"historian" poems
Born like a kid,
Believed like a child,
Thought like a philosopher,
Depressed like a prisoner,
Felt like a sinner,
Hated like a lawyer,
Ate like a veterinarian,
Lied like a politician,
Read like a historian,
Saw like a physician,
Slept like a pharmacist,
Smelt like a scientist,
Spoke like a priest,
Heard like an economist,
Loved like a counselor,
Tasted like a rich bachelor,
Worked like a tool,
Cheated like a fool,
Walked like a diplomat,
And died like a cat.
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 12:29 PM UTC
What happened on Weehawken Heights,
that warm midsummer’s day?
There are several versions of the “truth”
but none for sure can say.
The Principals were both well known:
Hamilton and Burr.
Aaron Burr had made the challenge,
Hamilton would not demur.
Hamilton choose pistols as the weapons
Then Burr proposed the site.
Per the Irish Code Duello
It was all proper and right.
Dueling was illegal,
so the Seconds looked away
so they could plausibly deny
that they had seen the fray.
Each man walked off ten paces,
and Mister Pendleton yelled “Pre-sent”!
Most think that Hamilton fired first;
wide and right, his shot was spent.
Aaron Burr was deadly accurate:
His shot, its target found:
Alexander Hamilton, wounded,
swooned upon the ground.
“this wound is mortal, Doctor.”
was all Hamilton could say.
They bore him to the City where
he passed on the following day.
Aaron Burr also fled the scene,
evading prosecution.
He had “Full Satisfaction”,
this hero of the Revolution.
What is full satisfaction
when Burr’s Star was past its season?
He never more held public trust,
indeed, stood trial for treason.
A person can be haunted
by a ghost that none can see.
Burr’s brilliance had been blighted
by a sort of infamy.
Towards the end of his own life
Burr said of his enemy:
“{Had I known}The world was wide
enough for Hamilton and me.”
On July 11, 1804, Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr fought the most famous duel in American history. These two heroes of the Revolution were political enemies and Hamilton had done much to exclude Burr from the Presidency and from the New York governorship. Burr,feeling he had been defamed by Hamilton's published remarks demanded the "Full Satisfaction" of a duel. My account generally follows the account of the historian, Joesph Ellis. Any errors are my fault. Any items in quotes are words ascribed to these two famous individuals. Aaron Burr never after held public office and eventually stood trial for treason for his alleged attempt to set up an independent country in the territory Jefferson purchased from France. After several years living in France, Burr returned to New york where he faded into obscurity. Alexander Hamilton is buried in the churchyard of Trinity Church in downtown New york.
Towards the end of his life, Burr remarked: "Had I read Sterne more and Voltaire less, I should have known the world was wide enough for Hamilton and me."[35]
Jan 17, 2012
Jan 17, 2012 at 7:04 AM UTC
So I may have to give you up.
I will give you up
Unless you tell me how you want to be with me.
If lovers need not be together to love each other then Together transformed into truth and luck
And I would give you up
Perhaps say, do not ever take him away.
My love, I want to say (Can I say) don't roam so far away from me
A moment without you is a year to drag aching shoulders with long fingernails
A sleepy guest unwelcomed after midnight, that is your goodbye.
Because, you are part of the forgotten voyages made of strawberry seas and orange trees
But I have to give you up like how trees give freely our breathing.
What was given, returns and arrives in your speak drifting, steps gliding, search farwinding, slow stroll, such is your gaze.
The way you have lingered is mine, how you looked at me is also mine.
Tears you gave me are diamonds that fell lost deep under the earth nobody else knows where to find.
Time for you to seek a love like mine, the seeking of an adventure.
An old fashioned romance historian love
Rivalling of an old century over the millenium.
Only you (in this moment) know my contribution to this world that which is only you.
May 9, 2018
May 9, 2018 at 11:14 PM UTC
Our town was to have a rail-line
Circa the mid eighteen nineties
This story has surprised my ears
A local amateur historian apprised me just recently
Documents to support this claim are archived in Sydney
Not far out of our town
On a well know property in the district
Two surveyor pegs are still in existence
Marking the route the rail-line was to track
Though the Forefather's rail-line was never bedded down
The powers that be government leaders of the day
Shelved these impressive plans
They never saw the light of day
Ribbons of steel not coming to fruition
Leading to our town
Other town went ahead rail-lines were established to them
Out town alas and alack missed out
Look where Tamworth and Armidale are to-day
Rail being in their favor
Our town was left to languish and to be dispirited
Going no-where no-where to go
Our Forefather's now lay in their graves
Not quite resting in peace
Their rail proposal for our town unrealized
Good ideas die along with good intentions
Hence their unsettled repose
Our town could have been a regional town
Industry and population dotting the landscape
Rail would have assured our place
The Forefather's rail proposal long since shelved
Consigned into the passing vapor of time
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 6:45 PM UTC
The comfiest human bed warmer I ever had,
My fundamental tutor of the good and the bad,
The original storyteller in my bedtime tantrums,
The resident photographer of my birthday albums.
The accidental magician who tricked me out of my worries,
A sympathetic dictator who scolds but allows my fancies,
My biased talent manager who always tells me I'm the best,
The loudest cheerleader who puts to shame all the rest.
The world's underrated chef cooking heavenly meals,
Our unpaid laundry lady worrying over water bills,
The overqualified nurse never leaving her patient,
Our top-notch budget analyst negotiating every payment.
The random gardener, she can grow anything with ease,
Our talkative historian, she stops recalling only if we say please,
The uncanny philosopher, we've learned a lot from her,
The lost and found administrator, tracking things hidden anywhere.
The most efficient multitasker I've ever known,
My trustworthy adviser who knows me down to my bones,
A tough fighter who keeps winning her every battle,
My life's co-creator and this world's greatest mother.
May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 7:44 PM UTC
I am the quill that marks
The water-walled history
Of the sea as it may -
A swan, be it, or a black-backed
Gull.
I am the pariah who
Failed to posit his load on
A hill that hung low, like a
Sunless moon, but who can still
hark the dark
Rumbling of repetition.
I am the Quixote who took
On the wind who made the mill
Sob like a bronze leaf in grief,
Seared by the passage of
A sluggish summer.
I am the pariah, the
Quixote, and the historian
Of the rainbow runner.
©LazharBouazzi, August 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 11:32 AM UTC
Dear Poet Friends, I hope you like this slice of Early History presented
below in simple verse. Please do read the short notes at the end, before giving your comments. Thanks, - Raj
ARCHIMEDES : THE PIONEERING
STREAKER OF HISTORY!
There lived in the Third Century BC, in the Sicilian
town of Syracuse, then a Greek colony,
A Greek mathematician named Archimedes.
He was tasked by King Hiero of his town,
To find the purity of gold in his crown;
Suspicious of the goldsmith having mixed
some material of inferior kind,
Which the King wanted Archimedes to find!
So, Archimedes lost in thought one day,
Entered the public bath on his way!
And as his body began to get submerged,
He happened to notice perchance,
Water spilling over from the tub!
The answer suddenly flashed across his
mind,
And he jumped up leaving everything
behind,
Wearing only his birthday suit,
Running through the street of Syracuse,
Exclaiming - “Eureka! Eureka!”
(I have found it! I have found it!)
Perhaps to become the first known streaker
of History!
While establishing the Principles of Buoyancy!
@ (see notes)
Archimedes, son of the astronomer Pheidias,
studied at the great Alexandrian city,
Remembered even to this day for his many
pioneering works, -
In Hydrostatics, Mechanics, and Geometry.
With his ingenious mechanical discoveries,
He held the great Roman galleys of Marcellus
at bay,
For more than three years, as Plutarch the
Roman Historian says! + (see notes)
Later one day, while lost in deep thought,
When some intricate problem of geometry
he was trying to resolve,
Refused to hear Marcellus' bidding,
To be slain by the Roman soldiers who had
come to fetch him!
O those Romans, with lesser brains and more
brawn!
And some hundred and thirty years after
his death in 75 BC,
Cicero, then the Roman Governor of Sicily,
Found the tomb of great Archimedes, near the
Agrigentine Gate, over grown with bushes and
thorns;
Where he lay buried in the scented dust of History!
- Raj Nandy, New Delhi.
NOTES:
@ Principle of Buoyancy = any floating object displaces its own
weight of fluid. So weight displaced by a crown of pure gold and
the one already made could be compared to find the truth!
+ Archimedes designed large stone throwers, & crossbows, and
also grappling hooks using large cranes to grab Roman ships and
capsize them!
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 9:04 AM UTC
I Felt●
How
You curled
Your hands from the heights
Did instigate●
I
Felt
I could fly and catch your smiles
I felt I could fly but to that mile
Just like the kites●
In
Endless fantasies
I clench myself like colourful crayons●
But
Someway,somehow
I felt each had a riven beak
And foil me
To print the picture of these delusions
So bright●
Now
I feel am right,and myself
Waving back to the same heights●
I Felt●
©Historian E.Lexano
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 2:10 AM UTC
Yahya Kemal Beyatli translations
Yahya Kemal Beyatli (1884-1958) was a Turkish poet, editor, columnist and historian, as well as a politician and diplomat. Born born Ahmet Âgâh, he wrote under the pen names Agâh Kemal, Esrar, Mehmet Agâh, and Süleyman Sadi. He served as Turkey’s ambassador to Poland, Portugal and Pakistan.
Sessiz Gemi (“Silent Ship”)
by Yahya Kemal Beyatli
loose translation by Nurgül Yayman and Michael R. Burch
for the refugees
The time to weigh anchor has come;
a ship departing harbor slips quietly out into the unknown,
cruising noiselessly, its occupants already ghosts.
No flourished handkerchiefs acknowledge their departure;
the landlocked mourners stand nurturing their grief,
scanning the bleak horizon, their eyes blurring...
Poor souls! Desperate hearts! But this is hardly the last ship departing!
There is always more pain to unload in this sorrowful life!
The hesitations of lovers and their belovèds are futile,
for they cannot know where the vanished are bound.
Many hopes must be quenched by the distant waves,
since years must pass, and no one returns from this journey.
Full Moon
by Yahya Kemal Beyatli
loose translation by Nurgül Yayman and Michael R. Burch
You are so lovely
the full moon just might
delight
in your rising,
as curious
and bright,
to vanquish night.
But what can a mortal man do,
dear,
but hope?
I’ll ponder your mysteries
and (hmmmm) try to
cope.
We both know
you have every right to say no.
The Music of the Snow
by Yahya Kemal Beyatli
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
This melody of a night lasting longer than a thousand years!
This music of the snow supposed to last for thousand years!
Sorrowful as the prayers of a secluded monastery,
It rises from a choir of a hundred voices!
As the organ’s harmonies resound profoundly,
I share the sufferings of Slavic grief.
Then my mind drifts far from this city, this era,
To the old records of Tanburi Cemil Bey.
Now I’m suddenly overjoyed as once again I hear,
With the ears of my heart, the purest sounds of Istanbul!
Thoughts of the snow and darkness depart me;
I keep them at bay all night with my dreams!
Translator’s notes: “Slavic grief” because Beyatli wrote this poem while in Warsaw, serving as Turkey’s ambassador to Poland, in 1927. Tanburi Cemil Bey was a Turkish composer. Keywords/Tags: Beyatli, Agah, Kemal, Esrar, Turkish, translation, Turkey, silent, ship, anchor, harbor, ghosts, grief, Istanbul, moon, music, snow
Oct 30, 2020
Oct 30, 2020 at 4:28 AM UTC
an old familiar,
an adversary of the first degree,
when we wrestle,
me and this god
disguised as an angel disguised as man,
the door to where we tangle,
clicks shut with a perceptible oval sounding,
a trumpet announcing commencement of the festivities,
that we are
Occupado
no stray observers permitted in,
the room entrances locked,
someone's two hands upon each temple,
(cannot be mine, for)
inside we combat literally,
"mano-a-mano"
hand to hand,
word to word,
gradually, continuously,
up close and personally,
one on
One
over the course of a lifetime,
each battle named,
famously borrowed and thus recorded,
Agincourt, Waterloo, Gettysburg, Leningrad, Ðiên Biên Phú,
for the record keeping purposes of our unforgiving ******
historian
the rules of engagement somewhat flexible,
biting, choking, eye gouging,
kicking when down, not just legal,
encouraged, no holds barred,
when we wrestle,
the dirtier the
better
take turns declaring a victor,
for that matters little, truly,
just a record keeping notation,
the battle and its aftermath,
the waves of pain inflicted,
the casualty count engorged,
is the greatest glory,
dans une manière de
parler
though sent away the children,
our earthly goods,
designating them purportedly,
non-combatants observers,
yet 'no rules' meant
they could be accidentally drawn in,
non-combatant status does not prevent them
from being freely captured or
killed
the conflict ongoing,
no one ever calls for a truce,
for both unequal adversaries know,
no quarter will ere be given,
and though the tide shifts,
each individual battle produces as always,
a winner and a
loser
noisy affairs,
long after the battle,
the slain yet scream,
perhaps I am confused,
perhaps it is the day's survivors,
announcing that sadly,
they are still
alive
it must be the latter,
for here I am writing and recording,
and though alone,
I hear an ever growing louder,
gouging sine wave scream piercing,
daring my soul to leave my wracked
body
for though mortal wounded,
I am therefore
both dead and alive,
but which more so,
none can surely
say
this conflict remains
unconcluded
the pain in my hip, now
everywhere,
my Jacob, now, Israel,
marker
so visible even if itself,
unseen
3:59am
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 4:03 AM UTC
from a point of ignorance, or perhaps from
a point of common sense...
listening to
jan lamprecht talking
about apartheid in south africa, and how,
apparently, the idea was to create
a poly-state solution, or what would
have been a federation, akin to u.s.a.,
now, i already said, from the point of
ignorance, or perhaps from a common sense...
let's not read too much at this point
for the sake of argument...
if that was really going to happen?
that there were white states, and there were
black states,
but somehow, they managed to work
together...
i'm looking at the map of south africa
right now...
now...
in europe, you have countries
that are land-locked, and we just call them that...
but i'm looking at the map...
and the apartheid beginnings, which
would rather seem obvious to the eye...
wouldn't apartheid have been stalled
once lesotho & suazi emerged?
surely these areas weren't the spartan 300
akin and never being colonised...
it's a "poem", it's not a history book,
i don't feel like i need to be right
or wrong, or need to constantly rely
on precision of facts to write, constantly making
references...
i'm working from: word of mouth,
from someone who was there...
but i can't really imagine either lesotho
or suazi being so ****** resistent to british
rule...
to me, they were the beginning results
of the apartheid project to create
the s.a.f. the south african federation,
federation meaning: there's already a whole,
now we need to cut it up, but retain the original
whole...
united states?
how would you establish
that, if not through a civil war?
it's still a federation,
the f.s.a. ha ha, imagine the chants...
f.s.a.! f.s.a.! no ring to it without
there's a federal bank, right?
federal this that and, of course,
x-files & federal bureau of investivgation.
like i already said, i'm not going to look
into the origins of lesotho & suazi,
as other than from the project apartheid...
and i'll only cite one realiable source:
jan lamprecht...
it's the tongue on the ground (boots too),
and if he doesn't know what he's talking,
how can some historian, in a stuffy library in
england tell me what is and what isn't true?
Jun 19, 2017
Jun 19, 2017 at 6:33 PM UTC
On
The counters of poetry
I dock and lock myself
Then
I scope on the bottles of liquors seductively
And spellblind by their syllables
I took the shakers and hybrid
The Similes
The Onomatopeia's
The Nemesis'
The Near-Rhymes
And The Triadic-Lines
Then I gulp fourteen shots of Sonnets
From my paper-glass
And glug a paradox
Or a foil-sigh
Trice,
The knots
Bundling my eloquence
Will exonerated itself
And torpidity will cuff my consciousness
And the droplets remains in my paper- glass
Will impel me
To quest for myriad of them
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I
Will slur
With half an eye open
As if the other is broken
Stock on a comedy chair
Then
When the
Limbs of time tread
Will I rush to the counter
Like the athletes at Olympia
And hybrid
The Blank-verses
The Alliterations
The Limericks
The Litotes
The Aporia's
And The Dysphemism's
And
Gulp countless
Yet measured shoots
Of Ballad,with my paper-glass
And unravel the oratories
Of sacred secrets,eclectic enchantment and regrettable reflexes
Aside,or injects the world
With my rugged pins of eruditions
Bestowed in me by the liquors of poetry
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I
Will slur
With half an eye open
As if the other is broken
Stocked on a comedy-chair
Again
I will rush
To the counter,and hybrid
The Exaggerations
The Personifications
The Imageries
And The Caesura's
And
Gulp uncounted shoots
Of Epic's from my paper-glass
And
Eulogise my steam and wit
Yet,I'm drunk
And deeply drunk wholly
By a might that mortify me so much
That I've become a slave
In the awe of my servitude
Now and then
Will I weep and wail terribly
Each morning,each noon,and each night
For the great demise of myself
And for an emancipation
From the perpetual counter-cells poetry
I'm drunk,and deeply drunk by poetry.
Deeply Drunk
©Historian E.Lexano
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 4:38 PM UTC
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden ****
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,--that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."
3k
I could have been a carpenter
With a callus on my hand
Or a marina worker
With my feet inside the sand
I could have been a historian
With glasses and a globe
But I’m just a lowly laborer
And my bones are getting old
I could have had a bank account
With lots cash and dough
Or a white picket fence
And I’d watch my green grass grow
I could have been successful
With sleep and no stress
But I chose dreams and passions
And still I feel I’m blessed
I could have never met you
With your big red sixties hair
Or could have never shared a night
In the starlight of your stare
I could have never known the truth
Lived my life a lie
But honesty has found me
Loving ‘til I die
I could have never realized
What a lucky lad I am
Or could have never battled
For what I believe in
I could have given up on it all
And laid down in defeat
But my love you do inspire
Me out onto the streets
I could have been a carpenter
With a hammer and a nail
I could have been a fireman
With a hard hat and a pale
I could have been lot of things
For there’s so much to be
But if I had to pick on one
I would pick on me
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 8:25 PM UTC
we did not Dye in vain!
by michael r. burch
(from “songs of the sea snails”)
though i’m just a slimy crawler,
my lineage is proud:
my forebears gave their lives
(oh, let the trumps blare loud!)
so purple-mantled Royals
might stand out in a crowd.
i salute you, fellow loyals,
who labor without scruple
as your incomes fall
while deficits quadruple
to swaddle unjust Lords
in bright imperial purple!
Originally published by The American Dissident
Notes: In ancient times the purple dye produced from the secretions of purpura mollusks (sea snails) was known as “Tyrian purple,” “royal purple” and “imperial purple.” It was greatly prized in antiquity, and was very expensive according to the historian Theopompus: “Purple for dyes fetched its weight in silver at Colophon.” Thus, purple-dyed fabrics became status symbols, and laws often prevented commoners from possessing them. The production of Tyrian purple was tightly controlled in Byzantium, where the imperial court restricted its use to the coloring of imperial silks. A child born to the reigning emperor was literally porphyrogenitos ("born to the purple") because the imperial birthing apartment was walled in porphyry, a purple-hued rock, and draped with purple silks. Royal babies were swaddled in purple; we know this because the iconodules, who disagreed with the emperor Constantine about the veneration of images, accused him of defecating on his imperial purple swaddling clothes!
Keywords/Tags: royal, purple, imperial, Tyrian, Byzantium, porphyry, swaddling, clothes, porphyrogenitos, mollusks, sea snails, royalty, kings, lords, emperors, popes
Mar 28, 2020
Mar 28, 2020 at 4:35 AM UTC
Let's
Go for a walk
Down the higher spheres
And I word to show thee the estates and isles
Of the heavens
For
Thy name shall I crochets in their capitals
And let the
Unheeded and hidden secrets
Of each one of them in thy palms
Let's
Go for a walk
Down the higher spheres
And I word to buy thee the charms of castles
Lying cuddly on the cosmics
For
Thee shall be my god and thy servant shall I become
And perform all thy whims to the very last syllable
Let's
Go for a walk
Down the higher spheres
And I word to clad thy soul with garments of the rainbows
For
Thee shall gloss and *****
The sights of crafts
Running on golden asphalt
And make them collide with the pillars of the rays
Let's
Go for a walk
Down the higher spheres
And I word to get thee the finest jewelleries
That sparkle better than the figurine of the stars
And on thy finger
Shall I sit the most piety of all diamonds as my theme of love
And make the angels glower with chagrin
Let's
Go for a walk
Down the higher spheres
And I word to teach thee how I brew the storms and weathers
For
Your care shall I leave the whips
Of the recalcitrant thunders
And make thee assimilate them with thy counsel
Let's
Go for a walk
Down the higher spheres
And I word to lay thee on the hallowed beds I nursed
There
Shall I leak the ***** of my prowess
Into thine ears
And lick thy feet,showing thee the heavens
A Word For A Walk
To You Getrude
So much love❤
©Historian E.Lexano
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 5:29 AM UTC
Hanging Ropes
Mine heart
A solitary room
But of shadows and redundant dust
Mine heart
You've set on a play Judas dart
The forbidden walls
Your hanging cute portrait
Every glimpse of you,is a vision doom
You're killing me
But the deeps inside me
Of where sorrowful blood flows
You pause my pulse
You leave me with hanging ropes
You're an aeronaut
You make me fly but with froozen feet
I'm comfortless
You've brimmed my soul with tormenting maggots
But I shall lie in peace on these ropes,a piece.
Hanging ropes
©Historian E.Lexano(P.h.D)
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 6:03 AM UTC
she
Eats mine emotions
And mars my veriest heed
Her arms is a fortress,a congenial devotion
The cannibal of whom I find peace
But certainly,the no creed
I inhere to●
■
Her
Breath speaks severity
But of fortune prudence and quietude
She sinks me the depths of her whims
Yet,ludicrously of null whips
■
Her
Eyes eclipse blunt my sights
And rancour the rhymes of my visions
But then,she is the fair breed of gleams
A pleasant hue of sparkles I beseige
■
Her
Tender tongue carriers coals
Of undying vengeance
Of which every touch trembles
Yet even as so
It feels finer than rosy Arabian night breezes
■
But
Her crest which be the counsel
Of which the wildest devilry passions is seeked
Chides and macerate my mastered pettings
■
Yet
She sets tables in her thighs
And serve the most but motley affections
■
She is despotic but decent
SADIST
©Historian E.Lexano
®Recalcitration With Excellent
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 3:29 AM UTC
We will start with every Jew of every sect.
then every Muslim of every sect.
then every Christian of every sect.
then every Buddist of every sect.
Then every Vedic Hindu of every sect.
then every Animist of every sect.
then every New Ager of every sect.
then every person who lives "religiously".
then every person who "believes in and worships" any "god" or "goddess".
then every person of either *** or any of the five skin colours.
then the redheads.
then the disabled.
then the "gays" male or female.
then the "Politicians" of any belief.
then every member or supporter of any Oligarchy anywhere.
then every Capitalist and supporters of every sect.
then every Socialist and supporters of every sect.
then every Liberal and supporters of every sect.
then every Monarchist and supporters of every sect.
then every "aristocrat" and their supporters.
then every Militarist and supporters of every sect.
then every Fascist and supporters of every sect.
then every "Freedom" lover of whatever belief.
then every Revolutionary and supporters of whatever cause.
then every Criminal of whatever crime.
every Hippy.
every Ecofreak.
every alcoholic user.
every tobacco smoker.
every Cannabis smoker.
every priest of every "religion"
every Khat chewer.
every ***** of any junk.
every celebrity especially public ones.
every historian.
every novelist.
every poet.
every lecturer.
every expert.
every "adviser".
every spokesperson.
every print or electronic journalist especially.
every Television chat show host.
every one else.
Its the only way to get neither War nor Peace
on this war ravaged planet,
but simple existence without any corruption or criminality.
and then who will be left?.
NO ONE!!
Except me and my twin flame
and oh boy will we have a great time of it.
Alone but all one.
just us and the Isness of the Universe.
wandering this beautiful playground gifted to us by the Isness of the Universe.
The Isness of the Universe to walk with and talk with.
Fruit hanging from trees .
Cold clear waters to drink.
Nuts to crunch.
oh and Amber our huge sheppie--
connosseur of Pork Crackling
and doggy nonsense and wisdom.
www.thefournobletruthsrevised.co.uk
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 1:26 AM UTC
A beautiful unusual looking feather fell to the ground
It was black, gray and white
It was in perfect condition
It was sitting in between the leaves that had fallen from the trees
Fall had arrived
A small boy was walking home
He found the feather sitting on the ground
He picked it up to look at it
To save it he took one of his school books out from his backpack
He opened the book and put the feather in between the pages and closed the book for safe keeping
He then put the book back into his backpack and continued on his way home
Once he got inside his house, he took out the feather and showed it to his mother
She looked at it and told him to show it to his father when he got home from work
The boy then went upstairs to his room
He put his backpack down on the chair by his desk and took out the book to look at the feather once again
It was absolutely beautiful
He had never seen anything like it
He felt like he had found a treasure
He was tired and wanted to rest
So he put the feather away and took a nap till his father arrived
While he slept the feather opened the book and stood up on one end
It started to turn slowly
As it turned gold sparkles covered the feather glistening in the light
It was pure magic
The feather then went back into the book and closed it
When the boy awoke his father had come home
He grabbed the book with the feather to show his father
His father was an historian
While his father studied it
He walked into his study to find a book on the book shelf
The boy followed his father
The boys father found the book and brought it down from the shelf
It was a very old book with a special leather red cover and gold edged pages
The father looked up the feather and discovered that it had belonged to the head dress of a former Native American chief named Temacuah. It was magical and also had protective powers
The feather would release its magic only when it was owned by the right person. Otherwise it looked like any other feather
While they were doing their research the feather stood up again on one end and started turning ever so slowly
As it did, the gold specks on it glistened once again
It was beautiful
The boys father knew this had only happened because his son was the correct owner
They also found out that the feather was very old
Several thousand years old
Yet it showed no age
It was perfect
They had found true magic
They felt blessed
Jun 14, 2018
Jun 14, 2018 at 6:08 PM UTC
As we wander through the dunes rhythm,
The blistering sun jaunts across,
Exhibiting the elegance of the sanguine sands,
A ravishing roots of colours,
Whirling on the Sahara,
The beautiful blue skies,
Their true reflection,
With delight we trail from audaghust to the inlands,
In a waddling gait,
The heavy luggages on humps,
Are the loads of luxury bade by kumbi saleh,
The camels and jockeys pride themselves in it flamboyant environs,
And our thobes and keffiyeh makes merry,
In the breeze of sacred grove trees,
Mesmerizing the aesthetics of Arab architecture,
Treking through the routes of Tjilmasa to Tehrent,
In the comfort of the oases,
Replenishing our thirst and fatigue,
With benevolent breeze from palms and peaches,
Glancing at the magnificent mirages pearls,
We sight the atlas mountains,
And its Maghreb,
Caravan
A Poem Written By,
Historian E.Lexano
©March 8,2015
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 11:26 AM UTC
Started with
Happy New Year
spelled out
in rails of *******
carefully measuring
which letter
was largest
each of us got one
you
remember.
Carolyn
came with me
she was dressed in red
she figured that bowl
of quualudes
was
all meant for her.
The gang was all there
passing out gifts
rusted out back scratchers
found in the garage
no kids yet.
Sheraton spoke in mysteries
his wife Jane
hustled me behind the shed
Joaquin
was drunk on his knees again
screaming for ***** and poetry
Patti
had recently found recovery
and I was spending my time
trying to convince her to drink.
The party didn't begin
until
Mary and Stuart arrived
our personal gurus
took us all
one step higher.
Olivia and Aaron
had
much to hide.
Davey
was
the ring master.
We
didn't have to go to the circus
we were the circus.
Little Feat
were still willing
the Dobbie Brothers
in high pitch
were still chillin
the Dead played amazing riffs
Bob Dylan was street legal
the Boss was depressed
the
sound track to our lives.
I gotta job
working in a drug free program
all the staff
sat in a VW van
having a staff meeting
and
passing a joint.
Carolyn and I
kinda got married
had a big party
I knew I was in trouble when
she launched herself
on the bed of gifts
and tried to swim
up stream.
I
learned all the messages
of
Alanon
in one brief flash
Everything passes
everything changes
we all know that.
I got a real job I wasn't qualified for
missed a deadline at school
tossed out on my ***
no 26 year old
Ph.D.
for me
just another suicide
on the horizon
saw my grandmother
and
the white light
but
also at the job
met the future mother
of my children
and of course
she was to be
my
future ex-wife.
When Carolyn found this out
she
brought
a gun to my work
to
tell me what she
thought about that
it ended all right
on that night.
I lived in Laurel Canyon
in a beautiful garden
on Wonderland Avenue
John Holmes
was my neighbor
bigger than life.
1978
It ended as it started
with *******
the big chill crowd
together again
one last look back at the year
in
Super 8
Davey's traditional dance as historian
for the year that passed
one last look
and
farewell.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 1:42 PM UTC
Chelsea&Barça
Chelsea&Barça
Is when a stadium is torn between
The devil and the deep blue sea
And referees are left solely and boldly
To decide on only what they see
Chelsea&Barça
Is when elegance and eclecticism sits in enmity
And battles it out till
In its entirety or finality
Chelsea&Barça
Is when the proverbs of curse begin
As teams fail to steam and win
Chelsea&Barça
Is a match with no particular price
Yet,everything is priced and staked
Every second counts,the minutes take
As the game changes,and break
Chelsea&Barça
Is when eyes cannot be kept
Of that which it behold
Not for a moment nor a second
Life is defined,is a clinging- hope
Chelsea&Barça
Is only when dark horses stumble
Giant pyramids
For glory sake,in just the name of the highest bids
Chelsea&Barça
Is when brothers dine on tables of passion
With swords and blades
As shades are thrown
And bloods are trade
Chelsea&Barça
Is when the pool of the eyes
Overflow its banks
And men gets laid in ice
For their low ranks
Chelsea&Barça
Is both life and death
Chelsea&Barça
Is certainly the story of the last breathe
#ThePrince
#GreatestPoetEver
©Historian E.Lexano
™Recalcitration With Excellence
Feb 20, 2018
Feb 20, 2018 at 4:06 AM UTC
A spark of fear on every syllable
a hint of it on the tip of my tongue
and I am a snake- a viporess
Ready to combat Burroughs himself
Burrow himself in a hole
don't come out until winter time
until the Russian cavalry comes galloping in and my lord
wont this be interesting
A real match
I must retire to my chambers
1 minute 2 minute
God, have I discovered writing?
Joyous, glorious
as the life spills on her pages
What a treat to the historian himself
Tick tock tick tock tick tock!
A day in the loony bin!
Congratulations congratulations congratulations
Analogous to Berkeley with androgynous beings
Fly away Pegasus, fly!
And I am high
You know what's good about getting high?
You forget everything you just said
But you know everything was/is? connected
Good morning brain!
You haven't been up for 18 years
Welcome to the world,
where life is light and bright
How does it feel?
This is right
Hot to cold, just like that
Can't see, only feel.
Loose Buttons
Pregnant with a platypuss but this is high time
Wackadoodle > Lackadaisical
Dictionary please
Much hate but night night
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 4:06 PM UTC
Sometime before dawn
You curls in my dreams
And got me smiling
Like a promenading butterfly
Who aback;sights a garden phlox
I whirl enchanting on my cot
Until I hear the **** crow
And plug the melodrama
Though I wish relentless
I wing my arms like a baby
Thinking about you
I don't know how you do that
Or does it
But it seems you're an adept
Or probably a witch
To have cast such a spell on me
Ton!Ton! I picks my cellphone
And reads your messages
Thought as much,is her;the witch
Who incessantly sparks my match-sticks
And brighten my day
But am cowed,and wholly gobbled
Whenever I reminiscence about the oratories
"Nothing lasts forever"
So now tell me!
Your days and times
The protractions of your sojourn
And let me know"Witch
Though I'm hog-tied for your premium
I'm hog-tied for your rob too
Infatuated by a witch
©Historian E.Lexano
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 6:02 AM UTC