"coptic" poems
I was once on a plane leaving New York (thank god) to Houston (thank you)
I watched a coptic bishop and a strange man from another religion be forced to sit next to each other, due to the over population of traveling plane.
I was amazed to see them get along
They spoke soft, hard, and with an occasional chuckle
The entire flight was quite nice
As I spoke to soon
The plane hopped on the humid pavement
And we all were at a standstill
The two men of religion unbuckled their seat belts and stood up
They hugged
Then took each others seatbelt and started strangling each other
Both with smiles
They looked at me, and I smiled back
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 12:40 AM UTC
crimson and magic
to splash without panic
in waves of compliance
for drugs made from science
and sorceress who summon the simple solutions
illusions! illusions!
of grander worth loosing
confusing the process will aid not for coptic
nor catholic
or elsewhere semantics
act frantic in panic
to sob without reason
treason! say treason!
the exit of reason
to wander in wander a fate beyond yonder
set ponder a path set by mind on the map
of solutions and systems
domestic conditions
yet wild apparitions
appear as conditioned - concerns
to a mindset as stern and subtracted
by fractions of actions repulsed by distraction
disgruntled reactions
supposing contractions
created the action
conceived from distractions
The reasons
let change be for seasons
while i stay the rock in the pond
either frozen not gone
as the watcher
still watching
content upon watching
exhaling the notion
that motions for movement
atonement! atonement!
with further consolement
atlas like the breeze of the gavel
let both parties ravel and tug
whether free or debugged
only mind over matter
unscrambles the lather
too see that is free
is like blind sight at sea
with the waves of conforming
to drown is informing
if not then be peace !
for all parties deceased
by a water so deep you could drown in your sleep
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 11:16 PM UTC
Ethnic Raging in my face
Everywhere I care to look
Coptic Christians, brown and white
Scream intolerance, forsook.
Jew and anti Jew defile
All good laws of rationale,
In raw voraciousness of hate,
In howling shred of faith’s morale.
Blessed are the just for they
Enshrine their plaque of rich noblesque,
Blessed are the weak of will
Who deeply sip from traitor’s breast.
And blessed are the strong who hold
At bay the laws of God’s restraint,
In tandem with the rich who cower,
White, behind their armoured gate.
Ethnic raging everywhere
I watch it through the children’s eyes,
Led to purge the coloured flesh,
To flay a difference ‘till it dies.
Marshalg
Recoiling from it all.
Auckland NZ
11 October 2011
Oct 11, 2011
Oct 11, 2011 at 12:17 AM UTC
I rode the crested waves
that graced the coptic sea
And crashed into the shores
of North Africa
The water was as warm
The blood hotter still
No one went on living
unless they had the will
You never made a friend
nor aquaintence by the hill
Life was sweet and short
Too easy to be killed
Your best friend was a bottle
A cigarette would do
And in emergencies
a colt 45 was too
We smuggled guns and roses
across the white hot sands and dunes
We bartered in broken languages
while whistling a softer tune
With a third eye looking back
where bullets would fall as rain
On our way to Gibraltar
One dip salute , rev the engine of the plane
There is no water to quench you
To wash away the sins
The waves of guilt run over you
They bring the sharks with fins
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 5:16 AM UTC
The Cross
It six o'clock Sunday early evening she is in
the church that looks Coptic, the sun lit up
the cross on the top and the roof looks rosé.
A Morocco radio station plays Arabic music
this is quite fitting now that they have been
targeted by a racist who has not read history,
but let us put that aside for now.
In many European countries, the leaders lament
but secretly wish they could do the same, life would
be so easier without this intrusive Islam.
We, onlookers, are guilty too we have not been able
to accept the Muslims on equal terms
The cross is now in darkness there is a murky side
to all religions they produce extremists
Jan 30, 2017
Jan 30, 2017 at 4:26 AM UTC
I have this cause so consuming . . .
like an overdose that's overwhelming
When salt water was as sweet as the memories that washed over my feet by the edge of high tide's completion
"Go find the door to your ambition
before it closes to the winds of desiccation"
The binding has cracked
the paper turned yellow
Touching , now brittled backed
So it has been written "finis" upon the last page of life
The words I collected like seashells
as the wrinkles of face grew to foretell
The foam and waves swept over my toes
as the sand was ****** away from beneath
They say the pain will go away .
then they wish you well ,
. . . turn . . . and walk away
I look back upon life as if it were a dream :
a scheme . . .
a scream . . .
and so naive
"I will check out the skies in Rome ,
I promise now when winter is gone"
I long for the hot sands of purification
Where the bleached bones
have reached end's destination
Somewhere next to a Coptic sea
where time falls short on eternity I will kneel to my desperation
In another year
it will be another day's difference in time ,
as another grain of sand falls it loosens its bind
"Won't you come and bring thirst's renewal of relief ?"
Don't leave me gazing . . .
searching for that distant smile . . . buried in my beliefs
If not . . . then
let me wish you well . . .
turn . . . and walk away
Jan 2, 2023
Jan 2, 2023 at 7:48 PM UTC
in the age of super fast optic coptic broadband connectivity,
writing had to leave the lives of respectable corset donning girls
who’d lounge all day with balzac and long tennyson stanzas,
who’d read for relaxation...
sorry to break it to you huckleberry finn...
but reading these days is all about distraction...
distraction distraction distractions...
plenty of them in the “real” world too... it’s called the goldfish
salute... slàinte mhath... dheagh shlàinte...
next time you hear an advertisement don’t think of promotion
(that’s done through the ol’ word o’ mouth)...
think more on the lines: ailing company... ailments in general...
a public relations stunt... for those grandiose profit margins;
true that... when a man is sick, has a cold a fever,
he is prescribed paracetamol... when it's a company...
the economic model prescribes the medicine known as advertisement.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 7:22 AM UTC
The sand that creeps around the rock
The base of that column, lonesome
The valley, splayed in beige and flaking
Sands,
Fallow and constant--
The cold marble, weathered and soft
And lost is the rigor of its shape.
In old age it has grown pale,
White, cracked, sinking into the grains
And I watched with solemn gaze
between the tightened gasps of breath
Thinking in good time to watch
The sinking of this fated tower
Upon the rustic sea of rock
And I watched.
Pompey, the last vigil for our Trojan souls
With no way to mount this feeling
And guide it to the pastures of the east
Or comprehend the rudiment
Of the west--
What phoenix keeps the desert in its crop
And feeds these grains to hungry beaks?
I could not satiate these thoughts,
The burning of my heart that dripped
From the embers of that bird, aloft
Pompey, for your sake--
Do not give your name
This place, the knaves, the cruel
Failure of council
Will be our end of days
As it knew yours.
Please forgive us,
We have no place to run
No Coptic King nor Ptolemaic ring
No sigh but sin within this vein
We are legion
Humming the prayers of heroes sung
When Quaestors rap upon the snare
For tides of valor left in blood
We are the mist of that
Coagulated stuff,
Bound upon the rock
And left to Love.
Nov 12, 2019
Nov 12, 2019 at 6:25 PM UTC
For a witch’s mercury shall burn in the night of day
November’s Dark Moon and mists paused
fearful of the coming rosicler
The season of witch’s silver spun unto the night
A solitary witch’s laugh tormented the quivering stars above
With each step she dressed in silver sacrament
to his death── to life on this night
The moors echoed of timed rituals of ole
dancing and coveted by white moon satin
as though snow suffered upon a long forgotten desert face
existing blowing through her in another worlds wind
Shadows that once slept in pools of night
now whispered dark velvet promises,
tantalising her marauding lips
~ The Witch’s Silver Sabbath had begun~
The eleventh window pane glinted dew to frost white
in passing her watchful eye as moon silver mist slithered
through ominous black and grey clouds
Samhain drums vibrated upon the barren moors
as veneficium brewed thoughts enchanted nocent
wishes turning her chanting fingers to fire smoked obsidian
~Her eyes turned mercury blue through mirrors of time
A ravens nocturnal flute pulsed the eleventh beat
Ravenous fecundity blistered her mind
Liquid blood and silver anointing dreams from afar,
caressing her arms as vermillion dusts drift
winding her alabaster ankles
Sensually, slowly awakening deaths lustful shudders
Coptic clans of ole worlds whispered ‘Anoka ng ou kem’e nefer’
I am black and beautiful Khem on this nights breath
Ra’s ole demand shimmered like silver
a jewelled athame in her hand his mortal life, penance
Elegant Catafalgques laid to his Mastaba
Cast from Sun to burn as King to appoint all to Amenti
The eleventh window pane cracked as she burned white
her athame turned eleven times to eleven drops of blood
On a bed of fire black roses he rose within her circle
Her chalice of amber solanum’s to brim
bathing her body in rose ****** sensual arms
His sweet violet blackness tasted of Acheron
One with the Kings temple of night on the edge of the moor
Enigmatic creatures together
──Between worlds to rule forever
© ASPAR (A Sol Poet Arnay Rumens) 11/2017
Nov 5, 2017
Nov 5, 2017 at 4:44 AM UTC
I fell asleep
and slipped into a dream
And found myself
on the white hot sand
of the Coptic seas
Where the wind
filled my soul
and brought back
life to me
I still hear the foreign
words so strange
The frustration of existing
The unique smiles that are so real
The mistrust in every handshake
Never any rain
I've been dreaming a lot lately all about my past
Like a ghost it haunts me
everytime I close my eyes
More like a resurrection
A raising of the dead
that I am not sure about
Like a train that's run out of track
A shooting star kissing Earth
A one way ticket as far
as it can go
Can't you see what those dreams have been doing to me
Jun 5, 2021
Jun 5, 2021 at 2:06 AM UTC