"gordian" poems
Honest,
that meaningless word left dangling before children,
a damoclean sword held fast in a gordian knot tied with scarlet thread,
finer than the spider's that once tied men's souls to an angry American God,
birthed in Transylvania,
over the woods, and through the dale, no lie
There is a tale of lies told in Nobel houses, never reachin' ground,
Down here, we situations manifested to, vain, again, stem the tide,
We flounder, fish out of water, why are we sent if
wait
he hears, he listens, haps he knows, and
how such as we came
to be here,
Welcome and see, dare ye ask me in? Might I ply you with lies
and you, believe 'em?
I could make a mindless robot out of your parts, but
that would take forever and
that's not how
Wisdom's child would tend to be, for first,
You must believe a lie and I, amusing as can be,
can't tell lies.
Discernment, fine points, per-spicacity per se, the only way.
Good luck (Luc, said luck in many tongues, is said Lose- as in Luc-ifer.
It means light, as in light, regular old granted light.)
Lightifier, good, take some, good light, for the travail, in the night.
You see, not so long ago, for me, five years before I'as born,
my momma moved to town.
What was that like, I axed my old uncle, while back,
movin' t'town, in 1943?
Well, he says,
We had electricity.
USA, 1943, some folks still was poor, and all the good men
was gone to war.
Cities, it was different,
if the movies got it right, Bowry Boys, n'em.
In the desert we did, okeh, in town, though,
we had electricity.
He was ten back then. He'd been huntin' rabbit's,
to buy Christmas presents from Sears and Roebucks,
since he was five.
C'mon, I say. No lie, he say,
BLM or some gover'ment
whatsajigger, was payin' 2 cents a pair fer jack rabbit ears.
'Said he bought Christmas presents for his mom and dad,
and my mom, with his first rabbit money, at five.
Shootin' with a single-shot 22, 12 cents a box,
Jack Rabbits, 2 cents a head.
Three Christmas presents, plus postage, $2.56.
Do the math, I think, and go -
Five years old, at ten, he moves to town, 1943,
we had electricity. That's all.
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 10:59 PM UTC
a future promise
a hard on like bundled gym socks
in stuffed blue jeans
a future threat
a shriveled phallus wrinkled obsolete
she remembered fondly
being beaten drum chatter
and seized like slow roasted
fall off the bone pulled pork
****** raggedy Ann
catapulted beyond Euboean heavens
ravaging scrotums Gordian ******
with her wild fiendish mouth
drinking a river of
haloed golden showers
spit and ****
in a runaway hot house of glistening pink
buttery spires
engorging her macerated orifices
half eaten radish
chocking on hordes
of big do do *****
a ****** face; cross eyed
Babylon abalone
bashed Ashly mashed
begging for
a face full of swinging *****
like caped chandeliers
trotting faint giggles
in a constellation
of ruptured arteries
and thick sparked ****
on her knees
milk glitter faced
scared with happiness
she counted one smiling bruise at a time
her badge of calamities
black and blue silhouettes
grinning invitations like party favors
without a crease of shame
her skin rapturous
spackled patchworks
bled like torrential fountains summer tide
while every body had fizzy red ice phlebotomies
and steamed through her drooling tumble pie
lust ***** totem
house of winding labyrinths
honey pumped transfusion
flush on blush
opera of tangled limbs
red pulse wedding flowers
slick ***** palace
blood tongued orchard
caressing knotted mooned
**** spill
Jan 14, 2019
Jan 14, 2019 at 2:22 PM UTC
Memories can become blurry, over time,
like underdeveloped photographs,
or incomplete, like sunlight through blinds.
Our lives move ever forward,
like the inflexible patterns of stars.
Once fevered and immediate events
recede, with frightening, doppler effect,
as remembered yesterdays,
become forgotten yesterdays.
New Haven was abuzz. The hotels were booked and moving trucks had taken every free parking space for miles. Last Sunday was freshmen move-in day and 1,554 freshmen moved into their Yale residences. It’s one of our favorite days of the year. The hubbub of freshmen moving, lunching, shopping and later, seeing off their departing parents, created a delicious emotional chaos that we watched unfold, like a Greek chorus.
The movie ‘Love Actually’ begins and ends with montages of people greeting friends, family and loved ones at Heathrow airport - it’s emotional and heartwarming. Move-in days are a lot like that - with their gordian knots of beginnings and endings. My parents were nervous and emotional on my freshman move-in day - as was I - but we all tried, desperately, not to show it.
Welcome to New Haven freshmen, everything’s beautiful, but you’ll get too busy to enjoy it much.
We upperclassmen move in tomorrow.
Aug 24, 2023
Aug 24, 2023 at 1:20 PM UTC
Neptune's core collapses
Splintered diamonds descend in stabbing fashion
Sleepy knives pass silently through the night
Casting shadows in the caliginous moon light
Stitched spiderwebs glisten across autumn's equinox
Discordant thought raptures in a Gordian knot
The symmetry of entropy plots its course
The universe resets its clock
Jul 15, 2010
Jul 15, 2010 at 8:50 PM UTC
Prelude
"Let's go" his soft whisper
the mantra, in his voice she hears
the esoteric voyage through
the cryptic high seas of self,
fathomless, unmapped,
uncharted and reachable
only by the most fearless
ready to unbind and make
the self free for it's adventure,
begins thus for the peaceful pair
complementing the absolute
for a life time, til they reach there
and find themselves one with
pure consciousness.
"Let's let's, but only together"
she chants in unison,with him.
1.
Bidding good bye to ego, clad in red and black
a beast, not easy to bring to it's knees, submit,
the high horse proud,raring to go,having sharp horns
sticking out, fierce, that goes berserk,on seeing white.
Altogether a curious construct, that dictates terms-
they set about, invoking the blessing of the flame of light.
2
They stood together, eyes widely shut, bringing
both palms together,in front of their chests
creating a lotus bud, symbolizing hearts,bowing
each other in "Namaste",-bows the divinity in thyself-
chanting the mantras of peace, thrice, each time, repeatedly.
3
"Lets go back to the begining of every begining.."
the primordial hum, transcending quagmires of time
in the path of our ancestors,who did see the" unseeable",
without eyes, knew the "unknowable",diving in to the
ocean depth of self,going inwards chanting"Neti, Neti"
Not this, Not this, inquiring each till the essence did reveal.
4
They did this, focusing the eye of the mind, on the eye
beyond all, that watches every small thing in universe.
Mind, sharpened like the blade of a sword,efficient to cut
the Gordian knots,of paradox, duality and illusion,
encountering the silence that thickens at last, speaks
the words of wisdom,patient they are, to know the ultimate,
right there at the source of light that is the true essence of all,
5
Celebrate the pure consciousness, that pervades in every thing,
the thought that begets all thoughts,that moves on to be karma,
that becomes purer, through the cycles of lives, one after another.
"Let's be humble, utmost, sans the ornamental clothes of pride.
May the thought reigning cosmos, the spirit of peace,chanted aloud,
take us to it's sanctum sanctorum and melt us in to it's divine embrace.
Only one there is, all are it's integrals,the divine cosmic hum 'Aum'
that enliven the universe within each cell, remember , is eternal"
#@@#
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 10:49 AM UTC
He knew the ache could not be recompensed
they knew it too the moment echoes fell silent
There was already not enough love
in a world grown dark as darkest past
It wasn't the color of his skin nor dialect
or the journey of a thousand miles
Not the place that he'd come from
back when ― left behind
nor a heart of gold,
that never became a home
The colour of unwritten silence
had eclipsed the waning light
On the run from who he'd become;
ashamed for all he was,
couldn't erase a lifetime that felt a waste ―
trying to untie a Gordian knot
He saw his body as an entombing barbwire cage
imprisoning a wellspring of love writhing deep therein
Immured at arms length from the outside world
where the soul of a teardrop abides within
its insignificance
Shielding the inherent maelstrom
from the innocent passersby
Buried thoughtfully for the greater good of all ―
for the unsatiated dream boundless love betides
Written artifacts exhumed like ***** secrets
a lifetime of stigma's stain swept under the rug;
just whispered words written from an unfinished life
few ever really looked deeply between the twisted lines
arising from the soul of just another passing stranger
The long road begets a suffocating silence
choking out, extinguished love inhumed
Ashes of what once had been life aglow of light
forevermore shrouded
like the dark side of the moon
rivers
Aug 19, 2017
Aug 19, 2017 at 8:35 PM UTC
I have been told since I
learned to read
that holding someone close
says I love you with my
heart inside my body inside my head.
she said "fall in love with someone
who's comfortable with your silence."
and still,
I only find you in the dark
crushing my toe on your frame
the scratched black nail in the morning
shines like the love I gave was too
loud and bright, so blinding
that you sank behind the sun
as I played "She loves me,
She loves me Gordian not"
with the sword rays.
splayed across my tongue.
the razor-blade foreplay
was violent enough to carnage
your room to a crime scene wrapped
yellow tape package CAUTION
you yelled with the nothing CAUTION
do not cross do not cross do not cross
you fake messiah
you save yourself savior complex
of a narcissist, drowned in his own pool
of backlogged traffic jam verbage
living with a rearview mirror in every room
especially our bed.
I find myself
with arms wrapped too tight
around a precious thing,
screaming until the spit sling blade
found every secret place inside your ear
and carved it to echo the only word
I have ever really known
ME
ME
ME
ME
ME
ME
MYSELF AND EVERYTHING INSIDE ME
living with a rearview mirror in every room
especially the ones you're in.
especially when you are too quiet
to be anything but a noisemaker
in my cavern of a head
filled with my own claps
singing my own song
playing by my own rules
until everything I knew of you was
dust and shivers in the mist.
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 2:30 PM UTC
Searching for their love ideal
To plant there a dawn so real,
God gave them hope to go ahead
And palm flowers for their dream bed.
In their naked room without windows,
Not touched with the innuendos,
With written words for music wed
And palm flowers for their dream bed,
The cradle of their nascent thought
Could cut their main Gordian knot-
Baptism of freedom in the head
And palm flowers for their dream bed.
Searching for their love ideal
And palm flowers for their dream bed.
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 5:53 PM UTC
True tangled Gordian thoughts entwine
Amid labyrinthine paths that wind
Sliding sledding serpentine
To assay value and extent
Braid a mind a shoreward end
Seeking weeping thrashing send
Infused with knowledge deep and sound
A consciousness cogitabund
Within the portals self confined
Disconnected judgements breed
Diffuse journeys often made
To darkened places
Where no light
Of vision lucid sparkling bright
Will penetrate and seem so safe
Writhing heavy leaden womb
Elusive dissolute abound
Reclusive and so moribund
But in the darkened space there seems
A distant tendril sparkling white
A reaching focal point to strive
To make that leap
Great grasping bound
Wrapping arms so safe around
Clasping forgone lines abandoned
Sublimating impasse upward
Strength of purpose
Welling forward
Great eruption spewing outwards
Lava flowed eureka moment
Spreading outwards
Flowing downwards
Cogent sentient live born
Brewed in darkness
Drinks the bright
With clarity and strength unite
Dazzling brilliant shining moment
Cleft asunder glorious light ....!
Oct 14, 2009
Oct 14, 2009 at 2:13 AM UTC
This carpet - a Turkish Smyrna -
is made with Gordian knots,
tied by the fine fingers of a child
tied to a loom
by a thin, pale leg.
Every centimetre - a hundred knots
This carpet - two and a half million knots
all Gordian
tied tightly
by the fine fingers of a child.
Each thread is dyed
with plants
picked by nomad hands
from shifting lands
Henna oranges and Madder reds
Saffron yellows and Indigo blues
Colours bloom and fade
with the change of seasons.
Patterns are centuries old,
never drawn or sketched,
only sung to the young
by the old blind weavers,
who walk the workshops
and the aisles of looms.
In this shadow world
of soured and fetid air
dreamless children
live threadbare under a black sun.
Wide borders holding everything in place
no figures or stories, just a labyrinth
of abstract shape and colour
drawing you in to the treasure
at the centre of the rug.
And the knowledge of the knots
the Gordion knots
tied by the fine fingers of a child
tied to a loom
by a thin, pale leg.
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 12:07 PM UTC
The daydream-y miss gazes out the
watchtower of enchantment,
heart atrophied,
neck bound in a Gordian Knot,
riding nautical swells of
fear and love that
ebb and flow in
cursed duality
Calling to the cavalry trouper in
subdued hysterics
who, in an oceanic barrel surge,
will sever her lasso collar and
rebind their anchor hearts in
blood knots,
ascending the ranks, he will earn the
highest standing stripes of
Strength, Honour, and Equanimity
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 2:23 PM UTC
Gave of salacious self, your just due
My one and only dream I wanted to come true
Earthbound after a meteorite crash
Healing properties within this castaway shall come to pass
Wings has been tenderly clipped
The aftermath of a silent emotional eclipse
Walking, running, and soaring, keep flapping but slowly slipping
Heartbeat dipping, ripping
Slowly suffocating as I’m contemplating
Feelings keep overruling, dominating
Restless from stagnation
Mental searching for relocation
Suspended, spent, recessed from the relent
In the hunt for a pleasurable escape to soar to the sky
No questions no earthly whys
A Galactic Dream Weaver
Da Vinci Code, I’m picking up my telephone receiver
The Holy Grail secrets for my mind to set sail
The marooned answers found in life’s details
Standing in vain, waiting for a starship from a cosmic believer
No expressive deceivers
My Mazda 5, an Uber, or a Lyft driver can’t get me up there
Without restraints, I need to inhale celestial air
Showered by a beautiful spiritual given rainbow
Sentiments offered from a treasured chest as they stream when they softly flow
A Gordian knot devoid of hope, a beanstalk, for me, too slow
Something one must know
As your presence comes to offer me a sweet riding tow
Spirit is now on the run
Trying to astral plane beyond the sun
I need to glance down from the stars
Up and beyond, emotions, mistakes seem so miniscule and far
The beginning, the ending, where I descended
The integrity of a tattered angel, a cocoon of self, until my cerebral cortex is Heavenly mended
As my earthly presence blends within
Keeping a rein on life’s sins
I do not know if my salsa dance has come to an end
The absence of loss as emotions reflect to bend
Does time ever remain the same
Please don’t forget my name
On the contrary
For the love given from a twinkling star, and a kiss from an earthbound fairy
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 11:15 AM UTC
The song played-- muffled, hesitant,
As if the tabletop jukebox
Seemed unsure of the tune’s suitability,
As out of place and time as ourselves,
It being Wednesday morning three A.M.
At the all-night diner on the Klondike Road
(The mills, going full-bore down the road in Montmorenci Falls
Making such a place viable, indeed necessary),
But we laughed loudly and nonchalantly
Between bites of nearly adequate cheeseburger,
Ostensibly unaware of all those inevitabilities
Which were tangible but unspoken, indeed unspeakable,
This being the last of the last summer not careworn,
Textbooks to be exchanged for neckties,
Plastic sandals swapped for sensible flats,
Other lives to take flight in other places,
A mere handful of evenings remaining
Before the clumsy process of untying
All that which had been loose ends from the beginning.
Would I go back? In a sense, it does not matter.
There was always a laundry list of reasons
That it could not be, cannot be, will not be:
Irreparably meshed gears of relocations and reconciliations,
Gordian knots of logic and desire.
Still, in my dreams, I often run like a madman,
Chest burning as my sneakers slap the pavement in the darkness,
Back toward the diner, but it has been razed to the ground
(Likely the case, for all I know,
What with the mills silent and padlocked all these years)
And I paw madly, feverishly through the rubble
In search of some remains of those vinyl chanteuses of love songs,
Those epitaphs of our failures,
Those three-minute odes
To our compromised and conditional successes.
Jan 30, 2017
Jan 30, 2017 at 10:07 AM UTC
You’ve always been a midnight saboteur.
From dawn til dusk,
your convictions convince you
but in the honest darkness,
can you be sure?
Your mouth is tangled
by the tales you tell yourself,
cinched tightly--your lips are purse strings.
Since I’ve no confidence with a sword,
will your Gordian knots triumph again?
Too often, you’re enthralled
by the charm of your attic lies,
But tonight,
you’ve finally pulled apart the bad.
Turn on the light and see you’re good.
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 9:44 AM UTC
its a tuesday and you are waiting for me
standing at the central dressed all in grey
inoffensive, unassuming: avid
i can see the whites of your eyes
all the way from point zero down
so now your voice comes plain
through a sea of fog, and i know
we are coming up death row
red steel, old stone: is this how it goes?
i throw myself all around you
flesh onto flesh, man onto man
two guts into a gordian knot
a futile attempt at lessening
your incomprehensible hugeness
your bones, the empty room
i cannot see any walls to
you are: my har megiddo
my mount, under thunder
and the sun is brighter than white
if only i could see it, and the rain
is clearer even than air--if only
i could feel it! but now we are grey
among grey, concealing seas of pink
storms of milk; there is no sky
where we are bound
no opening, no end
you press your hand into mine
and you are warm like dirt, maybe
like you are barely born from the earth
only just learning the load of being addled
with such clumsy comfort, this rough touch
the worthlessness of words and the distance of skin
but we are stretching our necks to rise above it
do you like what you see, now?
so you bring me to your little home
and you feed me little pills, one by one
and we take to your little bed, spilling over
too much, not enough, back and forth
the same air again, the same words
no lines of demarcation left to bear
just your blood and mine and
one little winding red road
from here to (THE END.)
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 5:47 AM UTC
Tongue-tied
tripping over the words
that spill out between my teeth.
Mind flashes from red to green
sickly, mottled with yellow
tired of waiting.
I want to be able to exhale...
come to my senses,
know which way is up, in the midst of this chaos.
so much to say
and all that comes out is that 4-letter word
so flippantly used.
Can you see the inside of me?
my heart beating 100 times a minute
my entrails knotted, Gordian style.
Are you my Hero.
in this white trash epic
which is my life?
If so,
how many foes must we conquer
to find our way home?
May 12, 2010
May 12, 2010 at 7:21 PM UTC
i've been posting lately to the insane
they look normal
but to speak to them
is like untangling the gordian knot
a twisted tangled mess roping in their self identity
which can never change
apparently
like a hydra they fling their ropes around
entangling all who come near /they can
mainly themselves actually /as it happens !
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 3:11 AM UTC
**Choosing between a witch and a vampire,
should have been a real dilemma, of course,
none among these two did he choose,
but a nun, to explore the path of renunciation**.
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 1:09 PM UTC
Shh, hush my love let your heart be calm, your troubles lay at my door,
I'll pick them up and carry them a while and let you dream once more.
Close your eyes my blessed one, rest your troubled soul, for the morrow comes 'ere we know and I am bound for Sheol.
I'll need your strength, and your sweet caress, your love and hope and smile.
So rest your troubled heaving breast, and let me walk this mile.
You've tarried long in this task assumed blithely to be your labor,
Unknown to most a burden such they'd not carry for life nor favor,
Yet stand I ready to assume the task, at least to help yield the Axe, and,
Send those tormenting souls to Perdition's shore.
I'll need your strength, and your sweet caress, your love and hope and smile.
So rest your troubled vacant breast, and let me walk this mile.
Like rivers deep with hidden tides, currents of pain and woe, flow on in life and bring new strife for those who do not know.
Yet in their midst we walk aside the filthy and fetid sots
who spew forth words without a clue why on the floor see dark spots.
Yes our blood runs hot coursing through our veins, our fists like Gordian knots
(a stab a slice, the pain focuses - feels nice).
I'll need your strength, and your sweet caress, your love and hope and smile.
So rest your troubled wounded breast, and let me walk this mile.
We raise our arm, Claymores held high, as if to claim our right - but yet, it is for naught,
For our lives once thought to our own are wrought as though they're one.
And though we're tossed into the night that brings a chill unto the soul,
We sing our song of hope and praise like Silas, Paul, of old -
and watch;
As shackles cold as the hearts of men - fall like dust onto the dung below.
I'll need your strength, and your sweet caress, your love and hope and smile.
So rest your troubled wearied breast, and let me walk this mile.
We rise from ashes like that gilded bird aflame with an heavenly fire
and surrounded by a host of wings, lay down our swords of ire.
For peace, like dew from the God above is sent to quench our thirst,
a word is given that fills our souls as if they could burst!
Yea love unfettered, unbound and unknown - for us and all who hear.
Love, given freely now, peace...no more tears.
Yes, I need your strength, your sweet caress, your love and hope and smile.
Now rest, my love, your nurturing breast, and let me walk this mile.
All rights reserved-Copyright 2014 Gerald T. Hollingsworth
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 6:27 PM UTC
i've a plundering urge
to whom it is absurd,
the black teeth
the blood scribes
the woe, the whither,
the word
i felt seen from afar
telescoped warmth cups my right shoulder
and i expand from shrivel in your forgiving light
are you my soilmate ?
for you i prepare scents beading from my most sweaty regions
a moist sporing emits in nifty allium spritzes
i stammer to a standing position
and exercise my full height
sporting,
i swing and tap an annihilated aluminum bat
sounding out my specific code of fidelations
resonation through the ground
and suddenly you are near
receiving the humming
up the souls of your doughy bare feet
you shiver
i prance wildly and perfect kilter in my hips
i offer to preen you
i present you with a pyramid of spittle balloons
i **** myself a little
i sink my teeth into your side (it's not 'your jam'
but we recover the mood)
i give chase to you for you to be chased
and it's a wild kind of keen fun
and you are a madcap display of laughter and wide smiles
and within i feel a gordian nest
of some lust manoeuvre
(maybe we can copulate face-to-face ?)
pondering scars wounds that were much deserved
the white meat the bright stars delivered
who is rude to the rule of what is ours ?
i knew you
magnesium burn and unwholesomely dauntless
bold your portfolio always within an easy reach
your passionate simmering might you branded my eye
and now we're similar mites in a feather
simian partners surveying territory needs
and then you’re gone again
vanished
and we are distant minds that strike the hour together
like before
between our signals I am met with cross chatter
my hemispheres bicker
and retorting memories barrage
refunding the past
and taking you away from me
i am a mating dunce once more
i shrivel
May 31, 2023
May 31, 2023 at 9:00 PM UTC
I reckon that
if'n you can't see beauty
in things abnormal,
I should slap ye for
seein' otherwise. Like if
all of the different
tongues of the world
were up'n snatched and
tied together and
then everybody with their tongues all twisted
would try and pull back
at the same time. And finally
we'd all be speaking the same language:
Pain.
But the knot would tighten.
Aug 8, 2010
Aug 8, 2010 at 11:52 PM UTC
Sword of Ishmael, robed in Assyria's mantle,
Consecrated of God, Prince of princes,
A Destroyer: the executioner of judgements.
A thorn driven deep into the heart of Jerusalem,
Tempting violent men, who pride in their strength,
as Excalibur and the Gordian Knot challenged
Arthur and Alexander.
Apr 30, 2019
Apr 30, 2019 at 6:29 AM UTC
Does memory deserve such a platter?
Cellophane instead of silver, but still
An impressive tower.
Such weight it bears—
Exhibit of blue curiosities
Resting on shoulders,
Original honeycombs.
The honeyeater feasts
On what has made a meal of me.
Grand rooms echo with silence.
Love turned to hate
So often without comment.
A history of broken hearts lies beneath
Street level. Away from sun’s glare
I buried them.
It is a tomb I walk in, tour guide
To myself. It is an ossuary hidden deep
Underground. It is the Catacombs of Paris.
Here moldering in the dark repose
A stack of secret skulls and bones—
Those gleeful arsonists.
In the end, even they succumbed
To the fires they set,
Burning down chapels without regret.
The city rumbles overhead, oblivious.
Everyone is absorbed with their own busyness.
No one pauses to wonder outside the still museum.
The cool façade belies the treasures hidden within.
They forget the history we share.
No visitor ascends the stair.
Inside, all is quiet.
The sole curator walks among the artifacts—
The rare objects, a Gordian knot,
The personas we once wore:
The naked emperor, the femme fatale,
The honeycunt.
Nov 15, 2019
Nov 15, 2019 at 8:30 PM UTC
I do not walk in measured tread,
I cannot spare the time;
And steady pace is better suited to the dead
Or projects more sublime.
I see them dressed in garb of green
As best befits the land
That harbours jihadist and others more obscene
And not their native sand.
They bear allegiance to no state
That may have sheltered them,
But spread instead their ugly message born of hate
And anxious to condemn.
It would be easy to cast blame
On perpetrators of
The outrage that most freshly has induced our shame
And dissipates our love.
But this would be to hide our guilt
At similar events
That other so-called freedom fighters have but built
And empty rage foments.
The question that we must address
Is why these souls should choose
Defection from their lives of love, and thus aggress?
Why do they not refuse?
What is there that holds them in thrall
And draws them to a place
That their forefathers chose to leave for freedom’s call?
Is it a search for grace?
Is it the hope of paradise
Should they in jihad die?
Seventy-two-virgins is perhaps the promise
On which they then rely?
They claim that Allah is their lord,
that Islam is their life.
They spurn the pen; relying solely on the sword.
The Quran is a knife
with which to cut the Gordian knot
that engirdles their guide.
The jihad route to paradise, the unbeliever’s lot.
But we are mystified.
What must we then on our side do
that hold freedom dearly?
I just demand the freedom that I give to you
Car moi, je suis Charlie.
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 12:04 PM UTC