"franca" poems
Mahal ko ang Filipino, pagdiriwa’y walang plano
Malaking palaisipan pag-alala ng gobyerno
Samantalang ‘di naisip prayoridad wala rito,
Pagpapayaman sa Ingles hindi na magkandatuto.
Paggunita anong saysay, pagsasabuhay sa wikà
Makakapagpamulat ba lalo na sa mag-aaral;
Pagsambit sa mga ito maging sa mga parangal,
Ito ba’y nakagugulat isang buwang itinakdà.
Totoo namang ginamit sa pakipagtalastasan
Filipino’y instrumento sadyang hindi matumbasan;
Kahit na karamihan pa napagkakamalang Kanô
Pakikinig sa istasyong bumibilib na napunô.
Ang tanong sa puntong ito, napapayaman ba kayâ?
Sa mga naging konteksto, ang masa ba’y nakukutyâ?
Sa mga nakakarinig, nahalua’y kabaduyan
Maging mga komentaryo, kalaswaa’y kinantsawan.
Kung bastos ang naging dating, anong magiging termino?
Ang mga dapat ilimbag sa papel ng mga dyaryo;
Sa pagbibigay ng aliw,ito’y pulos kababawan
Inisip ng mamamayan, may ganitong katangian.
Kapuri-puri ang iba, may mahahalgang paksà
Ito’y kinakikitaan na may seryosong diskurso;
Sa kabilang banda pala, ito’y nawalan ng bisà,
Tulog na ‘pag pinalabas, ito’y kadalasang kaso.
Paano papaunlarin kung iba’y pinagpilitan
Tunay na nakalulungkot ito’y naging panambitan;
Sa halip pa ngang gamitin bilang makatwirang midyum,
Sa mga usap-usapan, maging sa mga simposyum.
Ang pagpapaunlad nito ay hindi sa balarila
Hanggang sa pag-uunawa pati ng ortograpiya;
Kinailangang mawala ang mga maling pananaw,
Ito’y nangangahulugang pagkilatis ‘di papanaw.
Ang natanging lingua franca nagbibigay identidad
Sambayanang sumasambit pagka- Pinoy lumalantad;
Sa bansa’y nagbigay-linaw, paggamit ng isang wikà,
Kaysa sa salitang- dayo, nagturan ng hakahakà.
Oo, Agosto na naman, dapat pa bang magkamayan?
Wika nati’y maging ilaw siyang magsisilbing lakas,
Juan, gumising ka naman, kamtan mo’y tuwid na landas;
Kung hindi tayo kikilos, mayroong paglalamayan.
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 9:26 AM UTC
*Mi táctica es mirarte
aprender como sos
quererte como sos
mi táctica es hablarte
y escucharte
construir con palabras
un puente indestructible
mi táctica es
quedarme en tu recuerdo
no sé como, ni sé
con qué pretexto
pero quedarme en vos.
Mi táctica es ser franca
y saber que sos franco
y que no nos vendamos simulacros
para que entre los dos no hayan telón
ni abismos.
Mi estrategia es en cambio más profunda y más simple,
mi estrategia es;
que un día cualquiera
ni sé cómo, ni sé
con que pretexto por fin me necesites.*
― Mario Benedetti
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 8:57 PM UTC
Before delusion becomes infallible
miracles happen. Especially to non-believers.
Just doubt enough – it’s the currency
of breakthrough. Promise.
And look at the generosity of the modern world.
We constantly keep dancing on thin ice:
Quite generous, isn’t it? –
A phone call, an error, a rainbow
merge into: Let’s go for a walk
gathering raindrops and conjuring up rivers.
I do suggest alchemy as lingua franca.
It will create so much joy and tongue-twisters.
And now I start being busy doubting –
it is only a little window onto god.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 6:26 AM UTC
Lying under a Patagonian sky
The silence is loud
A few gauchos happen by
A crowd
The wind sings
As the world passes by.
Distant fields of snow
Paint patterns on peaks
While clouds lay wispy blankets
On glaciers far below
Mother Nature speaks
A lingua franca
Time and space
The whispering of grass
In an empty place.
Estancia Nibepo Aike, January 2011
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 2:40 AM UTC
For Caira Doheny, My Irish Muse
"Chameleons feed on light and air:
Poets' food is love and fame."
An Exhortation, st. 1 (1819)
Percy Bysshe Shelley
------------------------------------
Let us intimate a Poetic Competition,
Tween an Irish lass,
and a New York Jew,
I shall serve, and you,
You shall return
A contest:
Our tongues, our racquets,
Across the table,
The words shall bird fly,
Across the net,
Couplets and haiku
Shall smash and whistle
The winner will be the one
The God of Poetry
Accepts for permanent servitude
You **** my poetic soul forever
With the currency of praise genuine,
Authentic, flowing and fulsome,
Awarding me the Medallion Doheny
Cash value, a mere Irish penny,
But to the poet, the food of love and fame
Genetic to your nature,
You exhale word rhythms,
Excitable and interrupting,
Speech free flowing,
Tho I am of the People of the Book,
You, by birthplace,
Are unfair poetry advantaged
All your utterances
Are action heroes of the heart,
And I fail miserable to capture
The poetry you breathe out
Your Irish praise me awarded,
Tis now the
Standard and the Curse
This benighted amateur
Must now Prometheus nurse
One day in Dublin, shall we meet,
In a country where poetry is the
Iron in the people's blood
In a particular pub
Opposite we will sit,
You, a cowboy by adoption,
Me, the dastardly banker
You know the pub,
I, with my pint,
You, with your diet coke,
And the only lingua Franca
Shall be darts of poetry
In a language our own,
A collective work we will weave,
A blessed unity, a single tongue now,
Lilting, singing, bespoke
We will let the singer-poet laureate**
Of the island we now share, moderate,
Over his piano man's gin and tonic,
As we do as Yeats instructed:
Between us,
"A line will take us hours maybe;
Yet if it does not seem {but}
a moment's thought,
our stitching and unstinting
has been naught"
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 11:58 AM UTC
Cultivo una rosa blanca en junio como en enero para el amigo sincero que me da su mano franca.. y para el cruel que me aranca el corazon cardos ni ortigas, cultivo una rosa blanca
jose marti
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 12:43 AM UTC
They gather together with their guns all aimed at me,
Seeking to **** me once & for who I could ever at all be.
Later they would think that I had not been so wrong,
But it is just their bullets that I've been craving for long.
I hope when I'm dead they bury me and not burn me,
I've heard and often wondered about the world beyond.
I want to reach in physical existence and not as vapor,
I want to preach in their tongue be it the Lingua Franca.
Ready for the ado they embalm me for the beginning,
Further on they enforce a smile on my face so worn out.
They lend me four shoulders and I do not find it strange,
Don't they lend two to the players who won on the range?
My mother will weep rivers - perhaps cry - no - not for me,
But for losing a child whom she had borne in to this world.
My father would weep too - but silently - probably for me,
He would lose a son and a friend - a student and a teacher.
My enemies'd feel relieved & happy - perhaps pompous,
But their souls would salute a person with a lot of respect.
My friends'd find themselves wondering & questioning,
All the why's, what's, who's, how's rising in their intellect.
Far away at a distance miles from my coffin she'd lament,
Her reddened eyes & tears would belie her sweet smile.
She will furthermore let the memories seep into her veins,
Her attempts to let go of the memories would only fail.
She might try to slice her wrist vein with the kitchen knife,
But I'll return & stand by her side holding her shoulder.
She will then accept this fact that I've died & ceased my life,
And I'll want her to live on with our child in her womb...
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 1:30 AM UTC
With all the delights that this day has pumped in me,
I shall exhale,evaluating.
Nothing frights me though,
Yet at times my humility easily goes.
A fearless vagabond that I have turned into,
Even the merciless,to look into my eyes, does not dare.
I am in no haste,
Even my trots have the power to leap and make a thud such that everybody fall off their steps.
Your stares that I descry,
No more make a difference to me.
For I am immune and have no envy,fear,agitations,trepidations or gluttonous desires.
It is no shame,those sights be such a common thing and all the same.
I have no back story and none coming forth,shortly or in this life,
I don't hestitate to yell what many of you cannot spell.
For all the stabs faced,
Birthed a scabbard and a sword in one frame.
The truth could be my lingua franca,
Forlorn be the brethren of my creed.
Repressed and silenced are my alarms of seize fire over the border,
Mollifying and tranquilizing be a part of my duty.
To stand the repercussion of my sins counts in my atonement,
For it is never an evanesce,too late.
I fear no hell or purgatory,
For I have witnessed worse in some eyes.
Victimization is a poor retreat,
To harangue them and present self with an ode is no feat.
Patience is my dagger to time,
And threatening each other we walk rakishly hand in hand.
To trail back,
Is not for me that fatal.
I emancipate the baited,
And buster am I of existing parasites.
Liberty is my boundary,
I would dare not to annihilate a choice.
But I do not condone either,
For I hate to feel withered and there is no way I may let go.
I am relentless,
I would not mind if you address me as a bovine.
I am cathartic and hysterical,most of all a contributor here,
An energy straight from plasma,unsimplified.
Mar 25, 2019
Mar 25, 2019 at 4:26 AM UTC
Circa Holy Roman Empire
between ninth
and thirteenth century
after common era
(approximately 800 AD and 1200 AD)
benchmark year 780 bracketed
Benedictine monks
of Corbie Abbey
devised cheeky guttural lingual rapartee
vis a vis European
calligraphic standard script inked lined
writ via extant Irish and English monastic
members nsync
strong influence of Irish literati
eased communication
popular Latin cognoscenti
common lingua franca
spawned Carolingian Renaissance
Codices, pagan and Christian text
plus educational material
written viz Carolingian minuscule
Emperor Charlemagne issued prescription
(hence named Carolingian)
boosted unified modus operandi
he advocated learning,
though somewhat illiterate
recognized value of education
predicated on singular
codified regional alphabet,
the then webbed wide world
linkedin, sans uniform symbolic shapes
uncontested salient advantage
offered up ease to master
clear distinct explicit letter formation
simple logic boosted
rapidly transmitted standardization,
especially with exceptional legible
readable characteristic
adequate spaces between words
Merovingian "chancery hand"
still reserved to draft traditional charters
Gothic and Anglo Saxon
favored traditional local script
as opposed to Latin
learning latter involved less tricked out
embellished flourishes
or interconnected strokes
drawn by a scribe
allowing, enabling, and providing
greater popularity to teach masses,
latent etymological nuances apparent
centuries following implementation
quasi initial Carolingian letters
steadfast, where Carolingian
influence moats strong
adopted local stylistic signature flavor
divergence woke since proliferation
stoking diffuse prospects
decreeing entrenched footing,
where auspices boded prescient
until groundswell didst surcease
sub limb mated into modern patois.
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 7:39 PM UTC
Sobre el camino se ve la venta.
Risueño el valle,
claveles rojos, olor de menta,
de madreselvas y frondosa calle.
En el corral amplio, vacas y perros
altos magueyes,
el sol dorado de altos cerros,
carros tirados por lentos bueyes.
Frente a la casa, los barrizales
bajo madroños;
sobre la vega, rubios maizales,
y junto al plátano, verdes retoños.
Marcando prados en las campiñas
se ven las zanjas;
junto al vallado se alzan las piñas,
y al gusto encintan ya las naranjas.
Cuelgan los troncos fuertes y erectos
las níveas barbas,
sobre las hojas vuelan insectos,
bajo las hojas duermen las larvas.
Entre los fondos, ***** al antiguo
trapiche humea,
y por la cuesta, sendero exiguo
que zigzagueando llevan a la aldea.
Verán tus ojos en la verdura
y a donde vayas,
los mararayes en la espesura,
sobre las piedras, las pitahayas.
Con sus pinceles la tarde pinta
vívido cromo;
de plata el río semeja cinta,
y el pozo, lejos manchas de plomo.
Amarillento sobre la falda
se abre un barranco,
y de los campos en la esmeralda
Se alza, de techos, el humo blanco.
Una flor roja, vivas oscila,
tiembla su estambre,
y bajo cedros, en doble fila,
sobre el camino, cerca de alambre.
La azada al hombro, tardo el labriego
vuelve del campo.
y en ella fulge, roca de fuego,
del sol poniente vívido lampo.
Gris una nube, pasando finge
velera barca;
otra, un castillo, y otra, una esfinge,
y un dragón otra, que el cuello enarca.
El horizonte cortan los techos
las cumbres calvas,
y en el remanso, por entre helechos,
los pastos tienden sus plumas albas.
Abre sus flores los alhelíes
cerca del río,
y el café luce, como rubíes,
sus rojos granos bajo el plantío.
En las paredes de la posada
se ven letreros;
son un recuerdo para la amada,
o vanidades de pasajeros.
Por los bardales se ven las rosas
sobre el camino;
Pasan volando las mariposas,
y a un canto, lejos responde un trino.
¡para el reposo, feliz quien halle
tu puerta franca!
¡qué paz más honda la de tu valle!
¡qué paz, la tuya, casita blanca!
722
In the land of the wise men,
where the wind blows ceaselessly
and the moon glows perpetually,
a great poet and his young protege
sat in the courtyard under the shadows
of the sycamore tree to meditate.
The protege said to his master.
" Sir, please make me a great poet"
The old master lifted his head
and gazed at the protege in awe.
" My son, you are a poet he retorted.
You have it in you. you live it,
you are engaged with it each day,
you hang with poets and read the
amazing works they penned.
You understand spoken words,
the unique linga Franca of poetry.
To find and get it out of you,
you have to tear yourself apart.
go to where words reside.
Get into the minds of others.
Ask and read other people"s works.
Though it's kinda motivational,
inspiration is everywhere.
" You see, the master told him,
every day the sun comes up,
it rises with a packaged gift
Unwrap it with your mind
appreciate anything therein.
A disappointment and a bad day
can be a caveat for a writer
because it spikes emotions and inspires one to dig deep...
My son, you have to write every day.
write about anything at any time.
rewrite what you aren't pleased with.
The more you write, the better you become.
The uglier the poems that come out the better the poems that follow.
Write about the sun and the moon,
write in the morning and afternoon.
Write captivating and uplifting stories
about mermaids with beautiful bodies.
Or write about a wandering stranger,
who traveled in search of an adventure
with your hands, write about nature.
Using your mind, paint a beautiful picture.
Do this as often as many times as possible,
Someday you will achieve the impossible.
#IvanBrookspoetry (c)
August 11.2019
Aug 6, 2019
Aug 6, 2019 at 5:41 AM UTC
First date. Bistrot Pierre.
Your mother rang you up
"She doesn't want me to *** around, you know what, I will."
I choked on my wine.
Your eyes glittered, your lips curving
into a deliciously wicked cheeky smile
Second Date. Franca Manco.
You went to the bathroom
took your hoodie off to reveal a half sheer top
The pizza or you? I hesitated for the first time
You bit your lips, lashes curled
the blush on you dainty and delicate
Third date. My shower
You massaged my hair while laughing
"We are the weirdest couple ever"
bare lips, wet hair, your body on mine
You made me sober yet fearless as a drunkard
You made a marriagephobic crave for love
"Let's get married."
Your jaw dropped
Feb 23, 2018
Feb 23, 2018 at 6:39 PM UTC
my tongue in my cheek…
I despise the word relationship, singular and plural,
as it inevitably applies to swooning couples.
I’m old enough to remember the time
before Woody Allen made it a permanent part
of everybody’s everyday lingua franca.
That was his truly heinous crime.
Finally, I have banished them from my life.
I can leave dishes unwashed for weeks,
sleep on the whole bed with all the covers,
allow the trash to grow into mounds,
and, best of all, never have to shave again.
I like not having to read anyone’s mind,
satisfy anyone’s endless, mysterious needs,
or do things I really do not want to do.
Selfish of me, surely, but such sweet relief.
Relationships mostly lead to too many
conversations, usurpations, explanations,
denunciations, recriminations, vivisections,
and, finally, to rancorous separations.
They are necessary for the romantic young
and for propagating the species, but
I am old and well past propagating.
I keep them lodged firmly in my past where
I can remember the best and forget the rest.
I prefer my cat, my books, solitude, silence,
microwave tacos, and peace of mind.
Hey, I’m not kidding about this!
And yet, there is the loneliness factor…
So I might welcome a companion who
was not desperately “seeking a relationship.”
But that is no woman I have ever met
and, I fear, no woman I ever will.
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 12:00 PM UTC
“**Hineni, Hineni; I’m ready, my lord.”
(For Evangeline Ruth Hope**)
<>
*”Hineni is Hebrew for “here I am,” and is the response
Abraham gives when God calls on him
to sacrifice his son Isaac. It is also the name of a
prayer of preparation and humility, addressed to God”*
<>
*what you do not know
is that this word,
was spoken with a fist beating
a pin into the praying man’s chest
recited daily,
shades of hopeful, reverent resonance,
a shaded resolution, disguised as a quavering variable,
a statement, a questioning, an unsteady surety,
all of the above
this word, rooted in my genetic consciousness,
been ready repeated since my first whispering
was I ten years aged?
first time, full on bowing
on the synagogue floor, not fully understanding or
ready to confess my selfish need for forgiveness,
my forehead resting on my stubbed fingers resting on carpet,
worn thin by my predecessors ancestors,
who now comprehend more, but then, never enough
these same fingers, that write this collective,
Hineni,
a word repeated oft, flavoring of the who
of who I am, a training in soul fracking from
early childhood, its import, powerful beyond
today’s identity revisionist empowering
let me plainly speak, in the original language
taught to me with that other tag along, English,
a lingua franca, a dialect that can never capture
a soul presenting himself in substantiated readiness
for the whatever exists in between
hallelujah and hineni, where the rubber soul
hits the road, stumbling on hands and knees
on a forest path of roots and soil, where sunlight breaks tween
branches, are road signs to look up, look down, look within
I know your name,
Evangeline Ruth Hope
analyzed its components,
cleverly constructed Greek and Hebrew rooted,
bearer of good tidings, following Ruth in, to hope,
you a Moabite in Mormon Utah, preparing
yourself for exposure, practicing humility
unceasingly seeking
good
that is how it should be
cannot translate well enough
what was this gift given to me
learning as a youth, a wanderer, tribal member
where beseeching is second nature,
and accepting personal responsibility fully cardinal,
fiddling prayers while standing unsteady on
the roofs of extreme shakiness
hineni is then but this:
a prideful admission of strength
ready ready ready, here I am,
completely unready for the unknown future foretold,
hineni I know
here I am,
ready or not,
find me so I can be found,
cease, help me cease, my foundering,
confident in my willingness to
find a way*
netanel
9/12/19
Sep 12, 2019
Sep 12, 2019 at 8:27 AM UTC
effusion on the
melt, lingua franca
of gold.
tongued to the tip
of its flame, twine
of dusted skin--
lit with professing.
pilgrimage's keel over
into otherness, that
far off land.
tried truer than truth
on the lips.
membranous bouquets,
rippling beside rectangular
rain.
patchwork of an amorphous
doorway, administering
symbolisms that outshine
light.
scale's draw, the weight
of open arms met with
like weight.
a kiss such as the forgetfulness
of faces, as if to say: we've
come to this my love--lateness
surrounds.
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 1:44 PM UTC
El alma tenías
tan clara y abierta,
que yo nunca pude
entrarme en tu alma.
Busqué los atajos
angostos, los pasos
altos y difíciles...
A tu alma se iba
por caminos anchos.
Preparé alta escala
-soñaba altos muros
guardándote el alma-
pero el alma tuya
estaba sin guarda
de tapial ni cerca.
Te busqué la puerta
estrecha del alma,
pero no tenía,
de franca que era,
entradas tu alma.
¿En dónde empezaba?
¿Acababa, en dónde?
Me quedé por siempre
sentado en las vagas
lindes de tu alma.
519
Chist' uocchie tuie songo ddoie feneste
aperte, spalancate 'ncoppa 'o mare;
m'affaccio e veco tutte 'e cose care
'nfunn'a 'stu mare, verde comme l'uocchie tuie:
e veco 'o bbene, 'o sentimento, ammore,
e assaie cchiù 'nfunno ancora
io veco chello ca tu 'e date a mme... 'o core.
462
Mi táctica es
mirarte
aprender como sos
quererte como sosmi táctica es
hablarte
y escucharte
construir con palabras
un puente indestructiblemi táctica es
quedarme en tu recuerdo
no sé cómo ni sé
con qué pretexto
pero quedarme en vosmi táctica es
ser franco
y saber que sos franca
y que no nos vendamos
simulacros
para que entre los dos
no haya telón
ni abismosmi estrategia es
en cambio
más profunda y más
simplemi estrategia es
que un día cualquiera
no sé cómo ni sé
con qué pretexto
por fin me necesites
436
Si vienes algún día a mi tristeza,
Ya que mi corazón te espero en vano,
Deja que en tu hombro incline la cabeza
Y suavemente estréchame la mano.
Sueños de entonces? Pétalos caídos
¡Plumas que ya volaron de los nidos!
La gris melancolía de la tarde,
Del cielo al campo a descender empieza.
Una pálida estrella lejos arde...
¡Así el recuerdo tuyo en mi tristeza!
Y aunque la noche va borrando el día,
Algo dice en el alma: «¡Todavía!»
De los naranjos a la grata sombra
Se oían de un violín gemir las cuerdas:..
La misma voz lejana que hoy te nombra,
Y parece decirte: «¿No te acuerdas?»
Voz que cantaste en cármenes risueños:
¡Haz revivir los olvidados sueños!
¿Soñar?... Soñemos arabos. Al mirarte
Se encienden en tu faz vivos sonrojos,
Como cuando en los labios al besarte,
Cerrabas, toda trémula, los ojos.
Ojos, de mi ilusión casto embeleso,
¡Siempre cerrados al sentir mi beso!
Me contarás mientras la noche avanza
Lo que un tiempo feliz «pudo haber sido».
Tal vez sonría entonces la esperanza,
Y el antiguo dolor quede dormido.
«¿Pudo haber sido?»... ¡Lo que fue, no existe!
¡Fue! ¡Lo más doloroso y lo más triste!
Si vienes... Sí vendrás. Tu leve paso
Franca hallará la conocida puerta.
Aún hay néctar para tií en el vaso,
Y el alma que durmió, ya está despierta.
Y al evocar nuestros felices días,
Los ojos cerrarás como solías.
Y sin que haya en los labios un reproche,
Mientras la luna es halo de las palmas,
En el silencio habrá, bajo la noche,
La conjunción celeste de dos almas.
Almas errantes, bajo torvo ceño...
¡Juntas al fin en el azul de un sueño!
En rama que no alegra ya un retoño
Sus flores abre al sol la enredadera,
Y es más hermosa la ilusión de otoño
Cuando le dice al corazón: «¡Espera!»
Puede haber una estrella en las neblinas,
Y alguna rosa en el jardín en ruinas.
464
i think the americans ought to relearn
their policy on isolationism -
the chinese have already overtook
the americans on the grounds of
national capitalism -
and what a ****** opinion this
ends up being,..
the only way americans will
retain their americanism is by
isolating themselves from thee rest
of the world,
lest they become the lingua franca
that equates itself as merely
lingua fornicata -
no, i'm not the ***** of french joke
with bilinguals, or mono-linguals,
or mono-linguals = americans,
or three language speakers being
tri-linguals,
it just means: you own a *******
**********
how's that?!
lingua franca became lingua fornicata...
i swear to god the americans ought
to rekindle the isolationist policies
that FDR made real...
to live in a monochromatic world
is about as interesting as
living next to 20 taj mahals
within a 20sqm radius...
i have more of those
marble monstrosities in my head,
abstract...
americans ought to relearn
isolationism...
just to slow the **** down
on the globalist agendas...
given the made in china
national capitalism,
which was only perfected via
socialism...
funny...
nationalistic capitalism only
emerged from socialism...
well, you save capitalistic
countries via pumping them money rather than
pride....
english doesn't actually
encourage ******* why would it,
it already has ******
it's lingua fornicata...
perhaps, once upon a time it
was lingua franca...
now what
the english economises is *****
everything else is made in china;
the english used to be the marco polos of
this world, now? they're the don giovannis.
don't you worry about me,
the slavic women adore the fact that
they can be the ****** of
the kings of europe...
hey, i'm done in 70 years
or less given the chance i shorten this
prison sentence by 20+ years...
if i take to the fetish of prayer...
which part of the story am i take
honour for?
the part that i die,
or the part that i am born,
but have no allegiance to life?
mesmerise me, indulgence me,
tell me the difference.
i will be content with the last
breath, prior to any breath akin
to mine: take its first.
Nov 11, 2017
Nov 11, 2017 at 9:27 PM UTC
1.
In the minds of global leaders
$20 million is all it takes
To restore a world
Assaulted by negligence,
Grown by kneecapping the world,
All the while, spending
$1.71 trillion to ensure the worst offenders
Pay for their dreams of global dominance,
$20 million is all it takes
To undo two hundred years
Of the colonialist mentality
To aright wayward ******** of harlot empires
Who could only learn from neoliberals
In the bordello of the Western Hemisphere—
$20 million is all that it takes
To restore a world, a space far too big
For the imperial mind to encapsulate,
For they are too worried about
What is beyond space, what is in heaven
In glorious economic **********
There is no peace, no trumpeting
Communal values under whose auspice
The world over will achieve
The neoliberal dream:
The arena, the coliseum,
Where the sword, the tariff, the trade war
Are the proper lingua franca
Of the entrepreneurial class,
Suppressing popular uprisings
Is the front-line infantry
Of the entrepreneurial class—
2.
We are the Global West
Subsumed under the rancher,
The cowboy capitalist,
On the wilds of his destiny.
He’s tried his best,
To drag the whole herd with him,
Handed enough bootstraps
To hang itself with
As it ***** up water and rest,
At such a premium in the hard desert of
The industrialist’s heart, putting a stop
To what the herd wants—
It needs to make it beyond the pass
Into the uncertain future of
Coyotes and hazards aplenty;
The only certainty is, though,
Inequities between the rancher
And his livelihood,—
But, ah! That’s what makes
The Wild, Wild, Global West
So tempting to those whose numbers have been
Decimated by it in the early years,
Its growing pains; it’s simple, really:
War makes money, suffering is
The only commodity that defies the laws
Of supply and demand,
Its value rises as we tap more wells,
More wellsprings, as it bubbles to the surface
Of every sweating, stress-sickened face
Whether migrating or on the assembly line.
Our ranches must become bigger,
More accommodating to the cattle,
And, if possible, to make ranchhands
Of our rival ranchers at any cost,
If even the only subordinate is the earth itself.
Sep 29, 2019
Sep 29, 2019 at 12:33 PM UTC
its just so painful,
so hard for me to comprehend,
that my very soul
would ever fit into the ciphering world,
to speak its lingua franca .
even the abc's seem like
like the burning sensations of a finger
roasting on burning coals.
the Ice never seems to melt under blazing heat
on which it lies
oh how my soul longs to dematerialize
yet i do wish i do not.
Failure is the only bell
that tolls my eardrums
oh why did my green soul
pluck up the guts
the guts to enter the Kingdom of Geniuses?
i desire an army seal
to set me free
to be free as a citizen
inside this kingdom
The Kingdom of Geniuses
Sep 30, 2020
Sep 30, 2020 at 7:32 PM UTC
Cuenta Barbey, en versos que valen bien su prosa,
una hazaña del Cid, fresca como una rosa,
pura como una perla. No se oyen en la hazaña
resonar en el viento las trompetas de España,
ni el azorado moro las tiendas abandona
al ver al sol el alma de acero de Tizona.Babieca descansando del huracán guerrero,
tranquilo pace, mientras el bravo caballero
sale a gozar del aire de la estación florida.
Ríe la Primavera, y el vuelo de la vida
abre lirios y sueños en el jardín del mundo.
Rodrigo de Vivar pasa, meditabundo,
por una senda en donde, bajo el sol glorioso,
tendiéndole la mano, le detiene un leproso.Frente a frente, el soberbio príncipe del estrago
y la victoria, joven, bello como Santiago,
y el horror animado, la viviente carroña
que infecta los suburbios de hedor y de ponzoña.Y al Cid tiende la mano el siniestro mendigo,
y su escarcela busca y no encuentra Rodrigo.
-¡Oh, Cid, una limosna! -dice el pobrecito.
-Hermano,
¡te ofrezco la desnuda limosna de mi mano!
-dice el Cid; y, quitando su férreo guante, extiende
la diestra al miserable, que llora y que comprende.Tal es el sucedido que el Condestable escancia
como un vino precioso en su copa de Francia.
Yo agregaré este sorbo de licor castellano:Cuando su guantelete hubo vuelto a la mano,
el Cid siguió su rumbo por la primaveral
senda. Un pájaro daba su nota de cristal
en un árbol. El cielo profundo desleía
un perfume de gracia en la gloria del día.
Las ermitas lanzaban en el aire sonoro
su melodiosa lluvia de tórtolas de oro;
el alma de las flores iba por los caminos
a unirse a la piadosa voz de los peregrinos
y el gran Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar, satisfecho,
iba cual si llevase una estrella en el pecho.
Cuando de la campiña, aromada de esencia
sutil, salió una niña vestida de inocencia,
una niña que fuera una mujer, de franca
y angélica pupila, y muy dulce y muy blanca.
Una niña que fuera un hada, o que surgiera
encarnación de la divina Primavera.Y fue al Cid y le dijo: «Alma de amor y fuego,
por Jimena y por Dios un regalo te entrego,
esta rosa naciente y este fresco laurel».
Y el Cid, sobre su yelmo las frescas hojas siente,
en su guante de hierro hay una flor naciente,
y en lo íntimo del alma como un dulzor de miel.
402
ah, but the atheistic scissors bound
to expressing ęglish...
i.e. english - in: glee & eesh.
also another word example:
dusz & duś
hence the necessary scissors
of inherent atheism in english...
the first?
in article terms
the former: an indirect article
(a) - dusz
and the latter?
a direct article
(the),
again, encompassing prompt,
a commanding expression,
duś is a word, that encompasses
the prompt.
dusz? a word that encompasses
the verb-inside-a-verb,
a consciousness...
suddenly being aware of the
hedious act...
being performed...
and realising, that you're aware
of social norms, but are unable
to transcend toward a plataeu morality
that allows you to stop the act
you're performing.
and the word for soul?
dusza....
then there's the word, uduś,
i.e. strangle / smother...
the element of: voyeurism,
in that uduś has someone looking
at you performing the act,
and duś... has you claustrophoic
inside your own head,
performing the act...
unless of course you address yourself
in third person, with no ******
which is a, presupposition?
i can't take to enlisting too many nouns
to explain the situation...
i love the fact that in english
there's only talk of trans-gender,
or bi-sexuality,
elsewhere? bilingualism,
and trans-etymology...
i find the latter the more
interesting category
of debate...
by no english is so pop
and so lingau franca that it has become,
slightly tedious...
well... that's cute, but the true description
of this language is: ******* annoying!
trannies with daddy mummies
pushing prammies with
penguin babies waving 'ello;
i miss the classical circus acts,
never mind, let's just watch this mature,
call it burgundy, circa 1998... full palette,
vintage, red... mmm... fry that beef
al dente... shimmy shimmy wee,
shimmy shimmy,
pink on the inside;
oh yeah... and that word:
******* plonkers... and that ain't cockney...
that's peckhamsprechen...
hen hen... not shed
light o mighty, spré...
spray chechnyan with a: shir connery
convenience at the bar -
shishtematic, not saken;
south london is as much a mystery for
someone living north of the thames,
as someone living
north of the terms heading
to newcastle...
and the foul gob,
told the most bitter-sweet joke.
Jun 23, 2017
Jun 23, 2017 at 7:25 PM UTC
Al sentir los ramales de su fusta ferrada,
Relincha el belicoso caballo y se encabrita,
Y hace sonar el sable, que el movimiento agita,
La coraza de bronce, de adornos recamada.
Entre lacas y acero reluce su mirada
Cuando del limpio rostro la máscara se quita,
Y el volcán, en la bóveda de cinabrio infinita,
Levanta al cielo nieve, do ríe la alborada.
Pero el astro contempla que hacia el Este distante,
Alumbrando esa infausta mañana, tras un cerro,
Sobre el mar, va surgiendo como un orbe radiante;
Y para que sus ojos nada vean, con franca
Actitud, abre al punto su abanico de hierro,
Donde un sol se alza rojo, sobre la seda blanca.
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