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Late, my grandson! half the morning have I paced these sandy tracts,
Watch'd again the hollow ridges roaring into cataracts,

Wander'd back to living boyhood while I heard the curlews call,
I myself so close on death, and death itself in Locksley Hall.

So--your happy suit was blasted--she the faultless, the divine;
And you liken--boyish babble--this boy-love of yours with mine.

I myself have often babbled doubtless of a foolish past;
Babble, babble; our old England may go down in babble at last.

'Curse him!' curse your fellow-victim? call him dotard in your rage?
Eyes that lured a doting boyhood well might fool a dotard's age.

Jilted for a wealthier! wealthier? yet perhaps she was not wise;
I remember how you kiss'd the miniature with those sweet eyes.

In the hall there hangs a painting--Amy's arms about my neck--
Happy children in a sunbeam sitting on the ribs of wreck.

In my life there was a picture, she that clasp'd my neck had flown;
I was left within the shadow sitting on the wreck alone.

Yours has been a slighter ailment, will you sicken for her sake?
You, not you! your modern amourist is of easier, earthlier make.

Amy loved me, Amy fail'd me, Amy was a timid child;
But your Judith--but your worldling--she had never driven me wild.

She that holds the diamond necklace dearer than the golden ring,
She that finds a winter sunset fairer than a morn of Spring.

She that in her heart is brooding on his briefer lease of life,
While she vows 'till death shall part us,' she the would-be-widow wife.

She the worldling born of worldlings--father, mother--be content,
Ev'n the homely farm can teach us there is something in descent.

Yonder in that chapel, slowly sinking now into the ground,
Lies the warrior, my forefather, with his feet upon the hound.

Cross'd! for once he sail'd the sea to crush the Moslem in his pride;
Dead the warrior, dead his glory, dead the cause in which he died.

Yet how often I and Amy in the mouldering aisle have stood,
Gazing for one pensive moment on that founder of our blood.

There again I stood to-day, and where of old we knelt in prayer,
Close beneath the casement crimson with the shield of Locksley--there,

All in white Italian marble, looking still as if she smiled,
Lies my Amy dead in child-birth, dead the mother, dead the child.

Dead--and sixty years ago, and dead her aged husband now--
I this old white-headed dreamer stoopt and kiss'd her marble brow.

Gone the fires of youth, the follies, furies, curses, passionate tears,
Gone like fires and floods and earthquakes of the planet's dawning years.

Fires that shook me once, but now to silent ashes fall'n away.
Cold upon the dead volcano sleeps the gleam of dying day.

Gone the tyrant of my youth, and mute below the chancel stones,
All his virtues--I forgive them--black in white above his bones.

Gone the comrades of my bivouac, some in fight against the foe,
Some thro' age and slow diseases, gone as all on earth will go.

Gone with whom for forty years my life in golden sequence ran,
She with all the charm of woman, she with all the breadth of man,

Strong in will and rich in wisdom, Edith, yet so lowly-sweet,
Woman to her inmost heart, and woman to her tender feet,

Very woman of very woman, nurse of ailing body and mind,
She that link'd again the broken chain that bound me to my kind.

Here to-day was Amy with me, while I wander'd down the coast,
Near us Edith's holy shadow, smiling at the slighter ghost.

Gone our sailor son thy father, Leonard early lost at sea;
Thou alone, my boy, of Amy's kin and mine art left to me.

Gone thy tender-natured mother, wearying to be left alone,
Pining for the stronger heart that once had beat beside her own.

Truth, for Truth is Truth, he worshipt, being true as he was brave;
Good, for Good is Good, he follow'd, yet he look'd beyond the grave,

Wiser there than you, that crowning barren Death as lord of all,
Deem this over-tragic drama's closing curtain is the pall!

Beautiful was death in him, who saw the death, but kept the deck,
Saving women and their babes, and sinking with the sinking wreck,

Gone for ever! Ever? no--for since our dying race began,
Ever, ever, and for ever was the leading light of man.

Those that in barbarian burials ****'d the slave, and slew the wife,
Felt within themselves the sacred passion of the second life.

Indian warriors dream of ampler hunting grounds beyond the night;
Ev'n the black Australian dying hopes he shall return, a white.

Truth for truth, and good for good! The Good, the True, the Pure, the Just--
Take the charm 'For ever' from them, and they crumble into dust.

Gone the cry of 'Forward, Forward,' lost within a growing gloom;
Lost, or only heard in silence from the silence of a tomb.

Half the marvels of my morning, triumphs over time and space,
Staled by frequence, shrunk by usage into commonest commonplace!

'Forward' rang the voices then, and of the many mine was one.
Let us hush this cry of 'Forward' till ten thousand years have gone.

Far among the vanish'd races, old Assyrian kings would flay
Captives whom they caught in battle--iron-hearted victors they.

Ages after, while in Asia, he that led the wild Moguls,
Timur built his ghastly tower of eighty thousand human skulls,

Then, and here in Edward's time, an age of noblest English names,
Christian conquerors took and flung the conquer'd Christian into flames.

Love your enemy, bless your haters, said the Greatest of the great;
Christian love among the Churches look'd the twin of heathen hate.

From the golden alms of Blessing man had coin'd himself a curse:
Rome of Caesar, Rome of Peter, which was crueller? which was worse?

France had shown a light to all men, preach'd a Gospel, all men's good;
Celtic Demos rose a Demon, shriek'd and slaked the light with blood.

Hope was ever on her mountain, watching till the day begun--
Crown'd with sunlight--over darkness--from the still unrisen sun.

Have we grown at last beyond the passions of the primal clan?
'**** your enemy, for you hate him,' still, 'your enemy' was a man.

Have we sunk below them? peasants maim the helpless horse, and drive
Innocent cattle under thatch, and burn the kindlier brutes alive.

Brutes, the brutes are not your wrongers--burnt at midnight, found at morn,
Twisted hard in mortal agony with their offspring, born-unborn,

Clinging to the silent mother! Are we devils? are we men?
Sweet St. Francis of Assisi, would that he were here again,

He that in his Catholic wholeness used to call the very flowers
Sisters, brothers--and the beasts--whose pains are hardly less than ours!

Chaos, Cosmos! Cosmos, Chaos! who can tell how all will end?
Read the wide world's annals, you, and take their wisdom for your friend.

Hope the best, but hold the Present fatal daughter of the Past,
Shape your heart to front the hour, but dream not that the hour will last.

Ay, if dynamite and revolver leave you courage to be wise:
When was age so cramm'd with menace? madness? written, spoken lies?

Envy wears the mask of Love, and, laughing sober fact to scorn,
Cries to Weakest as to Strongest, 'Ye are equals, equal-born.'

Equal-born? O yes, if yonder hill be level with the flat.
Charm us, Orator, till the Lion look no larger than the Cat,

Till the Cat thro' that mirage of overheated language loom
Larger than the Lion,--Demos end in working its own doom.

Russia bursts our Indian barrier, shall we fight her? shall we yield?
Pause! before you sound the trumpet, hear the voices from the field.

Those three hundred millions under one Imperial sceptre now,
Shall we hold them? shall we loose them? take the suffrage of the plow.

Nay, but these would feel and follow Truth if only you and you,
Rivals of realm-ruining party, when you speak were wholly true.

Plowmen, Shepherds, have I found, and more than once, and still could find,
Sons of God, and kings of men in utter nobleness of mind,

Truthful, trustful, looking upward to the practised hustings-liar;
So the Higher wields the Lower, while the Lower is the Higher.

Here and there a cotter's babe is royal-born by right divine;
Here and there my lord is lower than his oxen or his swine.

Chaos, Cosmos! Cosmos, Chaos! once again the sickening game;
Freedom, free to slay herself, and dying while they shout her name.

Step by step we gain'd a freedom known to Europe, known to all;
Step by step we rose to greatness,--thro' the tonguesters we may fall.

You that woo the Voices--tell them 'old experience is a fool,'
Teach your flatter'd kings that only those who cannot read can rule.

Pluck the mighty from their seat, but set no meek ones in their place;
Pillory Wisdom in your markets, pelt your offal at her face.

Tumble Nature heel o'er head, and, yelling with the yelling street,
Set the feet above the brain and swear the brain is in the feet.

Bring the old dark ages back without the faith, without the hope,
Break the State, the Church, the Throne, and roll their ruins down the *****.

Authors--essayist, atheist, novelist, realist, rhymester, play your part,
Paint the mortal shame of nature with the living hues of Art.

Rip your brothers' vices open, strip your own foul passions bare;
Down with Reticence, down with Reverence--forward--naked--let them stare.

Feed the budding rose of boyhood with the drainage of your sewer;
Send the drain into the fountain, lest the stream should issue pure.

Set the maiden fancies wallowing in the troughs of Zolaism,--
Forward, forward, ay and backward, downward too into the abysm.

Do your best to charm the worst, to lower the rising race of men;
Have we risen from out the beast, then back into the beast again?

Only 'dust to dust' for me that sicken at your lawless din,
Dust in wholesome old-world dust before the newer world begin.

Heated am I? you--you wonder--well, it scarce becomes mine age--
Patience! let the dying actor mouth his last upon the stage.

Cries of unprogressive dotage ere the dotard fall asleep?
Noises of a current narrowing, not the music of a deep?

Ay, for doubtless I am old, and think gray thoughts, for I am gray:
After all the stormy changes shall we find a changeless May?

After madness, after massacre, Jacobinism and Jacquerie,
Some diviner force to guide us thro' the days I shall not see?

When the schemes and all the systems, Kingdoms and Republics fall,
Something kindlier, higher, holier--all for each and each for all?

All the full-brain, half-brain races, led by Justice, Love, and Truth;
All the millions one at length with all the visions of my youth?

All diseases quench'd by Science, no man halt, or deaf or blind;
Stronger ever born of weaker, lustier body, larger mind?

Earth at last a warless world, a single race, a single tongue--
I have seen her far away--for is not Earth as yet so young?--

Every tiger madness muzzled, every serpent passion ****'d,
Every grim ravine a garden, every blazing desert till'd,

Robed in universal harvest up to either pole she smiles,
Universal ocean softly washing all her warless Isles.

Warless? when her tens are thousands, and her thousands millions, then--
All her harvest all too narrow--who can fancy warless men?

Warless? war will die out late then. Will it ever? late or soon?
Can it, till this outworn earth be dead as yon dead world the moon?

Dead the new astronomy calls her. . . . On this day and at this hour,
In this gap between the sandhills, whence you see the Locksley tower,

Here we met, our latest meeting--Amy--sixty years ago--
She and I--the moon was falling greenish thro' a rosy glow,

Just above the gateway tower, and even where you see her now--
Here we stood and claspt each other, swore the seeming-deathless vow. . . .

Dead, but how her living glory lights the hall, the dune, the grass!
Yet the moonlight is the sunlight, and the sun himself will pass.

Venus near her! smiling downward at this earthlier earth of ours,
Closer on the Sun, perhaps a world of never fading flowers.

Hesper, whom the poet call'd the Bringer home of all good things.
All good things may move in Hesper, perfect peoples, perfect kings.

Hesper--Venus--were we native to that splendour or in Mars,
We should see the Globe we groan in, fairest of their evening stars.

Could we dream of wars and carnage, craft and madness, lust and spite,
Roaring London, raving Paris, in that point of peaceful light?

Might we not in glancing heavenward on a star so silver-fair,
Yearn, and clasp the hands and murmur, 'Would to God that we were there'?

Forward, backward, backward, forward, in the immeasurable sea,
Sway'd by vaster ebbs and flows than can be known to you or me.

All the suns--are these but symbols of innumerable man,
Man or Mind that sees a shadow of the planner or the plan?

Is there evil but on earth? or pain in every peopled sphere?
Well be grateful for the sounding watchword, 'Evolution' here,

Evolution ever climbing after some ideal good,
And Reversion ever dragging Evolution in the mud.

What are men that He should heed us? cried the king of sacred song;
Insects of an hour, that hourly work their brother insect wrong,

While the silent Heavens roll, and Suns along their fiery way,
All their planets whirling round them, flash a million miles a day.

Many an aeon moulded earth before her highest, man, was born,
Many an aeon too may pass when earth is manless and forlorn,

Earth so huge, and yet so bounded--pools of salt, and plots of land--
Shallow skin of green and azure--chains of mountain, grains of sand!

Only That which made us, meant us to be mightier by and by,
Set the sphere of all the boundless Heavens within the human eye,

Sent the shadow of Himself, the boundless, thro' the human soul;
Boundless inward, in the atom, boundless outward, in the Whole.

                                                *

Here is Locksley Hall, my grandson, here the lion-guarded gate.
Not to-night in Locksley Hall--to-morrow--you, you come so late.

Wreck'd--your train--or all but wreck'd? a shatter'd wheel? a vicious boy!
Good, this forward, you that preach it, is it well to wish you joy?

Is it well that while we range with Science, glorying in the Time,
City children soak and blacken soul and sense in city slime?

There among the glooming alleys Progress halts on palsied feet,
Crime and hunger cast our maidens by the thousand on the street.

There the Master scrimps his haggard sempstress of her daily bread,
There a single sordid attic holds the living and the dead.

There the smouldering fire of fever creeps across the rotted floor,
And the crowded couch of ****** in the warrens of the poor.

Nay, your pardon, cry your 'forward,' yours are hope and youth, but I--
Eighty winters leave the dog too lame to follow with the cry,

Lame and old, and past his time, and passing now into the night;
Yet I would the rising race were half as eager for the light.

Light the fading gleam of Even? light the glimmer of the dawn?
Aged eyes may take the growing glimmer for the gleam withdrawn.

Far away beyond her myriad coming changes earth will be
Something other than the wildest modern guess of you and me.

Earth may reach her earthly-worst, or if she gain her earthly-best,
Would she find her human offspring this ideal man at rest?

Forward then, but still remember how the course of Time will swerve,
Crook and turn upon itself in many a backward streaming curve.

Not the Hall to-night, my grandson! Death and Silence hold their own.
Leave the Master in the first dark hour of his last sleep alone.

Worthier soul was he than I am, sound and honest, rustic Squire,
Kindly landlord, boon companion--youthful jealousy is a liar.

Cast the poison from your *****, oust the madness from your brain.
Let the trampled serpent show you that you have not lived in vain.

Youthful! youth and age are scholars yet but in the lower school,
Nor is he the wisest man who never proved himself a fool.

Yonder lies our young sea-village--Art and Grace are less and less:
Science grows and Beauty dwindles--roofs of slated hideousness!

There is one old Hostel left us where they swing the Locksley shield,
Till the peasant cow shall **** the 'Lion passant' from his field.

Poo
Cathyy Mar 2016
There's a letter that I'll never
Deliver to you girl you left a mess in my world,
And now things in my bedroom
Remind me of you..

See there are old cd's I burned
And paper planes crashed by the door
And song lyrics spilled on the floor
I should probably clean it all up but
A part of me just won't forget us
You must have been pretty special
Cause these days, I try not to be so sentimental..
Did you get the memo?
I've been recording demos
And someday in December,
I'll record a single'
Just you wait.
I'm not going anywhere but up,
Though things in my bedroom remind me of you, I actually don't give a ****
I'm just bringing all of this up
Because, I thought it'd be nice
To spare you a thought, and a poem
Every now and then...
Oh **** we used to be the best of friends
And in my journals there's evidence
Man its been a while and you're still relevant..
So for the hell of it
Let's raise a glass....
Oh in my room theres a few birthday cards
But as the years go on, i get less and less of those
And theres a lava lamp, thats pretty small.. But thats okay
Cause its next to my cd player thats still playing my first mixtape..
So oh yeah, let's raise a glass..
To the person I am today,
Darling you said we all have to change
Well if i did, it came from a place of pain..
Thanks for the positive response on the last two poems! But this is typical Cathy now! A new little freestyle :)
MRQUIPTY Jun 2016
Beyond bewildered that one of class
empowered by playing politics.
Dare now to claim ground so far distance
from democractic vote as good practise .

Rule; a shameful parade dressed in colours
and ideology popular hued
resplendently stained by party failures
to engage despite pressed powers used.

Influence from Baron's of paper print
devoted to preserving the city state.
Machiavelli and power of the prince
Used against democracy as vile hate

That we demos, the people, maintain
the laws that protect as one, the same
what meanings truth and justice had
we've understood and will not pass
that bill was paid at stalingrad

(not the first time) and we are glad
to see reflected in the glass
what meanings truth and justice had

in eyes that are forever sad
seeing the bones beneath the grass
that bill was paid at stalingrad

for generations good and bad
by that immense levée-en-masse
(what meanings truth and justice had)

so demos spoke and thus forbade
the foolish claims of herrenrass
that bill was paid at stalingrad

so many folk might think us mad
to speak of mankind as one class
what meanings truth and justice had
that bill was paid at stalingrad
El andaluz envejecido que tiene gran razón para su orgullo,
El poeta cuya palabra lúcida es como diamante,
Harto de fatigar sus esperanzas por la corte,
Harto de su pobreza noble que le obliga
A no salir de casa cuando el día, sino al atardecer, ya que las
sombras,
Más generosas que los hombres, disimulan
En la común tiniebla parda de las calles
La bayeta caduca de su coche y el tafetán delgado de su traje;
Harto de pretender favores de magnates,
Su altivez humillada por el ruego insistente,
Harto de los años tan largos malgastados
En perseguir fortuna lejos de Córdoba la llana y de su muro
excelso,
Vuelve al rincón nativo para morir tranquilo y silencioso.

Ya restituye el alma a soledad sin esperar de nadie
Si no es de su conciencia, y menos todavía
De aquel sol invernal de la grandeza
Que no atempera el frío del desdichado,
Y aprende a desearles buen viaje
A príncipes, virreyes, duques altisonantes,
Vulgo luciente no menos estúpido que el otro;
Ya se resigna a ver pasar la vida tal sueño inconsistente
Que el alba desvanece, a amar el rincón solo
Adonde conllevar paciente su pobreza,
Olvidando que tantos menos dignos que él, como la bestia
ávida
Toman hasta saciarse la parte mejor de toda cosa,
Dejándole la amarga, el desecho del paria.

Pero en la poesía encontró siempre, no tan
sólo hermosura, sino ánimo,
La fuerza del vivir más libre y más soberbio,
Como un neblí que deja el puño duro para buscar
las nubes
Traslúcidas de oro allá en el cielo alto.
Ahora al reducto último de su casa y su huerto le alcanzan
todavía
Las piedras de los otros, salpicaduras tristes
Del aguachirle caro para las gentes
Que forman el común y como público son arbitro
de gloria.
Ni aun esto Dios le perdonó en la hora de su muerte.

Decretado es al fin que Góngora jamás fuera poeta,
Que amó lo oscuro y vanidad tan sólo le dictó sus
versos.
Menéndez y Pelayo, el montañés henchido por
sus dogmas,
No gustó de él y le condena con fallo inapelable.

Viva pues Góngora, puesto que así los otros
Con desdén le ignoraron, menosprecio
Tras del cual aparece su palabra encendida
Como estrella perdida en lo hondo de la noche,
Como metal insomne en las entrañas de la tierra.
Ventaja grande es que esté ya muerto
Y que de muerto cumpla los tres siglos, que así pueden
Los descendientes mismos de quienes le insultaban
Inclinarse a su nombre, dar premio al erudito,
Sucesor del gusano, royendo su memoria.
Mas él no transigió en la vida ni en la muerte
Y a salvo puso su alma irreductible
Como demonio arisco que ríe entre negruras.

Gracias demos a Dios por la paz de Góngora vencido;
Gracias demos a Dios por la paz de Góngora exaltado;
Gracias demos a Dios, que supo devolverle (como hará con
nosotros),
Nulo al fin, ya tranquilo, entre su nada.
Denis Martindale Oct 2013
tinyurl-dot-com/d-m-latest-poems

That's a shortcut to my poemhunter poems.
The search my poems option helps ME find my poems.
Visit the standard webpage or the print-friendly text version.
The end of October 2013 has meant quite a few poems were added.

Some were about the Stephen Gayford wildlife prints.
They are being sold on UK TV's Shopping channels.
I visit their websites and view the images and watch the TV demos.

Since joining hellopoetry, I visited several members' blogs and websites.
I've also visited the youtube-dot-com website to see members' videos.
My Stephen Gayford blog is here: denis-martindale-dot-blogspot-dot-com

I've checked Google for any websites that have used my poetry.
The images search also found lots of fantastic websites, too.

The deviantart-dot-com website features lots of fantasy art images.
They can lead poets to brand new poetry description ideas.
Just use the search site option for a desired poetry topic.

My Fantasy Art click-a-pic slideshow has some Superhero artwork,
view the wonderful galleries here: jennifersjpgs-dot-shows-dot-it
and some of my Superhero poems have been published based on these.
The Google image 'my name' search found lots of images like never before.

Regards, Denis Martindale.
Mae Jun 2017
My depression is a shape shifter
Some days it can be as big as a lion
And others it can be as small as a bee
On the good days I can feel happy and free like a weight has been lifted from god knows what
But on the bad days... god the bad days
It can feel like the world is against me, i wake up and my body tells me no. I go to school and avoid everyone because I know I will either hurt them or myself like I constantly do. it's not just physical pain either it's emotional pain that never stops like someone constant telling me I'm worthless.I'm ugly.
Why are you here?!? I ask myself
Why did god put me here just to torture me
And on these days a little bit inside of me shrivels up and dies
It's like smoking, the first time it's not that bad but after a while your lungs start collapsing, slowly dying inside of you without you knowing until it's too late to change it.
On the bad days I lie to everyone and say I'm fine
IM FINE!
Are you actually kidding me! Do you honestly believe that I'm fine?
Look at my arms and my legs
Do you not see them scars do you not see that my only way of me not killing myself is to control my physical pain because clearly my emotional pain is out of control.
On the bad days it's like a downwards spiral which I don't know when it will stop or if it ever will.
On the bad days I don't know if I will beat my battle I don't know if I will **** my demos
But I hope and I pray that one day. One day someone will see how actually messed up I am.
How can they not see it already!
It's not going to be until I try and **** myself that you or someone else will actually work it out!
I. Don't. Want. To. Be. Here.
I. Want. To. Die.
But then I don't
If that's my only way out I'll take it but I don't want to
Mum say " I just want you to be happy"
How! How can I be happy when most days I feel like there's no point, everyone hates me any way so what's the point!
You don't understand.
My depression is a shapeshifter.
I hope one day you will work it out
A poem to all the people who don't understand
Tommy May 2014
you say you stand for democracy,
but do you really know the meaning of the word?
you tell me he was a dictator, yes there were 18 elections, but all of them were rigged, he was corrupt,
but  tell me,
is not this system worse?
where a party can only stand if it has the money to launch a campaign, where votes are bought by those with the wealth, only looking to protect their own interests?

you have chosen to directly ignore all of the evidence placed before you
that tell you you're wrong;
he could not have had an agenda when he described the democracy you hate so much as "the most perfect democracy he's ever seen",
you've ignored every piece of legislation he passed, all to give rise to greater democracy to the real people of the country
and you tell me there's political repression when there were 80% turnouts and over 30 other parties in each of those elections.

you are so blinkered by those walls around your mind
you don't want to accept that he could have done it better than you
because you know that once you acknowledge that,
once the world acknowledges that
all you built for you
and that other 1%
will be taken from you,
as it should have been long ago.

i don't know how it's going to happen,
not now, not in this lifetime,
but in lifetimes to come,
people will be taught that the meaning of the word
democracy
lies in demos, the people
and that those big conglomerates,
no matter how much money they have,
are not the demos.
that there is more to life than your capital accumulation;
their health, their education; their basic human rights
are, and always will be, more important than how many zeroes
are written in your will,
and that no matter how much they drill it into you,
you are beautiful, you are unique, you are important
so stand tall  and proud, hands on heart
because there is more to life than the money you make.

how this will be taught, i do not know,
but as a starter, maybe we could try teaching the cats themselves
that there is more they can do for the world
than sit on thrones of gold,
and there is more to life
than how many carats they have,
and i think a brilliant way to teach this
would be to **** all of their friends and family
until they realise that money isn't all that important,
and however malicious an act that would be,
i could rest safe in the knowledge that my death toll
would not be a fraction of theirs.
(i'm just angry i promise i will never **** another human being! :P)
b e mccomb Jul 2016
it doesn't have to be
perfect.

you're cutting demos
not diamonds.

i'm creating paragraphs
not parachutes.

she's drawing pictures
not pistols.

he's constructing bookshelves
not buildings.

we're making differences
not disasters.

we don't have to be
perfect
to be
poets.
Copyright 12/10/15 by B. E. McComb
Siendo mozo Alvargonzález,
dueño de mediana hacienda,
que en otras tierras se dice
bienestar y aquí, opulencia,
en la feria de Berlanga
prendóse de una doncella,
y la tomó por mujer
al año de conocerla.Muy ricas las bodas fueron
y quien las vio las recuerda;
sonadas las tornabodas
que hizo Alvar en su aldea;
hubo gaitas, tamboriles,
flauta, bandurria y vihuela,
fuegos a la valenciana
y danza a la aragonesa.   Feliz vivió Alvargonzález
en el amor de su tierra.
Naciéronle tres varones,
que en el campo son riqueza,
y, ya crecidos, los puso,
uno a cultivar la huerta,
otro a cuidar los merinos,
y dio el menor a la Iglesia.   Mucha sangre de Caín
tiene la gente labriega,
y en el hogar campesino
armó la envidia pelea.   Casáronse los mayores;
tuvo Alvargonzález nueras,
que le trajeron cizaña,
antes que nietos le dieran.   La codicia de los campos
ve tras la muerte la herencia;
no goza de lo que tiene
por ansia de lo que espera.   El menor, que a los latines
prefería las doncellas
hermosas y no gustaba
de vestir por la cabeza,
colgó la sotana un día
y partió a lejanas tierras.La madre lloró, y el padre
diole bendición y herencia.   Alvargonzález ya tiene
la adusta frente arrugada,
por la barba le platea
la sombra azul de la cara.   Una mañana de otoño
salió solo de su casa;
no llevaba sus lebreles,
agudos canes de caza;

  iba triste y pensativo
por la alameda dorada;
anduvo largo camino
y llegó a una fuente clara.   Echóse en la tierra; puso
sobre una piedra la manta,
y a la vera de la fuente
durmió al arrullo del agua.   Y Alvargonzález veía,
como Jacob, una escala
que iba de la tierra al cielo,
y oyó una voz que le hablaba.Mas las hadas hilanderas,
entre las vedijas blancas
y vellones de oro, han puesto
un mechón de negra lana.Tres niños están jugando
a la puerta de su casa;
entre los mayores brinca
un cuervo de negras alas.La mujer vigila, cose
y, a ratos, sonríe y canta.-Hijos, ¿qué hacéis? -les pregunta.Ellos se miran y callan.-Subid al monte, hijos míos,
y antes que la noche caiga,
con un brazado de estepas
hacedme una buena llama.   Sobre el lar de Alvargonzález
está la leña apilada;
el mayor quiere encenderla,
pero no brota la llama.-Padre, la hoguera no prende,
está la estepa mojada.   Su hermano viene a ayudarle
y arroja astillas y ramas
sobre los troncos de roble;
pero el rescoldo se apaga.Acude el menor, y enciende,
bajo la negra campana
de la cocina, una hoguera
que alumbra toda la casa.   Alvargonzález levanta
en brazos al más pequeño
y en sus rodillas lo sienta;-Tus manos hacen el fuego;
aunque el último naciste
tú eres en mi amor primero.   Los dos mayores se alejan
por los rincones del sueño.
Entre los dos fugitivos
reluce un hacha de hierro.   Sobre los campos desnudos,
la luna llena manchada
de un arrebol purpurino,
enorme globo, asomaba.Los hijos de Alvargonzález
silenciosos caminaban,
y han visto al padre dormido
junto de la fuente clara.   Tiene el padre entre las cejas
un ceño que le aborrasca
el rostro, un tachón sombrío
como la huella de un hacha.Soñando está con sus hijos,
que sus hijos lo apuñalan;
y cuando despierta mira
que es cierto lo que soñaba.   A la vera de la fuente
quedó Alvargonzález muerto.Tiene cuatro puñaladas
entre el costado y el pecho,
por donde la sangre brota,
más un hachazo en el cuello.Cuenta la hazaña del campo
el agua clara corriendo,
mientras los dos asesinos
huyen hacia los hayedos.Hasta la Laguna Negra,
bajo las fuentes del Duero,
llevan el muerto, dejando
detrás un rastro sangriento,
y en la laguna sin fondo,
que guarda bien los secretos,
con una piedra amarrada
a los pies, tumba le dieron.   Se encontró junto a la fuente
la manta de Alvargonzález,
y, camino del hayedo,
se vio un reguero de sangre.Nadie de la aldea ha osado
a la laguna acercarse,
y el sondarla inútil fuera,
que es la laguna insondable.Un buhonero, que cruzaba
aquellas tierras errante,
fue en Dauria acusado, preso
y muerto en garrote infame.   Pasados algunos meses,
la madre murió de pena.Los que muerta la encontraron
dicen que las manos yertas
sobre su rostro tenía,
oculto el rostro con ellas.   Los hijos de Alvargonzález
ya tienen majada y huerta,
campos de trigo y centeno
y prados de fina hierba;
en el olmo viejo, hendido
por el rayo, la colmena,
dos yuntas para el arado,
un mastín y mil ovejas.
    Ya están las zarzas floridas
y los ciruelos blanquean;
ya las abejas doradas
liban para sus colmenas,
y en los nidos, que coronan
las torres de las iglesias,
asoman los garabatos
ganchudos de las cigüeñas.Ya los olmos del camino
y chopos de las riberas
de los arroyos, que buscan
al padre Duero, verdean.El cielo está azul, los montes
sin nieve son de violeta.La tierra de Alvargonzález
se colmará de riqueza;
muerto está quien la ha labrado,
mas no le cubre la tierra.   La hermosa tierra de España
adusta, fina y guerrera
Castilla, de largos ríos,
tiene un puñado de sierras
entre Soria y Burgos como
reductos de fortaleza,
como yelmos crestonados,
y Urbión es una cimera.   Los hijos de Alvargonzález,
por una empinada senda,
para tomar el camino
de Salduero a Covaleda,
cabalgan en pardas mulas,
bajo el pinar de Vinuesa.Van en busca de ganado
con que volver a su aldea,
y por tierra de pinares
larga jornada comienzan.Van Duero arriba, dejando
atrás los arcos de piedra
del puente y el caserío
de la ociosa y opulenta
villa de indianos. El río
al fondo del valle, suena,
y de las cabalgaduras
los cascos baten las piedras.A la otra orilla del Duero
canta una voz lastimera:«La tierra de Alvargonzález
se colmará de riqueza,
y el que la tierra ha labrado
no duerme bajo la tierra.»   Llegados son a un paraje
en donde el pinar se espesa,
y el mayor, que abre la marcha,
su parda mula espolea,
diciendo: -Démonos prisa;
porque son más de dos leguas
de pinar y hay que apurarlas
antes que la noche venga.Dos hijos del campo, hechos
a quebradas y asperezas,
porque recuerdan un día
la tarde en el monte tiemblan.Allá en lo espeso del bosque
otra vez la copla suena:«La tierra de Alvargonzález
se colmará de riqueza,
y el que la tierra ha labrado
no duerme bajo la tierra».   Desde Salduero el camino
va al hilo de la ribera;
a ambas márgenes del río
el pinar crece y se eleva,
y las rocas se aborrascan,
al par que el valle se estrecha.Los fuertes pinos del bosque
con sus copas gigantescas
y sus desnudas raíces
amarradas a las piedras;
los de troncos plateados
cuyas frondas azulean,
pinos jóvenes; los viejos,
cubiertos de blanca lepra,
musgos y líquenes canos
que el grueso tronco rodean,
colman el valle y se pierden
rebasando ambas laderasJuan, el mayor, dice: -Hermano,
si Blas Antonio apacienta
cerca de Urbión su vacada,
largo camino nos queda.-Cuando hacia Urbión alarguemos
se puede acortar de vuelta,
tomando por el atajo,
hacia la Laguna Negra
y bajando por el puerto
de Santa Inés a Vinuesa.-Mala tierra y peor camino.
Te juro que no quisiera
verlos otra vez. Cerremos
los tratos en Covaleda;
hagamos noche y, al alba,
volvámonos a la aldea
por este valle, que, a veces,
quien piensa atajar rodea.Cerca del río cabalgan
los hermanos, y contemplan
cómo el bosque centenario,
al par que avanzan, aumenta,
y la roqueda del monte
el horizonte les cierra.El agua, que va saltando,
parece que canta o cuenta:«La tierra de Alvargonzález
se colmará de riqueza,
y el que la tierra ha labrado
no duerme bajo la tierra».
    Aunque la codicia tiene
redil que encierre la oveja,
trojes que guarden el trigo,
bolsas para la moneda,
y garras, no tiene manos
que sepan labrar la tierra.Así, a un año de abundancia
siguió un año de pobreza.   En los sembrados crecieron
las amapolas sangrientas;
pudrió el tizón las espigas
de trigales y de avenas;
hielos tardíos mataron
en flor la fruta en la huerta,
y una mala hechicería
hizo enfermar las ovejas.A los dos Alvargonzález
maldijo Dios en sus tierras,
y al año pobre siguieron
largos años de miseria.   Es una noche de invierno.
Cae la nieve en remolinos.
Los Alvargonzález velan
un fuego casi extinguido.El pensamiento amarrado
tienen a un recuerdo mismo,
y en las ascuas mortecinas
del hogar los ojos fijos.No tienen leña ni sueño.Larga es la noche y el frío
arrecia. Un candil humea
en el muro ennegrecido.El aire agita la llama,
que pone un  fulgor rojizo
sobre las dos pensativas 
testas de los asesinos.El mayor de Alvargonzález,
lanzando un ronco suspiro,
rompe el silencio, exclamando:-Hermano, ¡qué mal hicimos!El viento la puerta bate
hace temblar el postigo,
y suena en la chimenea
con hueco y largo bramido.Después, el silencio vuelve,
y a intervalos el pabilo
del candil chisporrotea
en el aire aterecido.El segundo dijo: -Hermano,
¡demos lo viejo al olvido!

  Es una noche de invierno.
Azota el viento las ramas
de los álamos. La nieve
ha puesto la tierra blanca.Bajo la nevada, un hombre
por el camino cabalga;
va cubierto hasta los ojos,
embozado en negra capa.Entrado en la aldea, busca
de Alvargonzález la casa,
y ante su puerta llegado,
sin echar pie a tierra, llama.   Los dos hermanos oyeron
una aldabada a la puerta,
y de una cabalgadura
los cascos sobre las piedras.Ambos los ojos alzaron
llenos de espanto y sorpresa.-¿Quién es?  Responda -gritaron.-Miguel -respondieron fuera.Era la voz del viajero
que partió a lejanas tierras.   Abierto el portón, entróse
a caballo el caballero
y echó pie a tierra. Venía
todo de nieve cubierto.En brazos de sus hermanos
lloró algún rato en silencio.Después dio el caballo al uno,
al otro, capa y sombrero,
y en la estancia campesina
buscó el arrimo del fuego.   El menor de los hermanos,
que niño y aventurero
fue más allá de los mares
y hoy torna indiano opulento,
vestía con ***** traje
de peludo terciopelo,
ajustado a la cintura
por ancho cinto de cuero.Gruesa cadena formaba
un bucle de oro en su pecho.Era un hombre alto y robusto,
con ojos grandes y negros
llenos de melancolía;
la tez de color moreno,
y sobre la frente comba
enmarañados cabellos;
el hijo que saca porte
señor de padre labriego,
a quien fortuna le debe
amor, poder y dinero.
De los tres Alvargonzález
era Miguel el más bello;
porque al mayor afeaba
el muy poblado entrecejo
bajo la frente mezquina,
y al segundo, los inquietos
ojos que mirar no saben
de frente, torvos y fieros.   Los tres hermanos contemplan
el triste hogar en silencio;
y con la noche cerrada
arrecia el frío y el viento.-Hermanos, ¿no tenéis leña?-dice Miguel.             -No tenemos
-responde el mayor.               Un hombre,
milagrosamente, ha abierto
la gruesa puerta cerrada
con doble barra de hierro.

El hombre que ha entrado tiene
el rostro del padre muerto.Un halo de luz dorada
orla sus blancos cabellos.
Lleva un haz de leña al hombro
y empuña un hacha de hierro.   De aquellos campos malditos,
Miguel a sus dos hermanos
compró una parte, que mucho
caudal de América trajo,
y aun en tierra mala, el oro
luce mejor que enterrado,
y más en mano de pobres
que oculto en orza de barro.   Diose a trabajar la tierra
con fe y tesón el indiano,
y a laborar los mayores
sus pegujales tornaron.   Ya con macizas espigas,
preñadas de rubios granos,
a los campos de Miguel
tornó el fecundo verano;
y ya de aldea en aldea
se cuenta como un milagro,
que los asesinos tienen
la maldición en sus campos.   Ya el pueblo canta una copla
que narra el crimen pasado:«A la orilla de la fuente
lo asesinaron.¡qué mala muerte le dieron
los hijos malos!En la laguna sin fondo
al padre muerto arrojaron.No duerme bajo la tierra
el que la tierra ha labrado».   Miguel, con sus dos lebreles
y armado de su escopeta,
hacia el azul de los montes,
en una tarde serena,
caminaba entre los verdes
chopos de la carretera,
y oyó una voz que cantaba:«No tiene tumba en la tierra.
Entre los pinos del valle
del Revinuesa,
al padre muerto llevaron
hasta la Laguna Negra».
    La casa de Alvargonzález
era una casona vieja,
con cuatro estrechas ventanas,
separada de la aldea
cien pasos y entre dos olmos
que, gigantes centinelas,
sombra le dan en verano,
y en el otoño hojas secas.   Es casa de labradores,
gente aunque rica plebeya,
donde el hogar humeante
con sus escaños de piedra
se ve sin entrar, si tiene
abierta al campo la puerta.   Al arrimo del rescoldo
del hogar borbollonean
dos pucherillos de barro,
que a dos familias sustentan.   A diestra mano, la cuadra
y el corral; a la siniestra,
huerto y abejar, y, al fondo,
una gastada escalera,
que va a las habitaciones
partidas en dos viviendas.   Los Alvargonzález moran
con sus mujeres en ellas.
A ambas parejas que hubieron,
sin que lograrse pudieran,
dos hijos, sobrado espacio
les da la casa paterna.   En una estancia que tiene
luz al huerto, hay una mesa
con gruesa tabla de roble,
dos sillones de vaqueta,
colgado en el muro, un *****
ábaco de enormes cuentas,
y unas espuelas mohosas
sobre un arcón de madera.   Era una estancia olvidada
donde hoy Miguel se aposenta.
Y era allí donde los padres
veían en primavera
el huerto en flor, y en el cielo
de mayo, azul, la cigüeña
-cuando las rosas se abren
y los zarzales blanquean-
que enseñaba a sus hijuelos
a usar de las alas lentas.   Y en las noches del verano,
cuando la calor desvela,
desde la ventana al dulce
ruiseñor cantar oyeran.   Fue allí donde Alvargonzález,
del orgullo de su huerta
y del amor a los suyos,
sacó sueños de grandeza.   Cuando en brazos de la madre
vio la figura risueña
del primer hijo, bruñida
de rubio sol la cabeza,
del niño que levantaba
las codiciosas, pequeñas
manos a las rojas guindas
y a las moradas ciruelas,
o aquella tarde de otoño,
dorada, plácida y buena,
él pensó que ser podría
feliz el hombre en la tierra.   Hoy canta el pueblo una copla
que va de aldea en aldea:«¡Oh casa de Alvargonzález,
qué malos días te esperan;
casa de los asesinos,
que nadie llame a tu puerta!»   Es una tarde de otoño.
En la alameda dorada
no quedan ya ruiseñores;
enmudeció la cigarra.   Las últimas golondrinas,
que no emprendieron la marcha,
morirán, y las cigüeñas
de sus nidos de retamas,
en torres y campanarios,
huyeron.           Sobre la casa
de Alvargonzález, los olmos
sus hojas que el viento arranca
van dejando. Todavía
las tres redondas acacias,
en el atrio de la iglesia,
conservan verdes sus ramas,
y las castañas de Indias
a intervalos se desgajan
cubiertas de sus erizos;
tiene el rosal rosas grana
otra vez, y en las praderas
brilla la alegre otoñada.   En laderas y en alcores,
en ribazos y en cañadas,
el verde nuevo y la hierba,
aún del estío quemada,
alternan; los serrijones
pelados, las lomas calvas,
se coronan de plomizas
nubes apelotonadas;
y bajo el pinar gigante,
entre las marchitas zarzas
y amarillentos helechos,
corren las crecidas aguas
a engrosar el padre río
por canchales y barrancas.   Abunda en la tierra un gris
de plomo y azul de plata,
con manchas de roja herrumbre,
todo envuelto en luz violada.   ¡Oh tierras de Alvargonzález,
en el corazón de España,
tierras pobres, tierras tristes,
tan tristes que tienen alma!   Páramo que cruza el lobo
aullando a la luna clara
de bosque a bosque, baldíos
llenos de peñas rodadas,
donde roída de buitres
brilla una osamenta blanca;
pobres campos solitarios
sin caminos ni posadas,¡oh pobres campos malditos,
pobres campos de mi patria!
    Una mañana de otoño,
cuando la tierra se labra,
Juan y el indiano aparejan
las dos yuntas de la casa.
Martín se quedó en el huerto
arrancando hierbas malas.   Una mañana de otoño,
cuando los campos se aran,
sobre un otero, que tiene
el cielo de la mañana
por fondo, la parda yunta
de Juan lentamente avanza.   Cardos, lampazos y abrojos,
avena loca y cizaña,
llenan la tierra maldita,
tenaz a pico y a escarda.   Del corvo arado de roble
la hundida reja trabaja
con vano esfuerzo; parece,
que al par que hiende la entraña
del campo y hace camino
se cierra otra vez la zanja.   «Cuando el asesino labre
será su labor pesada;
antes que un surco en la tierra,
tendrá una arruga en su cara».   Martín, que estaba en la huerta
cavando, sobre su azada
quedó apoyado un momento;
frío sudor le bañaba
el rostro.           Por el Oriente,
la luna llena, manchada
de un arrebol purpurino,
lucía tras de la tapia
del huerto.           Martín tenía
la sangre de horror helada.
La azada que hundió en la tierra
teñida de sangre estaba.   En la tierra en que ha nacido
supo afincar el indiano;
por mujer a una doncella
rica y hermosa ha tomado.   La hacienda de Alvargonzález
ya es suya, que sus hermanos
todo le vendieron: casa,
huerto, colmenar y campo.   Juan y Martín, los mayores
de Alvargonzález, un
Daniel A Russ Jul 2010
Maiden, maiden, maiden, a depilidate mobious minaret –
Holical, Eris begs an atlatl defection, the
Genuis-from-Mars technique – an erathicus lecanopteris.
Suffretex, past-perfection in pastel gloxinia,
Glowingly acidic and shiftingly glossidic, it’s cosmaltry mariala;
Ungual outmoded, holonym singing Aquilar rapax as demiurge.
Demos and Phobos weep, coruscating terrathos, killing riva.

Swell quickly, optic ophidia, lest the ira florena rise –
Rise, maiden, rise optic ophidia, ignore Irredelphine!
Strut the hematacolpa and pace-willow, but fail flow:
Deciduous telechir beckons, demanding autobogotic-hajra.
****-venom and picea hovea, eche verri naught echo –
Beta-decay and COBOL error, fandango with teeth
And sing praise for Eucladanic soignè solaris

Sprint quick, maiden-solidago gesparisè, to Misra pourum!
Majerns and hapax, death-knell aloud and encelia,
Enfloranè, haste! Enatic haste tichodrome, flee, anise!
Apios, harken: tryst-sans-thermobic sweeping of thresher-thrown,
Little-low else yet achroma, de-jubilance:
Fall fairly, ayah! So to be so, blanking systemic,
A thousand steps for one death.
Santiago Jun 2015
Tell Me Do You Care?
(If You Still Care)
For Me (About Me)
Tell Me Do You Care?
(If You Still Care)
For Me

Frank V (Verse 1):
Its Been A Little Minute
Since I First Got Down
Back In The Day
When N.W.A.
Could Say **** The Police
In The Original Kday
Thought I Was Ice Cube
Went & Bought An A.K.
Sprayed Some Boys In The Hood
But Don't Quote That
Thought I Was Eazy
When I Got My First Dope Sack
Bustin' Dope Raps
Servin' All The Fiends
Drug Money Was Legit
Rap Money Just A Dream
But The Dream Came True
When Kid Frost Came Through
I Heard La Raza
****, I Could Do The Same Too
So I Rep The Brown
In Every State & Town
Those Were The Days
But Today I Still Put It Down
For All The Fans
Who Feel They Got Disconnected
From The Game
When The Lames Came & Wrecked It
But If You Want The Real
Baby I'm Still Here
Are You Still There?
Tell Me Do You Still Care?

Chorus:
Tell Me Do You Care?
(If You Still Care)
For Me (About Me)
Tell Me Do You Care?
(If You Still Care)
For Me (For Me, For Me)

Conejo (Verse 2):
I Came In Gang Bangin'
On The Mic
Ese Fresh Off The Street
In My Cortez Nikes
Ese Beach Cruiser Bikes
Smoking Primos At Night
On Some Territory ****
Enemiga In Sight
I Knew How To Write
So I Put Em Together
My 4-Track Demos
Gon' Last Forever
Cause I'm Clever
With The **** I Say
Just A Boy From The Block
West Side L.A.
I Made A Deal With The Devil
I Traded My Soul
Didn't Know What I Was Doing
Till My Heart Turned Cold
And That Brought A Lot Of Trouble
In To My Life
Along With Classic Lp's
About My Struggles & Fights
But Still I Gotta Ask
If You Still Care
If Not I'll Pay A Visit
In Your Next Nightmare
That's Only Fair
Cause I Done This For You
Even Risk My Own Freedom
This Notorious Fool

Chorus:
Tell Me Do You Care?
(If You Still Care)
For Me (About Me)
Tell Me Do You Care?
(If You Still Care)
For Me (For Me,

Kid Frost (Verse 3):
Its The Original OG
Everybody Knows Me
Started In The 80's
With That Homie Ice-T
I'm A West Coast Pioneer
Set It Off - Lead The Way
A Chicano Rapper
From The Streets Of East L.A.
20 Years Later
Look At Me
Still On The Scene
Grinding Hard - Stacking Green
Still Doing My Music Thing
So Tell Me Do You Still Care?
To All My Loyal Fans
Are You Still There?
Put It In The Air
Throw It In The Sky
I'm A Do This Music ****
Until The Day I Die
I Look Up In The Sky
You Know I Stay Strong
They Gonna Play My Music
Even When I'm Dead & Gone
A Legacy I Left Behind
You Won't Forget My Songs
I Hope My Spirit Feels It
Everytime You Put It On
Until My Dying Day
I Live Life Like A Boss
Its Viva La Raza
Y Viva Kid Frost

Chorus/Outro:
Tell Me Do You Care?
(If You Still Care)
For Me (About Me)
Tell Me Do You Care?
(If You Still Care)
For Me
(Do You Feel The Same Way Too)
Tell Me  Do You Care?
(If You Still Care)
For Me
(Listen To My Heart Beat)
With You Near Me
When You Hold Me
Can You Kiss Me
(Do You Feel The Same Way Too)
Classic
Lawrence Hall Aug 2018
“But my chief argument in defence of **** An-shih is that…
           he retired from the Court decisively, ignored all recalls, and
           took to the mountains to write poetry of no political
           significance whatever.”


              – David Warren on the poet-philosopher **** An-Shih

Recusancy is not pious quietism;
In silence it is a brave voice withdrawn
From pompous Kratos’ halls of treachery
From screaming Demos’ marketplace of noise

And up into the silent hills to save
Something of civilization, to sing
Matins among the mountain mists, to write
A page in praise of Creation, to live -

Recusancy is not quietism at all;
It is a firm rebuke to tyranny
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com.
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel
Victor Marques May 2014
A palavra amor é mágica e exala perfume em todas as suas vertentes. O amor não pode servir de veículo para conseguir aquilo que se pode fazer ou através dele obter. ?
O amor que vivemos neste mundo é sermos felizes e fazer os outros também. Existem amores que se complementam, que unem raças, religiões, pessoas, e que acima de tudo prevalecem mesmo depois da morte.
    Um amor sem contrapartidas, sem limites, sem contratos que parecem ofuscar a leveza do amor. Existem amores nobres, solidários, palpáveis, celestiais,  universais que nos faz pensar, sempre sentir o verdadeiro significado do amor.  Existem tantos acontecimentos na nossa sociedade em que o ser humano procura desmesuradamente um trabalho fácil, um abraço, um obrigado, um amor amigo. O ser humano se abandona por vezes ao capricho de ser amado, bajulado sem no entanto,  se aperceber que o amor é algo muito bem mais importante, grandioso aos olhos de todos aqueles que se dedicam com pureza aos outros seres.
    Por vezes nada podemos fazer para conseguir amar quem queremos amar...
Demos voltas e voltas e procuramos amigos, amor em tantos deleites que o mundo nos oferece materialmente. Deixámos o amor espiritual num patamar nunca lembrado. As crianças têm uma grande predisposição para dar um beijo,  um salto, um abraço,  um sorriso, para dar amor de uma forma livre,  linda e gratuita. Elas são puras, sinceras, choram , riem, prostestam e amam descaradamente tudo o que as rodeia.  Vêem nos animais ternura, carinho, e porque não amor....
    Existem algumas pessoas que não deixam entrar nelas o verdadeiro significado da palavra amor. Existem tantos acontecimentos na nossa vida em que o amor se manifesta de uma forma muito simples e familiar: casamento, baptizado, comunhão, morte ...
    Amor parece existir desde sempre. Quantas noites na vida do ser humano parece que tudo se perdeu!
Até o próprio amor se consome, se esvazia como um balão de ar que rebenta com uma alfinetada. O amor é uma arte de se comprometer com tudo o que existe, com o universo preciso, e respeitar as leis sublimes de um Deus Criador?
     Tantos seres humanos que parecendo insignificantes tem tanto amor para dar, para partilhar.  Nascemos e nem sequer sabemos se foi por amor ou por um desejo egoísta da busca de simples prazer....
O amor deveria ser um elevar da alma,  uma força poderosa de tudo conciliar e amar.

Com amor

Victor Marques
Amor, palavra, vida, seres
aurora kastanias Nov 2017
When demos loses kratia
our Greek fathers shake,
their heads in disapproval
unbelieving two millennia,
myriads of wars and corpses
abused, burned, bombed,
imprisoned and enslaved,
did not suffice to effectively mutate,
a thought into a fact.

Establishing governments supposed
to ensure our rights,
cater for the enhancement
of the quality of our lives,
irrespective of gender, ethnicity,
religion, ****** inclinations,
but most of all identity,
personal fundamental beliefs.
The Universal right to think.

Impostors passing off
as modern democracies,
collectively self-labelled
the mighty Western World,
despite more than none are led
by recognised dictators we accept,
as they only harm their own
Nicaragua, Venezuela, Cuba
to mention just a few.

And though as humans
we can merely hope
for unity strive
to accomplish the utopia
respecting demos differences,
no one can condemn
members of society
exerting their right to speak,
express their thoughts and will.

If division is for some,
a plausible solution
it is not for who disagrees
to revoke democracia,
gaol ideas by incarcerating bodies
fundamentals of authoritarianism,
as Madrid calls for European
arrest warrants for perpetrators of ideas
of independence I recall

famous words from the past.
"Ideas are far more powerful than guns.
We would not let our enemies have guns,
why should we let them have ideas?"
Yours faithfully, Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin.
On democracy and Spain
Dave Robertson Aug 2020
Pan - all
Demos - people

Everyone touched and fiddled with
tricked, cut, broken and hauled
across coals that hurt directly
or by degrees

More pernicious than a novel virus,
exposed to the utter selfishness
of folk who won’t even cover their mouths to cough
or at best will wear a cloth across their mouths
but leave their noses to bleed casual indifference

I want to love my fellow man and see them as allies
so I struggle to suppress my surprise
that too many would claw and fling
sad corpses of different colours or origins
to the rising tide
just to stay unhappily dry, never mind alive

Disposable gloved hands stretched out with open hearts,
basic ***** hygiene and an even playing field
are a tiny ask for all

Take a deep (covered) breath,
be deaf to the filthy fear peddlers
who try to cling to power
by screaming vitriol and division
one tweet and cable TV show at a time
and reach instead for the sublime and silly brilliance
of being human
Yenson Sep 2019
What does an Alpha
have to do with the sniveling Betas
when one is hued in strength and wisdom like Atlas
and lagging behind are worthless Betas who are putrid haters

No crowns nor wisdom for Betas
all brawn and never in Olympia for nectar
mired in the craven underworld yelling at their betters
the galley slaves in mud splattered tunics as living spectres

Beneath noble feet they crawl
from ignorance they gaggle hemlock
in fear and ******* by centurions they hail and bawl
as Princes in chariots walk on marbles in envy the betas squawk

So What does an Alpha
have to do with the unrated Betas
when one is hued in strength and courage like Atlas
and lagging behind are worthless Betas who are reptiles and gators
noisy rabbles spawns of ******, vandals and cutthroats with cutlass
Zach Blackmer Feb 2021
The demos of France rise to light,
To silence the cavernous glut of king.

Paris glows a bright hot white,
As the echoes of torment sing.

The people gather all their might,
To snap the golden chain.

The masters of the people’s plight,
Claw back to save their reign.

As thunder cracks to end the slight,
Paris glows a deep dark red.

The fall of this great sight,
Fills our hearts with dread.
Ryan O'Leary Jun 2023
.                    Democracy


            if you are an illiterate

                a half wit or gay


              if you’re criminal

              female or a stray


              if you're Black or

           a Jew or don’t pray


          Once in four you can

               have your say


             Pens and paper

          supplied on the day


            Your vote means

            it’s just a display.
Nely Mar 2020
Making stops from the sun to the moon
Who'd say i'd fall in love with you.
I'll land my feet on its dusky grey surface
Tell em Haze sent me,
Message you that i need better communication,
More assertion, more voice.
I'll skimp through 900 degrees,
I need the feminine energy to suffocate me
& i'll assert my drive across the reds
I'll write love letters to demos & phobos,
While i hang from the rings.
I'll take responsibility for falling in love with the stars, the moon and everything about you.
lu Mar 2018
i know it's been months since i spoke to you,
but i've been thinking about you a lot.
we used to be so close.
we'd facetime,
stay up all night.
i knew what we had couldn't possibly last,
but i would have gave anything to keep it.
i remember when i heard you sing for the first time.

2015 was the year i fell in love,
and so did you.
we were inseparable.
i'm never going to forget when you dmed me,
telling me you loved how i sang.
it was ironic, actually.
i loved how you sang too.
and it went on from there.

2016 was the year your life changed,
and so did mine.
you got the offer of a lifetime.
and like a good friend, i told you to take it.
before i knew it, you had songs on the radio.

2017 was the year i met the love of my life in person.
i surprised you.
you were on your small tour with your bandmates.
and i was so proud.
for months after,
you wrote me songs and sent me demos.
just for me.
but those words became poison,
for now you barely acknowledge me.
you're touring the world now.
half the time, i have no idea where you are.

2018 is the year you fell out of love,
but i fell deeper.
i don't know if i'm a sucker for pain,
or in love with the bittersweet reality that you're
living your dream while you are mine.
at times i wonder how you are doing.
you're always on my mind.
am i ever on yours?

i write these words knowing you'll never see them,
but it's okay, because even if you saw them,
i doubt you'd care.
but, no matter how many times you hurt me,
i'm always going to miss you.
an open letter to my friend who left me behind for his benefit.
his band is successful, but he forgot who had his back through it all.
Joseph S Pete Apr 2017
Topolobampo, Xoco, Xoco River North,
Frontera Grill, Frontera Fresco, Fonda Frontera,
Tortas Frontera, Frontera Cocina,
Lena Brava, Cruz Blanca,
Red O.

PBS specials, Michelin stars and public cooking demos
be ******,
that's too many, right?

Load up your guac with all the pork belly and pepitas
you want.
Star in a self-indulgent Lookingglass Theatre play.
Soak up the accolades of being a culinary genius
more than a Jalisco-style slow-braised goat
sits in its own juices.
But hey man, come on,
give us a break.
Caroline Lee Oct 2015
Lately I've been thinking about becoming bigger than my body
I've been processing you through **** demos on my phone
Through grey skies and empty bottles
Through blank stares and perpetuated silence
( I used to need a rhythm to write but the white noise in my head seems to work)
I've been turning corners and changing lanes
Doing the dishes and doing my time tangled in empty sheets
And it seems okay
As long as I'm not by myself for too long
Because if I let the white noise in I'll be swimming in black till the weekend
I'll numb myself in neon shades
White hot and weighty
Glimmering image of the silver screen dream
Spent shadowed twisting out into the intersection until I remember that you are not the same as you once were
And I am not the girl you needed
I'm just processing
And working on becoming bigger than my body
More than my bones more than my skin more than my gender more than a character in someone else's life
More than a thin wristed timid thing weighted down by years of neglect and indifference
More than a pair of wide dim eyes
More than myself.
I'm sorry I didn't call you back.
Yenson Mar 2021
And the delusional rule of our subjects
are subjected in subjective
in the democratic tyranny over free wills
their 'power' so underwhelming
in the evident fracas of
matter over minds
the complexities of real power
is beyond the preambles of subjects
subjected in subjective deductions
sheep don't do complexities
they gambol, graze and end as muttons
spinning wool and dying wool are not
subjective art of shorn subjects
Ken Pepiton Jul 2023
It is summer, and I did survive, the spring.
--- some lines need reading to live
Feeling for a way to say, I know
how salvation came to be desired.

Tacitly, I trusted my mother, and then,
a baby sister who was soon to die came, and
now, the looking back, allows, a vision, plain to make.

The depths of knowledge, the cultural glue
of a nation that habitually enforces allies oath to join wars
- as one nation, under Truth, (or some may think God,)
to establish the final peace war is intending to make,
some day, when all the chaos is combed
from the wooly fungi empires leave
in hidden sacred reasons for war,
schisms with abysses and eternal confusion,
such as empowers the very sun, enfolding itself
and shining on emptiness much more than on us.
------------
In good time, make all things ryhme reason,
or harmonize with harm mitigation,
to tell the truth for no other reason, my mission in life.

A negative instruction, a macrophage idea, know
lies appear in truths bent to serve a lust, a power will,

Take my instruction, the proverb treasures whisper.
Listen, in prayer, the mental exercise, of using knowns

to make known seeds, easy as dandelions do.
------------
Once there was a war in vain,
still the concept of sheeple remains,
and patience continues to cost your life,
but the truth that makes the others free, cost

a ton of time to accumulate in the original chaotic will,
to do it again, more boom, make rooom

goin up country, rolling like a persistent moss,
on the affirmation enforced compression to fuse,

one simplicity to another sublimnity - ah, ready…

Anabasis, come and see, going up, from the root.

Seeded time, time set aside to use today, to read.

Sowing time used to inform knowlegends, plaiting
patterned recognosis, strands of tangled dreads

we think, therefore, we think we may learn to know,

aha, olden days, first boundary of safety, fire lit.
Shining thing that burns, and bites the hand
that feeds it.

Valuable knowledge, any creature knows, but
maybe moths do not know, but. who knows,
moths could be called to go up,
spark a collection of unrelated facts,
arise,
thou bald head, go up,
and the shining
head begins to glow, heat escaping infra-ready

Anger, the adult tantrum of the bald one mocked,
revives an old devil of a temper preserved,
handled with kid gloves, made

from the skin of the kid that did not get away.
Scaped goat joy is ours, we celebrate, we won.

By the grace, the undeserved favor, as for services
never needed already done, accept the fact,

the deed did leave a knowledge. We learn to trust,

our own peace for protection, we seclude our selves,
alone,

to face all our demons in mortal function demos,

come, divine idea, bright known shown, come
tell me of the way out of thankless joy dispairing.

We joined and brought children up and into our time,

the bubble of being at the surface of ever itself,
the all knowing known we all think of as the whole truth,

in the oath we mentally agree to affirm,
thereby we all, solidify, the rock, on which this thing,

this wedom, you, you plurally, and me, reflecting

shining things, sure, affectually, certain as stars,
for holding storied points in the progression to now,

Time tellers held their knowing in time teller rules
to know by and to go by,

and when secrets called for instant reference, ahs,
and has, have beens and professed to follow sigh-signs

and wonder if we ever learns, as we learn once more,

evermore, is the cultural equivalent of infinity, and beyond.
A new perspective, less likely to get away from a kind of poetic purpose life offers to those enthralled by mindlessness serving the role of mindfullness.
Each reader effects the joy that powers all poetry and most songs,
thus opera... the works, the gears and levers and axels in life, turn on a dime.
Ryan O'Leary Jul 2018
Dissecting Democracies.

         Greece conceived but aborted democracy.
       Scotland distilled but evaporated democracy.
      Catalonia played but only drew with democracy?
Kabelo Mthembu Oct 2015
Reflections of illusions

Boiling water
Emotional turbulence
Excuses for every evidence
Clumsy nature leaves human to be distance

Emergency telling the truth is Accident
Follow mistakes of instructions my patient
Crafts is always astray
Please rethink your way
Trudge is always emerging

Take  caution
Mirror  reflect character in depiction
Truth or dare, lies has its own portion
Angels are demos from the same composition
Double standard
Fear is coward
Perfection  and Freedom is common fantasy
Like God above the galaxy
Commitment is equals to jealousy


Written by Kabelo Mthembu
Naomi Feb 2015
Don t think that i m proud
because i m not an angel
don t think that i don t care
just becase i act cold
but my darling it s just a mask of
Ice princess
I need someone who will save my
******* soul
but i wonder where are u?
You said u ll always have my back
where are u now when I'm
on my knees
Praying for a savior
hoping for a way to heaven
i can t escape my own demos
i need you my darling...
An u wonder why i smoke?
You think it s killing me
but the truth is it s killing you in me
and i can t resist it...
Brian Payamps Dec 2014
As I hop up in the car loading up the clip. Bullet after bullet thinking bout the hit. Park in front of Shantel mama house looking out for Tony. Johnny catches two in an alley as they run pulling on the trigger but the comb of the glock gets jammed. I see Tony dropped nine in his ribs and 11 on the next person with him. All with in 2 minutes I hear sirens ringing. All behind that my daughter's voice clearly saying daddy don't go.  But I gave in to my demos something you wouldn't know. Wrote you this letter before in case I don't make it against the police. Hope it reaches you before you become deceased. Daddy loves you.
As the Angel shows up one last time and asked me was it all worth it? To not be able see my seed grow. To join the game that that turned your mom to a fiend though and put my two brother six feet under, am I trying to make Lucifer 's trilogy?
The game doesn't love anyone
Valentina Garcia Jun 2016
It is trapped inside my mind,
The dark thoughts, they wouldn’t leave,
But it is not like i’m letting them go.
I can hear them scream and moan inside
It’s like my demos will never shut up.

I can slowly feel how they’re stuck,
Someplace between my mouth and my lungs.
I feel like i can’t take it anymore,
I feel like i’ll have to shut it off.

I can’t breath anymore,
Its taking it all,
All that i had left inside,
Just as you did.

My brain never stops,
It´s always thinking and thinking to let me die,
It is not longer like before,
Not as sweet as an apple pie,
And not as bitter as salt.
Tyler A Sullivan Nov 2018
Turn of the Season (Expanded 2019)
TURN OF THE SEASON

For Friends and Family


Then be not coy, but use your time;
And while ye may, go marry:
For having lost but once your prime,
You may forever tarry.
                                          -Robert Herrick

Intoxicated nights of orange halogen lights-
Illuminating through misty blown water.
As the April breeze ruffles the newly sprung leaves upon the trees
Men pour malted liquor inside clandestine cellars of tuxedo staff and obsequious waitresses.

Echoes of an engine shuffles on down the alley,
Startled they hide in the cornered places.
Men enclosed in smoke talk of days of old,
And better times,
And many men before and after grasp the image of their obscured faces.

Woman go about chatting of useless things and waste the night away.
Men sit about playing games of little meaning and waste the night away.
Both will head to familiar places at mornings first rays,
And April effortlessly falls into May.

And many men before and after grasp the image of their obscured faces,
Slowly trudging through the paces,
Slowly they tighten their laces,

And set out for another monotony dipped day,

Planting their ears to the ground listening;
And many things they'll hear and say,
With many hindsight memories in their mind glistening,
And their lovers will whisper are you listening,
And they'll say "yes yes my dear have no fear I am here".

And many men before and after grasp the image of their obscured faces.
And they'll make many a plan and in cases,
And step over cracks in fear of dark places.


The clink of a glass carries on down the hall;
The bartender while wiping the counter yells
"Last call",
And they'll retort "for what reason",
And he "none at all".
Then the bar goes the way of the shopping mall,
And summer slips effortlessly into fall.

What reasons can they make when the night is through,
When it's time to wake what will they do ?


As the days retreat with their hairline,
And each mirror more distortive than the last,
They'll retreat further, further into their mind,
And what will they find
With their sanity fleeting fast,
A desperate thought floating in the breeze,
A candle to thaw the freeze.


Intoxicated nights of solemn solitude,
Tucked in the back thoughts of a lonely suburb,
Trying arduously to abandon actuality,
But failing and jumping the curb.

And many men before and after grasp the image of their obscured faces.
"Sorry love they're not home I'm afraid",
"They've gone to the races",
Two lovers in two different places.

Rest assured rest assured they'll return,
They'll unconsciously sell their freedom,
Rest assured rest assured they'll return,
At this moment they are Carpe Diem.

Rest assured rest assured,
They'll be plenty of time
To fumble with furniture,
Plenty of time
To spend with her,
Plenty of time to waste
Plenty of love to give,
Now's to go slow not make haste,
Now's to go slow and live.


And they'll remember childhood
As a warm August kiss,
And where their feet stood,
And what they missed.
And when the leaves
Upon the trees
Fall down down down
To rise to their knees,
They'll remember who they are
And who they use to be.
            ...
And they'll come to age
Lost among the rushes,
And they'll gaze back on hesitation
Condescending conversations
Sharply silencing hushes.
             ...
So, before you grow old
And wilt away,
Before summer loses hold
And December has its day,
Enjoy what you have
For what you have is to enjoy,
For what you haven't
Are merely foolish toys.

This summer began as the last one did
And will end when Autumn bids
With the sun and stars above for you to see
Run around like children in the heat of lunacy.
...


Though I've fasted and wept,
Wept and prayed
And stayed stoic long
Through passing day
Scrutinized by throngs
I can never,
Never truly say
I have achieved arête.

No, I'm not the son of Xanthippus,
Who instigated the apogee of Athens.
The past beacons of Atticus
Dims my own ember passions.

No, I have not achieved what desired
Thrown to the wind it seems
Another day is expired
Forever slumbering in dreams.

Though I've loved and lost
Loved and lusted,
Won a few
Others busted,
Though I've seen the world at the needle point,
With all the sordid souls suffering,
I've lived like Cummings:
The farthest extent of emotions,
I've kept a drug induced devotion,
But never could I stop from wondering,
Never could cease sundering.

Oh do not say to me I have
squandered my time,
Racking the innermost emotions of my mind.

Oh do not speak of me
As if I were not here
But some sailor sunk at sea.

Oh do not confront my convictions,
As if I were a child
Lost among the maddening crowds,
Dreaming wild.

No, I am lost to the Demos,
They will not understand.
I wear a veil of pathos,
Deepening desolation with every  reprimand.

I've seen the valleys of my life
Where the flowers are disseminated like t.v. static,
And the only sound a high continual pitch.
                 ...

They've said go, Go I don't love you anymore
Not pretty enough to be a poem
Not intelligent enough to be of any use
                 ...
Though I've smiled and agreed
Agreed and died
Through all this hell
I have tried
...
You are not wrong who deems
It's all madness it seems

Life was so much more back then
At the apex of humanity
At childhoods end
We are met with insanity
  ...


They're troubled tonight,
Their restless gaze fails to penetrate the maw of a darkened window-

To have
To have not

To operate in the probity of normality,
To practice trembling sobriety,
To lose an arm for the ones you love,
To have in heart the morning dove,

Assures that come evening tide
Through shroud and delusion,
Secrets the world shall confide
And lift your illusion.
...

The very next morning
Or so it would seem,
Awoke the old men
Rendering a dream.

Patiently focusing
For a clearer account
The words from the past
They seemed to mount,
And as they pressed closer
Not to be deterred
It crested their mind
And then they heard

"Soured metal, rotted walls
Darkness hangs from hall to hall
Broken bonds burning ambitions
A feeling half held until fruition

Life a moment
A last choking breath
Happiness a second
Before eternal death

We exist only
In the time between
A hint of joy
Goes often unseen

Until again
The crest breaks
And life slips by
But leaves no wake

Such was the tale
Of the great eluder
A hidden knife
A dark intruder

A ****** thorn
Upon the rose
A heap of sand
At the toes

Left undone
The last request
Above the head
The water crest"

Intolerable mornings of required communion,
Accompanied with formulated phrases,
Men limp from church
Their mind wondering
Far from there
To their childhood breakfast table,
Breathing the memory becomes stable,
They hold on to it as long as they are able.

Plates of porcelain
Decorate the wall
Floral patterns swirling to the center,
Across the room mother enters,
The image wavers and ripples like water disturbed by a pebble


"Honey set the table
Get the biscuits, gravy, ladle."
Set the trays down equal from the middle, a cup to the left, forks and knifes to the right-
Get those filthy boon dockers off my floor and out of sight-
Go get your brother without causing a fight
BREAKFAST TIME
Rise and shine on the biscuit line
BREAKFAST TIME
The sun is up and shining
The coffee is on and the bacon frying"

The memory dissipated into a fleecy cloud.
It hangs heavy on their heads.
Remnants of yesterday remembered in indignation
When slipping off to bed.
  ...
With no more action left in my bones,
With no reprise resting at home,
With no pleasure found when I roam,
Distant memories I sentimentally comb.

These gems
Are all I have left,

I'll leave none for anyone else,
Just an old man
Riffing through the shelves.

Poor in mind, poor in health,
Just an old man
By him self.

I'm in the December of my days
And stuck fast in my stubborn ways,
If only I could grasp youth for longer !
If only my frail body were stronger !

If only I were confronted again with every last myriad encounter where I chose reticence,
Opposed to openness,
My martial mind refuses any peacefulness,
Perhaps the reason of my restlessness.
...

Shaking off the foreboding dream,
A distant luminary seemed to gleam,
An old man frail but proud
He spoke a poetic oration aloud.

"My head is swollen, my mind it wanders
My tongue is twisted stumbling it stutters
My thoughts are lost in the colliding clutter,
My meaning is lost under soft mutters.

My smile shields my solemnness,
My eyes reveal my weariness
I am a man of little happiness,
But refuse to possess helplessness.

I am as I decree,
An old man wrapped in misery
But not one broken to submission,
Just one in a transition.

I have tasted the bitters of love,
Witnessed the horrors of death,
I have choked my linen dove
To its final breath.

No, I am not a careless senior
Full of content
Shriveled in demeanor
Mind absent.

I'm dying not dead,
No resolving to expiration
Living instead,
No meeting expectation,
No bowing my head.

In credence I say
I'm living for today

No consideration for tomorrow
No more drowning in sorrow."

...
The heavens opened with their finale word
Come old man and join my hurd
Or was it the universe who spoke
What who gently stirring
Now awoke

Both, one or two, or together in unison
Whispered of sweet reconciliation
Come home my tortured son
Saved from damnation

Or was it darkness who called
Finally silence for body mauled
By time ever moving hand
Come rest in the ***** of the land.

His perception thinned
And then it was as he never been.


             .....



The day was overcast
Fitting the mood
Black suits stood in formation
While the unlucky ones heaved their load.

                    ...


Words spoken to strangers and colleagues.


"He was not an exceptional man

Not one of great worth
No wife, no kids, no friends.

To an outside eye it would seem as a waste
And maybe it was
But that's the nature of things to end abruptly
On a minor note"
Written by
Tyler A. Sullivan
Tricia Trout Nov 2010
Save my soul, fix my heart,
Don't let me fall apart.
Silence the voices in my head,
Forget the words they never said.
I'm fighting back horrified screams,
Help me wake from these cancerous dreams.
Stuck within this torn reality,
I cannot escape from its brutality.
Subconscious demos all around me,
These mental horrors soon will drown me.
Stop me from going insane,
I'm drowning in this rain.
Please don't turn away,
I need to hear 'It's okay.'
Be the one to save my life,
I want you to hide my knife.
Teach me to believe me in myself,
I'm begging for your help.
Not really directed towards anyone. Just something I came up with a while ago.
Àŧùl Jan 2015
Dear Time,

I have lived lonely enough so far,
Among these indifferent people,
I stand out as lonely not on par.

You've given me demos of love,
And you've given me some too,
Yet I am tortured by demons of loneliness.

They all fail to understand me,
And probably they all hate me,
They all abandon after unplugging some holes in the boat of me.

Enough of these games, time,
Let's play again our parts usually,
Hey time, don't be so hostile!!!
I'm okay Kreepy, I won't miss you ever.

Because sending kisses in IM's to all your boy friends, you're not at any fault. It's just that I'm not compatible with anyone, let alone you.

I am so extremely sorry that I tried to manipulate your life and inculcate some discipline. I forgot that your brought up has moulded you in an intangible way. You are best away from me and there can be better prospective matches than me.

Don't worry, I don't hate you.

It's just that I don't love you anymore.

Someone really close to my heart killed all my love for you by saying some really bad words.

My HP Poem #741
©Atul Kaushal
Yo feel the boomerang that hangs
Off ya mental it's plain and simple
I pop demos like pimples know the principle
How to flow master the glow like Bruce Leroy I'm turning yellow
Super Saiyan keep enemies on their knees praying
Once my skin touches the sun that's my sho gun puttin' holes in one
I'm talkin' about ya head we never chase the bread instead
Like to knock Wilmas and beat on the mental doors like Fred
In the bed cuz I make it rock hard to cop
Yet I don't stop til my nuts pop and my celestrial ***** drops
I'm speakin' ****** alchemy raisin' that third eye to heights of sunny
Ain't nothing funny never played a *** or a dummy
Mad cuz they womens be up under me sayin' punish me
Once I give em a hit of the weapon' no half steppin' like Fetchin'
This is the third stage of Armageddon no more lettin'.
Off I'm a God next to Amen'ra
Above the law like Segal ruthless on the mic tactics similiar to Siegal check the sequel
I can tell a pig cuz they always squeal for real ya know the deal
So fakers stop runnin' ya mouth
Before death becomes ya permanent seal


Once I enter your head the adrenaline sped
Leavin' ya oozin' and ya brains dead
**** what critics said mad cuz I'm bakin' more bread
Than a baker like **** shakers I be the earthquaker
Rhymes shake ya into a coma check my persona
Got few rukas from Tijuana
Tote marijuana my bicho
Strikes like the tail of an iguana black as Madonna worshipped under
The secrecy of the Romans papacy
Just another black mystery of legacy
Just cause we better than thee
lookin' at the stars I see bars beyond bars
Infectin' my ment'al like lars far from subpar as ya subconscious scarred
From my projectables that's barbed
Like wire it don't matter you still gone shatter
That badder I get the harder I hit
Like pucks to stick
I'm scoring and no goal tending this
This is me at my worse breakin' the curse through every verse
Emcees catchin' bodies
Then I am the hearse soon to take a search
Hikin' up the divine mountain and blessing's counting
It don't matter ya rhymes amount to nothing
MCs glutton as the games unbutton
But I'm dressin' up my flows then all of sudden
I gotta play my guard close soon for them to see toast
Spiritually drained as I hit em back to back like a  boomerang

this huh boomerang
Michael Marchese Feb 2018
This system slaughters people
Like they’re cattle in a factory
They grind you through the Tinder
Then erase your peoples’ history
Then sell their dreams to power their con FEdisunny city
They’ll pretend to be your friend
Like Kim Jung’s parallel Rheeality
Retreat delete the war elite
McKinley’s Ford BerlinWallStreet
With fleets of Filipino meat
That Nicaraguan ****** sheep
Still splittin’ skulls of shoeless feat
Of peace so simple, can’t you see?
Community, I speak for thee
The FIRST amendment's legacy
yo um girlies girlies
come over here
cuz i know ya adorn me og
like birdie above the rims
still rock overrals and black timbs
ask them
whos the best on the mic
no flex no plex
on to the next ***
of another kitten hittin'
n wishin'
for death upon thise foes
who used to doubt us and no shows
now im makin' about two point four
millies a year everybody stood up just to hear
the naughty by nature sound
pound for pound i buck em down
quick to scoop ya out the scene
count my mints fresh green mean and hung n lean
can u see what i mean?
jamboree and everybody celebratin'
so go on with that hatin'
we still.makim'
hits like its 1991 when i first heard my *** weighs a ton
i.understood im public enemy
number one
so here i go here i go
like Mystikal
to break my lyrical enigma
its gonna take a miracle!!

you can run but ya cant hide
from the lyrical homocide
strikes like ocean tide
split emcees into two
like jekyll and mr hide
oops watch for that slide
upside
ya head ya long dead
so chill out chill out
as we about
to set the record straight
again and again from my  tank goes to ya chin
let the competition begin
we in to win and then
pull out the straps perhaps
you new jacks need to take a nap as i slap
******* rhymes into a snore
ya adore i deserve an encore
gotta every lady makin a reservoir
observe ya curves then i say word
thinkin to myself cant wait to get the burbs
ya know ya cant down or slame me
but i knowi ******* jamboree


now that i got ya jammin
ear drums slamming
pumpin up my ****
like sneaks of a drive by hit
it dont matter where it hits ya
or gets ya im.suppose ta
rock the mic like dougie fresh
n slick rick still poppin demos and **** with my tystick lit
gotta stay higher
than a mountain
catch my fountain
of lyrics as i pour an encore
you know ya in for
this rhyming spree be *******
takin it back to ninety four
when music was real
ya soul could.feel
now adays music doesnt appeal real
fools talkin but scared but soon to be walkin
with the dead from the pump
that went upside ya head
dont play in a grown mans game
if ya feel ashamed
then knuckle up
only to get buckled
up like seatbelts leave welts
on back from my gats
imagine that?
me loosin only amusin
crowds i please old school fans i please
even street OGs
bouncin they heads to these
lyrical content
somethin the fo ya
freeestyle wild soldier that'll fold ya
cuz ya tried to slam me
but like butter i slip easily
into a style but rambling
words i be gambling
feel me now throw ya hands in the air for me
for this gotdamn jamboree
Looking for them devils grinning
Tryna block me in deep in sin
How can I make a livin'
Off the reality fake pension
Mentally in a prison
Caught up in the matrix
Mind stay playin tricks
Can't trust it bust quick
If I see my adversaries reachin'
Out to me **** your plea
Do ya see what i see
Computer love is the new human
Nature but we off nature
Can't find a mellow tune
And soon
I'll be knocking at hells door
Hopin' the father will swoop
Down and take me once more
Not too shore
Where I'll be resting hopefully it'll be in ghetto heaven
Breakin' leven
Brothers n sister's gathering
Sippin' bottles of coke and hen
But then again
Is a celebration or reforming life
Through reincarnation


My poetry ain't hard to see
The price of the real picture
But it's too costly
Im talkin' about giving up everything
Let go of the thangs that hang
Onto your mind grind and shine
And keep negativity blind
Focused on myself
Now they consider a narcissist
They just upset cuz they ain't controlling this
Pro revolutionist got some soldiers to reminisce
Setting the plan takin' a shots
Its all that I got
Once my flows drop demos pop
Up as single but they don't want to mingle
With the spirits of the universe
Break the curse prepared for the worse
I know it's hard being off guard
That's why roll a blunt a take a charge no longer fiendin' large
Destined for cremation
In fear of a reincarnation
bulletcookie Jul 2021
Moving Nightmare

speeding down the way
the demos from demons run
winter car tires spin

-cec

— The End —