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Dylan McFadden Oct 2020
That fateful day, It slipperily slunk,
The shrewd and crafty Beast

And with Its slithery tongue It struck
Two hearts, and hell released

A fateful day! A fateful dint!
…The Fall of the Beloved

But then and there One gave the hint
Of rescue from Above

---

That fateful day the Beast would bite
The heel of The Great King

But He, in turn, would crush Its head –
Death’s prisoners would sing:

“The fateful Day eternity told,  
Foreknown before the world!


The Lion came, brave and bold –
The Lamb slain from of old!”


---

And so, that fateful day was but
A part in the Grand Scheme

One fateful Day He’d come indeed
To ransom and redeem

That fateful Day upon a cross
He breathed His final breath:

“It is finished!” was His cry;
The death of death in death.

.
Sorrow Hysteria Feb 2015
The day she left,
It wasn't the same
She used to laugh
And play with her
Brothers and sisters

On that fateful day,
She did not return
The heartless shadow
Had left with her life
In his jar of hearts

On that fateful day,
She fought 'til beginning to end
Wouldn’t give up soul
When she lost her hope
We all did, too
The battlefield covered
In pain and sorrow

On that fateful day,
We all lost love
We lost our hope
When that heartless
Being made the
Final blow,
We knew she had lost.

That Fateful day,
She never came back
She was too far gone
In a better place
She will not see darkness
Again.

Later that fateful day,
The world was quiet
No grief
Nor sorrow
We soon saw that heartless
Again, remembering...
A selfless angel lost
To a selfish demon

On that fateful day,
That demon played
She suffered the same
Fate as she did
Because we avenged
Her leaving

On that fateful day,
She left us
! know this doesn't rhyme. Deal with it. ¬w¬ ***
Lunar Apr 2014
you were the sunshine
who loves the rain
and i was the rain
who loved you, my sunshine

but even if
opposites attract
we can never really meet

unless on a fateful event
when we're destined
to create a rainbow
Mike Essig Jan 2017
If only, on that fateful day,
my Draft Board had been on LSD.

They might have sent me to Wonderland
to explain croquet and the proper pouring of tea;

they might have sent me to OZ
to get into Dorothy's pants or train flying monkeys;

they might have sent me to Hogwarts
to get an advanced degree in something useful;

they might have sent me to Narnia
in search of ****** pelts and talking mice;

they might have sent me to Never Land
to counsel Captain Hook on anger management;

but no, instead, imagination failed utterly,
and those patriotic imbeciles sent me to Vietnam.

If only, on that fateful day,
my Draft Board had been on LSD.
AM Mar 2016
he uses Monday to Saturday
to change the world
and uses a single Sunday
to change mine
Eloi Jan 2017
This is the place where he lay his head,
When he went to bed at night,
And this is the place our demons  were derived
Candles lit the room at night.
this is the place where he cut his wrists
That odd and fateful night.

This is the place where we used to live,
I paid for it with love and blood,
And these are the boxes that he kept on the shelf,
Filled with his poetry and stuff.

this is the room where he took the razor,
And cut his  wrists that strange and fateful night.

I never would have started if I'd known
That it'd end this way.

His body didn't last forever,
It decomposed with time.
But the memories I'll always treasure,
Will last me until the day that I die.
MP Jan 2015
I think I loved you most the winter your heating was broken
And we’d stay inside all morning
Pretending to complain that we couldn’t get out of bed
Our clothes becoming little islands on the floor,
Ones that we could not quite find the courage to visit

Your hand stayed glued to my hip,
Your breath warming my shoulder
Like a long drag of whiskey
That kind that had a home so far away,
In a glass bottle on top of your refrigerator.
The one that would not be opened
Until that fateful day in February,
When everything went wrong

And on that unbearable night
When you joked that you’d freeze to death if I left you
There was a long silence
Like it might be true.

Now it’s warm enough
That I show too much skin when sitting in bars
And you avoid me like the plague,
Whispering in any girl’s ear that’s near to you
Every time you see me watching out of the corner of your eye

We should have stayed inside when the ice began to melt
Because I think
When those doors opened and we finally ventured outside
The world had changed,
And so had you and I.
Jean Rodriguez Jan 2015
It's funny how people keep on waiting for that certain person to come,
with no guarantee of ever knowing whether they'll show up or not.
It astonishes me to see how far they'd go
for the sake of having that One Fateful Day,
where at last everything they worked so hard waiting on,
will come to fruition.
I have never thought of it as something worth my while
not since I have known what it felt like to be in that familiar line
of waiting and hoping and giving up altogether.
It has been years since I have ever been in this feeling's mercy;
and I doubt I'll ever be in the same situation any time soon.
But when I do, I'll remember that one person
whom I'd give all my forevers
all the strings tied within me
the deepest corners of my soul
and maybe all this time I have been waiting
and I just never felt it all the while
but whoever that person will be,
tell me when you're there
by the crossroads where I used to wait
for someone else.
Valentine Mbagu Oct 2013
There came a time in the history of Nigeria when she dreamed for independence,
There came a moment in the history of Nigeria when she groaned to gain freedom from the British;
There came a season in the history of Nigeria when she desired to obtain independence from her rulers.

The moment when she groaned for independence,
The season when she was ready to groam freedom;
The moment when she desired to be independent as a country.

The moment when she seeked her elites to stand up and fight for independence,
The season when she awaited the voice and appearance of her freedom fighters;
The moment whe she believed that independence was ready to answer the call of nature in her country.

The moment when she believed to find freedom and independence which as that missing part of her that made her a complete country,
The season when she trusted and believed in the treasure called independence;
The moment when she hoped and desired to be called an independent and sovereign nation in the history of the world.

The moment when she was expectantant of the mother called independence,
The season when nothing meant anything to her except for the father called freedom;
The moment when she still believe to be an independent country despite foreign exploitations,
with the understanding that she could still stand up on her feet as an independent country.

She believed that someone who understands her tears and passion for freedom and independence,
will arise and fight for her freedom knowing that he will never bear to see her travail in birth for independence.
The elites she knew not but believed was out some where fortiing and preparing themselves for independence and fight for freedom.
Independence she waited for like an expectand mother of a child,
Each step she took was believed to bring her closer to freedom and independence.

She believed in freedom and independence for her country and it's occupants, and not
colonisation and exploitation from the British colony.
She believed in fighting for freedom and independence than dying a coward,
She believed in her elites efforts to obtain her independence and sovereignty.

She expected her elites to stand up and rage for independence to freedom and sovereignty,
which they did when the opportunity and strategy came for them to uphold.
She believed that destiny will bring her independence and freedom,
when the hour of liberation from exploitation comes.
She believed that her pains and heart beat was felt and understood by her elites.

The name independence she was passionate about and the fame freedom she was desperate about.
The memories of colonisation she groaned to erase and the histories of exploitation she desired to filtrate.
The name independence she struggled to uphold and the gain freedom she strived to unfold.

Before her moment of independence,
she strived to make full proof of her countrie's ambitions,
she sort self asset and not self liability.
She seeked and desired independence and freedom from exploitaion which she got.
Her dignity and hour as a country was restored on that fateful day of October 1, 1960 whe she gained and famed her independence and freedom.

She believed in independence and freedom which she got.
The death of her elites and freedom fighters was never in vain.

This is Nigeria At 53 and she is still a sovereign and independent country.
I dedicate this Poem to my Country Nigeria on Her 53rd Birthday. The 1st Of October 1960 when She gained Her Independence.
David Noonan Dec 2016
Christ, it's not like we were really even fighting.
I had teased you, hit a nerve sure, but we'd been there before.
Stop being such a ***** you said, and of course you were right but could i stop?
Could i ****, not without my last card to play and yet that card had been lost
That fateful morning , two weeks last Thursday

And oh how different that  had played out.
Both lying there, still warm from the previous nights glow.
Bodies entwined as i leaned and whispered for the first time that I love you.
But as a lost child of the counter culture, you had just laughed and asked me to *******.
That fateful morning, two weeks last Thursday

So it was there that our dream had died, or mine at least.
And in its place spawned this cold bitter wounded male pride.
Intent on a destruction,  camouflaged as salvation as it reeked it's callous revenge
All for what?, some selfish need to hear those three little words.
That fateful morning, two weeks last Thursday

And now fourteen years later and so much having passed.
Would you recognise me now, would you care, would you just laugh.
At how I've become all that we swore and promised that we never would.
And yet it's me that's left thinking of you, of us and all that was lost.
That fateful morning, two weeks last Thursday
Sister and I loved to play, to run and twirl and roll in grass all day. Momma gets mad when we go too far but our yard is massive we live on a farm! Running on rolling fields of prairie, singing and laughing and acting merry, shot right through the tree line that marks our abode, slid across the rocks on Old Joser Road, saw an old lady who walked with crumpled toes and spoke too and listened too a pack of crows, plucking weeds and picking a thorny flower she called out to us that fateful hour;

  “Oh my and how lovely, two twins so cute! I had thought no one lived so far out here, away from the town and its charming cheer? Why don’t you come over and meet my pet crows and I’ll show you two a trick that nobody knows!”

  I leaned down to consult with sister you see, she being younger she’s littler than me, I told her to stay close while we watched the show, then we’d be off and away we’d go;

  “Okay old lady my name is Tim and this here’s Tam and this place you’re in, is our family farm and that guy in the field, well that’s our Dad, and if you mess with us he gets real mad, so no funny business in this game and we’ll be nice to you just the same.”

  “Agreed indeed you little man and I can’t wait to see you in my pan!”

  Now I had to think on this real hard. Did that mean something about being able to see or was she talking about eating me? No matter, no problems and boy those crows, did they sure put on some funny shows and acted like they had lots of smarts and seemed just like pets and warmed our hearts;

  “Thanks old lady we gotta go we’re almost late for dinner you know?”

  She moved too fast and came right up and pulled out an odd-looking wooden cup;

“Wait there dearies, not so quick, about that dinner and my sweet shtick, you see you owe me a trick too, two coins I’m asking there of you, you bring them up to my cabin on that hill and I’ll teach you some magic and give you a thrill!”

  “Okay lady!”

  I agreed as we ran, if we don’t get home soon it’s gonna be my can! ‘Cause I know my pops he’ll beat my **** and I’ll be sent upstairs with nothing to eat, so I told little sister to move those feet!

caesura

  Whisk you down the road of boiled toad, and singeing hair, of whispered things and fires' flare, of evil looks from open books, pigeon’s toes and a chicken gizzard, while around your legs it crawls and creeps, my hungry lizard that never sleeps! You gawk! You stare! My wrinkly-face, the dank rank air in my dingy place, the dusty shelves a-lined in books and creepy crawlies in every nook, cobwebs and spiders at every corner, piggies run squealing while the chickens banterer, ravens caw at strange green light from lantern but back to all those shadow corners where little bad things spy and salivate, thinking on what they had last ate, and there you are shaking, nervous, trembling; a porky little piece of meat and something we all want to eat!

  “Oh don’t be scared my little one, I’m kidding, teasing, just having fun. Hand me the coins I asked for earlier, when we crossed paths along Old Joser, draw near to me, come here, come a bit closer!”

  Be careful will I not to bare my teeth, or lick my lips or stare too deep, for one is easy, two a dangerous feat and I so want to have my little porky piece of meat! I stood on a ladder with little Tam on my shoulder, so she could see the *** as it smoked and it smoldered, I directed little Tim over there to a seat and he saw me lick my lips as I thought about their meat.

  “Aha ha ha ha ha!”

  I laughed out loud as I cast in the dust and the billows changed color and kiddies made a fuss, but then the sparkly things popped and shimmered in their eyes, while both of them let out marvelous sighs, bewildered, bemused and tricked by my lie, I threw Tammy in to my cauldron to die!

  “Nooooooo!”

  Little Tim, little Tim did he let me in and punished will he be for that little sin, I whispered a spell and took up my broom and zapped a hole in the floor out in the room, where Tim was running and dropped him in a hole, down a tunnel he went that saved his soul, for out he shot back on Old Joser Road, no wiser no worse for the trick I showed!

Now listen up children or this is your lot,

For I’m out there always lurking with my ***,

I’m always hungry and so are my crows,

We’ll eat you up all the way to your toes,

“Jimson and sassafras, morning glory, woodrose seed,”

“A ***** of my finger, lock of my hair, a thimble and tweed,”

“Two coins, a cauldron, my cunning and your breed,”

“Whenever I’m hungry that’s all that I need!”
(Joser: Joe-Sir) rhymed with (Closer)
This is a retelling of the Sumerian story of Tim-Tam which is the origin of Hansel and Gretel. This entire piece came to me in a dream and I wrote it down in one sitting over ten minutes. Grimm's Fairy Tales are about warnings to small children...warnings that not ALL adults are good people and sometimes starving old people in the woods use trickery to eat kids. The phrase 'two twins' is a reference to the dual nature of myth as both actual events and cosmic. Gemini and the two earthly children.

Two coins to pay the boatman who takes your soul across the river Styx.
vircapio gale Aug 2012
on moonstone slab Manmata flames again
from out of ashes rises, gloating unfinality of Shiva's dance
reincarnate offering of endless Self
in Lakshmi's avatar
a fateful prince's heart to lance

and lanced his heart her visage did,
                                                     though with vaster pinions fully pierced was she, in depths
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                 without rivalry~

his lust was sharp to invite solitude,
but easy to conceal,
he imagined cupping her against him,
scoured memory of upward glimpse,
inch  by  inch
with added imagery, invention moulding her
beneath his grasp
from forehead curls along
glowing skin and eyes
to curving, palatially appareled ******* . . .
her open lips . . .  her hips
--but after, merely to dismiss
and even sleep a bit
and quip inside at irony
to be at mercy
of a girl in flowers
when he with arrows demons lay to rest
(though she would, within the selfsame hours lose her wits ;)

in cityscape descried the triad:
gold dome gifts for sky
in shining generosity
Mithila's people overflow with joy
exuding free abundance carelessly--
jewelry loosed on playful street
from overkeen embrace, is left to lie;
loss in ever-present wealth nigh obsolete

musth of elephant, froth of steed,
floral garlands tangle, line and mix
for clouds of honey-bees to lick their feast.
a bustling of virile acrobatic populace--
symphonic mux of chaos tressed,
metropolis of idylls coalesced;
drums, races, grinning faces flinging courtship,
smirking merchants under wigs
bathers splash exotic fish to flit and weave
while ballads sift for higher pitch of love

from elevated terrace ladies prance
and watching from an inner spire
the princess spies her prince--
emerald shoulders, lotus-petal eyes
Vaikunta hidden from their mortal sight
but straining recognition there,
a union ageless as the stars
inspired suddenly another first:
Rama's transfixed stare she feels and meets,
strangers locked entwining glances
--fated simultaneous-- electric heat   like
from a planet sparking for the taste of outer space --
the lightning burns its mark ensouled
in blooms beyond her ripe, anthophilous form,
verdant visions planted in the rays of light
between two instant loves
to slip inside the eyelid entrance
and evermore impregnate with a glory ill,
as separation wills,
to colonize throughout with other Being there
phantasmal yearnings of entrancing elegance
--from dawn of time instilled, akashic script
of binding hurt with joy in love's embrace
condemn desire to a writhing term
when not imbibing such togetherness
a worldless crypt preferred

and so as swift as gymnast flip to fall
the heart is gushing toxic lack,
epic ventricles the viscose tug
in fluid inspiration wrote of Sita's
sudden addict gnashing inner plight
while slips the sight interred within the crowd,
as if a sorcerer the cosmic sea to play her destiny:
the waves inside enraged to overwhelm
the sudden coral crust beneath the swell
an unmarked seaside's lavish drown unto the land
and reeling send this fragile ******
into wilting, her floral haze to drooping fell...
        in revelatory crash of passion's oceanic weight...
attendants pamper uselessly
--from swoon to mood irate
to wait until the next appearance of her mortal god
the only one to sate the shameless need
entwining up within a clenching wrack of milky fits
from bed to sweaty bed they take the burning maiden~
the outer sea inflow in calming dusk meant nothing to the agony of new romance
                       sequestered in hymenic fire, dawning brilliant
                                                       ­                                omni chakral pierce in rays,
                                                                ­                                                              tot­ality relentlessness
and therein descry a wholeness
  yet unregained
a hopeless birdsong careless as the wind
in caring strokes of pollen redolence
for forest ears an endless vibrate mate
of elemental ease the simmer float
upon the dukkha broil paths embroidery of karmic
cookery the godly recipe invoked,
gibed her without cease,
****** flare eternal guna coals to stoke
and spite her with their peace,
for her attainment only next to he
the moon communes the message blinding clear
amid the ghee her girls would light in care
to soften her despair -- but only aggravate her state --
and so by dim refracted moondrops set,
in only gemlight, Sita basks in pain
her gaze entrained by night obsessively
while overhead the crescent hook beams
freely in to fertilize her all-too-chastely girdle there,
petals wilting under body pressed to slab of stone
as mounting groan on groan intones her writhing questioning
of whomever he could be to cast her moaning so
a deity in maidenhead unwitting of such otherlife
left by endless, anthrocosmos' whim to ache, and alone
in wonder scream abandonment from aether poise
confusion reigning noisome nescient choice


















.
Manmata: the god of love, who Shiva is said to have burned to ashes with the purity of his contemplation
Lakshmi: Hindu goddess of wealth, prosperity (both material and spiritual), fortune, and the embodiment of beauty. She is the consort of the god Vishnu. She takes her mortal form as Sita in the Ramayana, destined for Rama (who is Vishnu's avatar).
Guna: an element, 'thread', 'string' or principle of nature; the three gunas are (sattva), (rajas), and (tamas)
Dukkha: suffering
Anthro-: as in 'human'

"The impact of the Ramayana on a poet, however, goes beyond mere personal edification; it inspires him to compose the epic again in his own language, with the stamp of his own personality on it.  The Ramayana has thus been the largest source of inspiration for the poets of India throughout the centuries . . . Thus we have centuries-old Ramayana in Hindi, Bengali, Assamese, Oriya, Tamil, Kannada, Kashmiri, Telugu, Malayalam, to mention a few."   -R.K. Narayan (whose prose version of Kamban's 11th c.e.Tamil --originally written on palm leaves-- i'm reading at the moment, and whose advice i've found myself compelled to follow. in no way am i an authority, but an amateur--literally--'in love')

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/ramas-inauguration-facing-the-murderous-gluttony-of-thataka/

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/soorpanaka-the-demon-as-kamavalli-lusts-for-rama-1/
Victoria Johnson Nov 2014
You know I keep it caged,
Deep inside me.
I always did so well,
At keeping it quiet.
Nobody ever had to know,
About this monstrosity,
Right beneath the surface.

I keep my face straight.
Not a smile or a cry.
I'm constantly reminded,
To keep it well inside.
I always did so well too,
Till the night I lost control.

The monster from inside,
My own Pandora's box.
The monster's not inside,
Will never sleep again.
This monster on the inside,
Called emotion.
Alan W Jankowski Dec 2011
Let the world always remember,
That fateful day in September,
And the ones who answered duty's call,
Should be remembered by us all.

Who left the comfort of their home,
To face perils as yet unknown,
An embodiment of goodness on a day,
When men's hearts had gone astray.

Sons and daughters like me and you,
Who never questioned what they had to do,
Who by example, were a source of hope,
And strength to others who could not cope.

Heroes that would not turn their back,
With determination that would not crack,
Who bound together in their ranks,
And asking not a word of thanks.

Men who bravely gave their lives,
Whose orphaned kids and widowed wives,
Can proudly look back on their dad,
Who gave this country all they had.

Actions taken without regret,
Heroisms we shall never forget,
The ones who paid the ultimate price,
Let's never forget their sacrifice.

And never forget the ones no longer here,
Who fought for the freedoms we all hold dear,
And may their memory never wane,
Lest their sacrifices be in vain.

09-30-10b.
There is now a video interview with me talking about this poem, filmed Sunday, Sept. 8, 2013 in front of City Hall, here in South Amboy, N.J...it posted along with my poem, on various Gannett news sites on the East Coast on Sept. 11...
http://www.mycentraljersey.com/videos/life/2014/07/25/13185429/

Oh, could say a few things about this one...it's been in print at least 15 times that I'm aware of, and probably far more...and was used in more 9/11 ceremonies this past tenth anniversary than I will ever know...the stuff with the school kids, scout troupes and the like is always touching...made a list actually of some places it appeared...
http://www.storiesspace.com/forum/yaf_postst538_My-911-Tribute-poem-has-been-in-print-at-least-fourteen-times-in-2011.aspx
Yeah, this one got pretty big...and it's only the first year...
Maggie Emmett Jul 2015
PROLOGUE
               Hyde Park weekend of politics and pop,
Geldof’s gang of divas and mad hatters;
Sergeant Pepper only one heart beating,
resurrected by a once dead Beatle.
The ******, Queen and Irish juggernauts;
The Entertainer and dead bands
re-jigged for the sake of humanity.
   The almighty single named entities
all out for Africa and people power.
Olympics in the bag, a Waterloo
of celebrations in the street that night
Leaping and whooping in sheer delight
Nelson rocking in Trafalgar Square
The promised computer wonderlands
rising from the poisoned dead heart wasteland;
derelict, deserted, still festering.
The Brave Tomorrow in a world of hate.
The flame will be lit, magic rings aloft
and harmony will be our middle name.

On the seventh day of the seventh month,
Festival of the skilful Weaving girl;
the ‘war on terror’ just a tattered trope
drained and exhausted and put out of sight
in a dark corner of a darker shelf.
A power surge the first lie of the day.
Savagely woken from our pleasant dream
al Qa’ida opens up a new franchise
and a new frontier for terror to prowl.

               Howling sirens shatter morning’s progress
Hysterical screech of ambulances
and police cars trying to grip the road.
The oppressive drone of helicopters
gathering like the Furies in the sky;
Blair’s hubris is acknowledged by the gods.
Without warning the deadly game begins.

The Leviathan state machinery,
certain of its strength and authority,
with sheer balletic co-ordination,
steadies itself for a fine performance.
The new citizen army in ‘day glow’
take up their ‘Support Official’ roles,
like air raid wardens in the last big show;
feisty  yet firm, delivering every line
deep voiced and clearly to the whole theatre.
On cue, the Police fan out through Bloomsbury
clearing every emergency exit,
arresting and handcuffing surly streets,
locking down this ancient river city.
Fetching in fluorescent green costuming,
the old Bill nimbly Tangos and Foxtrots
the airways, Oscar, Charlie and Yankee
quickly reply with grid reference Echo;
Whiskey, Sierra, Quebec, November,
beam out from New Scotland Yard,
staccato, nearly lost in static space.
      
              LIVERPOOL STREET STATION
8.51 a.m. Circle Line

Shehezad Tanweer was born in England.
A migrant’s child of hope and better life,
dreaming of his future from his birth.
Only twenty two short years on this earth.
In a madrassah, Lahore, Pakistan,
he spent twelve weeks reading and rote learning
verses chosen from the sacred text.
Chanting the syllables, hour after hour,
swaying back and forth with the word rhythm,
like an underground train rocking the rails,
as it weaves its way beneath the world,
in turning tunnels in the dead of night.

Teve Talevski had a meeting
across the river, he knew he’d be late.
**** trains they do it to you every time.
But something odd happened while he waited
A taut-limbed young woman sashayed past him
in a forget-me-not blue dress of silk.
She rustled on the platform as she turned.
She turned to him and smiled, and he smiled back.
Stale tunnel air pushed along in the rush
of the train arriving in the station.
He found a seat and watched her from afar.
Opened his paper for distraction’s sake
Olympic win exciting like the smile.

Train heading southwest under Whitechapel.
Deafening blast, rushing sound blast, bright flash
of golden light, flying glass and debris
Twisted people thrown to ground, darkness;
the dreadful silent second in blackness.
The stench of human flesh and gunpowder,
burning rubber and fiery acrid smoke.
Screaming bone bare pain, blood-drenched tearing pain.
Pitiful weeping, begging for a god
to come, someone to come, and help them out.

Teve pushes off a dead weighted man.
He stands unsteady trying to balance.
Railway staff with torches, moving spotlights
**** and jolt, catching still life scenery,
lighting the exit in gloomy dimness.
They file down the track to Aldgate Station,
Teve passes the sardine can carriage
torn apart by a fierce hungry giant.
Through the dust, four lifeless bodies take shape
and disappear again in drifting smoke.
It’s only later, when safe above ground,
Teve looks around and starts to wonder
where his blue epiphany girl has gone.

                 KINGS CROSS STATION
8.56 a.m. Piccadilly Line

Many named Lyndsey Germaine, Jamaican,
living with his wife and child in Aylesbury,
laying low, never visited the Mosque.   
                Buckinghamshire bomber known as Jamal,
clean shaven, wearing normal western clothes,
annoyed his neighbours with loud music.
Samantha-wife converted and renamed,
Sherafiyah and took to wearing black.
Devout in that jet black shalmar kameez.
Loving father cradled close his daughter
Caressed her cheek and held her tiny hand
He wondered what the future held for her.

Station of the lost and homeless people,
where you can buy anything at a price.
A place where a face can be lost forever;
where the future’s as real as faded dreams.
Below the mainline trains, deep underground
Piccadilly lines cross the River Thames
Cram-packed, shoulder to shoulder and standing,
the train heading southward for Russell Square,
barely pulls away from Kings Cross Station,
when Arash Kazerouni hears the bang,
‘Almighty bang’ before everything stopped.
Twenty six hearts stopped beating that moment.
But glass flew apart in a shattering wave,
followed by a  huge whoosh of smoky soot.
Panic raced down the line with ice fingers
touching and tagging the living with fear.
Spine chiller blanching faces white with shock.

Gracia Hormigos, a housekeeper,
thought, I am being electrocuted.
Her body was shaking, it seemed her mind
was in free fall, no safety cord to pull,
just disconnected, so she looked around,
saw the man next to her had no right leg,
a shattered shard of bone and gouts of  blood,
Where was the rest of his leg and his foot ?

Level headed ones with serious voices
spoke over the screaming and the sobbing;
Titanic lifeboat voices giving orders;
Iceberg cool voices of reassurance;
We’re stoical British bulldog voices
that organize the mayhem and chaos
into meaty chunks of jobs to be done.
Clear air required - break the windows now;
Lines could be live - so we stay where we are;
Help will be here shortly - try to stay calm.

John, Mark and Emma introduce themselves
They never usually speak underground,
averting your gaze, tube train etiquette.
Disaster has its opportunities;
Try the new mobile, take a photograph;
Ring your Mum and Dad, ****** battery’s flat;
My network’s down; my phone light’s still working
Useful to see the way, step carefully.

   Fiona asks, ‘Am I dreaming all this?’
A shrieking man answers her, “I’m dying!”
Hammered glass finally breaks, fresher air;
too late for the man in the front carriage.
London Transport staff in yellow jackets
start an orderly evacuation
The mobile phones held up to light the way.
Only nineteen minutes in a lifetime.
  
EDGEWARE ROAD STATION
9.17 a.m. Circle Line

               Mohammed Sadique Khan, the oldest one.
Perhaps the leader, at least a mentor.
Yorkshire man born, married with a daughter
Gently spoken man, endlessly patient,
worked in the Hamara, Lodge Lane, Leeds,
Council-funded, multi-faith youth Centre;
and the local Primary school, in Beeston.
No-one could believe this of  Mr Khan;
well educated, caring and very kind
Where did he hide his secret other life  ?

Wise enough to wait for the second train.
Two for the price of one, a real bargain.
Westbound second carriage is blown away,
a commuter blasted from the platform,
hurled under the wheels of the east bound train.
Moon Crater holes, the walls pitted and pocked;
a sparse dark-side landscape with black, black air.
The ripped and shredded metal bursts free
like a surprising party popper;
Steel curlicues corkscrew through wood and glass.
Mass is made atomic in the closed space.
Roasting meat and Auschwitzed cremation stench
saturates the already murky air.              
Our human kindling feeds the greedy fire;
Heads alight like medieval torches;
Fiery liquid skin drops from the faceless;
Punk afro hair is cauterised and singed.  
Heat intensity, like a wayward iron,
scorches clothes, fuses fibres together.
Seven people escape this inferno;
many die in later days, badly burned,
and everyone there will live a scarred life.

               TAVISTOCK ROAD
9.47 a.m. Number 30 Bus  

Hasib Hussain migrant son, English born
barely an adult, loved by his mother;
reported him missing later that night.
Police typed his description in the file
and matched his clothes to fragments from the scene.
A hapless victim or vicious bomber ?
Child of the ‘Ummah’ waging deadly war.
Seventy two black eyed virgins waiting
in jihadist paradise just for you.

Red double-decker bus, number thirty,
going from Hackney Wick to Marble Arch;
stuck in traffic, diversions everywhere.
Driver pulls up next to a tree lined square;
the Parking Inspector, Ade Soji,
tells the driver he’s in Tavistock Road,
British Museum nearby and the Square.
A place of peace and quiet reflection;
the sad history of war is remembered;
symbols to make us never forget death;
Cherry Tree from Hiroshima, Japan;
Holocaust Memorial for Jewish dead;
sturdy statue of  Mahatma Gandhi.
Peaceful resistance that drove the Lion out.
Freedom for India but death for him.

Sudden sonic boom, bus roof tears apart,
seats erupt with volcanic force upward,
hot larva of blood and tissue rains down.
Bloodied road becomes a charnel-house scene;
disembodied limbs among the wreckage,
headless corpses; sinews, muscles and bone.
Buildings spattered and smeared with human paint
Impressionist daubs, blood red like the bus.

Jasmine Gardiner, running late for work;
all trains were cancelled from Euston Station;  
she headed for the square, to catch the bus.
It drove straight past her standing at the stop;
before she could curse aloud - Kaboom !
Instinctively she ran, ran for her life.
Umbrella shield from the shower of gore.

On the lower deck, two Aussies squeezed in;
Catherine Klestov was standing in the aisle,
floored by the bomb, suffered cuts and bruises
She limped to Islington two days later.
Louise Barry was reading the paper,
she was ‘****-scared’ by the explosion;
she crawled out of the remnants of the bus,
broken and burned, she lay flat on the road,
the world of sound had gone, ear drums had burst;
she lay there drowsy, quiet, looking up
and amazingly the sky was still there.

Sam Ly, Vietnamese Australian,
One of the boat people once welcomed here.
A refugee, held in his mother’s arms,
she died of cancer, before he was three.
Hi Ly struggled to raise his son alone;
a tough life, inner city high rise flats.
Education the smart migrant’s revenge,
Monash Uni and an IT degree.
Lucky Sam, perfect job of a lifetime;
in London, with his one love, Mandy Ha,
Life going great until that fateful day;
on the seventh day of the seventh month,
Festival of the skilful Weaving girl.

Three other Aussies on that ****** bus;
no serious physical injuries,
Sam’s luck ran out, in choosing where to sit.
His neck was broken, could not breath alone;
his head smashed and crushed, fractured bones and burns
Wrapped in a cocoon of coma safe
This broken figure lying on white sheets
in an English Intensive Care Unit
did not seem like Hi Ly’s beloved son;
but he sat by Sam’s bed in disbelief,
seven days and seven nights of struggle,
until the final hour, when it was done.

In the pit of our stomach we all knew,
but we kept on deep breathing and hoping
this nauseous reality would pass.
The weary inevitability
of horrific disasters such as these.
Strangely familiar like an old newsreel
Black and white, it happened long ago.
But its happening now right before our eyes
satellite pictures beam and bounce the globe.
Twelve thousand miles we watch the story
Plot unfolds rapidly, chapters emerge
We know the places names of this narrative.
  
It is all subterranean, hidden
from the curious, voyeuristic gaze,
Until the icon bus, we are hopeful
This public spectacle is above ground
We can see the force that mangled the bus,
fury that tore people apart limb by limb
Now we can imagine a bomb below,
far below, people trapped, fiery hell;
fighting to breathe each breath in tunnelled tombs.

Herded from the blast they are strangely calm,
obedient, shuffling this way and that.
Blood-streaked, sooty and dishevelled they come.
Out from the choking darkness far below
Dazzled by the brightness of the morning
of a day they feared might be their last.
They have breathed deeply of Kurtz’s horror.
Sights and sounds unimaginable before
will haunt their waking hours for many years;
a lifetime of nightmares in the making.
They trudge like weary soldiers from the Somme
already see the world with older eyes.

On the surface, they find a world where life
simply goes on as before, unmindful.
Cyclist couriers still defy road laws,
sprint racing again in Le Tour de France;
beer-gutted, real men are loading lorries;
lunch time sandwiches are made as usual,
sold and eaten at desks and in the street.
Roadside cafes sell lots of hot sweet tea.
The Umbrella stand soon does brisk business.
Sign writers' hands, still steady, paint the sign.
The summer blooms are watered in the park.
A ***** stretches on the bench and wakes up,
he folds and stows his newspaper blankets;
mouth dry,  he sips water at the fountain.
A lady scoops up her black poodle’s ****.
A young couple argues over nothing.
Betting shops are full of people losing
money and dreaming of a trifecta.
Martin’s still smoking despite the patches.
There’s a rush on Brandy in nearby pubs
Retired gardener dead heads his flowers
and picks a lettuce for the evening meal

Fifty six minutes from start to finish.
Perfectly orchestrated performance.
Rush hour co-ordination excellent.
Maximum devastation was ensured.
Cruel, merciless killing so coldly done.
Fine detail in the maiming and damage.

A REVIEW

Well activated practical response.
Rehearsals really paid off on the day.
Brilliant touch with bus transport for victims;
Space blankets well deployed for shock effect;
Dramatic improv by Paramedics;
Nurses, medicos and casualty staff
showed great technical E.R. Skills - Bravo !
Plenty of pizzazz and dash as always
from the nifty, London Ambo drivers;
Old fashioned know-how from the Fire fighters
in hosing down the fireworks underground.
Dangerous rescues were undertaken,
accomplished with buckets of common sense.
And what can one say about those Bobbies,
jolly good show, the lips unquivering
and universally stiff, no mean feat
in this Premiere season tear-jerker.
Nail-bitingly brittle, but a smash-hit
Poignant misery and stoic suffering,
fortitude, forbearance and lots of grit
Altogether was quite tickety boo.



NOTES ON THE POEM

Liverpool Street Station

A Circle Line train from Moorgate with six carriages and a capacity of 1272 passengers [ 192 seated; 1080 standing]. 7 dead on the first day.

Southbound, destination Aldgate. Explosion occurs midway between Liverpool Street and Aldgate.

Shehezad Tanweer was reported to have ‘never been political’ by a friend who played cricket with him 10 days before the bombing

Teve Talevski is a real person and I have elaborated a little on reports in the press. He runs a coffee shop in North London.

At the time of writing the fate of the blue dress lady is not known

Kings Cross Station

A Piccadilly Line train with six carriages and a capacity of 1238 passengers [272 seated; 966 standing]. 21 dead on first day.

Southbound, destination Russell Square. Explosion occurs mi
This poem is part of a longer poem called Seasons of Terror. This poem was performed at the University of Adelaide, Bonython Hall as a community event. The poem was read by local poets, broadcasters, personalities and politicians from the South Australia Parliament and a Federal MP & Senator. The State Premier was represented by the Hon. Michael Atkinson, who spoke about the role of the Emergency services in our society. The Chiefs of Police, Fire and Ambulence; all religious and community organisations' senior reprasentatives; the First Secretary of the British High Commission and the general public were present. It was recorded by Radio Adelaide and broadcast live as well as coverage from Channel 7 TV News. The Queen,Tony Blair, Australian Governor General and many other public dignitaries sent messages of support for the work being read. A string quartet and a solo flautist also played at this event.
Tomas Denson Apr 2015
Take me down while standing tall
into shattered pieces fall
laughing now tears rush by
rolling down from this high
what is known, what is seen
wash this battered mind to clean
watch me smile here and past
rictus grins that will not last
knowing of the pain to come
colouring each and every moment fun
screaming now in joy or pain
always have they felt the same
only in this sea at dark
when light is gone and hope depart
there i find that fateful step
to take me up the ***** so swept
then i smile, i laugh once more
offer myself as emotions *****
though in that moment of breathlessness
where i don't have to face this test
there is a hope that i'll just stop
no more struggle to that top
dear ocean then, call my soul
let me pretend that i am whole
for i would swim the waters again
please, let me swim the waters again.
Rockie Oct 2014
The Alpha will call, the omega will join,
Together as one, they sing a song,
All now hunted, because of one fateful calling,
Haunting, yet beautiful, they'll ravage,
They'll break, they'll snap and growl,
Stopping for yet no one,
No one but the Alpha Wolf.
Deb Jones Oct 2017
February 2017

Her cousin's name was Jason
His brother's Fiancé'
Had a brother named Mark
They became good friends
Jason and Mark

Jason was attending college
His dream was to work for
A big cat rescue service
For which he volunteered.

Mark was nursing a broken heart
He had just split up with his girlfriend
Justin and Mark were both 22
Jason wanted to cheer up Mark

Jason was an experienced hiker
His Dad worked
For the Sheriff's office
As Captain of the Search and Rescue team

Jason asked Mark
To go on a day hike with him
In the snow last May
They were excited

8,000 feet up
The snow was crisp
The crunch of the ice
Was loud in the silent air

They mostly stayed on the trail
Occasionally stepping over
The barriers when something
Caught their attention

The last time was when
Jason said he knew
Of a perfect view beyond
A stand of trees

Again, they thought nothing
Of stepping over the barrier
Despite the warning signs
Posted along the trail

Mark was in front of Jason
Both walking and talking
Laughing
Mark asked Jason a question

Jason didn't answer
Mark turned around
Bewildered
Jason was gone

Mark thought Jason was playing a game
He called his name
No answer
He called his cell phone
No answer
He screamed for Jason
No answer
He pleaded for him
No answer

He thought he heard Jason's
Cell phone ringing in the
Quiet bleakness of the snow
But no answer.

He saw Justin's footprints
Seeming to disappear
Into a darkened area
In the snow

Mark followed their foot prints back to the trail
He called the park rangers
And was told to wait there

The search and rescue team responded
Jason's father was not
Officially
Allowed to go

He drove to the site by himself

They found Jason quickly
He had fallen down
A crevice
Approximately 1800 feet deep

Without a sound to echo in the silent snow

There was nothing they could do
The fall killed him
The snow prevented
A rescue for a body

His father setup a campsite
And stayed there
With his son
For several days

Until he was forced to leave
By a heavy snow storm

The family had a moving and emotional memorial service
Of all he was
And all he could have been

The church was overflowing
With family and friends

Many Police officers
And Sheriff Deputies
Attended in full uniform
To support the parents

They, alone, filled 4 pews

Over the months
The snow melted
Unfortunately Justin's body
Was not recoverable
The crevice too deep and narrow

His mother won't accept that
Some day she hopes to have her son home.

We all pray for the same thing too.

Goodbye Justin, we all love you and haven't forgotten you one bit
This happened this past year. It seemed forever for spring to come around and to try and recover his body. Some people said they should have never went beyond the trail step-over fencing. But don't all youths feel infallible? Such a horrific death would not have been foreseeable
Abby Jan 2014
If I could go back there,
to that day in first grade when I yanked my project (on bridges, yellow cover decorated in crayon) too fast from Allison's hands and her fingers blistered on the staples,
I would be standing there,
next to Miss A as she lined up the class,
ready with a band aid and a hug and I would say, "Be more careful next time, alright?" and Allison and I would get yelled at for skipping in the hallway to art class,
the moment of shock dissipating from my mind like so many accidents of the year.

If I could go back there,
to that night in April of eighth grade where I learned what true poetry was,
I would be there at ten twenty-four,
and I would wake the dead to keep myself from typing those fateful lines if I had to,
and I would save myself from skewing the feather-light foundation of our group of five
that later was heaped with bricks at odd angles
which came tumbling down.

If I could go back there,
to the last Monday before 9th grade began (whether it was Monday morning or Monday night I forget),
I would give myself a Mountain Dew and say, "He's fine, but go for her,"
and then as I ran down the b
to the day in fifth grade when I realized no one was laughing with me,
the day that I realized I was an outcast, and that "being different" wasn't good,
I would be waiting with my pink-haired baby sitter as I stepped off the school bus,
a Lilly Quench book in hand and a mug of hot chocolate (even though it was March) in the other,
and I would pull from my pocket the same necklace I was wearing,
a wire-wrapped amethyst on a crumby silvery chain
that was the first of many,
and there would be acceptance in the house that night.

If I could go back there,
to the moment I learned about eating disorders in health class from an over weight gym teacher who couldn't care less about the students,
I would bump the kid next to me from his seat (let him whine, he's a ****) and sit down,
a plate of chocolate cake and a spoon to eat it with making a mess of the plastic desk,
and maybe I would realize that I was already skinny enough.

If I could go back there,
to those nights when I learned the true power of words,
to the moment I skewed the foundations of a solid friendship of five,
I'd shout and scream and wake the dead to stop myself typing those fateful lines,
heaping bricks upon bricks to collapse my only bonds,
and I would give myself a mug of Theraflu to knock me out,
and whisper in my ear as I nodded off, "Stop being so **** impulsive."

If I could go back there,
to the last Monday before 9th grade started (whether it was the Monday morning or Monday night I never recall),
to the night where I should have closed my laptop for good when Joanne signed off but instead I reopened it at 12:17,
I would give myself a bottle of water and tell myself, "He's fine, but go anyway"
because it meant the world to Allison that I do so,
and as I ran out of the house in the opposite direction of our suicidal friend to meet up with her,
I would head toward's his house and tell him we were coming so he could be awake and his dad asleep when we showed up at the door at 2:23.

If I could go back there,
to March 19, 2012,
when I learned about life from Death himself,
when I learned that some things are worth living for and that isolationism doesn't work but it will have to work for me,
I would stand there at the foot of my bed,
freezing cold because I refused to turn on the heat,
I would hold my hand and be supportive because now I know that no one else will be,
that no one can be there for everyone always,
and I would stay with me for the months to come and relive the hellish months to come because no one should have to hold the world up alone,
knowing that they can't even maintain a grip on themselves.

If I could go back there,
I would save myself.
Just Me Oct 2015
One year and six moths ago she was a different person.
One who never believed.
One who never lived.

She was a shell of a human
Breathing and blinking
Never once was there happiness in her blinking eyes or excitement in her breath.

One year and six months ago
She never even saw herself living that long.
Her life was suppose to end that fateful cold March night.

But one year and six months ago she found a small glimmer of hope
She can't remember where or who
She can't remember anything really.

One year and six months ago, she chose life.
Drifton A Way Aug 2014
The fateful universe has chosen
With a six billion year explosion

With a bond that is this unbreakable
Synchronicity is quite unmistakable

We are Brothers,
not by choice, luck, or the same seed

Different mothers,
But souls undeniably the same breed

If there comes a time for war
we"ll be joined together in the trenches
No matter what the game score
We"ll play, while they ride the benches

When it comes to the sacred brotherhood
Please, let this one thing be understood

No matter where you are, or whether you"re blessed with children or a wife

Your brother"s never too far, and just know you"re my dog beyond this life
It's a dog"s life..
CHAPTER ONE

My geographic movements during the past year could be called “A Tale of Two Couches.” So as June draws to a close, I assume the position here again on Couch California. I am back in Hemet, the place the smug among us call Hemetucky--as if there was nothing a couple of Mint Juleps and a **** of Blue Grass wouldn’t cure. It is the year of our Lord, 2014: so far an interesting year for women. There was a woman who wore socks to bed. There was always my long-time, here today-gone tomorrow, long time companion, currently teaching somewhere remote on the Big Rez, a southwestern Navajo concentration camp near the 4 Corners.  Next, there’s my current object of affection, that fine and frisky lady from The Bronx by way of Bernalillo--currently at home in Laguna Beach, Orange County. Trixie: my main squeeze at the moment.

And now, completely out of the ******* blue this afternoon, my cell phone rings and it’s ******* Juanita--my all-time favorite woman, Juanita Mi Favorita de La Quinta--a Coachella Valley town and desert wadi, extending its lucrative winter tourist season to become a significant, year-round retirement venue and a robust service economy feeding off it.  Juanita arrived there in the late 80s, in middle of her early forties.  She was unemployed, homeless, just a suitcase to her name and a two-year old toddler in tow. Her parents were there, as was her Aunt Peggy.  Juanita was always Peggy’s favorite niece, her favorite child, actually, Peggy herself being childless, never married.  Aunt Peggy put her maternal instincts to work on Juanita Rodriguez, her Sister Rosalia’s second favorite twin daughter.

Maria, Rosalia’s first favorite daughter, Juanita’s twin sister—MARIA: lives in Newport Beach and acts as an extra in many commercial ads shot in southern California and elsewhere, an irony never without sting for Juanita. “Que lastima!” Poor Juanita: as her would-be Hollywood Movie star aspirations disintegrated over the years, along with her unrealized lower expectations to be TV star, and even those semi-glamorous modeling gigs at trade shows and fairs—the elephant’s graveyard of the acting profession—failed to materialize, and now her celebrity habitat shrunken even further, to that sporadic but consistent mockery of stardom, I refer to any would-be thespian’s ignominious one-celled visual protozoan: The Extra Call List.  And—*******-- what happens next? Juanita’s sister Maria starts getting these parts, starts getting hired by filling out a ******* postcard, starts getting paid to look good in the background. *******: no professional education or instruction, no agent, and no need to **** off both the producer, the producer’s cousin Morey, the director and the director’s wife’s huge Golden retriever, Genghis--actually a mighty handsome animal--or needing to spill $4K on that Derma-brasion, Juanita inflicted on herself last year.

Juanita, as you already know, was the second favorite daughter and the second favorite twin of the family. She became the third favorite child in her three-child family upon the arrival of her slick baby brother Nico-- the Golden Child, who grew up to be a glib Merrill-Lynch stockbroker, office and residence, Beverly Hills 90112.  (Enter forcefully into the narrative, His Nibs himself, Sir Nicodemus of Hollywood, Juanita and Maria’s baby brother Nico. He speaks: “Excuse me, stockbroker my ***, as it says in a 11 point Rockwell Boldfont, right here on my gold-leaf embossed business card: Senior Large Capital Investment Counselor.”)

No, Juanita had a hard time just treading water in that Cleveland shark tank. And though she lacked nothing in the cuteness department, she had this one fatal flaw, namely, the gift of ***** and sass and a reflex to speak truth to power. Juanita: rejected by Rosalia as a threat to her hegemony as Boss of the Girl’s Club, was cast adrift on a tempestuous childhood cruel Montserrat sea, out there on the briny deep . . .  
                

                                      



High Seas: where many a tuna has a Sorry Charlie moment: “Star-Kist don’t want no tuna with good taste; Star-Kist wants a tuna that tastes good.”

Finally, Juanita is rescued, taken aboard the Good/Soul Aunt Peggy—that wayward bark Elisabeta Rodriguez, home-ported in Southside, Chicago, Illinois—the rescue at sea performed in classy, rather low-key manner; no Andrea Doria drama, but understated:

{Camera One, Helicopter above, zooms over turbulent ocean surface. Peggy, an oasis of calm, aboard the raft Kon Tiki with Thor Heyerdahl and his crew, floats by, whispering, “Going my way, Honey? Climb aboard. Have a homemade oatmeal cookie and a small glass tumbler of Jack Daniels.” Okay, no, that’s not fair. Sure Aunt Peggy drank, but never got round to offering you a drink until you were well into your 30s. Let’s just say she offered you a warm glass of milk, the mother’s milk deprived you by your mother, her sister Rosalia. Dear Aunt Peggy: a seasoned survivor herself, flawed by early childhood deafness and grotesque speech.  Yet, she had refused to settle for life in an asylum. She made a go at life.  She learned; she prospered; she flourished. And when the time came, she was there for you in the Coachella Desert, there for her feisty niece Juanita Ann.  Aunt Peggy: a loving spirit personified, became Juanita’s special confidant and counselor, her personal cheer squad of one. Juanita, of course, a former cheerleader herself--an early hint of greatness to be sure, a highlight, perhaps the highlight of her life, shown off every Halloween, still celebrated at American high schools each Fall. She is the Principal’s secretary at a huge suburban high school in Indio. Each Halloween, if the date falls on a school day, Juanita arrives for work wearing that scrupulously preserved, vintage 1966 cheerleader uniform, looking real foxy still, snug now in all the right places. Eternal Truth: Juanita has always and will always be good looking. Life with Juanita is perpetual “ooh la-la.”

So, I am on the couch that afternoon, reading more of Gramsci’s prison notebooks, specifically the philosophy he calls “Praxis.”  Completely out of the ******* blue, Juanita calls me on a RESTRICTED phone, as I said, Juanita, a torch I’ve kept burning for years, flaring up like a refinery flame--oil still very much in the present energy mix--hope springing eternal as they say, and instantly my mission in life is rekindling our lost love. Juanita’s conceived her mission prior to her phone call:  using me to keep her son from being whacked by the local Eme--the Mexican Mafia—that ethnic-pride social club that the RICO-squad-- using family tree socio-grams and other expensively-printed graphics, the one RICO keeps trying to convince us is some sort of organized crime conspiracy. The Mexican Mafia: like everything else practical and utilitarian in this world: THAT’S ITALIAN! And, if you are starting to sense a bit of ethnic chauvinism on, between & below the lines, you are barking up the right tree.
                                                           ­     
      
                                                            
(AUTHOR’S POST-SCRIPT EDIT: And, an ad for dog food right here? Not the best choice of sponsors, perhaps, at the moment. Juanita was far off from the ****** ***** that start looking not half-bad at 2:30 in the glazy morning, not anywhere near those beasts you find lingering in the airport bars you usually frequent near closing time on Saturday nights. No, I remind you that Juanita was all “ooh la-la.” In my next printing—and my Lord, there have been so many, haven’t there, Paulie “Eat-a-Bag-of-****” Muldoon? I will change out the Alpo ad, plugging in a spot for Aunt Jemima pancake syrup or Betty Crocker whipped cream, you know, something more apropos.)

Juanita, I really must hand it to you. You showed the greatest staying power, year after year as I moved further and further away from La Quinta, California. Juanita: you embraced what was good in me, ignored my flaws and strengthened me with your love for so many years. As far as you and Peggy, I guess it was a case of the “apple not falling far from the tree” one of many endearing Midwestern metaphors you taught me.  Peggy taught you, taught you to be kind and then you taught me. No matter what bizarre venue I pulled out of my ***, you showed above-average staying power, continued to visit me wherever I went, Casa Grande & Buckeye, Arizona, Appalachia, West Virginia, and even Italy, when I thought I’d try Europe again after so many years.  With each move, each time, Juanita renewed her commitment to the relationship. Meanwhile, I continued to test her, quantifying her dedication, undermining her sense of mission to disprove my worldview on the expendability of women. Surely, you know that one: the unreliability of women, women who disappear without saying goodbye. That old deeply etched conviction to never get attached to a woman, any woman, based on the empirical fact that women have been known to suddenly die, a fact seared into my still tender metal by the surprise death of my mother on 11 January 1962.

1962. It was already an insecure world, to wit:  The Cuban Missile Crisis. Nikita Khrushchev, in his time both Dr. No and Dr. Evil, namely the Premier whom we Baby Boomers saw as Boogey Man of All Time (Although Putin is showing potential, lately)—the Kennedy ****** (what else could you call it?). All these events scary, whether or not I got the chronology right . . . I remained on high alert for any threat to my delicate adolescent psyche.  My mother-Rosa Teresa Sekaquaptewa-died at 2 o’clock in the morning, screaming in agony while apologizing to my father for not having his dinner on the table when he walked in from work that prior afternoon. She’d already been in bed since noon, attended by two of my aunts--both my father’s sisters--who loved their Hopi sister-in-law, Rosa.  Also present was Lafcadio Smirnoff, M.D.--last of the house call medicine men--a dapper, mustachioed, swarthy gentleman, misdiagnosing her abdominal pain as a 24-hour virus, while she bled out internally for at least eight more hours, her whimpers alternated with screams, well into the wee hours of the morning.

I was upstairs in that dormer bedroom listening to her die. An hour later, Father Numb-nuts of Our Lady of Lourdes Parish teleported in, beaming directly into my bedroom from the parish rectory.  Father Seamus Numb-nuts, an illuminated Burning Bush . . . not quite the bush I ‘d conjured at other times, so many times alone with Gwen Wong, ******* Playmate of the Year, 1961, one of Hefner’s hot centerfolds. No, give me a ******* break, you momo! Whacking off is the last thing on a libidinous, adolescent guinea’s brain when his mama is being tortured and killed by God. Even Alexander Portnoy, Philip Roth’s early avatar would have drawn the wanking line at that unforgettable moment.

No, perhaps what I’d had in mind was The Burning Bush Golf Course where so much of Fletcher Kneble’s political mischief and government shenanigans got cooked up. You remember his books, some of the Cold War’s finest: Seven Days in May, Vanished, etc.

Or better yet, perhaps the greatest political slogan of the 20th century: “STAY OUT THE BUSHES!” Thank you, Jesse. “Thank you, Reverend Jackson,” I slip into my Excellence in Broadcasting mode, my very own private Limbaugh. Announcing my on- air arrival is El Rushbo’s unmistakable, totally recognizable bass line bumper, courtesy of Chrissie Hynde’s Pretenders band mate, guitarist Tony Butler: Dum, dum, dum-dum, Da-dum, dum-dum-dum-dum-da-dum-dum. Single, “My City Was Gone” by The Pretenders
Rush Limbaugh Song– YouTube www.youtube.com/watch?v=SScW9r0y3c4

I become Reverend Jackson. I emerge from the vapors, an obscure abyss of deep family pangs and disappointments, ever-diminishing public relevance and fade to black (no pun intended) and media oblivion. The only thing left is that line:  “STAY OUT THE BUSHES!” You will always own that line, Jesse--true political genius (to wit: Rainbow Coalition) Jackson that you are, despite El Rush-Bo’s virulent anti-Black animus, his predilection to mock you, Al Sharpton, Corey Booker, Barack “Hussein” Obama, and any other professional ***** in America. Isn’t it time someone came right out and tagged Mr. Limbaugh as the Father Coughlin of our time.

Meanwhile back in The Bronx, enter another man of the cloth:  It’s Seamus Numb-nuts, making one of his many well-documented spectral visitations, his splendiferous miracles and wonders. How much longer will the Vatican ignore this humble Bronx priest, this epitome of Sainthood; this reverent man, lacking only the stigmata for a unanimous consent vote? Quote the Numb-nuts: “God Works in Mysterious Ways.” An old standard to be sure, but a lovely, all-purpose bromide for explaining why evil exists in our world. Needless to say, I was underwhelmed; I lost God at that moment, consequently shooting myself in the foot--metaphorically-speaking-condemning myself to an unshielded life, life OUT THE BUSHES!  I went forth into the world without God, without that handy divine crutch, that Andy Devine metaphor for when one’s legs grow weary: a puff of smoke, a reverb twang and a nasty frog croaking “Hi-ya, Kids. Hi-ya, Hi-ya. Hi-ya.”

   Andy's Gang - Pasta Fazooli vs. Froggy the Gremlin - YouTube
► 3:55► 3:55
www.youtube.com/watch?v=H35odPm7b3w Aug 8, 2012 - Uploaded by jmgilsinger
Froggy the Gremlin -Tuba ... Andy Devine (Aug 24, 1952)

Life for me became lonely and purposeless. And probably explains my susceptibility to military discipline and a subsequent career in clandestine government service. In 1968--the very day I turned nineteen, September 25th of that year—that fateful day when I should have shot myself in the foot—literally not metaphorically--earning that coveted 4-F physical rejection, a draft deferment to be desired, that 4-F classification of unfitness for duty, a necessary loophole in U.S. conscript service law.  The Draft: last used during that great commonwealth Cold War purge, that culling out of the unwashed, uneducated children of immigrants, that cut-rate, discount, lower socio-economic ***** bank—the only bank where after you make a deposit, you lose interest, to wit: most Black, Hispanic and Poor White Trash parents.  We were cannon fodder, many of us got to be planted at Arlington and other holy American shrines, still wrapped in black or olive drab leak-proof body bags, doing our generational bit to strengthen the gene pool left behind. A debt, some would say, we owed the country and, given the sorry state of the global wicket, increasingly an obligation to the species. And if I had to predict an outcome, Fascism in America will arrive riding the white horse of the environmental, anti-nuclear Bolsheviks. One could argue that Communism has moved so far left on the political spectrum that it’s now the far right.  Concoct a legislative policy goal, accomplish it legally as the bill becomes Law, signed by the President, endorsed and blessed by The U.S. Supreme Court, the highest court in the land.

To wit: “Three generations of imbeciles is enough?” declared Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr., an Associate Supreme Court Justice at the time, buttressing a majority argument harnessing the power of U.S. law as a legal means of purifying the race.  When euthanasia failed to win over American hearts and mind, the Federal Government played the war card again and again. Vietnam: undeclared and therefore unconstitutional--except for that Gulf of Tonkin ******* resolution. Vietnam: a cost-plus eugenics project, if ever there was one, although responsive, of course, to the needs of the Military-Industrial Complex.  ******* Ike: he warned us against Fascism in America. As usual, we ignored the man in charge.

Eugenics? Why didn’t the government just put all the retards on the stand, as John Frankenheimer did in Judgment at Nuremberg, a crafty Maximilian Schell humiliating a feeble-minded Montgomery Clift?  Why not, make everyone face a public tribunal, forcing all of us to testify in court, exposing our many substandard and borderline substandard cerebral deficits?  Why not force everyone to demonstrate just how ******* dumb we are, using some clever intelligence test, something l
Mister J Jan 2019
Umpisa pa lamang
Alam ko nang gusto kita
Nakita ka pa lamang
Atensyon ko'y nadukot mo na

(From the beginning
I knew I like you
The moment I saw you
You already captured my attention)

Paghawak ng iyong kamay
Pintig ng damdamin ay bumilis
Mga emosyong itinago nuon
Pilit nagpaparamdam muli ngayon

(When I held your hands
Heartbeats in overdrive
Buried emotions in the past
Making themselves felt in the present)

Sa pagpungay ng mga mata
Ako unti-unting nabibighani
At nung akapin sa'yong mga bisig
Tuluyan na kong nahulog

(The way your eyes look at me
Makes me intrigued by the second
And when you wrapped me in your arms
I completely fell, then and there)

Ngunit pag-sinta'y parang walang halaga
Sigla ng unang pagkikita'y unti-unting nawala
Di malaman at mawari ang mga dahilan
Na nang dahil sa nadarama ay pinipilit maintindihan

(But it seemed these feelings hold no value
The passion from our first meeting dwindling
I can't comprehend and identify the reasons why
But because of this love I feel, I still try)

Pilit tinitiis ang mga pighati
Kahit unti-unting nadudurog ang puso
Aanhin ang dignidad na patapon
Kung puso'y hindi marunong umibig

(Enduring the searing pain
Even if my heart is crushed
Setting aside my meaningless pride
If I don't know how to love right)

Siguro'y nagiging makasarili
Ngunit lahat ay binago at binigay
Lahat ay tinitiis damhin
Kahit na lungkot ay di mapawi

(Maybe I'm being selfish
But I changed and gave my everything
I endured all the ill feelings
Even if the loneliness doesn't go away)

Bakit hindi pa yun sapat?
Para ika'y sumugal sa akin?
Nangako ng pag-ibig na di magbabago
Kahit ang mundo natin ay tuluyang maglaho

(Why is it not enough?
For you to take a chance with me?
I promised you a constant, stable love
Even if our world crumbles to dust)

Naghihintay sa iyong pagbalik
Mula sa malayong dako kung san naroon
Ang puso **** labis nang nasasaktan
At takot nang umibig muli

(Waiting for your fateful return
From that far, hidden place where
Your broken and beaten heart is
That lost all hope in love)

Ialay ang pusong nagdurugo
Kapalit ng puso kong gusto kang mahalin
At nang lahat ng sakit ay aking akuin
At nang maibalik natin ang ngiting mailap

(Exchange with me your bleeding heart
With mine that anticipates to love yours
To share with me the burden of your pain
And bring back the elusive smile on your face)

Mahal kita umpisa pa lamang
Mamahalin kita kahit masakit
Lulunukin ang dangal at dignidad
Sa pagsusumamong ikaw ay maging akin

(I loved you from the very beginning
And I will love you still amidst the pain
I will swallow my pride and dignity
In this arduous quest to make you mine)

Sana matapos na ang ating paglalaro
Ang tagu-taguang walang patutunguhan
Panalangin kay Bathala sana'y marinig
Ang pusong nagsusumamo'y sana yakapin muli

(I pray for the little games to end soon
This hide-and-seek that seems meaningless
Dear God, hear my prayers and pleas
Of the heart that yearns be embraced again)
Originally a Tagalog poem
But I made an English translation for the foreigners

I hope everybody likes it!
Happy Reading! Thanks!

-J
Pink Pigs Jun 2013
From way up high the world looked so small
From way up high he felt he was above it all
So there way up high he hung looking down all beneath
From up there he felt no one could touch him
Nothing could bring him down
So from up there he enjoyed his view of the world
Unconcerned about anything but himself

But one fateful day something changed
And as he playing in the wind he noticed a change
There on the tip of his leaf the colour began to change
Slowly but surely he began to turn red
At first he was terrified what did this mean
But the redder he got the more proud he got
He was the only red in a sea of green

So there he danced in the wind
Boasting to all that could hear of his new colour change
But then another change began to take place
Where once he felt secure and safe on his branch
He now began to feel like he was somehow slipping
He tried desperately to hold onto that which he knew
But fate had other plans

As the sun rose the next morning a playful gust of wind blew in
The wind blew through the tree that fateful morning
Rustling the leaves all around
The red leaf tried to hold on for dear life
But alas the wind was just too strong
Tugging and pulling at the leaf
Till off he blew with the wind

The leaf cried out in fear
But as he opened his eyes a new world he saw
Through the rollercoaster ride upon the wind
The leaf began to see the world he never knew
He saw a world he never took the time to know
Flying up and down, round and round
He began to see those he had always looked down upon

And as the wind began to die down
The leaf slowly descended back to the ground
From way down there he looked up and longed for his old home
He longed to be playing in the wind again
But there he lay on the ground
His once red colour now gone
He put down his head to rest
Louie Joe Aug 2018
Flowers blooming colors glow
Greet the morning sun hello
Scent of fragrant breeze refreshing
Gentle warmth was so inviting.

Normal people walking out
Busy streets and roundabout
Children playing hide and seek
Just nother day of the week

Silver wings of airplane high
Wonder as it cross the sky
A tiny object fall beneath
What could be this special gift?

With no second, a blinding light
The sun was humbled of its might
Then the houses, trees so tall
Crumbled down, began to fall

Burning figures, swirling blaze
Shadows gone without a trace
I lay helpless want to help
Deeply wounded found myself

Rivers flowing, ****** red
Cradle filled with sleeping dead
Cherry blossoms fell like tears
For motherland with all her fears

I still hear those horrid screams
The painful sight of broken dreams
This picture always kept inside
The fateful summer of '45
Erin Apr 2015
Expectations can be vicious things
Casting a mirage, making things appear sugary sweet
Playing tricks on your mind and luring you in
You're envisioning your perfect fantasy
Taking that fateful step towards uncertainty
Head high and heart full of blissful unrealistic expectations
You find yourself stumbling in upon...

Nothing
But emptiness
And your shattered dreams
Madison Aug 2018
Our story's beginnings are rather plain
Set in a town built on the mundane.
In this town, there lived a boy
Devoid of ambition, love, or joy.

He sleepwalked through his days
Aimless and alone.
Drowning in a melancholy haze
He longed for something lovely to call his own.

Now, I shan't tell you the young man's name
For fear he'd hang his head in shame
But his story you should know.
For it's not the name that marked this boy
But the places he would go.  

One day, an idea dawned
To take a day trip out of town.
The boy made a map
And a line was drawn
To the path he would walk down.

He followed the map with surprising ease
Over the hills and through the trees.
Though the boy was thrilled
He couldn't wrap his mind
Around the treasure
He would soon find.

The path came to an end
Without the map's warning
Causing the boy's plans to upend
Before it was even midmorning.
But the boy was in awe
Despite the offset.
He knew what he saw
He would not soon forget.
In the middle of the golden field
Stood a tall ivory castle.
His chronic disenchantment healed
The boy vowed to see inside
Whatever the hassle.

So he searched for a door
Until he could search no more.
He attempted to climb
With no regard for time.
He searched for a ****
Or a lock
Or a key.
Only when he was about to give up
Did the answer break free.

Against all reason
The castle began to glow.
When the transformation came to completion
A strange voice let him know.

"Come in," coaxed the disembodied voice
Honeyed and assured.
Feeling as if he had no choice
Inside, the boy was lured.

"My, you are a rude one," the voice began to chide.
"A lady invites you into her home, and without a word, you come inside?
I'm not expecting you to write me a sonnet, but at least have a bit of tact!
If we're being honest, boy, I believe your manners lack."

Sure this was some sort of stunt
The boy calmly shook his head.
"Forgive me, Miss, for being so blunt
But I believe the fault is yours instead.
You expect me to believe I was propositioned
By a castle that spoke?
I am certain one of my peers commissioned
Some sort of pricey joke.
I'm sorry, Castle Lady Dear
But I must be on my way.
I'm afraid I can't stay here
Perhaps we'll finish another day.
It's truly nothing personal
I simply have a hunch
That if I stick around for now
I'll miss my mother's lunch."

The boy turned on his heel
Not saying any more.
He soon let out a pitiful squeal
When he found there was no longer a door.

The Castle Lady countered his squeal
With a sinister cackle.
"Did you really believe you could leave me here
Without it becoming a debacle?
I'm sorry, dear
But for now
To this place, you are shackled."

Heart suddenly stricken with fear
The boy's eyes filled with tears
And he began to cry.
"Please let me go!" he cried out.
"I am far too young to die!"

Much to the boy's chagrin
The Castle Lady only laughed again.
"Goodness me, my dear!
You must be some sort of fool!
I do not plan to **** you here.
How could I ever be so cruel?"

Angered by the castle woman's taunts
The boy's eye began to twitch.
"If you won't **** me, what do you want?
Let me go, you witch!"

Unphased by his outburst
The Castle Lady simply tsked.
"Are you sure the witch is me
When you're the one being so mean?
I know what a statement this might be
But I believe you're the meanest boy I've seen.
But you can relax
For I've had my fun.
I simply have a favor to ask
Before you turn and run."

Against all logic
And stranger-danger talks
The notion of adventure
Overpowered his urge to balk.
"What is it?" he asked the Castle Lady
As curiosity struck.
When the Castle Lady responded
He could not believe his luck.

"Resting in one of my rooms
Is an awe-inspiring prize.
It holds power and beauty few men ever get to witness
With their own two eyes.
In fact, it holds too much power
So much that it's making me sick.
Only the brightest of young men can bear it
And you're the one I've picked."

The boy's heart raced.
For that prize, he yearned.
Still, he said:
"There must be some mistake.
Are you sure this is a prize I've earned?"

Overtaken by laughter
The Castle Lady began to roar.
"I am not that sick, dear boy!
Of course I am sure!
I can not make any mistake
No matter how small.
Didn't your mother teach you
That divine beings know all?
Now, you are an imaginative lad
With the charisma to match.
I'd dare say you are the best equipped child
Out of the local batch."

The boy couldn't help but crack a grin
Flattered by the Castle Lady's assessment.
"I suppose you must be right, then.
Now where do I get my present?"

"It is not a difficult journey at all," the Castle Lady replied.
"Just walk a bit down this here hall
And look to your left side."

Suddenly, the room filled with bright light
To help him find his way around.
In saying the journey was not difficult, the Castle Lady was right
As another glowing doorway
Was soon found.

"Very good, you clever boy!" the Castle Lady cried.
"Just give your fingers a quick snap
And take a step inside."

Proudly, the boy followed her advice.
The snap of his fingers reverberated
Sounding quite nice.
Secretly, the simple action
Gave him a small thrill
For he was the only child in his town
Who had such a skill.

Just as the lady promised
The door opened right away.
Thus, he took that fateful step inside
As she said he may.

Alas, it seemed the boy had been cheated by his wanderlust.
The only thing inside the room
Was a wooden box
Coated in dust.

All sense of wonder gone
The boy was certain it was a trick.
"You horrid con!
What in here is making you sick?"

Unamused, the Castle Lady sighed.
This was not the first time a child had thought she lied.
"You're jumping to conclusions, boy.
I'm not that sly a fox.
If you want to find the treasure
Look inside the box."

Begrudgingly, the boy obliged
Lifting up the top.
In the moment he saw what was inside
The whole world seemed to stop.

The boy's jaw dropped
As the box glowed
As if it contained all of heaven's rumored light.
It was true that he was unlikely
To ever again see such a wonderful sight.

"Well?" the Castle Lady inquired.
"Would you like to keep it?
You have all the qualities required
It's only fair that you reap it."

"Of course I'd like to keep it," said the boy.
"But what should I do?
What power do I have
To take care of this box
Any better than you?"

"The box can do anything," said the Castle Lady.
"Perhaps that's why I can not have it.
Still, you need not engage in special care and keeping
Or develop any new habits.

The box can do whatever you wish
Cure disease and famine
Or make your family rich.
I can not tell you what to do
Just use your own discretion.
Besides, it wouldn't truly be yours to use
If you did so under my direction.
So simply take it home
And do with it what you will
But before you choose to roam
I have one more message for you still."

Holding the box to him
The boy lifted an ear
Regarding her as a friend.
"What is it, Castle Lady?
Please say what needs to be said!"

When she spoke again
The boy could swear her voice contained a smile.
"When you leave me, the castle will come to an end
And this part of me will be dead.
Though I'd love for you to stay a while
So we could become better acquainted
I'm afraid that would be against the rules
And the prophecy would be tainted.
So, clever boy
For now, I'll bid you adieu.
You deserve to be given joy
And I hope that is what the box will do."

No sooner than she spoke
Did the castle vanish
In a puff of smoke.
Once again, the boy stood in the field.
In his hands rested the box
The closed lid keeping its powers concealed.
Somewhere between satisfied and sad.

He gave her a eulogy
However unorthodox.
"Goodbye, Castle Lady Dear, I enjoyed our little talks.
Maybe we'll meet in another world...
Oh, and thank you for the box!"
Having said all he needed to say
The boy knew he should be leaving soon.
He turned to walk the other way.
Walking home, his fingers snapped a tune.

It wasn't long before the whole town
Knew about his treasured box.
The boy made sure all his friend knew.
In school, he stopped all of the clocks.

He provided his class with great delight.
As a school day
Melted away
Into a Friday night.
The grown-ups none the wiser
He pulled off the perfect crime.
Forever the improvisor
He also did away with bedtime.

He gave his family money
As the Castle Lady said he could.
Though his old bullies looked at him funny
His clothes had never looked so good.

He gave himself popularity
A Labrador puppy
A brand new bike.
The ones who teased him
Spoke apologetically
And there wasn't a single girl
By whom he wasn't liked.

It wasn't long, however
Before the fun began to fade.
As much power as he had, he never intended
To share his gift with his whole grade.

"Can you tell me
If my pet goldfish is really watching from above?"
"Can you please help me
Make my parents fall back in love?"
"Can you make it so that
My grandpa isn't sick anymore?"
"Can you invent a robot
To help me do my chores?"
"Can you make sure
That my family keeps our home?"
"Oh-- and while you're at it
Help me write my girlfriend a nice poem?"

Alas, the boy paid no mind
To their wants and needs.
He had left his charitable days behind
In favor of his newfound greed.
Though his box could do anything
It really wasn't his job.
No matter what happiness to others it might bring
Of his power, he'd feel robbed.

He didn't know that at night
His friends went home to cry
Asking their nonexistent treasured boxes
"If he can have something special
Why can't I?"

Life went on like this
Until one day, he was greeted by a bird.
It landed on his shoulder
And hissed,
"You'll never guess what I heard."

The boy was quite frightened
Both by the bird's familiar voice
And what it said.
Still, his eyes brightened
When he shouted
"Castle Lady?
I thought that you were dead!"

"Too bad," the bird crowed.
"For I'm very much alive.
And I figure you should know
I won't allow you to continue to connive."

At her choice of words
The boy sputtered.
"What do you mean, bird?"
He nervously stuttered.

The Bird Lady stared at him
With beady black eyes.
"I mean, I saw what you've done with your gift
And I was unpleasantly surprised.
You didn't disrupt any tradition.
I told you to do what you would.
It was just that I had the premonition
That you'd use your power for good.
You're no better than any of your classmates
You silly sap!
Did it ever occur to you
That you were only picked
Because you can snap?
When my last life came to an end
You thanked me for the box
And ran home to your mother.
My spirit would have been able to rest
If you had used the box to help others.
I am older than most earthly things
And some sights I've seen are hellish.
This in mind
It's beyond me
Why you'd choose to be so selfish.
See, this box was once mine
Changing owners as it does
And when it fell into my hands I wished
To be anything but the girl I was.
From then on, I've been trapped
In the form of many objects
And, whenever I try to go from this world to the next
Fate always interjects.
I'm the keeper of this box
Until it falls into the hands of someone good enough
And I'm here to say, dear boy
I'm afraid you must give it up."

Without warning
The boy broke down
Dropping to his knees.
For the first time since that fateful day
His sense of superiority ceased
And truth began to reign.
Head in his hands, he grieved
For those he had caused pain.

The Bird Lady remained by his side
Trying her hardest to soothe.
"Now, clever boy, you need not cry
But the box does need to move.
Now, I need you to calm down and listen to me
And let me make myself clear.
I need you to go to the sea
And that's the last wish you will make here."

Suddenly, the boy understood.
When it was far too late, he used his powers for good.
So he wished for the ocean, heeding the Bird Lady's advice.
The two of them were at the beach
Before he could think twice.

"Very good," the Bird Lady praised.
"All you have to do now is let go.
Don't worry, my dear boy
When the box finds its forever home
I'll be sure to let you know."

The boy nodded.
With shaking hands, he looked down.
Taking a deep breath, he dropped the box
And all his wrongdoings drowned.

"Thank you very much," the Bird Lady chirped.
"Now, relax, and let your conscience be cleared.
You can go home
And I'll take it from here.
One last thing
I should tell you, my friend.
All this can be fixed
If you just have an ear to lend.
No matter how heartfelt
Apologies only take you so far.
What you should do now
Is fix your regrets with actions
To show them what a lovely boy you are."

With that
The Bird Lady dove
Picking up the box with her magnificent beak.
The boy returned home
With redemption to seek.

All these years later
Our nameless boy is now a man.
He's ordinary, yes
But ordinary is good enough.
He doesn't look down on others
Or even try to act tough.
Though he's no longer a heartthrob
One girl remained by his side.
When she is there
He never has to hide.
When a friend has a problem
He is there to listen.
And, though he holds no glowing box
His eyes still glisten.


Meanwhile, our Lady's soul
Now rests within a spaniel dog.
Though the box still has no permanant owner
She doesn't think it will be long.
Though that might seem unlikely
Divine beings do know all
Though everyone makes mistakes
Both big and small.
She may chastise others
For poor choices and self-control
But in the end, she knows the box only needs one thing:
To be cared for by a beautiful soul.
Ma Cherie Oct 2016
The house is quiet, only my whisper is heard...

oh, I guess I'm such a nerd,
are you hanging on my every word?

OK good, come on, let's go,

Shadows drifting, so discreet,
fowl breath, a cut out sheet,
  hard to move these trembling feet
a waiting guest, for me to greet?
not a trick, I hope a treat!?!

Perhaps the reaper comes this way
he knows of this, a game I play?
waking Crowley, where he lay,

I grab ahold the banister,
and step around the stair valute,
the air grows dark and thick again,
as everything is put in mute,
until a bell, I pause to think,
perhaps a playing flute?

Prolly not & that's real cute,
or maybe
inquiries of  candied loot?

True that,

I wait to hear again, a ding,
the joy of laughter it will bring,
the songs again my heart will sing,

I grip the rail, I'm petrified
a ghostly ghoul,
me, has spied
I move away,
from where I hide,

Shhhhhh be quiet,

My legs are heavy,
I slowly stepped,
you escorted,
up I crept
tears I wish,
that I had wept,
I move my hand,
away are swept,
no way for me to leave, get out,
they'd never hear me scream & shout
trudging on with wary doubt,
I bite my lip,
I moan & pout,
in every step, as I grow brave,
climbing up, a darkened grave,
with every step, my soul to save,

Very dramatic poet,
emmmm thanks, read on,

I reach the top in my suspense,
ahead I say, in my defense,
sorry if you're feeling tense,

It's alright,

I open up the door ahead,
filling me & you with dread,
dragging knuckles, telluric bed,
I look, in horror, shrilling,
....shrieking
a glowing face, chilling,
peeking, must be the one,
that I,
... am seeking!

I chuckle at the sounds of creaking,
bones & boards beneath my feet
they tell,
so sneaking up?
say
you lived in hell?
so I give up
hey, where's the bell?

Oh hear it is, that's just swell,
I know right?
Thanks for finding it though,

Look out!?!

Jumping out, you give a start,
I feel it pump inside my heart,
looks as if I need black art,

Yikes!!!

Your not afraid?
you silly girl, let me give
another whirl
a bony hand, sweeps & swirls
tattered sheets they creep & twirl

You do your best
to discourage guests
I'm prepared for any scary test
Yes I'm different from the rest,
& by the way,
you mustn't know that I am blessed
I'm not leaving, you may have guessed

Some pumpkins happy
some are scary
the children here,
they shan't be wary
I am not, no I am nary
this may be a fateful twist
but by the gods I have been kissed
sorry but your aim, it missed

I know that I look a witch
as I move my nose & give a twitch
but my dear, I pulled a switch

I raise my hands, I curse your words
as spirits cry, my voice, is heard
I bind you here, your soul I gird,
I cast a spell, hogtie your feet
take a bite, it's really sweet
yes my dear please have a treat
do you mind, if I have a seat?

I call my spoon, my kettle stirring,
as he speaks,
the words are spurring,
I laugh aloud, as kitty's purring,
supernatural events, occurring,
as caldrons bubble, broomsticks fly,
& Frankenstein went walking by,
his Mummy gives a wistful sigh,

Your look of shock, a priceless one,
like someone just removed the sun,
I dare not say, a silly pun?

No it's very good,
Oh hey thanks friend,

As breaking glass of aged pane's
& your attempts to stop me,
all in vain,

In  rattlin' of my heavy chains
relieving bones,
from what they weigh
as my skeleton comes out to play
protecting children as you prey,
wave a wand, a hand & down I slay,

Too much?

No, go on...

The werewolf howling at the moon
growling baying, softly croons,
a clown I think might be a goon,
the wicked hour coming soon,
cackling witches laugh &  snicker
spirits run & candles flicker
demons plot, giggle...
... snicker,
rubbing hands,
they fight & bicker,

Hehehe...

I must admit their kinda spooky
Some are cute and kinda kooky,
To me look like a bunch of groupies,

Ha ha, good one poet!
Oh, well thanks!

I give my stick another flick,
I guess I gotta few more tricks!?
as fires dance in flaming licks,

Ewwww, I like it...

Halloween no time for fools,
the banshee comes with gaurding ghoul,
we're taking him to scaring school

Oh very cool,
yeah I made some room,

You can ride with banshee there,
the one with all the crazy hair,
you'll be alright just don't stare,
It's not as if I just don't care,

Huh!?! Great,

The unwanted speaks,

Well my dear, I'd say we're even
but temporary guess I'm leavin'
and your magic I might believin
pretty good, you think you won
congrats again, it's been real fun
a spell like yours can be undone

Hmmmm,

Oh I see, you think my best?
wait a sec, I'll get undressed
something here I must confess

Most these monsters are my friends
on whom my back I can depend
do your thing, with time you spend

That's okay, you go ahead
I don't wanna end up dead
and now I see, an empty bed
& your face is just filled with dread
boy you're really turning red
must be all the ink I bled

Careful now,
is this just a story?
filled with rhymes,
& kinda gory,
finding out is mandatory,



Now I jump out,
- I just say BOO
I guess, you see-
the tricks on you!

Happy Halloween!

Great ending,

Awww thanks for the love,
yeah sure do love this time of year,
lotsa fun, this one,

Enjoy a candy,
& thanks for coming!

Cherie Nolan © 2016
Halloween, ooooo...
Spooky fun!?! Does it make any sense!
Oh I love monsters Inc, must be I remembered!
Given the apparent magical surrealism that the months of April is the month of fate for and death of writers, artists, dramatis, philosophers and poets, a phenomenon which readily gets support from the cases of untimely and early April deaths of; Max Weber, Miguel de Cervantes, William Shakespeare, Francis Imbuga, and Chinua Achebe  then  Wisdom of the moment behooves me to adjure away the fateful month by  allowing  me to mourn Gabriel José de la Concordia García Márquez by expressing my feelings of grieve through the following dirge of elegy;
You lived alone in the solitude
Of pure hundred years in Colombia
Roaming in Amacondo with a Spanish tongue
Carrying the bones of your grandmother in a sisal sag
On your poverty written Colombian back,
Gadabouting to make love in times of cholera,
On none other than your bitter-sweet memories
Of your melancholic ***** the daughter of Castro,
Your cowardice made you to fear your momentous life
In this glorious and poetic time of April 2014,
Only to succumb to untimely black death
That similarly dimunitized your cultural ancestor;
Miguel de Cervantes, a quixotic Spaniard,
You were to write to the colonel for your life,
Before eating the cockerel you had ear-marked
For Olympic cockfight, the hope of the oppressed,
Come back from death, you dear Marquez
To tell me more stories fanaticism to surrealism,
From Tarzanic Africa the fabulous land
An avatar of evil gods that are impish propre
Only Vitian Naipaul and Salman Rushdie are not enough,
For both of them are so naïve to tell the African stories,
I will miss you a lot the rest of my life, my dear Garbo,
But I will ever carry your living soul, my dear Garcia,
Soul of your literature and poetry in a Maasai kioondo
On my broad African shoulders during my journey of art,
When coming to America to look for your culture
That gave you versatile tongue and quill of a pen,
Both I will take as your memento and crystallize them
Into my future thespic umbrella of orature and literature.

Gabriel Garcia Marquez, an eminent Latin American and most widely acclaimed authors, died untimely at his home in Mexico City on Thursday, 17th April 2014. The 1982 literature Nobel laureate, whose reputation drew comparisons to Mark Twain of adventures of Huckleberry Finny and Charles Dickens of hard Times, was 87 of age. Already a luminous legend in his well used lifetime, Latin American writer, Gabriel Garcia Marquez was perceived as not only one of the most consequential writers of the 20th and 21ist centuries, but also the sterling performing Spanish-language author since the world’s experience of Miguel de Cervantes, the Spanish Jail bird and Author of Don Quixote who lived in the 17th century.
Like very many other writers from the politically and economically poor parts of the world, in the likes of J M Coatze, Wole Soyinka, Nadine Gordimer, Doris May Lessing, Octavio Paz, Pablo Neruda, V S Naipaul, and Rabidranathe Tagore, Marguez won the literature Nobel prize in addition to the previous countless awards for his magically fabulous novels, gripping short stories, farcical screenplays, incisive journalistic contributions and spellbinding essays. But due to postmodern global thespic civilization the Nobel Prize is recognized as most important of his prizes in the sense that, he received in 1982, as the first Colombian author to achieve such literary eminence. The eminence of his work in literature communicated in Spanish are towered by none other than the Bible, especially  in its Homeric style which Moses used when writing the book of Genesis and the fictitious drama of Job.
Just like Ngugi, Achebe, Soyinka, and Ousmane Marquez is not the first born. He is the youngest of siblings. He was born on March 6, 1927 in the Colombian village of Aracataca, on the Caribbean coast. His literary bravado was displayed in his book, Love in the Times of Cholera.  In which he narrated how his parents met and got married. Marguez did not grow up with his father and mother, but instead he grew up with his grandparents. He often felt lonely as a child. Environment of aunts and grandmother did not fill the psychological void of father and mother. This social phenomenon of inadequate parenthood is also seen catapulting Richard Wright, Charlese Dickens, and Barrack Obama to literary excellency.Obama recounted the same experience in his Dreams from my father.

Poverty determines convenience or hardship of marriage. This is mirrored by Garcia Marquez in his marriage to Mercedes Barcha.  An early childhood play-mate and neighbour in 1958. In appreciation of his marriage, Marquez later wrote in his memoirs that it is women who maintain the world, whereas we men tend to plunge it into disarray with all our historic brutality. This was a connotation of his grandmother in particular who played an important role during the times of childhood. The grand mother introduced him to the beauty of orature by telling him fabulous stories about ghosts and dead relatives haunting the cellar and attic, a social experience which exactly produced Chinua Achebe, Okot P’Bitek, Mazizi Kunene, Margaret Ogola and very many other writers of the third world.
Little Gabo as his affectionate pseudonym for literature goes, was a voracious bookworm, who like his ideological master Karl Marx read King Lear of Shakespeare at the age of sixteen. He fondly devoured the works of Spanish authors, obviously Miguel de Cervantes, as well as other European heavyweights like; Edward Hemingway, Faulkner and Frantz Kafka.
Good writers usually drop out of school and at most writers who win the Nobel Prize. This formative virtue of writers is evinced in Alice Munro, Doris Lessing, Nadine Gordimer, John Steinbeck, William Shakespeare, Sembene Ousmane, Octavio Paz as well as Gabriel Garcia Marquez. After dropping out of law school, Garcia Marquez decided instead to embark on a call of his passion as a journalist. The career he perfectly did by regularly criticizing Colombian as well as ideological failures of the then foreign politics. In a nutshell he was a literary crusader against poverty. This is of course the obvious hall marker of leftist political orientation.
Garcia Marquez’s sensational breakthrough occurred in 1967 with the break-away publication of his oeuvre; One Hundred Years of Solitude which the New York Times Book Review meritoriously elevated as ‘the first piece of literature since the Book of Genesis that should be required reading for the entire human race. The position similarly taken by Salman Rushdie. Marquez often shared out that this novel carried him above emotional tantrums on its publication. He was keen on this as his manner of speech was always devoid of la di da.so humble and suave that his genius can only be appreciated not from the booming media outlets about his death, but by reading all of his works and especially his Literature Noble price acceptance speech delivered in 1982.
Dominique U Jul 2014
You were supposed to be a stranger.
We were...
Strangers with a shared kiss.

My brain was washed with alcohol,
With the snippets of memories left.
I forgot your  name...
and how we met.

That one fateful night...
You were supposed to stay a stranger
Instead you traced my steps.

Alas! The world is too small for us.
Who would have thought that
you would find me?
You even got my name wrong.

Your description was spot on.
The friend of your friend knew me.
You should have just left it as it is...
A beautiful memory by the beach -
with a stranger.
Aine Mar 2018
The first time I fell in love with a woman:

it was on a Saturday afternoon
a sunny day with blissful winds
I saw her walking down the street
talking to a friend,  tending to a child
and carrying a water bucket on her head

she looked so fragile at that moment
but yet so strong ,
she moved like a lion,  she had the weight of the whole world on her shoulders but still maintained her balance,  
a goddess in every kind and form

she left me In awe not just by her beauty
but her strength, her pose and confidence
the way she moved put models to shame
her voice as serene as the oceans breeze
she had something in her that just made my deadly  frown turn into a perfect smile

she made me happy,  I fell deeply

As she moved closer, I could see the sweat dripping from her gracefully curved face
I noticed how each drop fell off her with  a harmonious  movement, she was a queen with a crown not made of the jewels of this world but those which are rare and not known to superficials

She looked deeply hurt and tormented by either her past,present or the future that is still so scared
She hides her scars with everything she got
her smile on her face to keep away the reflection of  pain in her eyes
she was so badass but so soft inside

She walked past me with her head held high
she cared about no judgment but for one's peace of mind
She looked at me and we shared a smile
she spoke the silent language of admiration and pure love
and at that fateful moment I deeply fell in love with a woman

©mereidow
D-Quinn Jan 2012
Fate is my death. Fate is my pain.
Fate is the darkness clouding my name.
Fate is a fiend and fate is a *****.
Fate closes all of my open doors.

Fate is a monster, yet, fate is my friend.
Fate is what brought you to the side of my bed.
Fate has helped me but now holds me down.
Fate gives me thoughts but leaves my voice with no sound.

Fate gives me passion but no fingers to touch.
Fate gives me a heart but no chance to love.
Fate lets me imagine, yet, takes me eyes.
Fate takes the truth and turns it to lies.
Fate works so closely with its friend time
and both are tearing us apart.

Fate gave us logic, yet, made us fools.
There is no sense in me finding you.
Soon the clock will tick it all away
and there will be nothing to pass the days.

Fate put you here before my very soul
and gave me a list of beautiful verses to sing.
Fate gave you charm and a heart like a jewel.
Then fate turned a blind eye and left me a fool.
Fate took her time in taking everything.

Fate is maniacal and scheming and cruel.
Fate treats our hearts like useless tools.
Fate is an enemy but I'll play her game
because fate is what gave me your name
and fate is what I need to have you some day.

Fate is an ingredient to getting by.
If I ever plan to make it out alive,
I'll need fate with my faith
and fate with my time.
Your smile.
.
endlessly,
my heart  searched
for a vibe on another
heart with which to
resonate and found none.
finding none, it  wandered endlessly like
Infra-red rays seeking a
suitable tempo upon which
to strike an interference.
i  wandered in search of a fertile
land in a heart upon
which to grow seeds of
love, my head burrowed
deep in a shell of
restlessness...
.
but on that fateful day,
too-good-to-be-true was
your smile--- it caused
my eyes to twitch,
borrowed a beat from my heart, transforming my
thoughts to an ode-- a
prelude to better days
.
i still see that smile,
lucid--- your lips opening
like windows of love,
revealing shiny white
louvres of beauty (teeth)
which opened to your
tongue-- a valley flowing
with sweetness as it
goes down your palate
like a parting curtain
welcoming love... then
you said "hi".
.
this friendship began with a smile,
it deepened with the " hi"
.
i have tapped from the
happiness let out from
the windows of your heart--
your smile..
my heart no longer wanders, in your smile,
it found rest
.
my greatest wish is
to make this smile mine
someday,
plant a kiss on your lips,
the happiness that
dwells in there becoming
a remedy to my malady.
.
.
Chukwudera Michael
jacob waldrop Apr 2015
If you do*******
you must be insane
when you snort that line
all the stars do aline
only you can see
what means to me
that one peaceful taste
is a little like paste
but it always comes
when you have the runs
but ***** only you
can be true
just remember that one fateful line
isn't always such a crime.

— The End —