"donovan" poems
In a strange mood - see/write art
in a strange way, disorganized but straight on,
light tinted magenta, issuing, in frothy large pours, from my mouth,
knowing what to say, and the meaning too,
I can more than walk, can write, on water,
where all can read weeping, Mary-miracles of seeing, living words,
themselves, on light waves lapping in a
shifting rotunda vision, color reorienting spatial senses.^
in a strange, strange stitch, seasonal spirits and witches,
Chagall, Baez, Dylan Thomas, Donovan, Richie Havens
doing their knitting in my brain, from Montmartre to the Midwest to Monterey,
painters and poets in lockstep head-messing with me,
imperfect clarity but still one voice,
see/write art,
so went and caught the wind, going gently into night
to banish the hodgepodge of uncertainty from inside out.
knowing well you don't understand fully, but jumbling tumbling
verses are sliding off my rusted tongue as fiddlers fly above,
roughened words, hewn from a paper cup, spilling diamonds uncut, imported from Sarajevo, Montparnasse, the Lower East Side.
wretched me, in the hour I first believed, this amalgamated conception conceded,
seceded from my mind into your palate for a tasting,
tho neither drugged, nor deaf and dumb, just slammed poetical-like, this write is
all I have to portend is your affections, your attentions, to yours, am beholden.
a ***** well respected man in daylight,
the hidden references accuse,
woke up to see Wednes-day Caesarian born,
askance glanced at the prior passages of the night before,
when my palate clefted,
when eyes chose not to distinguish
between right and lefted,
in the nightlight,
a ***** man disrespects language convection/convention,
and lays before you activating stanzas and his mind, prone,
but always the truth, speaking,
the visions, leaking, mind to eye,
recombinant, into our minds eye.
^ http://www.guggenheim.org/new-york/exhibitions/on-view/james-turrell
Rather than write extensive notes on the many references, inspirations in this poem, if there is a line that intrigues, ask me
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 2:49 PM UTC
Sherlock is indebted, forever;
To Mike,
For he made it possible for Holmes,
To meet the (only) friend of his life.
Oh look at John,
How baffled he was,
For he had just met a man,
About him, who knew all.
The army doctor thing, the Afghanistan war,
And that his sibling was alcoholic,
About this Sherlock was sure.
Without a word about himself,
Just the name and address,
Holmes went away,
Leaving John, with many questions,
And their answers for him to guess.
A queer flat mate, he was, a bit rude
Sherlock, you know;
Mrs. Hudson was nicer,
But not their housekeeper!
Apparently, SH would play violin to think,
Knew it was DI Lestrade at the door,
And there was another ******
Including this one, counting to four,
Without a hint.
The crime scene was sealed,
Under supervision of Donovan,
And according to Sherlock,
There was something going on,
Between her,
And Anderson.
A woman was dead,
Wore everything in pink,
Holmes deduced her marriage state,
Just by her ring!
He slammed the door at Anderson,
For he (SH) found him irritating.
“Rache is not for revenge”, Holmes said,
“She was writing Rachel, obviously”.
Left-handed she was,
And was carrying a suitcase,
But as Lestrade said,
There was never a case.
Mr. Holmes was so excited then,
He teased others to be stupid,
Watson helped him make a point,
In order to find the criminal,
But Holmes believed,
The pink case was the cupid.
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 2:03 AM UTC
Axel, who never had a rocking horse, once rode a bright blue tricycle. He called it his ‘Athenian Rhapsody’. He loved to play the tuba in bed, and when he was feeling particularly happy, would sit on the loo in the outside shed, pants around his ankles oompa-pa’ing till the cows came home.
That was quite a while ago; the tuba and the tricycle have gone, yet he can still hear the triangle sound the bell made on his tricycle, and still remembers the scraping of the old keys on the ancient tuba.
Axel listens to old sounds very well (all the time): he loves Bach, Mendelssohn and Donovan. He loves to eat crumpets with honey and drink a large white mug of milky tea; it reminds him of summer fishing trips to Lake Eucumbine, mushrooms and gnats in the full-sun morning air, (he loves to talk fishing when he’s playing chess with Carl the orderly, often quoting from his favourite magazine, ‘Modern Fly Fishing’).
Axel was once an expert at fly fishing; tying the ‘super moonshadow’ to perfection (he named the fly after what he thought was a Donovan song, written by Cat Stevens).
When the hospital staff remember to buy him a new box, Axel loves to drink Lady Grey tea made from tea bags, he prefers tea bags, he feels that somehow they bring clearer definition to tea making.
Axel thinks a lot about definition, noting how the edges of his bed are very clearly defined by the clean-blue hospital blankets that drop suddenly to the ocean of the grey linoleum floor. He likes the smell of cleanblue, it’s somehow a new sea to sail and sometimes the feel of his favourite jumper when he was a boy: a definite edge of beginning and end. He knows that soon he’ll cross the floor-grey ocean, sailing under a white sheet. But this is not a thing Axel dwells on for very long, he prefers to think of such things as his next chess move and flirting with Miriam the night nurse.
—
Axel has just beaten Carl in a game of chess. He’s said goodnight to Miriam, a long quiet goodnight, a good long, good night. He won’t wake again, he senses this – and is peaceful.
When his last breath comes he hears; a faint scraping sound and a single precious note from a triangle bell on a bright blue tricycle.
They’re good sounds.
They are old sounds.
They bring him…
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 8:10 AM UTC
Si può o non può avere sentito un po 'di qualcuno di nome Kelly Clarkson sono sposati lo scorso fine settimana .E il suo matrimonio?Total .TOTALE .Svenire .Le nostre LBBers talento ultra dietro Archetype Studio Inc. ha fatto gli onori di catturare il giorno e stanno dando a noi anatre poco fortunati una sbirciatina a tutti la bella .
e dire la verità .un piccolo sguardo a Tennessee fattoria matrimonio di Kelly è tutto quello che dobbiamo sapere che siamo con tutto il cuore in amore .Non siete d'accordo
?
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Prima di testa fuori nel fine settimana .abbiamo pochi vincitori super speciale !
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Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 9:24 PM UTC
"FIRST THERE IS A MOUNTAIN, THEN
THERE IS NO MOUNTAIN, THEN THERE IS."
she was Swedish
squeamish that a man could
still live at home with his "Mam"
she tried to get him
to...you know...think
about an "ecological self"
"You gotta think..."
she informed him
"...like a mountain!"
he looked like he had
just fallen off
a continental shelf
"Mannnn!" she thought
"He's just never grown up
a Mammy's boy...devoid of self."
he hadn't heard of Lovelock
or even Arne Naess
she spoke better English than he did
he blushed when asked
if he had read Luce Irigaray's
THIS *** WHICH IS NOT ONE
had never heard of Simone
de Beauvoir's THE SECOND ***
just the word made him blush
all he was intent on
was getting his hands on
her ample *******
so shortsighted to go on
a blind date...never again
he talked only to her cleavage
she gave him her number
a false one
the Well Woman's Centre
sang as she quickly
hurried away
Donovan's "First there is a Mountain..."
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 6:30 AM UTC
7:00am
Shelter Island,
Sat Sep10
on the south west edge of the isle,
the slowrise sunrise just behind the trees,
so early day yet, no full frontal of a sun
bathing to wake up woman, babes asleeping, but the
animals know exactly this hours early
perfection.
indeed, the crazy squirrels are random
hither and dithering in spurts of energy,
only stopping to observe a viewing of the humans
nest~resting through the glass doors with their
inquisitive, self-possessed, bedside reckless manner,
perfected.
the suns pealing gleaming gleanings picks
out any shiny reflective surface that enhances
its low-rise greeting, with a chorale of living objects
singing “Hallelujah orb, what’s in store for us today,”
river~bay, wake-less, its becalming, marbling surface, again,
perfected.
me?
I’m mugged by the perfection intersection of
my eyes-scape, first coffee, the holy quietude, only
the regular soft breaths beside, lend a counterpoint
to these thoughts and the litany of chores the iCal happily, annoyingly, prematurely but with certainty lists, resistance (Walk!)
perfectly ok.
ok not to move an inch, watching this daily movie rerun,
that energizes hope, a contemporary localized contented without the
humdrum of blaring headlines, talking heads, and the
infiltration of the guilty unfulfilled responsibilities demanding a due,
then heavens signal me, Donovan, earbud singing Colors, confirmed
perfectly ok!
“*Yellow is the color of my true love's hair
In the mornin', when we rise
In the mornin', when we rise
That's the time, that's the time
I love the best*”
Sep 10, 2022
Sep 10, 2022 at 8:21 AM UTC
~a unconscious commissioned poem~
<>
La Lumière est une Dame d'honneur
advantage Frenchies,
everything sounds
better in their language,
we readily concede
we make do
with those tongues
whose fluidity
clothes & coats,
those, we are
best at
confessing in
first light this morning
was emasculated, in thickened
first fog, eerie, discomforting,
but yet, mine alone to utilize,
and make discomfiture into
a poem of coffee and cream,
stirring within, colored dreams
Lady Light finally arrives,
descending on a staircase
from heaven, radiating all
with patience, the animals
all, proclaiming in a thousand
tongues, their thanks, their
love, for everything breathing
understand best she is the source
of creation, reanimation, and a
sharing, unsparing, birth mother
to animate and inanimate, and
the death father to all we & us,
guide to our ultimate end
the waiting is most interesting,
for indeed, there is honor within,
as I compose, the sunrises to the
precise angle to bar my vision,
power to blind and enlighten,
how can this be, but it is so,
my bones warmed, suggest I
do not complain, accepting with
no exception for this is the power
source to us all, and humility is
the key to acceptance & understanding
is this poem, is this the missive,
me~my, intended, to write,
know not,
for the words leech from my skin,
in format uncolored, uncontrolled
by mine minuscule impoverished
compost of senses, morals and my
compote of cells that are products
of a thousand prior generations
morphed into a mess of me,
as of yet, purpose hidden,
undisclosed, perhaps my
reasoning is unseasoned,
my presumption of purpose,
is just a fool’s ridiculousness
Lady Light smiles kindly on my
rambunctious ilreasoning,
for I just one of billions come,
gone, and rebirthed in chains
of endless possibilities, two
words permanently paired,
conjoined, and though the
light has now risen to heights
to totally absolve my sight,
can no longer track what
is being written, accepting my
temporally blindness with grace,
even with solace, and-bid you
adieu, adieu, (bye~bye)
so musically,
until relief will
honor me with its presents…
and I can contemplate my
foolishness once more…
and the letting…
of the
*Lady’s light
of
honor illuminating
(even me)*
<>
commissioned by Pradip
7:35 am
in the sunroom where
the intersection of all light
illuminates all kinds
<>
music:
To Try for the Sun, Song by Donovan
Aquarius/Let the Sunshine In by Fifth Dimesion
Aug 5, 2024
Aug 5, 2024 at 7:52 AM UTC
cuando arthur donovan vino del sur
hizo una parva con sus maldades resentimientos tristezas
les prendió fuego en el crepúsculo
para espantar a los mosquitos de paso
quedó solísimo apoyado en bellezas
"y qué va a hacer" decía arthur donovan con luz
o suavidad o dulzura pechonas
contando su poquito
"y qué va a hacer" decía
pero una mirada que le dieron como amparo o amor le sostenía el esqueleto
en esa mirada arthur donovan estaba parado
y hacía señales contra el mundo
"ah mirada" decía arthur donovan el entendido en sombras
"solos estamos por aquí" decía y ya la noche le rebajaba el sufrimiento
a pájaros a tierra
mojada respirando
cuando arthur donovan murió
sacó una mano afuera extendiéndola
como quien pide lluvia o nido o no tanta soledá
olvido si no hay caso
cómo llovió sobre esa mano
no hubo gente que no llorara por allí
pero ni hojita le creció al puro hueso
comido por el aire
"y qué va a hacer" decía arthur donovan
mientras el viento lo limpiaba
y él levantaba su mirada famosa
como calor desobediente a la suerte fatal
1.1k
The **** on the steeple
Proclaimed and denied to
Four corners, looked down,
And twisted.
Old men in green suits with crow's eyes
And alabaster covered bones push open doors
With wooden feet.
The postman, empty-kneed, rides his Deere
Over green fields with rabbits,
Laughing to himself.
Rentals in drives plan the day's jaunts
To ****** or Kenmare.
Shops carry faded signs:
Donovan, O'Sullivan, Finnegan.
The crow drops on the roof of Holy Cross
Which doubles as a retirement home;
Its clients plaint palms skyward with the wind.
Five hundred leave each week:
"Ireland's best... so fresh it's famous."
The laggers serve tea and scones,
Or ply in shops they may someday own.
There are no slow boats here.
The green suits leave naturally,
Others by air.
This is no country for the young
With their hillside tilting windmills of power.
Below, a young woman eats, holding
Her knife like her father, eating,
Silent, staring.
Crow and rabbit inhabit,
Stones tumble and lay for a hundred years.
Each day a new apocalypse offering
One opening. No wrappings,
No ointments, no fresh water.
No throne to approach, no voice calling
Them home.
No seventh son to dip his finger in the well
And soothe.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 7:59 AM UTC
We all have our taste.
We all are judgments.
And in music there's no different.
Except, people personal opinions.
Benny Goodman.
Duke Ellington.
Glenn Miller.
Doing their time, they were the music of soul to many.
When people probably dance a little different.
Frank Sinatra.
Vic Damone.
Nat King Cole.
Doing their era music had changed.
More was borrowed from the previous decade.
Elvis.
Little Richard.
Buddy Holly.
Fats Domino.
Gene Vincent.
Jackie Wilson and Sam Cooke.
And yes, Pat Boone too.
The music of the soul were beaingt to a different tone.
Then came the sixties.
And a various style came before us.
The Rascals.
The Beatles.
Donovan.
The Beach Boys.
The Temptations and the Supremes and the Miracles.
Was totally changed from Neal Sedaka early days.
James Taylor, Carole King, Elton John and the Eagles.
Marvin Gaye, Teddy Pendegrass and the O'jays.
Was the masters of the seventies decades
The the eighties came.
And again the music changed.
Rick James, Prince and Madonna too.
Don't we see all the above artists in the music of today.
Especially, in rap.
Where they take an old song and tries to create a new tune.
And questions, why they getting sued?
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 9:17 AM UTC
Yet Venomous Is The Lie
William J Donovan wrote and I quote
Poison
Truth is poison
This monster’s
Back in town
Stay away from
My door. don’t come
Around here no more.
Shut the windows down.
Poison is the truth.
This is my reply at the risk of miss interpretation. After reading it twice
I feel his anger in what seems to be about
A good love gone bad. The truth is deadly
It’s over so don’t come around love bites
And love kills, the truth is poison and poison is the truth. I hope that I am right.
I’m gonna work a different angle
Go in opposite direction but his words
Are the inspiration.
Yet Venomous Is the Lie
Poison is the truth
The truth is poison, this is our life
Today’s world, today’s problems
This is today’s strife
What’s good is evil
What’s right is what’s wrong
We’re living in turmoil
We don’t hear the lyrics in the song
The Devil in this time, he reigns
For he is the master deceiver
Oh Lord please have mercy
For the non believer
For they let themselves be tricked
They cannot see through the disguise
What they see is their truth
But blind are their eyes
I pray that they soon realize
The reality before they die
Truth is not poison
Yet Venomous is the lie
Written By: Charles Kean
Copyright © 12/04/2021
All rights reserved
Chuck Kean
Poison is not the truth and the truth
Is not poison yet venomous is the lie and
The great deceiver will always disguise the
lie in the way of the truth, therefore
It can seem like you've been bitten by the
poisonous truth but underneath the
disguise it was nothing more than the
venomous lie.
Dec 4, 2021
Dec 4, 2021 at 12:39 AM UTC
Yellow Freedom
*"Yellow is the color of my true love's hair
In the morning, when we rise
In the morning, when we rise
That's the time,
That's the time
I love the best...
Freedom is a word I rarely use
Without thinking, mm-hmmm,
Without thinking, mm-hmmm,
Of the time,
Of the time
When I've been loved"*
Lyrics from 'Colours' by Donovan
~~~
just another old folk rock ballad,
memory wrested from
your years as a young teen lad,
growing up rebel singing in the
Dylan and Donovan first decade
of rock n' roll and revolution
these lyrics, always a fav,
for despite your ability to
mangle a tune,
this one when you sang,
never sounded quite so bad
a precise half century from the first time,
till tonight,
when you once again
caught yourself humming
those two juxtaposed and particular
two stanzas, quiet out loud
the words yellow and freedom,
merge as one, a phrase ripe,
coloring precise,
your present circumstances
*that simple is the finest
in defining us,
and these lyrics are
my simplest truth,
fifty years on*
as the clock nears the 00:00 hour,
the unobservable line
between this one and tomorrow,
between just another day
and one with a poem born,
yellow freedom are words
that define his world
blurry edges,
and for no godly reason on earth,
your become a writer of a
thank you note
entitled, to the title
Yellow Freedom
to whom should this signed note
be addressed,
be delivered,
with a smile and a languid caress?
there's a blonde in my bed,
inches from my head,
so close, why not,
leave it neath her pillow,
for her awakening,
for she stirred in me
an awakening too,
so this one,
*is my simplest truth,
still singing,
fifty years on*
~~~
March 23, 2016
11:53pm
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 12:00 AM UTC
"Colours" by Donovan.
“Colors” by a False Poet.
Yellow is the color of my true love's hair
sun dapples her gold shadings
In the mornin', when we rise
sun searching for the truest color
in the mornin', when we rise
peaking, she’s peeking, we waking, uprising
That's the time, that's the time.
her best time, sleepy doe eyed, all yellow,
I love the best
bangs tickling eyes, I write of sun sparks
Blue's the color of the sky
blue is the primary, the selected color,
In the mornin', when we rise
that’s chosen to be a lovers greeting,
In the mornin', when we rise
a cloudy white pastel of blue,
That's the time, that's the time
that’s the days first part, our best parting
I love the best
Green's the color of the sparklin' corn
*green Granny Smith apples, ****
In the mornin', when we rise
our mouths pucker, drool, chin juices
In the mornin', when we rise
that’s the days first part, a best parting
That's the time, that's the time
that’s the days first part, a best joining
I love the best
Mellow is the feelin' that I get
mellow is with me, all de day
When I see her, mm hmm
seeing her first eye blinking smile
When I see her, uh huh
the feeling infused, all de day,
That's the time, that's the time
she grants me loves freedom
I love the best
Freedom is a word I rarely use
except when I look upon her
Without thinkin', mm hmm
with knowing, full complete
Without thinkin', uh huh
with knowing, fully, completely
Of the time, of the time
of every time our morning glances meet
When I've been loved
Sep 21, 2019
Sep 21, 2019 at 9:47 AM UTC
Wave to your boy, he's fading fast.
Sickness incarnate, not meant to last.
In the evening sprinkle, under dying skies,
he's sailing his paper boat into unknown
waters.
Wave to your boy as he departs.
There was no self love, ever.
Ever.
It's when the herb hits me hard I
knew masculine was never meant.
Never.
Mar 31, 2017
Mar 31, 2017 at 8:38 PM UTC
Politics is a shame
Two Donalds to blame
So if the name is black listed
Please don't get it twisted
I'm not one of em
Named after Donovan
Let me clarify
Spell my name with a Y
Let me testify
So you can't deny
I'm not one of em
Named after Donovan
Jul 11, 2017
Jul 11, 2017 at 1:32 PM UTC
Little pebble upon the sand
Now you're lying here in my hand,
How many years have you been here?
Little human upon the sand
From where I'm lying here in your hand,
You to me are but a passing breeze.
The sun will always shine where you stand
Depending in which land
You may find yourself.
Now you have my blessing, go your way.
Happiness runs in a circular motion
Thought is like a little boat upon the sea.
Everybody is a part of everything anyway,
You can have everything if you let yourself be.
Happiness Runs.
Why? Because.
Why? Because.
Why? Because.
Why? Because.
Happiness runs in a circular motion.
Thought is like a little boat upon the sea.
You can have everything if you let yourself be.
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 2:35 AM UTC
*HUMAN NATURE
Many come from lands
that seem light years away.
Speaking tongues that tickles,
as neurons flow in an open mind.
Strange, yet like the sounds of Jade,
makes you giggle as you realize
all that is being said is,
“Hey Red, how are you doing man?”
~~~
Many come looking for HOPE;
work, a way to feed their young ones.
Many come simply to survive
the destruction
that once was home.
They come to escape being disappeared;
come because of disappeared loved ones;
sons, husbands, daughters
found some day, maybe, in mass graves.
Disappeared by:
Ton Ton Macoutes,
Death Squads, Dincote,
Special forces conquistadors,
or any number of SOA trained
armies/soldiers stamped with:
“Made In The U.S.A.”
~~~
They come to ‘live free’ or
find ‘democracy’, ironically
to the very place
that is responsible for this disgrace-
fullness committed against humanity.
~~~
They come to live
and yet, their dreams are of
HOME!
Home where there is peace.
Home, where jobs are meaningful,
not enslaving.
Home, where the land is yours
and crops plentiful,
allowing you to live as human beings.
~~~
These are proud,
brave and daring men
with names like:
Thanh, Aftab, Simon, Mukesh
and Donovan.
These are determined, dignified women
with heads held high
and names that seek the skies:
Ekta, Mai, Kenya, Nazma
and Sing.
~~~
Looking out at their varied shades of skin,
wistful eyes, reflecting like
fall leaves in a vast rain forest,
it is easy to get lost
in these cold waters of diversity.
Looking
Lost
Wishing
Dreaming of a dripping wet world
as seen from outer space;
AS ONE.
No borders,
No boundaries,
flying thru a blue, cloudless sky.
Breaking ALL traditions chains.
(written using the pen name)
~~redzone 4.2.01~~
Posted 10.31.15 Aztec Warrior*
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 11:13 PM UTC
... ... !DUMPING C:/SYSTEM/CACHE/ROOTNAMEBOOT! ... ...
OK?
Y/N
Y/N
... ...DUMPING... ...
... ...Jaymisun Kearney... ...
... ...Lenore Lux... ...
... ...Donovan Chee... ...
... ...Zan Balmore... ...
... ...Lenneth Blackwulf... ...
... ...Shay Berit... ...
... ...Wren Rain... ...
... ...Miriam Marcus... ...
... ...Malakai Kraken... ...
... ...PROCESS COMPLETE... ...
REBOOT?
Y/N
Y/N
... ...SYSTEM RESTARTING... ...
May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 4:22 PM UTC
Shadow, Shadow
Within my dream,
Have I dreamed you awake,
Said Lizard King To Peace Frog? Peace Frog says it's
Old anchovy, Rare bits of beef
And I can't remember the last thing I said,
Except that which I see.
Is that just a dream
Within a dream,
Or just a brush of Raven's wing? But Lizard King I dream what I dream awake,
How can that be?
Shadow sees what fades to passing, another dream
Within a dream.
And I look at the burning sun
Bleeding paint like a river.
And I think of my job,
And I think of nothing at all,
As a baby night bug crawls
Along the spiral of my page,
Invading worlds beneath my fingers.
Oceans, Worlds, Suns and
Arcs of light beyond our being. Nothing moves in silence.
Wondering of stories
Forgotten as a child,
Yet nothing's forgotten,
Yet all is forgiven.
Conciliatory Shadows,
Reckoning light,
Pink and blue and coral
Dreams of light and line
And space and Shadow
And Shadow.
Therin lies your answer
Peace Frog says to Lizard King. This welcome mat beneath you, this simple
Weaves of straw an steel,
And the streetlight bends
Behind me, then gone.
So are Lizard King and Peace Frog.
Where have they gone?
To Shadow,
To the realm of Shadow.
And I see my Father's face,
Darkening, lighting
In the streetlights.
As the stink of the factories
Fill the air.
And my Dad would talk of jazz, while I turned the radio
To Donovan, Mellow Yellow,
And its 1966.
And I think of my job,
Revolving wheels,
Sparks and Sun Dogs,
And I think of Shadow,
Shadow,
And red headed women
In Capris,
And the light of the sun
Blinding in noon.
Dreams of bright nothings.
Bon Bon's of scarlet.
Shadow, Shadow,
What to make of such things?
Shadow smiles as Buddha,
Says a sliver of sleep
Is all you need.
Do I cipher a riddle
From the air?
And I wonder of Shadow,
Will he haunt me forever?
Mar 8, 2020
Mar 8, 2020 at 11:06 PM UTC
They have now gone far too far,
So many names they have called me and many a time,
A multiplicity of a multiplicity of names,
Time and again, I have ignored,
Forgive them Lord, for they know not what they say,
I believed,
No matter how demeaning and painful the names,
At one time I was called a dog and others,
At the other, pig and others,
And now, Trash.
I refuse to be associated with savagery,
I refuse to be associated with downright human life disrespect
I refuse to be associated with ******
I refuse to be associated with blatant inhumanness,
I refuse to be associated with Donovan Moodley or Patrick Wisani,
I refuse to be associated with Shrien Dewani or William Nkuna,
I refuse to be associated with Sandile Mantsoe or Oscar Pistorius,
I refuse to be associated with Jacobus Oosthuizen or any of such Satanic barbarians,
I refuse.
Judge me for what I have or have not done,
Not for what Sandile has or has not done,
They are sick, they are crazy,
They are dramatic and narrow-minded,
Seeing me for what William Nkuna and the others are,
Indeed, they are what they are,
Brutal, inhuman and diabolic,
Barbaric, heartless and savage,
But I am neither either of them nor trash,
I am a man and a very proud one,
I am a man and very proud to be one,
Was yesterday, am today and will be tomorrow,
Despite where their reckless utterances deposit me,
Despite their misguided and narrow-minded judgements,
I am a responsible and caring man,
I am not trash,
Never was,
And never will ever be.
Jun 3, 2017
Jun 3, 2017 at 5:21 PM UTC
The caterpillar
sheds all his skin to find the
butterfly within.
Dec 11, 2019
Dec 11, 2019 at 8:51 PM UTC
"To Try For The Sun" by Donovan Leitch
We stood in the windy city,
The gypsy boy and I.
We slept on the breeze in the midnight
With the rain droppin' tears in our eyes.
And who's going to be the one
To say it was no good what we done?
I dare a man to say I'm too young,
For I'm going to try for the sun.
We huddled in a derelict building
And when he thought I was asleep
He laid his poor coat round my shoulder,
And shivered there beside me in a heap.
And who's going to be the one
To say it was no good what we done?
I dare a man to say I'm too young,
For I'm going to try for the sun.
We sang and cracked the sky with laughter,
Our breath turned to mist in the cold.
Our years put together count to thirty,
But our eyes told the dawn we were old.
And who's going to be the one
To say it was no good what we done?
I dare a man to say I'm too young,
For I'm going to try for the sun.
Mirror, mirror, hanging in the sky,
Won't you look down what's happening here below?
I stand here singing to the flowers,
So very few people really know.
And who's going to be the one
To say it was no good what we done?
I dare a man to say I'm too young,
For I'm going to try for the sun.
We stood in the windy city
The gypsy boy and I.
We slept on the breeze in the midnight,
With the rain droppin' tears in our eyes.
And who's going to be the one
To say it was no good what we done?
I dare a man to say I'm too young,
For I'm going to try for the sun.
May 25, 2019
May 25, 2019 at 2:41 AM UTC
"Ballad Of Geraldine"
Oh, I was born with the name Geraldine
With hair coal black as a raven.
I traveled my life without a care,
Ah, but all my love I was savin'.
Oh, the winds blew high and the trees did sway,
Not much from life was I askin'.
Till I met someone to give all my love,
All my love, so long an' lasting.
Oh, good were the parts we played in our game
And a long ways off was tomorrow.
But my love was a rambler and restless as the sea,
And in the tide came sorrow.
Oh, a child of the night is goin' to be born,
I can't explain my confusion.
Is my love thinkin' to marry me at all
Or of the freedom he thinks he'll be losin'?
I sit with my friends in the gay crowded room,
My friends they're smokin' and a-talkin'.
But it all seems so empty, my love is not there,
So I'll go into the streets a-walkin'.
My baby is a-growin' as a-growin' it must,
If I were to lose it, it would grieve me.
My love is so helpless and I'm wonderin' what to do.
Oh, how I yearn to help him.
Oh, we could go to the land of your choice
Where the false shame won't come knockin' at our door.
I've a feeling in my heart and it's crushing all my hopes,
I think I'm gonna be hurt some more,
Oh, I was born with the name Geraldine,
With hair coal black as a raven.
I travelled my life without a care,
Ah, but all my love I was savin'.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t5jv5UF2ZPo
Apr 20, 2019
Apr 20, 2019 at 12:16 AM UTC
Something
Is on the boil
Soon
To explode,
Our world
In fragments, floating in space
And
No more.
It is silent
No more noise from planet earth...
It's past into
Oblivion...And,
PEACE
Is regained
In the Universe...
Marc Bolan...."Life's a Gas"
20CenturyBoy!....
"Astral Angel".... Donovan.
"Instant Karma"...Is gonna get you...
All We Are saying, is
Give peace a chance...
Jan 5, 2017
Jan 5, 2017 at 5:37 PM UTC