"dreadlocked" poems
Bob Marley Spoken Word 5/1/2012
What comes to mind when I say; Bob Marley?
Is it a stereotypical ‘idea’ of a Rastafarian; ***** dreadlocks & *** smoker?
Or is it a …
An intelligent and talented man; who wanted change in a positive way?
Yeah he had dreadlocks and didn’t see any harm in the herb. That was his apart of his religion and beliefs. You can’t call yourself a true fan if that’s the only reason you’ve liked him because he smoked *** It’s time to get over that; you need to realize what he truly was about. He gave us knowledge about history, Uplifting and positive rhythms, happiness when you’re down, music to stop us from worrying when shaken and songs of freedom. This man told us powerful messages through his music. This guy was brilliant and I sure as hell don’t think of him as a ***** dreadlocked *** smoking Rastafarian. Who’s a bad influence on children, most definitely not! Children should listen and gain knowledge. We in the world are lucky to have a man that lived; who still lives in millions of hearts away. I’m glad we had such a wonderful human being he is one of the biggest inspirations to me. I will live to tell messages in my writings that will be a part of history.
- One Love
May 6, 2012
May 6, 2012 at 9:36 PM UTC
I had a dream I smoked some ***** with a Rasta Man
while we jammed in the name of the lord to some tunes
the children of Africa roaming free like wild beast
once the cradle of civilization turned into tombs
by the ungrateful, heathen souls that ran amok
in the name of annihilation and war.
But we are fearful pious men, as we inhaled the herb
the grass is the shepherd that nourish us like Giraffes
the sky is the ceiling that we reach with our blessed hands
the rivers gives us skins like Crocs to be able to survive
harsh whether, the blood-stained desert left behind by men
witnessed by the pale eyes of the torture souls of this land.
And so we inhaled and puffed like chimneys in a North Pole night
we talked about the smiles of our seeds stretching far and wide
how beautiful is a voice when it’s brought to life by a loved one
how the scent of a pure woman can bring the dead back to life
deadlocked, we are dreadlocked like grapevines until Jah lets us
the mental slavery that keeps us chained to the ships of our ancestors.
We never once conversed about the frail indignity of the mortals
the uselessness of hate, the ways material possessions can’t help you
we reached Nirvana without taking our feet off the common ground
we shared a spirit, bonded between long hits made of peace and love
in the freedom of those free thinkers tinkering with words without rest
in the children of Jah, daydreaming at night in a warm bed made of bread.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 12:40 PM UTC
Angie works the alleys that reek of greasy sausages and ****
where beer-bellied men appear
and vanish into doorway varnish of invisible rooms,
spitting on their own doorsteps, stubby fingers
running over stained vests and wire wool guts.
Harry lives out yonder where plastic bags’ ballet shoes are made of glue;
he is sharing a hit
with a dreadlocked kid, just another invisible face,
a phantom-surfer nurse, to assist him in
chasing the ultimate high on highway number twenty-two.
Invisible, hairy hands hold her down; Angie has to swallow,
she can feel the pulsating vein
of a softening **** over her tongue and swollen lips –
she gives it a good old slap against her cheek,
grabs the package, and makes sure no one follows.
Harry’s clawing at a face in that place where reality floats
between the tip of the needle
and the desperate edge of chemical dependency -
his little angel taps him on the shoulder;
he turns around, and stabs her in the throat.
Feb 5, 2011
Feb 5, 2011 at 11:32 PM UTC
Insomnia came knocking on my door at half-past three.
The Angel of Death had long passed out,
fishnets tight around her throat,
a ***** needle dangling from just below the knee;
the Tooth Fairy was trading milk teeth for *****
on the corner of Fear and Doubt
with a nervous gentleman who had a head like a goat.
Insomnia knocked three times, and let herself in,
tatty robes behind her like torn leather,
scraping over cold tiles, over my skin;
sweet lullabies oozed over her chapped lips
in a voice as old as dry weather,
a storm of emotions conjured, a concoction
of cold blood, sour grapes, and bad trips.
Insomnia stayed the night, stretched out on my bed,
told me to write something nice about her,
or the curve of her armpits instead;
I can’t, I said, they’re dreadlocked in fur,
so I crawled in next to her, put my head on her breast.
A sigh of satisfaction moistened her lips,
There, there, deary, lets take a rest.
Feb 7, 2011
Feb 7, 2011 at 10:25 PM UTC
her afternoon daydream
done for the day is now folded
as the sun slips behind the trees
the lush green leaves burn with golden light
as afternoon gives way to night
clouds once fat with rain from the sea
now race to the west
seeking the mountains where
ground touches sky
her afternoon daydream wiped away
by her lips a neon red gloss movement
these two dreadlock angels
sunbathing ******* in our backyard
on the verges of my mind
no words to her glances
just checking on a tapping old crow
tapping the inky surface of a tablet
tapping tapping
her afternoon face appears suddenly
at my shoulder as she slips me a kiss
tapping at the portals of my soul
the sun having set
the trees now only rustling shapes framed
against the stars
the lush green leaves
burn with the fainter glow of distant suns
as my heart burns faintly for distant loves
but it is my woman
her dreadlocked patchouli scented body
wrapped around me
its her in my heart
its her who burns brightly in me
who ignites me
to burn with the golden glow of
a setting sun
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 11:19 AM UTC
the day done
she drifts in with the tide
washes up on my shore with
the tattered remains
of her girlhoods smile
in a keepsake box in the
pocket of her long grey coat
she speaks her thoughts but they are
tangled like seaweed
worn and worn like driftwood
she tells me her intents
and the lost sailor aspects of her soul
and her words linger on the air
like kestrels in the breaking of a storm
wheeling high above
wheeling high above
and the tears flow quietly
each one burning slowly into
my heart
I turn out and set sail
into the inky sea
blind to the trail
but rather than face her downfall
I attach myself to the darkness with a passion
of the task of finding my handmadien
of scorned empire
and saving her from herself
and all her internal wars
she was a shy young woman
in the years on denvers river road
a shatterproof demo for the better living
to be found just the other side of that
infamouse greener grass
that keeping up gets you in the end
a byproduct of the heart attack they give you
at no extra charge
standing naked feeling all kinds of uncomfortable
they question everything except your sanity
they are sure that's the one thing you've lost
I get her home at last
only to find she is nearly only
a chocolate bunny that's been chewed on
and her words telling me she must leave
are just forebodings of nightmares she gets
about Easter egg hunts
and viper roughness of being eaten alive
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 6:47 PM UTC
A heart deflates
into a circular fire,
burning a tunnel in reality
so a dark train of thought can barrel through.
Hieroglyphic crocodiles swim
into a stream to eat gazelle.
A universe is just the iris
of gods.
I grew up in a cactus hut
that was atop the boogeyman's hat.
'Ol Skullface evaporates like a rippling image
in water...
dreadlocked lightning
bottle sips on the venus flytrap's *******
Maybe I'm the combination of Bob Marley's dope smoke
& Dali's pipe steam.
That right there
was his psychedelic ego
he o rarely sees.
The Native American sound in my brain
reminds me of beautiful cave paintings
in candle lit screams & moans
echoing.
Bamboo lightning
sword frightening shimmers
in the light.
Tribal war paint vicious sharp drumbeats;
fangs ready for battle,
a head bobbing mystic predicts victory
in the shadows;
glowing.
Ashes from the evening smoke means we've won,
thanks to my brain eye.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC
her scarred lip held a song
it was a hard song
moving like a candle on the dusty road
restless in the bitter wind
feel it in your dry mouth like the taste of snakes
feel it like a misery of the dry sand
but its her song and she sings it to me now
as she gathers the weeds and small bitter things
that will be our penance as a meal
i cast out a whip and its thorny threads
and it catches her eye
looking into me
the sea tilts
and capsizes the rowboat carrying her song to me
my hair is a dreadlock at the root
my hair ends in a fray
which end would you choose
i told her the fray
because the devil rides the dread
like a wild horse its eyes aflame
she holds my hand and will not speak
i kiss her hair
and wait for the sun to save us
and the candle burns brightly on the dusty road
the devil bears the burden of our wares
in exchange we carry his brother
she cradles this child of our fate
it tangles its tiny fist in her dreadlocked hair
and i saw that the fray was mine alone
so i tangled it in my lips
for my own song
a soft one of lovers
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 12:37 AM UTC
I met an insomniac through a Craigslist post
Who alleged: She’d stolen > 2000 hearts
On subways/escalators/sidewalks – men turn to toast
(By her gorgon glance, she boasts, even testicles depart) .
How does one ensnare one fashioned of nails and sap?
By invisibility, mirrored shield, winged boots, curved sword?
The heart’s armor, thus arrayed, can easily entrap
This goddess, dreadlocked in her own umbilical cord.
But I do not stoop to conquer, but to please
This walking paradox, over-caffeinated, old soul
Intoxicated by words, music, auteurs (esp. Scorsese) ,
You’re my aurora, glowing green, in the north celestial pole.
Slacker, artist, writer, words have escaped you:
You lay breathless at the foot of your wandering Jew.
by Beryl Dov
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 10:32 PM UTC
It was a ritual scarfing
spiced-eggs at the subbase,
then heading up
to the mountaintop
to check on
the cumulous-situation.
From the banana house,
one can see for eternity
the tips of Tortola & beyond
& grow fond of such splendor.
The beauty of such moments
can sink deep & stir hearts.
Even the stoutest of pirates
can cry behind the patch,
get snatched by this passion,
reveal his hidden treasure.
My blood-eyes always
seemed mesmerized,
pleasured
by the rum-filled hours
spent down on Back Street
before each maiden voyage.
The trips to Drake's Seat
to confer with the
dreadlocked-donkey man
were always my final stop.
For he had select bumblegum-ganja,
homegrown at market prices,
to change perspective
& buccaneers ya know,
certainly need that fix.
Those warm Trade Winds
whipped through
the Inward Passage
while lobsters boiled
on the shore,
and there, raised up
high on the edge,
my stiletto kniving sapphires,
I understood
the true meaning of freedom,
riding supersonic
under golden suns,
in a world
so alone & starving.
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 3:51 AM UTC
Dreadlocked from another planet,
she bathed in pachouili,
held the universe
in irises of azure.
I found comfort
swimming
in the small
of her delicate back,
she was an expert
on pleasure.
She displayed
a skull & crissbones,
a pretty butterfly
& held me captive,
chained to her playground,
where I detonated.
And the sounds she made
above me
were out-of-this-world,
I still think I'm gone,
exploded
into another dimension.
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 9:39 PM UTC
I don’t see enough written about the bluest seas
The azure splendour calling to adventure
The myriad of islands and islets
Floating emeralds in a sapphire expanse
Dreadlocked smiles and gleaming eyes.
A heat easily quenched by the crystal seas
Privateers delight is easier to understand
You could drown here. You could die here.
Casually suffer an infinite torture and blissfully grin
Into the endless summer.
Feb 9, 2018
Feb 9, 2018 at 11:39 AM UTC
(20 minute poetry)
Death defying?
No
I'm lying, I
do it
every day and that's
the way of it,
It occurs to me this
way is **** but
what else can I do?
Two years
of bull and I had
two years to
pull out.
My life takes a right
turn? a roundabout the
wrong way to go. I
know this and hope that I
miss the head on.
Death defying? I
ain't even trying you'll
know when I am.
Cheap wine
Hard time
The sentence
Is up for
Review.
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 8:12 PM UTC