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"egypt" poems
Many people write a "bucket list" of things they want to do before they die.  Now in my 80th year, I don't have the time or the energy to do things that others might aim for, but I have during my life visited many places, seen many things, and enjoyed many experiences that I would have been sorry to miss. There have also been some events that I would have preferred not to experience, but which have enriched my life in different ways, and which I remember with a kind of sad affection.   Some of these are very personal to me, and would not be interesting to most people, but read the note if you wonder why I chose them. Here then is what I might call                                                   My Reverse Bucket List Towns and cities – architecture & atmosphere    Barcelona, Spain    Venice, Italy    Oxford, England    Jerusalem, Israel    Luxor, Egypt    Varanasi, India    Hiroshima, Japan Pompeii, Italy Other locations    Galápagos islands, Ecuador    Great Barrier Reef, Australia    North Woolwich, London Churches    St Paul's Cathedral, London    Sagrada Familia, Barcelona    Coventry Cathedral    Córdoba Cathedral, Spain    Blue Mosque, Istanbul Other structures    Taj Mahal, Agra    Auschwitz concentration camp, Poland    Royal Festival Hall, London    London underground system (because it was the first, and I rode it for a long time).  Also the more splendid underground railways of Mexico City and Moscow.    Avebury Ring, Wiltshire, England (the largest prehistoric stone circle in the world, and much more primitive than Stonehenge)    Bayeux Tapestry     "Angel of the North" statue, Gateshead, England    "Christ the Redeemer" statue, Rio, Brazil Events    Messiah at Royal Festival Hall, Feb 1959, with the girl later to be my wife    St John's night, Spain, early 1990s (?)    Death and funeral of Diana, Princess of Wales, Aug 1997    Oberammergau passion play, 2010    Destruction of World Trade Centre, Sept 2001
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Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 9:16 AM UTC
Bucket List? -- Not Me!
Many people write a "bucket list" of things they want to do before they die.  Now in my 80th year, I don't have the time or the energy to do things that others might aim for, but I have during my life visited many places, seen many things, and enjoyed many experiences that I would have been sorry to miss. There have also been some events that I would have preferred not to experience, but which have enriched my life in different ways, and which I remember with a kind of sad affection.   Some of these are very personal to me, and would not be interesting to most people, but read the note if you wonder why I chose them. Here then is what I might call                                                   My Reverse Bucket List Towns and cities – architecture & atmosphere    Barcelona, Spain    Venice, Italy    Oxford, England    Jerusalem, Israel    Luxor, Egypt    Varanasi, India    Hiroshima, Japan Pompeii, Italy Other locations    Galápagos islands, Ecuador    Great Barrier Reef, Australia    North Woolwich, London Churches    St Paul's Cathedral, London    Sagrada Familia, Barcelona    Coventry Cathedral    Córdoba Cathedral, Spain    Blue Mosque, Istanbul Other structures    Taj Mahal, Agra    Auschwitz concentration camp, Poland    Royal Festival Hall, London    London underground system (because it was the first, and I rode it for a long time).  Also the more splendid underground railways of Mexico City and Moscow.    Avebury Ring, Wiltshire, England (the largest prehistoric stone circle in the world, and much more primitive than Stonehenge)    Bayeux Tapestry     "Angel of the North" statue, Gateshead, England    "Christ the Redeemer" statue, Rio, Brazil Events    Messiah at Royal Festival Hall, Feb 1959, with the girl later to be my wife    St John's night, Spain, early 1990s (?)    Death and funeral of Diana, Princess of Wales, Aug 1997    Oberammergau passion play, 2010    Destruction of World Trade Centre, Sept 2001
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38
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities... *that's all any man wants, a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities, who knows the when and why of differing cuddling styles... a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities, who knows when to leave a man alone alone in his man-mourning time, distance needed, letting his ex-rage dissipate or watching his red and blue football redefine ignominy... a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities, that when the man low whistles, eyes adrift, she heartily agrees and is reciprocity rewarded regularly with hunk alerts of "hey-check-him-out!" that's all any man wants, a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities, a tigress in the bedroom she asking, try this, I'll love it, served with a desert demo of awkward afterward, his less-than-perfect cuddling abilities a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities, who doesn't abhor partner silences, comforting they are, in their own ways, lying side by side, interrupted only by peccadillo body noises unexpected and sheepish apologies and loving arm stroking a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities, who lets the man roar, top of voice, when imprisoned in car,   his voice, un enfant terrible, performs with Creedence Clearwater a sing-a-long in traffic, asking "Have you ever seen the rain" while amidst Israel-leaving-Egypt Sunday beach traffic on the L.I.E. a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities, when it's pheromones  alternative mode day, he celebrates Carole King day, she demonstrates her cuddling abilities, par excellence, with kisses and tissues a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities... a woman, plain confident in her abilities no matter the situational status, when confronted by less-than-crazy-impetuous, she smiling says "why not," when he proposes, a movie and dinner in a fav haunt? "plenty excellent enough" her answer, spoke in a rising voice full of unfeigned delight a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities, accepting the unexpected airport embrace on a moving sidewalk, unexpected delays with the aplomb of a well lived life's long term sustainability perspective when he kisses her hand for no reason, while driving 75 miles per hour, she only winces internally, the other hand vise-grasping the other door's handle, who brushes hair wisps in a dark movie, celebrating her Bathsheba Everdeen's duality of strength and tenderness a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities, that when on second date he proposes a non-exclusive relationship, confident enough to high-five respond, and laugh about it, seven years on a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities, that when she reads it, analyzing the oeuvre as "too **** personal and as usual too **** long"* that's all any man wants, a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities in everything... even a little occasional criticism
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May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 10:45 AM UTC
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities...
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities... *that's all any man wants, a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities, who knows the when and why of differing cuddling styles... a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities, who knows when to leave a man alone alone in his man-mourning time, distance needed, letting his ex-rage dissipate or watching his red and blue football redefine ignominy... a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities, that when the man low whistles, eyes adrift, she heartily agrees and is reciprocity rewarded regularly with hunk alerts of "hey-check-him-out!" that's all any man wants, a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities, a tigress in the bedroom she asking, try this, I'll love it, served with a desert demo of awkward afterward, his less-than-perfect cuddling abilities a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities, who doesn't abhor partner silences, comforting they are, in their own ways, lying side by side, interrupted only by peccadillo body noises unexpected and sheepish apologies and loving arm stroking a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities, who lets the man roar, top of voice, when imprisoned in car,   his voice, un enfant terrible, performs with Creedence Clearwater a sing-a-long in traffic, asking "Have you ever seen the rain" while amidst Israel-leaving-Egypt Sunday beach traffic on the L.I.E. a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities, when it's pheromones  alternative mode day, he celebrates Carole King day, she demonstrates her cuddling abilities, par excellence, with kisses and tissues a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities... a woman, plain confident in her abilities no matter the situational status, when confronted by less-than-crazy-impetuous, she smiling says "why not," when he proposes, a movie and dinner in a fav haunt? "plenty excellent enough" her answer, spoke in a rising voice full of unfeigned delight a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities, accepting the unexpected airport embrace on a moving sidewalk, unexpected delays with the aplomb of a well lived life's long term sustainability perspective when he kisses her hand for no reason, while driving 75 miles per hour, she only winces internally, the other hand vise-grasping the other door's handle, who brushes hair wisps in a dark movie, celebrating her Bathsheba Everdeen's duality of strength and tenderness a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities, that when on second date he proposes a non-exclusive relationship, confident enough to high-five respond, and laugh about it, seven years on a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities, that when she reads it, analyzing the oeuvre as "too **** personal and as usual too **** long"* that's all any man wants, a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities in everything... even a little occasional criticism
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84
The constellation that speaks my name is the opening line of the zodiac. I am an Egyptian golden ram, and in ancient Egypt, Aries was the indicator of the reborn sun; I’m a never-ending fresh beginning of a mass of fire. I am a self destructive flame, constantly setting myself on fire, and you caught on it. So forgive me, and then admit the truth that we both know; Flames are the ultimate spring of warmth and light
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Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 6:43 PM UTC
Aries
Afghanistan needs hellopoetry Albania needs hellopoetry Algeria needs hellopoetry Andorra needs hellopoetry Angola needs hellopoetry Antigua and Barbuda needs hellopoetry Argentina needs hellopoetry Armenia needs hellopoetry Australia needs hellopoetry Austria needs hellopoetry Azerbaijan needs hellopoetry The Bahamas needs hellopoetry Bahrain needs hellopoetry Bangladesh needs hellopoetry Barbados needs hellopoetry Belarus needs hellopoetry Belgium needs hellopoetry Belize needs hellopoetry Benin needs hellopoetry Bhutan needs hellopoetry Bolivia needs hellopoetry Bosnia and Herzegovina needs hellopoetry Botswana needs hellopoetry Brazil needs hellopoetry Brunei needs hellopoetry Bulgaria needs hellopoetry Burkina Faso needs hellopoetry Burundi needs hellopoetry Cabo Verde needs hellopoetry Cambodia needs hellopoetry Cameroon needs hellopoetry Canada needs hellopoetry Central African Republic needs hellopoetry Chad needs hellopoetry Chile needs hellopoetry China needs hellopoetry Colombia needs hellopoetry Comoros needs hellopoetry Congo, Democratic Republic is in need of hellopoetry Congo, Republic is in need of hellopoetry   Costa Rica needs hellopoetry Côte d’Ivoire needs hellopoetry Croatia needs hellopoetry Cuba needs hellopoetry Cyprus needs hellopoetry Czech Republic needs hellopoetry Denmark needs hellopoetry   Djibouti needs hellopoetry Dominica needs hellopoetry Dominican Republic needs hellopoetry East Timor (Timor-Leste) needs hellopoetry Ecuador needs hellopoetry Egypt needs hellopoetry   El Salvador needs hellopoetry Equatorial Guinea needs hellopoetry Eritrea needs hellopoetry Estonia needs hellopoetry Eswatini needs hellopoetry Ethiopia needs hellopoetry Fiji needs hellopoetry Finland needs hellopoetry France needs hellopoetry Gabon needs hellopoetry The Gambia needs hellopoetry Georgia needs hellopoetry Germany needs hellopoetry Ghana needs hellopoetry Greece needs hellopoetry Grenada needs hellopoetry Guatemala needs hellopoetry Guinea needs hellopoetry Guinea-Bissau needs hellopoetry Guyana needs hellopoetry Haiti needs hellopoetry Honduras needs hellopoetry Hungary needs hellopoetry Iceland needs hellopoetry India needs hellopoetry Indonesia needs hellopoetry Iran needs hellopoetry Iraq needs hellopoetry Ireland needs hellopoetry Israel needs hellopoetry Italy needs hellopoetry Jamaica needs hellopoetry Japan needs hellopoetry Jordan needs hellopoetry Kazakhstan needs hellopoetry Kenya needs hellopoetry Kiribati needs hellopoetry Korea, North needs hellopoetry Korea, South needs hellopoetry Kosovo needs hellopoetry Kuwait needs hellopoetry Kyrgyzstan needs hellopoetry Laos needs hellopoetry Latvia needs hellopoetry Lebanon needs hellopoetry Lesotho needs hellopoetry Liberia needs hellopoetry Libya needs hellopoetry Liechtenstein needs hellopoetry Lithuania needs hellopoetry Luxembourg needs hellopoetry Madagascar needs hellopoetry Malawi needs hellopoetry Malaysia needs hellopoetry Maldives needs hellopoetry Mali needs hellopoetry Malta needs hellopoetry Marshall Islands needs hellopoetry Mauritania needs hellopoetry Mauritius needs hellopoetry Mexico needs hellopoetry Micronesia, Federated States is in need of hellopoetry Moldova needs hellopoetry Monaco needs hellopoetry Mongolia needs hellopoetry Montenegro needs hellopoetry Morocco needs hellopoetry Mozambique needs hellopoetry Myanmar (Burma) needs hellopoetry Namibia needs hellopoetry Nauru needs hellopoetry Nepal needs hellopoetry Netherlands needs hellopoetry New Zealand needs hellopoetry Nicaragua needs hellopoetry Niger needs hellopoetry Nigeria needs hellopoetry North Macedonia needs hellopoetry Norway needs hellopoetry Oman needs hellopoetry Pakistan needs hellopoetry Palau needs hellopoetry Panama needs hellopoetry Papua New Guinea needs hellopoetry Paraguay needs hellopoetry Peru needs hellopoetry Philippines needs hellopoetry Poland needs hellopoetry Portugal needs hellopoetry Qatar needs hellopoetry Romania needs hellopoetry Russia needs hellopoetry Rwanda needs hellopoetry Saint Kitts and Nevis needs hellopoetry Saint Lucia needs hellopoetry Saint Vincent and the Grenadines needs hellopoetry Samoa needs hellopoetry San Marino needs hellopoetry Sao Tome and Principe needs hellopoetry Saudi Arabia needs hellopoetry Senegal needs hellopoetry Serbia needs hellopoetry Seychelles needs hellopoetry Sierra Leone needs hellopoetry Singapore needs hellopoetry Slovakia needs hellopoetry Slovenia needs hellopoetry Solomon Islands needs hellopoetry Somalia needs hellopoetry South Africa needs hellopoetry Spain needs hellopoetry Sri Lanka needs hellopoetry Sudan needs hellopoetry Sudan, South needs hellopoetry Suriname needs hellopoetry Sweden needs hellopoetry Switzerland needs hellopoetry Syria needs hellopoetry Taiwan needs hellopoetry Tajikistan needs hellopoetry Tanzania needs hellopoetry Thailand needs hellopoetry Togo needs hellopoetry Tonga needs hellopoetry Trinidad and Tobago needs hellopoetry Tunisia needs hellopoetry Turkey needs hellopoetry Turkmenistan needs hellopoetry Tuvalu needs hellopoetry Uganda needs hellopoetry Ukraine needs hellopoetry United Arab Emirates needs hellopoetry United Kingdom needs hellopoetry United States needs hellopoetry Uruguay needs hellopoetry Uzbekistan needs hellopoetry Vanuatu needs hellopoetry Vatican City needs hellopoetry Venezuela needs hellopoetry Vietnam needs hellopoetry Yemen needs hellopoetry Zambia needs hellopoetry Zimbabwe needs hellopoetry
0
Dec 21, 2019
Dec 21, 2019 at 11:08 AM UTC
The World NEEDS HelloPoetry (Please Make A Contribution.)
Afghanistan needs hellopoetry Albania needs hellopoetry Algeria needs hellopoetry Andorra needs hellopoetry Angola needs hellopoetry Antigua and Barbuda needs hellopoetry Argentina needs hellopoetry Armenia needs hellopoetry Australia needs hellopoetry Austria needs hellopoetry Azerbaijan needs hellopoetry The Bahamas needs hellopoetry Bahrain needs hellopoetry Bangladesh needs hellopoetry Barbados needs hellopoetry Belarus needs hellopoetry Belgium needs hellopoetry Belize needs hellopoetry Benin needs hellopoetry Bhutan needs hellopoetry Bolivia needs hellopoetry Bosnia and Herzegovina needs hellopoetry Botswana needs hellopoetry Brazil needs hellopoetry Brunei needs hellopoetry Bulgaria needs hellopoetry Burkina Faso needs hellopoetry Burundi needs hellopoetry Cabo Verde needs hellopoetry Cambodia needs hellopoetry Cameroon needs hellopoetry Canada needs hellopoetry Central African Republic needs hellopoetry Chad needs hellopoetry Chile needs hellopoetry China needs hellopoetry Colombia needs hellopoetry Comoros needs hellopoetry Congo, Democratic Republic is in need of hellopoetry Congo, Republic is in need of hellopoetry   Costa Rica needs hellopoetry Côte d’Ivoire needs hellopoetry Croatia needs hellopoetry Cuba needs hellopoetry Cyprus needs hellopoetry Czech Republic needs hellopoetry Denmark needs hellopoetry   Djibouti needs hellopoetry Dominica needs hellopoetry Dominican Republic needs hellopoetry East Timor (Timor-Leste) needs hellopoetry Ecuador needs hellopoetry Egypt needs hellopoetry   El Salvador needs hellopoetry Equatorial Guinea needs hellopoetry Eritrea needs hellopoetry Estonia needs hellopoetry Eswatini needs hellopoetry Ethiopia needs hellopoetry Fiji needs hellopoetry Finland needs hellopoetry France needs hellopoetry Gabon needs hellopoetry The Gambia needs hellopoetry Georgia needs hellopoetry Germany needs hellopoetry Ghana needs hellopoetry Greece needs hellopoetry Grenada needs hellopoetry Guatemala needs hellopoetry Guinea needs hellopoetry Guinea-Bissau needs hellopoetry Guyana needs hellopoetry Haiti needs hellopoetry Honduras needs hellopoetry Hungary needs hellopoetry Iceland needs hellopoetry India needs hellopoetry Indonesia needs hellopoetry Iran needs hellopoetry Iraq needs hellopoetry Ireland needs hellopoetry Israel needs hellopoetry Italy needs hellopoetry Jamaica needs hellopoetry Japan needs hellopoetry Jordan needs hellopoetry Kazakhstan needs hellopoetry Kenya needs hellopoetry Kiribati needs hellopoetry Korea, North needs hellopoetry Korea, South needs hellopoetry Kosovo needs hellopoetry Kuwait needs hellopoetry Kyrgyzstan needs hellopoetry Laos needs hellopoetry Latvia needs hellopoetry Lebanon needs hellopoetry Lesotho needs hellopoetry Liberia needs hellopoetry Libya needs hellopoetry Liechtenstein needs hellopoetry Lithuania needs hellopoetry Luxembourg needs hellopoetry Madagascar needs hellopoetry Malawi needs hellopoetry Malaysia needs hellopoetry Maldives needs hellopoetry Mali needs hellopoetry Malta needs hellopoetry Marshall Islands needs hellopoetry Mauritania needs hellopoetry Mauritius needs hellopoetry Mexico needs hellopoetry Micronesia, Federated States is in need of hellopoetry Moldova needs hellopoetry Monaco needs hellopoetry Mongolia needs hellopoetry Montenegro needs hellopoetry Morocco needs hellopoetry Mozambique needs hellopoetry Myanmar (Burma) needs hellopoetry Namibia needs hellopoetry Nauru needs hellopoetry Nepal needs hellopoetry Netherlands needs hellopoetry New Zealand needs hellopoetry Nicaragua needs hellopoetry Niger needs hellopoetry Nigeria needs hellopoetry North Macedonia needs hellopoetry Norway needs hellopoetry Oman needs hellopoetry Pakistan needs hellopoetry Palau needs hellopoetry Panama needs hellopoetry Papua New Guinea needs hellopoetry Paraguay needs hellopoetry Peru needs hellopoetry Philippines needs hellopoetry Poland needs hellopoetry Portugal needs hellopoetry Qatar needs hellopoetry Romania needs hellopoetry Russia needs hellopoetry Rwanda needs hellopoetry Saint Kitts and Nevis needs hellopoetry Saint Lucia needs hellopoetry Saint Vincent and the Grenadines needs hellopoetry Samoa needs hellopoetry San Marino needs hellopoetry Sao Tome and Principe needs hellopoetry Saudi Arabia needs hellopoetry Senegal needs hellopoetry Serbia needs hellopoetry Seychelles needs hellopoetry Sierra Leone needs hellopoetry Singapore needs hellopoetry Slovakia needs hellopoetry Slovenia needs hellopoetry Solomon Islands needs hellopoetry Somalia needs hellopoetry South Africa needs hellopoetry Spain needs hellopoetry Sri Lanka needs hellopoetry Sudan needs hellopoetry Sudan, South needs hellopoetry Suriname needs hellopoetry Sweden needs hellopoetry Switzerland needs hellopoetry Syria needs hellopoetry Taiwan needs hellopoetry Tajikistan needs hellopoetry Tanzania needs hellopoetry Thailand needs hellopoetry Togo needs hellopoetry Tonga needs hellopoetry Trinidad and Tobago needs hellopoetry Tunisia needs hellopoetry Turkey needs hellopoetry Turkmenistan needs hellopoetry Tuvalu needs hellopoetry Uganda needs hellopoetry Ukraine needs hellopoetry United Arab Emirates needs hellopoetry United Kingdom needs hellopoetry United States needs hellopoetry Uruguay needs hellopoetry Uzbekistan needs hellopoetry Vanuatu needs hellopoetry Vatican City needs hellopoetry Venezuela needs hellopoetry Vietnam needs hellopoetry Yemen needs hellopoetry Zambia needs hellopoetry Zimbabwe needs hellopoetry
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196
I was born in a time of veterans and freedom. Or was it killing, like when we left Eden? I was born in a time, of oceans and salt. Or was it destruction, Atlantis had fought? I was born in a desert, a place with a lot of hot sand. Cleopatra, Aphrodite, Egypt, all Seeing in the Land. I was born in a Television, Hollywood starstruck was my name. Classic, Modern or Hipster, craving fortune and fame. I was born a telepathic, a mind reader of such. Seeking and giving out energy, requiring you of much. I am deep, I am wide and I am always by your side. Loyal, Obedient and Giving. Taking, Fantasizing, Living. I am quite the comic book laughter. I comedian of sorts. I am quick to judge the living and cover up my warts. Back to 1960, or was is 70 and 2? When I was born a Scorpio, and no one ever knew.
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May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 3:22 PM UTC
That 70's Scorpio!
I go to the door often. Night and summer. Crickets lift their cries. I know you are out. You are driving late through the summer night. I do not know what will happen. I have no claim on you. I am one star you have as guide; others love you, the night so dark over the Azores. You have been working outdoors, gone all week. I feel you in this lamp lit so late. As I reach for it I feel myself driving through the night. I love a firmness in you that disdains the trivial and regains the difficult. You become part then of the firmness of night, the granite holding up walls. There were women in Egypt who supported with their firmness the stars as they revolved, hardly aware of the passage from night to day and back to night. I love you where you go through the night, not swerving, clear as the indigo bunting in her flight, passing over two thousand miles of ocean.
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11.1k
The Indigo Bunting
Everyone in me is a bird. I am beating all my wings. They wanted to cut you out but they will not. They said you were immeasurably empty but you are not. They said you were sick unto dying but they were wrong. You are singing like a school girl. You are not torn. Sweet weight, in celebration of the woman I am and of the central creature and its delight I sing for you. I dare to live. Hello, spirit. Hello, cup. Fasten, cover. Cover that does contain. Hello to the soil of the fields. Welcome, roots. Each cell has a life. There is enough here to please a nation. It is enough that the populace own these goods. Any person, any commonwealth would say of it, "It is good this year that we may plant again and think forward to a harvest. Many women are singing together of this: one is in a shoe factory cursing the machine, one is at the aquarium tending a seal, one is dull at the wheel of her Ford, one is at the toll gate collecting, one is tying the cord of a calf in Arizona, one is straddling a cello in Russia, one is shifting pots on the stove in Egypt, one is painting her bedroom walls moon color, one is dying but remembering a breakfast, one is stretching on her mat in Thailand, one is wiping the *** of her child, one is staring out the window of a train in the middle of Wyoming and one is anywhere and some are everywhere and all seem to be singing, although some can not sing a note. Sweet weight, in celebration of the woman I am let me carry a ten-foot scarf, let me drum for the nineteen-year-olds, let me carry bowls for the offering (if that is my part). Let me study the cardiovascular tissue, let me examine the angular distance of meteors, let me **** on the stems of flowers (if that is my part).. Let me make certain tribal figures (if that is my part). For this thing the body needs let me sing for the supper, for the kissing, for the correct yes.
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9k
In Celebration of My ******
Everyone in me is a bird. I am beating all my wings. They wanted to cut you out but they will not. They said you were immeasurably empty but you are not. They said you were sick unto dying but they were wrong. You are singing like a school girl. You are not torn. Sweet weight, in celebration of the woman I am and of the central creature and its delight I sing for you. I dare to live. Hello, spirit. Hello, cup. Fasten, cover. Cover that does contain. Hello to the soil of the fields. Welcome, roots. Each cell has a life. There is enough here to please a nation. It is enough that the populace own these goods. Any person, any commonwealth would say of it, "It is good this year that we may plant again and think forward to a harvest. Many women are singing together of this: one is in a shoe factory cursing the machine, one is at the aquarium tending a seal, one is dull at the wheel of her Ford, one is at the toll gate collecting, one is tying the cord of a calf in Arizona, one is straddling a cello in Russia, one is shifting pots on the stove in Egypt, one is painting her bedroom walls moon color, one is dying but remembering a breakfast, one is stretching on her mat in Thailand, one is wiping the *** of her child, one is staring out the window of a train in the middle of Wyoming and one is anywhere and some are everywhere and all seem to be singing, although some can not sing a note. Sweet weight, in celebration of the woman I am let me carry a ten-foot scarf, let me drum for the nineteen-year-olds, let me carry bowls for the offering (if that is my part). Let me study the cardiovascular tissue, let me examine the angular distance of meteors, let me **** on the stems of flowers (if that is my part).. Let me make certain tribal figures (if that is my part). For this thing the body needs let me sing for the supper, for the kissing, for the correct yes.
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59
Blue Monday BY DIANE WAKOSKI Blue of the heaps of beads poured into her breasts and clacking together in her elbows; blue of the silk that covers lily-town at night; blue of her teeth that bite cold toast and shatter on the streets; blue of the dyed flower petals with gold stamens hanging like tongues over the fence of her dress at the opera/opals clasped under her lips and the moon breaking over her head a gush of blood-red lizards. Blue Monday. Monday at 3:00 and Monday at 5. Monday at 7:30 and Monday at 10:00. Monday passed under the rippling California fountain. Monday alone a shark in the cold blue waters. You are dead: wound round like a paisley shawl. I cannot shake you out of the sheets. Your name is still wedged in every corner of the sofa. Monday is the first of the week, and I think of you all week. I beg Monday not to come so that I will not think of you all week. You paint my body blue. On the balcony in the softy muddy night, you paint me with bat wings and the crystal the crystal the crystal the crystal in your arm cuts away the night, folds back ebony whale skin and my face, the blue of new rifles, and my neck, the blue of Egypt, and my ******* the blue of sand, and my arms, bass-blue, and my stomach, arsenic; there is electricity dripping from me like cream; there is love dripping from me I cannot use—like acacia or jacaranda—fallen blue and gold flowers, crushed into the street. Love passed me in a blue business suit and fedora. His glass cane, hollow and filled with sharks and whales ... He wore black patent leather shoes and had a mustache. His hair was so black it was almost blue. “Love,” I said. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “Mr. Love,” I said. “I beg your pardon,” he said. So I saw there was no use bothering him on the street Love passed me on the street in a blue business suit. He was a banker I could tell. So blue trains rush by in my sleep. Blue herons fly overhead. Blue paint cracks in my arteries and sends titanium floating into my bones. Blue liquid pours down my poisoned throat and blue veins rip open my breast. Blue daggers tip and are juggled on my palms. Blue death lives in my fingernails. If I could sing one last song with water bubbling through my lips I would sing with my throat torn open, the blue jugular spouting that black shadow pulse, and on my lips I would balance volcanic rock emptied out of my veins. At last my children strained out of my body. At last my blood solidified and tumbling into the ocean. It is blue. It is blue. It is blue.
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Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 7:31 AM UTC
Diane Wakowski
Blue Monday BY DIANE WAKOSKI Blue of the heaps of beads poured into her breasts and clacking together in her elbows; blue of the silk that covers lily-town at night; blue of her teeth that bite cold toast and shatter on the streets; blue of the dyed flower petals with gold stamens hanging like tongues over the fence of her dress at the opera/opals clasped under her lips and the moon breaking over her head a gush of blood-red lizards. Blue Monday. Monday at 3:00 and Monday at 5. Monday at 7:30 and Monday at 10:00. Monday passed under the rippling California fountain. Monday alone a shark in the cold blue waters. You are dead: wound round like a paisley shawl. I cannot shake you out of the sheets. Your name is still wedged in every corner of the sofa. Monday is the first of the week, and I think of you all week. I beg Monday not to come so that I will not think of you all week. You paint my body blue. On the balcony in the softy muddy night, you paint me with bat wings and the crystal the crystal the crystal the crystal in your arm cuts away the night, folds back ebony whale skin and my face, the blue of new rifles, and my neck, the blue of Egypt, and my ******* the blue of sand, and my arms, bass-blue, and my stomach, arsenic; there is electricity dripping from me like cream; there is love dripping from me I cannot use—like acacia or jacaranda—fallen blue and gold flowers, crushed into the street. Love passed me in a blue business suit and fedora. His glass cane, hollow and filled with sharks and whales ... He wore black patent leather shoes and had a mustache. His hair was so black it was almost blue. “Love,” I said. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “Mr. Love,” I said. “I beg your pardon,” he said. So I saw there was no use bothering him on the street Love passed me on the street in a blue business suit. He was a banker I could tell. So blue trains rush by in my sleep. Blue herons fly overhead. Blue paint cracks in my arteries and sends titanium floating into my bones. Blue liquid pours down my poisoned throat and blue veins rip open my breast. Blue daggers tip and are juggled on my palms. Blue death lives in my fingernails. If I could sing one last song with water bubbling through my lips I would sing with my throat torn open, the blue jugular spouting that black shadow pulse, and on my lips I would balance volcanic rock emptied out of my veins. At last my children strained out of my body. At last my blood solidified and tumbling into the ocean. It is blue. It is blue. It is blue.
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82
I pull open the door And hunt for food in the dim orange light. "There's nothing inside" Well, actually, There is something: Months old cream cheeses precariously stacked atop each other, Several mysterious bottles of brown sauces, Dried out leafy vegetables, But nothing This lazy *** can eat without preparing. I push close the door, Leaving my stomach rumbling and empty, But filling my mind with Dreams Three-fourths of the dull gray door is covered With colorful ceramic magnets From my dad’s corporate adventures To Batangas, Bohol, Bacolod, Davao, Hong Kong, Singapore, Malaysia, Macau, Nepal, Vietnam, Sri Lanka, China, Dubai, Pakistan, Saudi Arabia Sudan, Egypt, Ethiopia, Canada, Greece, and Australia. I examine each magnet’s contour and shine, Letting its foreign dust seep into my fingers. I dream that soon I will return all those dusts to their lands And bring home more magnets of my own.
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Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 9:50 AM UTC
Refrigerator
Can I write you a love song I’ll sing it softy in your ear all night long Blow gently without words on my saxophone Diamond and Pearls behind the throne A beautiful ensemble meant for only you As I give credence too Take my hand Cross this journey with me as I sing about faraway lands Past Egypt pyramids shifting Morocco sands Lay back my love, allow your mind to silently drift Feel the enchantment of my piano keys as it spiritual uplifts I’ll sing love songs of old A cappella chorus echoed from deep within my enlighten soul I’ll sing to you about the blues, society’s injustice, and elements of darken storms Keep your heart warm, while playing my French Horn Enrapture foretold from this dedicated symphonic poem A music sheet of percussion, woodwind, brass, keyboard, and strings Harmony carrying the mind away as the joy of coming spring I’ll hum your favorite beats, can you feel the crescendo now Fiddle from the heart by the sweat of one’s brow Submerge your cerebral cortex, lose yourself in the sultry tunes Harp sounds bathe of light kissed from the illuminating moon Destiny overcasts in the lyrics Fate floating stratospheric Karma of others handled in the eyes of satiric Opera, I give you so grand in its grace French Creole dialect murmured among silk and lace Sounds of my flute resonant to face Allowing my Cello sounds to thoroughly embrace Can I write you a love song Body and soul serenading soprano to keep you standing strong My guitar stringing your philosophies along An equal equation, one plus one equals two Emotions, feelings, sentiments, its tenor expressed only for you No compass to my heart, my seasonal love found in hidden melodies Trombone guiding back and forth breathless as it please Orchestra sounds Ascending minds, bodies, souls, pass the opening clouds, divine and profound The last note sung by me as we gradually come down Beautiful music embraced, needs never to make a sound Shh, close your eyes Meditate on the music for a little while Hush sweet baby don’t say a word My heart softly tweets to a mockingbird If that mockingbird don’t sing Can I write you a love song created only for your being As minds are sightseeing Hearts fleeing Timpani drums guaranteeing Entwined of our divine wellbeing Emotions freeing Crooning of bodies heard as the day is long Can I write you a love song
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Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 10:39 AM UTC
Can I Write You A Love Song
Can I write you a love song I’ll sing it softy in your ear all night long Blow gently without words on my saxophone Diamond and Pearls behind the throne A beautiful ensemble meant for only you As I give credence too Take my hand Cross this journey with me as I sing about faraway lands Past Egypt pyramids shifting Morocco sands Lay back my love, allow your mind to silently drift Feel the enchantment of my piano keys as it spiritual uplifts I’ll sing love songs of old A cappella chorus echoed from deep within my enlighten soul I’ll sing to you about the blues, society’s injustice, and elements of darken storms Keep your heart warm, while playing my French Horn Enrapture foretold from this dedicated symphonic poem A music sheet of percussion, woodwind, brass, keyboard, and strings Harmony carrying the mind away as the joy of coming spring I’ll hum your favorite beats, can you feel the crescendo now Fiddle from the heart by the sweat of one’s brow Submerge your cerebral cortex, lose yourself in the sultry tunes Harp sounds bathe of light kissed from the illuminating moon Destiny overcasts in the lyrics Fate floating stratospheric Karma of others handled in the eyes of satiric Opera, I give you so grand in its grace French Creole dialect murmured among silk and lace Sounds of my flute resonant to face Allowing my Cello sounds to thoroughly embrace Can I write you a love song Body and soul serenading soprano to keep you standing strong My guitar stringing your philosophies along An equal equation, one plus one equals two Emotions, feelings, sentiments, its tenor expressed only for you No compass to my heart, my seasonal love found in hidden melodies Trombone guiding back and forth breathless as it please Orchestra sounds Ascending minds, bodies, souls, pass the opening clouds, divine and profound The last note sung by me as we gradually come down Beautiful music embraced, needs never to make a sound Shh, close your eyes Meditate on the music for a little while Hush sweet baby don’t say a word My heart softly tweets to a mockingbird If that mockingbird don’t sing Can I write you a love song created only for your being As minds are sightseeing Hearts fleeing Timpani drums guaranteeing Entwined of our divine wellbeing Emotions freeing Crooning of bodies heard as the day is long Can I write you a love song
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53
Keith has done his rain dance No more fun in the sun Too much time in Egypt until the war was done Rain rain rain aplenty all the drains are running empty Like Santa's Rudolph always prancing I will keep on rain dancing
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Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 6:57 AM UTC
Keith's Rain Dance
"Alexander son of Philip, and the Greeks except the Lacedaemonians--" We can very well imagine that they were utterly indifferent in Sparta to this inscription. "Except the Lacedaemonians", but naturally. The Spartans were not to be led and ordered about as precious servants. Besides a panhellenic campaign without a Spartan king as a leader would not have appeared very important. O, of course "except the Lacedaemonians." This too is a stand. Understandable. Thus, except the Lacedaemonians at Granicus; and then at Issus; and in the final battle, where the formidable army was swept away that the Persians had massed at Arbela: which had set out from Arbela for victory, and was swept away. And out of the remarkable panhellenic campaign, victorious, brilliant, celebrated, glorious as no other had ever been glorified, the incomparable: we emerged; a great new Greek world. We; the Alexandrians, the Antiocheans, the Seleucians, and the numerous rest of the Greeks of Egypt and Syria, and of Media, and Persia, and the many others. With our extensive territories, with the varied action of thoughtful adaptations. And the Common Greek Language we carried to the heart of Bactria, to the Indians. As if we were to talk of Lacedaemonians now!
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5.2k
In 200 B.C.
she smells (nameless and shameless) *a concoction of mixed aromas, a once in a lifetime scent, impossible to bottle, impossible to name, nameless and shameless morning coffee, last nights vin rosé, a come-a-little-closer-tasting for the summer solstice, the stale of the evening meals of grains and kale, the sour remains of bedroom sweat, the displeasing scented sight of sweat soiled clothes carelessly discarded the first of the season red spot-stained white peonies fail to mask the bodies aromatic musks, which are mostly gender identifiable my sneakers hail mary, her stockings odorize the atmosphere most unusually, nylon and lycra are strangely familiar, prior memorized perhaps, from deep within, a ****** hallelujah, deep amidst where, the ***** linens are shelved and binned, before they journey to the Egypt Nile of the basement waters the burnt crumbs of illegal in-bed brioche toast amazingly invisible on unclean sheets, state “breakfast in bed, was yummy in the tummy, but next time use a big dinner plate, down here, the burnt of the bread and the burnt of other things (popcorn pieces) is just a scratchiest fragrance too far, needing a sheet wiped clean slate even the colorless and tasteless water absorb the ionosphere of smells, because one does usually speak poetically, one of us makes a (vice) presidential declaration: she smells, I man-ually stink, each, each glower shower nower, open the window to the spring wet grass aroma fresh cut, to exhume and then send away this odor now christened,* nameless and shameless 11:47 28/4/19
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May 5, 2019
May 5, 2019 at 10:25 AM UTC
she smells (nameless and shameless)
she smells (nameless and shameless) *a concoction of mixed aromas, a once in a lifetime scent, impossible to bottle, impossible to name, nameless and shameless morning coffee, last nights vin rosé, a come-a-little-closer-tasting for the summer solstice, the stale of the evening meals of grains and kale, the sour remains of bedroom sweat, the displeasing scented sight of sweat soiled clothes carelessly discarded the first of the season red spot-stained white peonies fail to mask the bodies aromatic musks, which are mostly gender identifiable my sneakers hail mary, her stockings odorize the atmosphere most unusually, nylon and lycra are strangely familiar, prior memorized perhaps, from deep within, a ****** hallelujah, deep amidst where, the ***** linens are shelved and binned, before they journey to the Egypt Nile of the basement waters the burnt crumbs of illegal in-bed brioche toast amazingly invisible on unclean sheets, state “breakfast in bed, was yummy in the tummy, but next time use a big dinner plate, down here, the burnt of the bread and the burnt of other things (popcorn pieces) is just a scratchiest fragrance too far, needing a sheet wiped clean slate even the colorless and tasteless water absorb the ionosphere of smells, because one does usually speak poetically, one of us makes a (vice) presidential declaration: she smells, I man-ually stink, each, each glower shower nower, open the window to the spring wet grass aroma fresh cut, to exhume and then send away this odor now christened,* nameless and shameless 11:47 28/4/19
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39
She stood still before the choas; unshaken. The wind blew its mighty breath against Her core but to no avail; unmoved. Her coffee'd skin warm like the sun that kisses the Earth's horizon. Something within Her had risen without warning nor permission: She was a Goddess, in Her own right. Brown. The soft tone of the Earth. Golden hue painted widely across the canvas of Her ***** Her skin like caramelized silk, with the sunglow of Egypt itself. She pressed Her face to the Earth's floor and moved mountains with Her prayers. Queen of the meek, ambassador of the poor. She was the perfect amalgam of beauty and brokenness. ~The Goddess of Humility.
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Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 3:51 PM UTC
Goddess of Humility
Morsi stands among his people as an expression of Egypt's democratic will democratically elected his feet are rooted in the constitutional right to rule Morsi has one foot on a pillar of secular democracy promising to uphold Egypt's journey to an egalitarian future this pillar advances the republican ideal that safeguards diversity and a people's liberty to express free will this pillar brought him to office and justifies his right to rule ironically it’s also a pillar that Morsi's guiding philosphy find impossible to suffer Morsi's other foot is firmly planted on a pillar of Sharia sympathies upholding the divine foundation of his rule over this earthly principality Muslim Brotherhood’s cardinal principles undermine the pillar of secular precepts that equally enfranchise all citizens Sharia Laws allows no standing to equal rights of women, religious minorities, LGBT civil liberties and advocates suppression of atheistic and progressive political groups this has riled the democratic sympathies of the Egyptian people Morsi's actions threaten to tip the pillar of secular democracy back into the Nile’s murky waters Morsi's stance is precarious and as his feet slip he realizes he is not the Colossus of Rhodes he believed himself to be discovering it impossible to bestride the pillars supporting incompatible structures the generals have declared a road map for stability that rescinds the constitution, dissolves the parliament and places the military as sole protectorate of the nation is the preservation of a democratic republic more important than the return to the rule of a military junta?   is it more wise to place principles before personalities? Morsi’s next steps are uncertain The pathway of the people’s democratic journey remains unclear the sound of the military’s marching boots grow louder Music Selection: Sweet Honey on the Rock Marching Off to Freedom Land Oakland 070313 jbm
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Jul 3, 2013
Jul 3, 2013 at 11:08 AM UTC
Morsi's Feet
Morsi stands among his people as an expression of Egypt's democratic will democratically elected his feet are rooted in the constitutional right to rule Morsi has one foot on a pillar of secular democracy promising to uphold Egypt's journey to an egalitarian future this pillar advances the republican ideal that safeguards diversity and a people's liberty to express free will this pillar brought him to office and justifies his right to rule ironically it’s also a pillar that Morsi's guiding philosphy find impossible to suffer Morsi's other foot is firmly planted on a pillar of Sharia sympathies upholding the divine foundation of his rule over this earthly principality Muslim Brotherhood’s cardinal principles undermine the pillar of secular precepts that equally enfranchise all citizens Sharia Laws allows no standing to equal rights of women, religious minorities, LGBT civil liberties and advocates suppression of atheistic and progressive political groups this has riled the democratic sympathies of the Egyptian people Morsi's actions threaten to tip the pillar of secular democracy back into the Nile’s murky waters Morsi's stance is precarious and as his feet slip he realizes he is not the Colossus of Rhodes he believed himself to be discovering it impossible to bestride the pillars supporting incompatible structures the generals have declared a road map for stability that rescinds the constitution, dissolves the parliament and places the military as sole protectorate of the nation is the preservation of a democratic republic more important than the return to the rule of a military junta?   is it more wise to place principles before personalities? Morsi’s next steps are uncertain The pathway of the people’s democratic journey remains unclear the sound of the military’s marching boots grow louder Music Selection: Sweet Honey on the Rock Marching Off to Freedom Land Oakland 070313 jbm
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83
Poetry is like a tattoo Stamped on me from birth. Like a mysterious voodoo, It's my charm on this earth. Poetry is like a tattoo Engraved on my DNA. Like the diamonds of Mabutu, It shines from p.m. to the a.m. Poetry is like a tattoo It will never be removed. Like my love for fufu Not until I'm disemboweled. Poetry is like a tattoo Like the Nile and Egypt, It encompasses what we do It's life's soundtrack and script. Poetry is like a tattoo It can now be lasered. But in music, like a crescendo, It can never be chiseled. #IvanBrooksPoetry© 31/7/2018
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Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 5:50 AM UTC
Poetry Is Like A Tattoo
* * * don't complain of poverty - hear, Egypt? don't dare talk of poverty - to me! have a change of attitude - hear, Egypt? change your disposition towards me! and towards my sisters in your cages - palaces, apartments, houses, huts; and towards my sisters - with a bit more freedom - how you view them just a piece of **** mutilated wombs of this land's mothers; mutilated feelings of cowed daughters; mutilated, young and old, for eons; caged, inflated, broken, violated,-- ___ don't you dare - hint of poverty - to me. (c)kRu, 09.09.-17.09.2010
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Feb 2, 2012
Feb 2, 2012 at 2:57 AM UTC
"don't complain of poverty - hear, Egypt?"
What’s in a name? It is what turns heads It can cause a quiver in your body Or a smile to curl onto your lips. A name can be tarnished Or reborn. It can make you stand out from the crowd Or join the masses. It is more than what society deems A socially acceptable form of Introduction. So let me introduce myself: I used to feel my name in harsh syllables Rooted in the language of my people’s history. MAR or MIR meant bitter. Like having the wrong taste in your mouth Reminding me of MARor – Eaten on Passover to remember how burdensome, Difficult and bitter the Jews’ slavery in Egypt was. IAM (YAM) – ocean. Tumultuous, never still. Always swirling and scaring children out of it. MIRIAM – my Hebrew name. Bitter sea. I grew into that name resentfully. I reacted when I was called that by fellow classmates, For what else could I do? But time went by And I began collecting seashells by the seashore. The ocean became a treasure and my name Had a new ring to it. Yet when eighth grade graduation came around I was given the option Of writing Mariya instead of Miriam. I was going to high school where I didn’t know anyone. So no one needed to know my bitter past. I also learned that a name was not made up of syllables But of sweet sounds. Mmm – like the taste of something so delicious your eyes close And you feel yourself melting. Aaa – you’ve just finished your meal and on this hot summer day You find solace in the cool water running down your back in the shower. Rrr – racing, running, reaching for the sky. That’s the sound I want my plane to make when I can hold a piece of Cloud in the palm of my hand and feel its silver lining. Iii – the sound of “and” in many languages. The sound of something more, Reminding me that this is not the end. Ya – the sound of agreement and conclusion. As if that is all I have to say…so yeah.
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Jul 25, 2012
Jul 25, 2012 at 10:21 PM UTC
What's in a Name?
What’s in a name? It is what turns heads It can cause a quiver in your body Or a smile to curl onto your lips. A name can be tarnished Or reborn. It can make you stand out from the crowd Or join the masses. It is more than what society deems A socially acceptable form of Introduction. So let me introduce myself: I used to feel my name in harsh syllables Rooted in the language of my people’s history. MAR or MIR meant bitter. Like having the wrong taste in your mouth Reminding me of MARor – Eaten on Passover to remember how burdensome, Difficult and bitter the Jews’ slavery in Egypt was. IAM (YAM) – ocean. Tumultuous, never still. Always swirling and scaring children out of it. MIRIAM – my Hebrew name. Bitter sea. I grew into that name resentfully. I reacted when I was called that by fellow classmates, For what else could I do? But time went by And I began collecting seashells by the seashore. The ocean became a treasure and my name Had a new ring to it. Yet when eighth grade graduation came around I was given the option Of writing Mariya instead of Miriam. I was going to high school where I didn’t know anyone. So no one needed to know my bitter past. I also learned that a name was not made up of syllables But of sweet sounds. Mmm – like the taste of something so delicious your eyes close And you feel yourself melting. Aaa – you’ve just finished your meal and on this hot summer day You find solace in the cool water running down your back in the shower. Rrr – racing, running, reaching for the sky. That’s the sound I want my plane to make when I can hold a piece of Cloud in the palm of my hand and feel its silver lining. Iii – the sound of “and” in many languages. The sound of something more, Reminding me that this is not the end. Ya – the sound of agreement and conclusion. As if that is all I have to say…so yeah.
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47
Algeria a rich land poor people, Angola seems to have kings, Benin is blessed with voodoo, Botswana blood bulls diamonds, Burkina Faso can't cope coups, Burundi twelve years a slave, Cape Verde has half a million, Cameroon got cocoa, Chad's lake is shrinking, Comoros has under a million, DRC is third largest, Congo is it's neighbour with capitals facing, Côte d'Ivoire has few elephants, Djibouti's on the horn, Egypt has mummy's, Equatorial guinea struck oil in 95 but didn't loose change, Eritrea has 5000 running annually, Ethiopia's great rift is pretty ****** Gabon is subject to black gold, Gambia got a peace of it after 65, Great Ghana oasis of peace, Guinea is diverse, Bissau too, Kenyans have beautiful smiles, Lesotho is SA's baby, Liberia oldest republic, Libya needs liberty, Madagascar where are the penguins! Malawi has warm hearts, Mali is 8th, Mauritania is 11th, Mauritius marvel, Morocco fine leather, Mozambique keeps the dugongs, Namibia Windhoek ah, Niger after a river, Nigeria makes zuma rock, Rwanda listen, Sao tome and principe 2nd smallest, Senegoals, She sells Seychelles, Sierra Leone free? Somalia loose, S. Africa reign, South Sudan independent? Sudan - black, Swaziland more than solo men, Tanzania trade, Togo up down, Two knees yeah, Uganda teacher come simeon, Zambia's peace? Zimbabwe got rid of Mugabe. Always thought zed was co.za but we're actually co.zm, so what's zim? One way we'll loose change is when the overseers begin to acknowledge the under looked. -nyanta
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Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 5:28 PM UTC
AFRICA
Algeria a rich land poor people, Angola seems to have kings, Benin is blessed with voodoo, Botswana blood bulls diamonds, Burkina Faso can't cope coups, Burundi twelve years a slave, Cape Verde has half a million, Cameroon got cocoa, Chad's lake is shrinking, Comoros has under a million, DRC is third largest, Congo is it's neighbour with capitals facing, Côte d'Ivoire has few elephants, Djibouti's on the horn, Egypt has mummy's, Equatorial guinea struck oil in 95 but didn't loose change, Eritrea has 5000 running annually, Ethiopia's great rift is pretty ****** Gabon is subject to black gold, Gambia got a peace of it after 65, Great Ghana oasis of peace, Guinea is diverse, Bissau too, Kenyans have beautiful smiles, Lesotho is SA's baby, Liberia oldest republic, Libya needs liberty, Madagascar where are the penguins! Malawi has warm hearts, Mali is 8th, Mauritania is 11th, Mauritius marvel, Morocco fine leather, Mozambique keeps the dugongs, Namibia Windhoek ah, Niger after a river, Nigeria makes zuma rock, Rwanda listen, Sao tome and principe 2nd smallest, Senegoals, She sells Seychelles, Sierra Leone free? Somalia loose, S. Africa reign, South Sudan independent? Sudan - black, Swaziland more than solo men, Tanzania trade, Togo up down, Two knees yeah, Uganda teacher come simeon, Zambia's peace? Zimbabwe got rid of Mugabe. Always thought zed was co.za but we're actually co.zm, so what's zim? One way we'll loose change is when the overseers begin to acknowledge the under looked. -nyanta
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57
Your Messiah is not Christ my Karma is not your dogma Their AntiChrist is not the Mahdi His avatar is not yet manifest Our Dajjal is not their 12th Imam Your Brahman is not my Elohim The Atman is not the God-Man Your God-Man is Luciferian Our Lucifer is not their Allah The Djinn are undocumented some angels fell Allah is not Ras Tafari Their Zion is Babylon Jerusalem is Egypt or ***** Their Angels are ascended Masters Our Master is your ascended Savior My Savior is your accuser Their God is no Savior His unction is Satanic The war is spiritual The Spirit is not obvious My anointing is carnal their anointing is moronic our doctrine is angelic Your rejection was predestined our acceptance is divine Our depravity is documented, your sanctity is illusory their power is diabolic their light is darkness Their leader is ungodly Our God is unseemly His Truth is offensive The bitter is not sweet the sweet is unworldly the world is not heavenly. Trinity in seven spirits, yet God is One… Revel in the uncertainty. Have some holy fun fitting more angels on the pin-head, dancing before they fall. Rebellion is always entrancing until the current postmodern theology hooks up with psycho-sexual linguistic pathology. Don’t accept my apology
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Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 8:57 PM UTC
Disappointed Mis-anointings
On its back, The cockroach, In a jacket of red wings, Slender legs, And bulging abdomen, Like the tummy of African statesman, Its legs wallowing in despair, In the air, Stamping the spread eagled, Hind and forelimbs, Of the poor anthropod, Kicking and waving, A cry for the succor, To be freed from ebola, Or breaking the *** tether, Or un-doing strong bonds of poverty, Three districts under leprosy, In the domain of the bull’s eye, Where lesbians and gays swallow raw fate, Its salient manifestation, Then the cockroach kicks silently, Anticipating for salvage, But when the domain owner comes, He steps with full weight, His foot dressed in military boots, From the previous legacy of Che Gue Vara, On the belly of the kakerlag at Berlin Wall, Bursting its stomach but hopscotch, Spilling the white stuff out, Of poverty and mental dilemma, Amid hopelessness in future and history, As terrorism mires tomorrow, When China reigns today, At mercy of contemporary panjandrums, Moving from white to black And from black to face book, Killing those who fall in commercial love, As if money is the ***** for nuptial night, But only to go forth ignobled, Without making momentous affinity, In the realm of ill fated cockroach back-dom, Sending Mafousian Egypt to Swedish table, Without scorn and regard for true African blood, Where will I apologize? If the ****** bug Enters my head and heart, To blind my logical eyes, Only to open wide The senses that see and feel Religion and race; O! Al Qaeda!
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Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 6:17 AM UTC
THE COCKROACH ON ITS BACK
On its back, The cockroach, In a jacket of red wings, Slender legs, And bulging abdomen, Like the tummy of African statesman, Its legs wallowing in despair, In the air, Stamping the spread eagled, Hind and forelimbs, Of the poor anthropod, Kicking and waving, A cry for the succor, To be freed from ebola, Or breaking the *** tether, Or un-doing strong bonds of poverty, Three districts under leprosy, In the domain of the bull’s eye, Where lesbians and gays swallow raw fate, Its salient manifestation, Then the cockroach kicks silently, Anticipating for salvage, But when the domain owner comes, He steps with full weight, His foot dressed in military boots, From the previous legacy of Che Gue Vara, On the belly of the kakerlag at Berlin Wall, Bursting its stomach but hopscotch, Spilling the white stuff out, Of poverty and mental dilemma, Amid hopelessness in future and history, As terrorism mires tomorrow, When China reigns today, At mercy of contemporary panjandrums, Moving from white to black And from black to face book, Killing those who fall in commercial love, As if money is the ***** for nuptial night, But only to go forth ignobled, Without making momentous affinity, In the realm of ill fated cockroach back-dom, Sending Mafousian Egypt to Swedish table, Without scorn and regard for true African blood, Where will I apologize? If the ****** bug Enters my head and heart, To blind my logical eyes, Only to open wide The senses that see and feel Religion and race; O! Al Qaeda!
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50
'Draw three cards, and I will tell your future . . . Draw three cards, and lay them down, Rest your palms upon them, stare at the crystal, And think of time . . . My father was a clown, My mother was a gypsy out of Egypt; And she was gotten with child in a strange way; And I was born in a cold eclipse of the moon, With the future in my eyes as clear as day.' I sit before the gold-embroidered curtain And think her face is like a wrinkled desert. The crystal burns in lamplight beneath my eyes. A dragon slowly coils on the scaly curtain. Upon a scarlet cloth a white skull lies. 'Your hand is on the hand that holds three lilies. You will live long, love many times. I see a dark girl here who once betrayed you. I see a shadow of secret crimes. 'There was a man who came intent to **** you, And hid behind a door and waited for you; There was a woman who smiled at you and lied. There was a golden girl who loved you, begged you, Crawled after you, and died. 'There is a ghost of ****** in your blood-- Coming or past, I know not which. And here is danger--a woman with sea-green eyes, And white-skinned as a witch . . .' The words hiss into me, like raindrops falling On sleepy fire . . . She smiles a meaning smile. Suspicion eats my brain; I ask a question; Something is creeping at me, something vile; And suddenly on the wall behind her head I see a monstrous shadow strike and spread, The lamp puffs out, a great blow crashes down. I plunge through the curtain, run through dark to the street, And hear swift steps retreat . . . The shades are drawn, the door is locked behind me. Behind the door I hear a hammer sounding. I walk in a cloud of wonder; I am glad. I mingle among the crowds; my heart is pounding; You do not guess the adventure I have had! . . . Yet you, too, all have had your dark adventures, Your sudden adventures, or strange, or sweet . . . My peril goes out from me, is blown among you. We loiter, dreaming together, along the street.
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3.9k
The House Of Dust: Part 02: 04: Nightmare
'Draw three cards, and I will tell your future . . . Draw three cards, and lay them down, Rest your palms upon them, stare at the crystal, And think of time . . . My father was a clown, My mother was a gypsy out of Egypt; And she was gotten with child in a strange way; And I was born in a cold eclipse of the moon, With the future in my eyes as clear as day.' I sit before the gold-embroidered curtain And think her face is like a wrinkled desert. The crystal burns in lamplight beneath my eyes. A dragon slowly coils on the scaly curtain. Upon a scarlet cloth a white skull lies. 'Your hand is on the hand that holds three lilies. You will live long, love many times. I see a dark girl here who once betrayed you. I see a shadow of secret crimes. 'There was a man who came intent to **** you, And hid behind a door and waited for you; There was a woman who smiled at you and lied. There was a golden girl who loved you, begged you, Crawled after you, and died. 'There is a ghost of ****** in your blood-- Coming or past, I know not which. And here is danger--a woman with sea-green eyes, And white-skinned as a witch . . .' The words hiss into me, like raindrops falling On sleepy fire . . . She smiles a meaning smile. Suspicion eats my brain; I ask a question; Something is creeping at me, something vile; And suddenly on the wall behind her head I see a monstrous shadow strike and spread, The lamp puffs out, a great blow crashes down. I plunge through the curtain, run through dark to the street, And hear swift steps retreat . . . The shades are drawn, the door is locked behind me. Behind the door I hear a hammer sounding. I walk in a cloud of wonder; I am glad. I mingle among the crowds; my heart is pounding; You do not guess the adventure I have had! . . . Yet you, too, all have had your dark adventures, Your sudden adventures, or strange, or sweet . . . My peril goes out from me, is blown among you. We loiter, dreaming together, along the street.
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44
A Poem in 3 Parts by Sara L Russell, 4/6/15; 00:51am I There is a grey area between this world and the next. People can be foolish; they dabble in ouija, in dowsing, in automatic writing; and - wittingly or unwittingly, they may open a portal to the other side. That is how they enter. Beware of inviting them in. Shadow people are there where needle pierces skin; where the ****** sits, glassy-eyed, on the precipice of oblivion; they lurk in unholy places where godless politicians declare themselves to be speaking for God; they haunt the dreams of drunkards, schizophrenics, junkies and the paranoid. But they are not spun out of dreams, they are real. Shadow people were there when the ancient pharaohs of Egypt were interred, with all their gold; they took them to Hades for also burying their wives and servants, alive. They were there in **** concentration camps, sitting on the left shoulders of those who blindly carried out orders of death and torture. They subsist in underworlds of catacombs, they lurk in the spaces between our conscious and unconscious minds; In blackened mirrors they seek out a vortex, My friends, be the light that keeps out the darkness, Do not seek to question the dear and foregone, No matter how much they are missed; for there are others lurking in the shadows. Be not the portal inviting them in. II Did I see you in Bohemian Grove, smiling at the Cremation of the Care? Were you there, and did you have more than one shadow? Did I see you in that Great Hall with chequered floors, where the Eye of Horus watched over a pyramid of gold? Did you lift a cup of the good red wine, did blood brothers drink each other's health, gazing through a glass darkly? Did we toast the Cremation of the Care, and how many others were there? III Sometimes we visit Hell in our dreams, though we may fervently pray before sleep. There is no shame in sleeping with the light on. Wear a cross, if you think that it will help. Sometimes the citizens of Hell visit us, in that stasis between sleep and wakefulnes; they are only ever seen at the outer periphery of our vision. It's never a good idea to look at them directly. Sometimes they venture a little closer than the rules allow. Sometimes the line between their domain and ours is blurred. Occasionally, the breeze seems to whisper your name - only, it's not the breeze. Be vigilant. Always try to see them first.
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Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 7:55 PM UTC
Shadow People
A Poem in 3 Parts by Sara L Russell, 4/6/15; 00:51am I There is a grey area between this world and the next. People can be foolish; they dabble in ouija, in dowsing, in automatic writing; and - wittingly or unwittingly, they may open a portal to the other side. That is how they enter. Beware of inviting them in. Shadow people are there where needle pierces skin; where the ****** sits, glassy-eyed, on the precipice of oblivion; they lurk in unholy places where godless politicians declare themselves to be speaking for God; they haunt the dreams of drunkards, schizophrenics, junkies and the paranoid. But they are not spun out of dreams, they are real. Shadow people were there when the ancient pharaohs of Egypt were interred, with all their gold; they took them to Hades for also burying their wives and servants, alive. They were there in **** concentration camps, sitting on the left shoulders of those who blindly carried out orders of death and torture. They subsist in underworlds of catacombs, they lurk in the spaces between our conscious and unconscious minds; In blackened mirrors they seek out a vortex, My friends, be the light that keeps out the darkness, Do not seek to question the dear and foregone, No matter how much they are missed; for there are others lurking in the shadows. Be not the portal inviting them in. II Did I see you in Bohemian Grove, smiling at the Cremation of the Care? Were you there, and did you have more than one shadow? Did I see you in that Great Hall with chequered floors, where the Eye of Horus watched over a pyramid of gold? Did you lift a cup of the good red wine, did blood brothers drink each other's health, gazing through a glass darkly? Did we toast the Cremation of the Care, and how many others were there? III Sometimes we visit Hell in our dreams, though we may fervently pray before sleep. There is no shame in sleeping with the light on. Wear a cross, if you think that it will help. Sometimes the citizens of Hell visit us, in that stasis between sleep and wakefulnes; they are only ever seen at the outer periphery of our vision. It's never a good idea to look at them directly. Sometimes they venture a little closer than the rules allow. Sometimes the line between their domain and ours is blurred. Occasionally, the breeze seems to whisper your name - only, it's not the breeze. Be vigilant. Always try to see them first.
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I hope you are the shore to my ocean... I hope you are nepenthe to my pain... I hope you are Christmas to my December... I hope you are stardust to my universe... I hope you are conscious to my subconscious.. I hope you are light to my darkness... I hope you are evermore to my 2020... I hope you are Nile to my Egypt.... Oh I hope you are me... And I am you...
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Dec 30, 2020
Dec 30, 2020 at 6:43 AM UTC
I Hope