs,
The names are faces.
And the void is a mind globe
Spreading itself into a sphere
As the sweat scourges my forehead,
I wipe my third eye:
Hours leapfrog from page
To page,
The sound of poetry is among
Everything I have known,
A dispersed word translates
Me for the verse,
But I am insubstantial,
Much as my thoughts.
In my room,
On my desk,
I brood over the wind of yesterdays
Erosions,
I am nailed to a tree,
Deep into a lifeless tree,
I am no poet saint.
I am not here nor there,
And when all the words have convened,
I will find a piece of myself
In every poem,
Though I remain incomplete.
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 3:10 PM UTC
We convened a conclave
Where the famiglia
Was casting sideways looks,
Keeping secrets from survivors.
Papa had passed,
His mantle drapping the remains.
And a day looms for its passing
To an unelected recipient
From the unresponsive benefactor.
Dirges were played.
Outside I lit a cigarette
And the cloud of smoke rose skyward.
The ballots have been counted.
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 3:12 PM UTC
It was June 6, 2015
This was a bus trip that convened
As I go along, you will see what I mean
It was the Metropolitan New York Bus Association Event
From New York City to Pennsylvania we went
We stopped in Lebanon, PA for a bus pulse stop
Timing couldn’t have been just right as seeing the buses kept our hearts functioning tops
Later, it was journey on to the Museum of Bus Transportation and the Spring Fling
However being a bus enthusiast was a good thing
There were all kinds of bus models for sure
Yet, there was plenty to explore
Viewed the Silver Eagle Continental Trailways, Golden Eagle also of Continental trailways, MC6 Motorhome Supercruiser and much more
Let the exploration go on
After that, we moved to the Annex, which was a drive away
There was a lot with more buses to see
There was the MC8 Peter Pan bus, MC9 Bonanza Bus Lines and who could forget a Capitol Trailways Buick car that travelled from Pottsville, Pinegrove and Harrisburg, Pennsylvania
Before buses hit the road, they started as a car in buses begin
Things started to change from when
Yet stagecoaches were put to an end
The only thing about that, your **** got sore and the pain you just couldn’t ignore
Being a bus nut s we hobbyist are called
We are the bus industry preservationist, and the buses we stand for all
Now I added 2 new buses to my large vast models collection
Buses are more than just over the road, they captured my heart in their behold
This is my own personal vibe being never told
I am being honest and bold
Buses have been my passion since the years of my birth
They will remain with me until my death on this Earth
Bus models have changed over the years
This is why I still preserver
Buses from past have become my memory that shall last
Museum’s capturing buses in still, but being determined has become my will.
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 7:06 PM UTC
i felt the earth move
above me
layers shifting, tectonic plates
over my head, cracks showing
throughout this global skull of mine
and my mind tried to break free
from the burning inner circle of my brain
but i remained buried
within the glowing layers
yes, today i felt like the earth
ready to explode
if so much as one sliver
of dark brown dirt would slide
over another, pressure building
and i had volcanoes just ready to give way
more than a headache, this feeling
pushed up from my beating heart
through my spine
until the struggle, the oxygen
and the blood were convened
contained
within the structure that remained
and i spent the day walking slowly
moving in straight lines
and the volcanoes were confined
and the blood moved back down
to my heart
and i went to my bed heavy
but not yet pulled apart
by gravity
saved
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 11:49 PM UTC
rhetoric conjures up the most
ambivalent compound-nouns,
e.g.:
cultural-relativism...
cultural? relavitism?
you can't do that?
**** yay!
i'll butcher someone
on a monday,
and you end up calling
me a boy-scout on a friday...
**** yeah!
might as well have been
a piece of redied kosher meat,
no?
rhetoric breeds
the most obnoxious sets of ideas,
fickle scheming
bunch of *************
horn-beggars, squatting misers,
the lard fudge,
the insolent brigadiers...
as i said:
a stick: has two ends!
you hit with one,
you get hit by the other!
test me, ************
source yourself as media
lucky with your soros...
go on, i'm waiting to see your
paycheck...
journalism, is fake
throughout, it doesn't mind
whether it's coorporate or
independent...
it's all fake right now...
the only true
journalism is done by people
who recite their own
clamour of life's effort,
those who summon the
angelic-demons who state:
don't convene.
man
was hardly a man when
he convened,
he simply turned into a monkey...
isolated?
well... sorta godly,
best replenished by isolated
examples of exceptional deviance.
thing is...
i can understand moral-relativism,
that abhorrent scale that the greeks
scorned...
but cultural-relativism?
that's a rhetorical ****
it's not even a question,
it's not even a term...
i could fiddle with a pair of
******** and find more sense...
that means jack-shit to me!
50ml of jack daniels
means more to me than
the term "cultural-relavitism"...
manhattan relative
to the amazon rainforest,
is that a relative worth pile
of comparison, or is
that, sarcasm?
i'm too drunk to make a choice...
cultural relativism...
ha ha... ha ha!
is that:
frankenstein = dracula?
you know why i
understand moral relativism?
the concept of ambiguity:
the soldier vs. the murderer...
isn't that an ambiguity?
that's moral relativism for you:
i can't tell the two apart...
the **** is "cultural relativism"?
some sort of bad joke?
a dog's **** worth of concern
for a missing bark?
******** ************ die.
Aug 18, 2017
Aug 18, 2017 at 7:41 PM UTC
offense may be caused so look away now
--
--
--
--
--
still here? OK then
I am both ****
and philanderer, in word and deed
I once found Jesus
just so that I might **** a girl
lucky that my hypocrisy was perishable
I still smell of that earlier me than you might remember
when I was filthy in my wishfulness
the sharp torture of a tissued sceptre
left me embarrassed in a honey dipped daydream
where factional contributions turned wine into water
and revenants convened before the solvent sunset
of my eccentric heartbeat
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 11:15 AM UTC
My soul aches,
Like a brain suffering from tumor.
My soul breaks,
Like that of a new day,
Telegraphing my tears along with dolor,
Sormoning the beams of the sun each day.
.
So I sought this healer amongst waters,
Where birds sings and monkeys dance
Along the boulevards of blindness,
In a great hall of fame and great matters.
And herds converged, minds convened
Only with the Polaroids of sightlessness.
.
Like a drunkard she prays,
Welcome! Welcome! she says,
To an abode of hypocrisy, jealousy, blasphemy and misery.
The therapeutic healer, healing in agony,
Dealing in the paradise of nightmares.
With me your fears shall fall like that of a lost boy's tears
And your pain meet the sweetening balm of my embrace.
She would make a good gift in heaven,
But even a better bribe in hell.
Balogun David {drunk poet}
Drunk Poets Society
© 2017
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 12:12 PM UTC
The minister of double Dutch and fettered speech
unlocks the educational establishments to teach
what's in the manifesto.
No deviations are allowed,
the minds of youth will be
tamed, framed,
chained and cowed.
We must maintain the status quo,
Free speech!
before you know
they'll want this government to go.
The minister of La di da, piped in
with a blah de blah,blah,blah,
the opposition,
thought this a speech too far and
convened a meeting in the commons bar,
where,
the minister of too much sound
bought the shadow cabinet
a round of beer.
It appears that free speech is much freer
when everybody's friends.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 12:15 PM UTC
The meeting convened
Issues brought to the table
Remain unresolved
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 1:51 PM UTC
The more absurd the concept,
The easier it is to see
That, forthwith, it will be taken
To a ludricous degree.
Group A will declare it—
An issue of great import.
Group B will tag it preposterous
And demand their day in court.
Group C comes to the forefront,
With inconsequential facts,
And will use them as the basis
For ad hominem attacks.
Group D calls a conference,
Claiming they have the solution,
Which will (naturally) necessitate
A violent revolution.
Then somebody sets off a bomb;
Now it’s page one news.
Panels of experts will be convened
To express their cogent views.
Disquiet and anxiety
Will sweep across the nation.
Each side blames others for everything,
From abortion to inflation.
Are we witnessing the fateful events
That will tear our world asunder?
Nah! It’s just the banal anatomy
Of the latest nine day wonder.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 7:27 PM UTC
"Double, double toil and trouble
Fire burn and cauldron bubble."
You know this rhyme, have heard it prior
But now, hear this - my verse to mirror.
A foolish child, to do such wrong
And string your minions, too, along
Your violent acts, and words of spite
Have earned you this most sorry plight.
The shots were fired, stakes were claimed
With such conviction, smeared my name.
And all for what? So I would leave?
Ah, what a pretty web you weave.
A novice, true, but you did try;
I'm twice as cunning, thrice as sly.
Your dues unpaid, and still you reached
So, let me practice what I preach.
The coven black has since convened
(Your kind is not the first we've seen),
Determined what the price shall be
You know your crimes, as well as we.
The modern witch is not betrayed.
What reckoning we'll see this day!
A sickened child, a woman not
Let's mind your place, as you forgot.
You think the eye I've turned was blind?
That I'd not return your work in kind?
Behold, my dear, the rule of three
All that, with nerve, you've done to me
Will come back now, and triply well
In this, my carnival of hell
You've paid admission, in advance
Forfeited hope of second chance.
There is no hiding, though I'm gone.
But I'll allow your victory song.
I possess, you see, your DNA.
And so the distance does not weigh.
The balance calls for consequence,
So new endeavors now commence.
Step right up, come right this way!
You've stirred a game, and now we'll play.
Your god is dead, but devils live
And just when there's no more to give
Again I'll strike, my darkest work
And still again, until you've learned.
Do you believe in magick, girl?
I'll let you peek our secret world.
We know no limits, no restraint;
The power here, not for the faint.
No mercy here, nor bargains made;
Your debt to us will soon be paid.
You still may beg, but per decree
Blood calls for blood.
So mote it be.
Feb 3, 2020
Feb 3, 2020 at 7:39 PM UTC
विदेश से एक अजीब सा मेहमान आया है
नाम उसने अपना कोरोना बताया है
देश में परेशानियों का पहाड़ बनकर
हज़ारों मुसीबत अपने साथ लाया है
हाथ मिलाकर वो लोगों को फ़साता है
दूरी बनाने से वो दूर भाग जाता है
मास्क ना पहनो तो वो खुश हो जाता है
और बार-बार हाथ धोने से वो हार जाता है
बीमारी का भय दिखाकर सबको डराता है
पीछे पड़ जाए एक बार तो बहुत सताता है
लापरवाही करे इंसान अगर तो
मौत के द्वार तक भी ले जाता है
डरना नहीं है इससे बस अब ये करना है
अपने हाथ और शरीर को साफ और स्वछ रखना है
उचित दूरी बनाएं सबसे घर से बाहर न निकलना है
लड़ रहे जो हमारे लिए उनका साथ निभाना है
नहीं करना अनदेखा इसको इसको सबक सिखाना है
बिन बुलाई इस आफ़त को
देश से बाहर भागना है,,
www.youtube.com/miniPOETRY
Corona leave us now
A strange guest has come from abroad
The name he called his corona
By becoming a mountain of problems in the country
Have brought thousands of trouble with you
By shaking hands he lures people
Distance makes him run away
He does not wear a mask
And he loses by repeated hand washing
Fear of disease scares everyone
Once again it hurts a lot
If humans careless then
Even leads to death
Don't be afraid just do it now
Keep your hands and body clean and clean
Make the right distance most don't get out of the house
Fighting for what we have to do with them
Do not ignore it, teach it a lesson
Un convened this crisis
Have to run out of the country
Apr 14, 2020
Apr 14, 2020 at 4:25 AM UTC
/ there's a difference
between sycophancy
and, being:
endearing...
like there's a difference
between
what psychiatrists
fear - empathy
and what the generic
(yes, that's a collectivist
term for society)
crave, in the form of sympathy...
why why, oh my...
words actually do possess
the fathomability of squares
and other forms
of ad abstractum;
so... can you make
my sudden surprise: generic?!
ginger ninja, ******* son of
a skivvying mom (um?)
'ere we go! 'ere we go!
rhyme and rhythm -
now watch me perform
a... mahler!
enough rhyme to encompass
a rhythm for you?
- ginger ninja... **** me:
good that i didn't think it up,
but merely passed it on.
(that seriously implies the genesis
of the concept of a paragraph,
in english,
utilißing the hyphen...
i'm foreign:
english isn't exactly to become
a serious concept...
i fiddle with it without playing
a violin...
i toy with it...
the mortus operandi
of the memoria of my great grandfather
(on my mother's side)
was that i was supposed to play
the piano...
sure as **** i'm playing one now...
but all my notes
are "surd"-encodings...
inorganic now...
organic later...
ha ha! that ******* i're celtic
ginger ninja! ha ha!
it's a love: that transcends
domesticatic a woman;
because there's an alternative
to keeping one?
really?!
mmm... just the thought of an alternative:
one word clue...
yummy:
mixed-race *******
jay-jay- jay-may-can oopsie far-vour
(that's québécois
for vow-oh-r
voo...
trump pursed lips...
far- -voo- -voolevie-
voo-va-voom...
and no... it's not a... favour...)
come to think of it,
i prefer organic canvases
of implementation,
since: no poet actually
convened to surprise the, "idea":
which was already a priori in
an ontological canvas;
this? this is just a posteriori!
am i the first person to actually
paint onto a psyche rather than
a blank canvas of wool?
what a ******* piss-head that i am
infuriating such ideas without
any actual implementation strategies!
/
Jul 13, 2018
Jul 13, 2018 at 10:47 AM UTC
What has become of our World?
What has become of our World?
I mostly walk around in a sweatshirt
I see ashes here and everywhere dirt
We cut down the forest for our big mansions
Animals have to leave because of these actions
Actions speak louder than words we know that
Factories are polluting water we ignore that
Streets are empty, Since I have turned nineteen
Cuz kids play video games, like they are quarantined
They say Life is one, dont let it pass you by
Chill, Smoke Cigarettes is what you get in reply
People spend alot of money going after brands
While poor people just have to wear torn pants
I was about to submit bills after a long queue
Some guy got infront sayin he has a higher repute
You know Courts are convened just for fun
Rich people commit crimes and poor gets hung
Free the world from Terrorists thats what I heard
Seeing bomb blast everyday, it feels just like another words
Seeing the politicians so happy gave a clue
Crime and Politics are much closer than a glue
Hey, everyone's a human we always say that
But racism is what we are always good at
Look, Every social crisis that we point is all true
But we are good at memes and ignoring into the blues
Religion is what that can help survive
Without that we cant even thrive....
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 2:54 PM UTC
When did, ‘You can be
Anything’, become –
‘You must be everything’.
The mother, the provider, the
Teacher, the preacher
Of hopes and dreams for
Millennial babies. Their lot
In life cast only by themselves.
An epic of their own making.
9-5 then home again,
To dishes and husbands,
Both alike in tediousness
The warrior of sleepless
Nights, lost teeth, and
Abandoned dreams.
My mother was a Mosuo,
Her grandmother an Amazon,
Matriarchs of power
Who ruled as iron ladies.
Wooden spoons were
Their guns, and
Aprons their armour,
With a flint-like stare,
And perfectly curled hair,
They convened court in
Their sitting rooms with
Cups of tea and an intelligent
Eye; that told tales, tales
Of a proud matriarchal
Ancestry, a dynasty.
‘You are one of us,
Dear millennial baby,
A future queen whose
Kingdom will be your
Kitchen, a place where
No man dare step’.
I am not a feminist
Nor a suffragette or
A dictator. I am a
Millennial baby, and
My dreams are not aligned
With the ancestral stars.
I am a daughter and a
Sister, my voice is cast
From the silent mountains
Who rise like towers to the east,
To the drought stricken
Valley that grows more
Brown and crinkled with
Each day. Do you hear me
Now spirits of old?
You tell me to be a lawyer
So I will teach. My hopes
Do not align with your stars.
I am watched by
Eager eyes for the time
In which I may rise as queen.
Those eyes will be disappointed.
For millennial babies do not
Become queens. They are
A pair of ******* with legs,
To be gawked at by the peanut-
Crunching gallery of
Men. Men. Men. Those
Who reign in the bedroom
where their power is greatest.
‘You are Otrera. Esther.
Joan of Arc. You are Rosa Park,
Portia, Ophelia, Deborah’
Those matriarchs seem to
Say. ‘You are a matriarch,
Uphold our legacy!’
Jan 9, 2020
Jan 9, 2020 at 6:36 PM UTC