"holders" poems
*I woke up this morning and my name flashed on T.V.
They said i blew up places , they said i killed masses .
Men , women & children I murdered them all.
Who am I ?
I am a muslim and i am taking this fall.
They used my name and spread the terror.
I am not them , it surely is an error.
We, muslims, are the holders of peace , we spread love.
Why am I being represented by their false actions.
I am a person, with different notions.
World will now brand me a terrorist.
Don't judge me by their actions , I insist.
I am not them, they pilfered my name.
They inflicted libel , and my religion to defame .
I have been robbed , robbed of my name.
I am a muslim , human like you , all the same.
My name has been robbed , my identity stolen
I deprecate the terror and mourn for fallen.
There are millions like me and humanity lies in our depths.
But we are all victims of Identity Theft* ...............
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 12:20 AM UTC
PINK HIGH HEEL SHOES
I remember drinking
pink champagne
from your pink
high heel shoes.
I remember making love
with you
wearing only
your pink high heel shoes.
I remember
how your pink high heel shoes
became
candle holders
ashtrays
(where you stashed your hash)
deadly weapons
in an...OW!...row!
& you ask me
do I remember
your pink high heel shoes?
Do I?
I do!
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 8:15 PM UTC
the first time i saw a ****
i didn't know she was my sweetheart,
and i didn't understand her
not like feet or arms
which i understood immediately
but **** grew on me
like ivy over bricks
in time **** ate my mind
and i was haunted by her
perfume
then i suffered
a severe case of **** on the brain
of which there is no cure but death
unless of course
there are ***** in the afterlife
the ****
such a tender
slit that oozes love like gelatin
a veiled curving vulnerability
it's secret poorly hidden
for easy discovery
but still,
i didn't understand women
the holders of this sacred chalice
until the great epiphany
and i realized
that the woman's heart is a **** too
a silky slit
the marrow of her soul
waiting to be opened and brimming
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 3:43 PM UTC
Within each and every one of us
is a unique culture:
Ethnocentrism
reaches just as far inward
as it does outward:
Just because
academia
has imposed it's own
fascist, totalitarian, absolute
definitions
does not mean
that it has final say:
i postulate
such adacemic-fetishism
is merely a byproduct of
propaganda
pushed by Big Money
rather than
a genuine insitution
of respectable edification:
that is
i see it as
a mere appeal
to authority;
a well-known logical fallacy
to those who are in the know.
Tread lightly.
Modern Academics
seems to be
yet another
corrupt branch
of Business;
little more.
Academic achievement
is not equivocal
to intellectual worth:
a graduate's degree
is moreso
a status symbol
than it is
a credential
anymore.
'T'is vile idolatry
in lieu of
an individual's personal philosophy;
that's not to say it's
absolutely worthless,
but it may as well be
in today's job market
(unless it's a business degree!)
Then again,
that's just my opinion.
i guess i oughtta shut up
before Edu-nazis shut me down.
Oops, did i type that out loud?
I'm so sorry, you see,
vhat i meant to say vas:
Heil Stanford!
Heil Harvord!
Heil Berkley!
Heil vhat i am told zu heil!
Heil zhe publishing companies!
Heil zhe holders of student loans!
Heil egredious student debt
in lieu of philosophical discourse,
let alone progress!
Heil vhat i see on TV!
Heil *******
Heil alkohol!
Heil gasoline!
Do not qvestion zhe dogma;
go back zu sleep, you sheep!
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 4:33 PM UTC
jeweltoned and silent figeating fidgeting
mayqueens of vienna:
morituri te
salutant.
cupidfresh bruises on your thighs brought to you by
johnson &
johnson a family company amen they will do right by
you.
honeyed dew sticks to
morning eyelids (sugarwater my eyelashes
hummingbird tongues)—
vague rifle form at constant alert
attn. california capricorns:
your winterspeak eludes me yet.
lighteyed candle-holders and
coffeeringed eyes tell me
all I have ever needed to know about
yelling fire in an ice
skating rink
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 5:21 AM UTC
When I get too blue
I laugh at myself
pick up the leash
and take Mr. Brown to the dog park.
He shows me how
to be carefree
will jump and bark
drink a gallon of water
and lick whomever he chooses
without a worry in the world.
Everybody admires his *****
What kind of dog is that?
He’s a Rhodesian Ridgeback.
an African lion hound,
but he’s scared shitless of my cat.
what’s yours?
A Visla.
Looks like yours, only smaller.
Did you see that American Foxhound?
That s.o.b. can jump!
Yeah, too bad he can’t pay my mortgage.
The young photographer shows off
his brilliant Doberman’s latest trick –
a double backflip
catching the Frisbee ten feet high
landing on all fours.
The old lady with the blind daschund
says, “Oh, oh, isn’t he wonderful?”
She claps her hands in delight.
The canine Noah's arc show runs all day
with the entry of pugnacious Sharpeis
the arrogance of Poodles
the inscrutability of giant Malamutes.
the pride of leash-holders.
Gradually tree shadows darken the sawdust
and people start parading home,
the **** athletic girls with their boyfriends’ Shepherds
the slow old men with their greying Labradors
the lady real estate agents with their tiny Shih Tzus.
And then it’s silent
I’m the last one there
alone in the gathering dusk
still hearing echoes of joyful barks
realizing how funny it is
that so many people
look just like their dogs
but I don’t think about it,
I just marvel at all this joy.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 6:16 PM UTC
The rock slept
Genghis Khan clamped fingers
Over the edge of a land mass
And peeled freedom away from the East
The rock slept
The mob beheaded a woman who aided the American Revolution
Americans denied it later
But every town called Marietta is named after her
The rock slept
A vegetarian who didn’t drink and smoke
Commandeered information technology and chemical engineering
To commit the biggest murder-robbery
In the history of daylight and star-shine
The rock slept
The vegetarian cowered from justice
Committed suicide like the milksop/milquetoast he was
The rock slept
A fourteen-year-old boy clamped his fingers
Around it
Aimed it at High Strength Lexan riot shields
Protecting flesh, blood, and bone minimally paid
Protecting shields of numbers, theories, interchangeable office holders
Until he realized the futility of it
Dropped the rock
Turned south (or maybe north)
And walked away
The rock slept
Snoring unheard through the next spurt of tyranny
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 6:33 PM UTC
I am a Muslim, not a terrorist.
Don‘t judge me because of my religion. Don‘t judge us all the same. My religion teaches me peace. My religion teaches me love. It tells me to show compassion, not what you think of us.
I have only one request. That I‘d kindly wish you to look beyond the hate and hurt, and see Muslims are just like you. Peaceful. Loving. Caring. We have families too.
Terrorizing and vandalizing isn‘t Islam heritage.
Muslim, Catholic, Atheist, yellow, black, white, men, women and children. We are all born to this world for a purpose. We are in a world full of discrimination, based on our religion, color, nationality and gender.
Yet, they propagate Islam with a bad image, wich is a huge damage.
They call me terrorist, they call me danger. I‘m feeling like a stranger.
Remember, there is only one world and it is all for us.
We Muslims are the holders of peace, we spread love. Why am I being represented by their false actions?
They say that they are Muslims and they say, they stand for Islam. If they are Muslims, their actions would show it.
Muslims stand in prayer. Shoulder to shoulder, to stop the devil winning.
A terrorist kills someone and Muslims are blamed, a Christian kills someone and he‘s just a ******
Violence is not Islam.
Terrorists are not Muslims.
Alhamdullilah I am Muslim.
-Nura
Jun 6, 2018
Jun 6, 2018 at 8:24 AM UTC
There is nothing more than a photographers dream
than a sunset over a blue clear river.
Its just on the beauty but the peace you must feel
Your heart melting to the golden glow of the sun.
But its not of the view
to some anyone could a have a a van to take the love of art
But must don't feel the fullness of the work
There is nothing to a sports players dream
to win every day
The fans yelling your name and calling you the because after every goal
Its the beat of the music to get you going
Notes after the other and tap of your foot to keep the play
No story to write itsself but the holders mind
The wonder on the world and people that say its home
The teaching of each lesson to the kids that have brains
The thinker to the doer.
You see there are more to what it seems
It all has its flaws
But they are all the same
It makes you happy.
By Me
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 1:14 PM UTC
I found seashells and driftwood,
Cans and bottles and much more
Like diapers and picnic stuff
While walking along the shore.
I found cigarette butts and bags
And those horrendous soda holders
That catch on sea life and twist them
In their middle or at their shoulder.
I saw palm trees and jacaranda
Waving in the balmy breeze
And broken plastic lawn chairs
Leaning against the lovely trees.
I found six-packer carriers sitting
With all the beer bottles inside.
I saw pieces of bicycles and big batteries
And I swear I almost sat and cried.
But I had too much to do right then
Gathering up all that random junk.
I carried them to a ******* bin
And I threw it all in, kerthunk!
I wondered for the hundredth time
The parents these creeps had
That let them grow so ill behaved,
And so embarrassingly bad.
What kind of selfish brat can come
And look out on this lovely scene
And throw their ******* all around?
How can they be so mean?
It makes me hope for recompense;
That what goes around come again
And we can stash these human pigs
Into an appropriate kind of pen.
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 6:45 PM UTC
When I look into my bedroom
I see a shelf of various book
genres that I read over and over
again, when I look into my bedroom
and look beyond the rest I see a
window which I have seen many, many
different things through, when I look
into my bedroom and door ahead I
see a dresser with many clothing items
I will cherish for life. Above I see some
of my most valuable collections, when
I look into my bedroom and look down
I see a box of various types of *****
which I have kicked and thrown all over
the house When I look inside my closet
and look down I see board games that
I have played over and over again.
When I look inside my closet and look
straight ahead I see sweatshirts that
have kept me warm in the winter months.
When I look inside my closet and look
up I see enormous puzzles that I have
spent days and days and days to complete,
when I look into my bedroom and look
right I see my bed where I have had
good dreams and bad dreams and dreams
in between. When I look into my bedroom
and look right I see soccer cards which
I have spent hours organizing and putting
in their holders. When I look into my
bedroom and look beyond my bed I see
a shelf with fidget spinners, nerf guns,
athlete cards, travel games, and remote
control cars everywhere, when I look
into my bedroom and look beyond my
dresser I see a big box of athletes cards
which I have studied over and over again,
when I look in my bedroom and look at
the walls I see posters of athletes who
inspire mes like no other,
when I look into my bedroom and look
above my closet I see my mini basketball
hoop which I have attempted many shots
on. when I look into my bedroom I see
my very own personality.
Dec 30, 2019
Dec 30, 2019 at 7:52 PM UTC
Time marches on
and also do soldiers
and widows
and orphans
and property holders
and days become weeks
and weeks become years
and rain soaks the ground
and also do tears
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 5:54 PM UTC
comely, maybe
but not beautiful
my features are as round as vowels
and I carry the moon in my hips
I am an unpolished beauty
smooth pebbles resting at the bottom
of a cold clear stream
with an empty purse
imagination
my only currency
in this world
I am a shrinking violet
occasionally a rose
february-white
caught in your button-loop
long-stemmed red roses
stalk runways
hollywood bombshells
are bubbly as champagne
and full of flesh and light
but *** sans love
is still an empty bathtub
whatever happened to pin-up girls
long cigarette holders
and muted photographs?
I am distorted
in the fish-eye view
of the modern lens
in my fantasies
I am no longer sand and loam
I glow like a tall slim candle
though I am often numb and dumb
and my girls are as absent
as long lost unicorns
I am the bohemian princess
I travel through foreign lands
clothed in exotic costume
a jewelled headdress, and
indian pyjamas coloured sapphire,
turquoise and cayenne-red
my feet are near bare
and my hippie hair
is a mass of blonde curls
I take a sojourn in
southern california
warm desert air
soft against my skin
I surf in the salty sea
held buoyant by the waves
a sunset stains the sky tangerine
the palm trees
black against the orange light
click teasingly in the breeze
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 9:27 AM UTC
The bench
Supporting cast
Men of few talents
The star watchers
Few know their names
"No skill", they say
Trading tokens in the money game
Roster holders for the next star
Only put in to give others rest
Pass the ball, set the pick, take a flop
Help the star look good, give him a chance
Never to take the ball and make the shot
Unknown, Unsung, Underrated
Until the big play
The highlight reel
The game winner
ESPN's fifteen minutes of fame
Talk of the town
The hero
Until the next game
Then it's the back to normal
Sitting on the bench
Jun 10, 2010
Jun 10, 2010 at 4:24 PM UTC
Poet: be gentle with yourself
never compare yourself to the coffee house across the street
the one that looks so lonely and wise with it’s brewing tales
and tea leaves
do not forget that you are a magician’s tarot cards, fate
holders and dream menders and plot twisters
poet: be gentle with yourself
you are a small wind hiding from the storm
but trust me your calm will come
remember that you are made of the stars and the universe
and that every atom inside of you is alive just like how
your words are
poet: be gentle with yourself
I know how it feels to hold back from writing
because you depreciate your own self worth
but trust me
the sun shines every day
just to catch a glimpse of you
and the moon cherishes your
fluttering eyelids the way I
cherish you.
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 9:49 AM UTC
It’s 6:47am on a Monday morning on I-71 south towards Cincinnati and I’m driving in the middle lane entirely surrounded by semis and service trucks and out of nowhere, like it was some miracle act of God, it starts pouring down rain so hard that all of the traffic stops in the height of morning rush hour, everyone’s radios playing morning talk shows so loud it vibrates the ground our tires are on and everyone’s coffees move back into their hands from their cup holders, I guess we’re all just trying to wait it out right now
I guess I have no choice but to wait it out right now, he says, hoodie wrinkled, two all nighter’s deep and still no passing grade, standing outside of the campus Starbucks, as it’s pouring down rain
I guess we’ll have to wait it out, says my sister to an 8 year old me, as I wait on the curb of our neighborhood for the ice cream truck, no matter how disfigured the spongebob popsicle’s face looks by the time I get it in my hands, and no matter the fact that I never understood that his eyes were bubblegum
I guess I have to wait it out, my father says, watching my grandmother lying in her hospital bed, getting tests taken for her potentially and what would be proven deadly, lung cancer,
Her eyes glossed over and her lips still yearning for the pull of her usual afternoon pack of cigarettes
You just have to wait it out, says my grandpa, standing next to me in his garden, after having helped me plant my first tomato seeds,
The summer has felt like forever at 10 years old, I wish it stayed that way, and I wish I liked tomatoes
I guess we just have to wait it out now, the head of police says to his crew of swat members, after having everything fail towards coaxing a young high school boy out of his boarded up bedroom, the shotgun he killed his ex girlfriend with, still in his arms
Well, we’re just going to have to wait it out,
I think to myself as I sit in this traffic at what is now exactly 7am on a rainy Monday morning in the middle lane of I-71 south towards Cincinnati, entirely surrounded by semis and service trucks
The rain will stop eventually
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 9:22 PM UTC
On the brink of war, within our own borders,
Among our neighbors and brothers.
Interesting how we think of them as brothers, neighbors,
And how we are willing to go to war.
A compromise to end it? Willing.
Naive.
California may have become a free state,
Migrations to the gold mines and the economic
Boom improved the economy and diversity.
But war still came.
New Mexico and Utah were able to decide for themselves,
People rushed to sway the decision, it was even.
Fair.
But still, war came.
Texas got their money, and we drew new borders with more land.
A line was drawn, metaphorically and nationally.
But still, war came.
The south got back their fugitive slaves from the north,
The work force resumed, and a reward for the slave was paid to the holders.
Everyone seemed to win,
But still, war came.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 8:00 PM UTC
How do you mend a damaged heart ?
Fractured, cracked or blown apart.
You can't use glue, string or tape
vinegar and brown paper was a fairy tale.
How do you mend a broken heart
You can't buy passion, love or butterflies.
They can only be delivered with a smile.
A smile that could bring nations to war
or make a gladiator kneel before.
How do you mend a broken heart
The same smile that could make a grown man weep
or tell bedtime stories to make a child sleep.
To look upon a smile and its holders eyes
can mend that heart if you let it try.
So how do you mend a broken heart
Not leased or lent,
borrowed or loaned,
only when given will it be whole..
When another holds all you are
Is how you mend a broken beart
Oct 13, 2012
Oct 13, 2012 at 4:15 PM UTC
swim until you can’t see land
until names etched deep in cardiac tissue blur
and fade, scored over with seasalt and creases of a million maps,
a secret stash of maps. absurd and hoarded and crumpled under carseats and
rolled neat
and boastful in umbrella holders or worse, framed and hung
Maps jotted freehand on napkins stained with tea and mustard and left
to be bused with the crusts and pocketful of change.
swim until you can’t read the maps.
the lines to here from there are arteries
on your fresh, clean heart.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 12:15 AM UTC
i've lost many things
like my favorite pen
and my other sock
and you
you only know you've lost these things
when you can't find anything to write with
or when only one foot becomes frigid,
but losing someone,
losing someone is different
you never empty your pockets for them
or frantically search under beds
in hopes to find them hiding there
and you can't forget them in the bottom
of your messy closet
or in the cup holders in your car
it's a lot harder to find someone
when they're echoing in your heart
and pulsing through your head,
still in every part of you-
yet your arms remain
empty
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 2:25 PM UTC
The faint smell of mulled spice lingers.
Soft sounds:
a television on somewhere
dishes clinking in the kitchen
footsteps, small and large.
Scattered pillows on the den floor
The occasional pine needle makes an appearance.
Textbooks, pens, paper, notebooks.
Everywhere.
Little white hairs stick to anything.
Carpet, usually stained, but soft.
Doors and cabinets that don't quite close.
Chipped paint.
Ribbons, ponytail holders in odd places.
Rustling, running, rattling. More running.
Music, and very loud singing.
An air of silliness, slight stress, hurry.
Sometimes sadness, but not too often.
Laughing, since we laugh at our strangeness.
An odd happiness occupies the space.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 11:18 AM UTC
before you make another rash decision
(before my heart falls right out of my toes)
think about the night you showed up on my doorstep
wrapped up in your oh my god i need you's
eyes big and bloodshot and my heart on your tongue
i’m a believer in the past
but my lungs shouldn't breathe out nostalgia, rather than carbon dioxide
I've killed too many plants and frankly I'm starting to die myself
check your winter coat pockets and make sure
that tucked away with your peppermint wrappers and crumpled parking passes
there aren't any memories too good to forget
(I couldn't forget you if I tried)
i bet if i went through your shelves i’d find
my ponytail holders and Burt’s bees kisses and words that read
“we loved each other before we even knew we did”
so lets stop the running and the faking and the decision making
lets just be
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 11:16 AM UTC
I should be laying beside you,
with my hand between your legs,
my head on your ***** - while listening to you
murmur out your dreams.
I should be laying beside you,
carving your sleeping body
with things I would like us to do;
to each other when you wake up.
I should be laying beside you,
listening to you tell me about the times;
in your life;
when you and I were strangers.
I should be laying beside you;
for when you and I were born,
the empty sides of our beds -
are place holders for when we are finally together.
I should be laying beside you,
because that’s where I want to be right now;
juxtaposed your body.
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 11:38 AM UTC
If the world were flat I would argue
there would be more suicides,
Jumping from the edge of the earth.
The act would somehow be more redeemable
Than say, swimming into a concrete walkway.
City crews wouldn’t have to wash the mess
and children wouldn’t see the naked truth.
The news could do an expose
On this trendy new trend
In the inward homicidal debauchery.
I imagine the lower three miles would be much like purgatory
The pale-blue breath holders
With their glass frozen eyes
All floating in the under earth
Not sliced and bleeding,
Or comatose from pills,
Or lessening the brain via bullet,
Or gas like Plath,
Not even rope burn from a hangman’s noose.
No if the world were flat, they would be floating.
Some stitched with government satellites
Payment in the mail for their families.
Why yes there are other benefits too
Like executions,
Orbital burial and visits,
even gps tracking.
But I am no sales man
You should talk to
Samuel Birley Rowbotham
He holds a parallax
Between history and accounting.
Feb 24, 2011
Feb 24, 2011 at 10:19 PM UTC
In the waking, in the wrong,
I stumble -- spitting synonyms for love
daring the scattershot night to take control
to steer me into the early morning bedroom
of anyone other than my own,
and over the phone breaking, over with biting
the mimicking face of former promise ring holders
and front pew sitters I ask the sun to emerge gently,
to kiss my forehead, scramble up eggs--
wearing my oversized t-shirt, cotton underwear, and
an apron left behind by the sun's mother,
but as night turns and walks away,
no bright sun replaces--
instead it is that grey, it is that gaunt
overcast haze that never shows teeth,
only hisses, "How's the routine going?"
In the waking, in the wrong,
hands pull denim and throat itches for shouting rebuttal,
but a man never won against the eternity of the sky,
so I lower my eyes, spin madly into why why whys,
a beautiful woman between pavement and sky jogs past
and I see myself drinking coffee with her and grinning
at what our elderly parents don't know,
but before the words fall from lips,
her feet, legs, and hips wisp
into the early morning mist,
the overcast sky whispers to the meadowlark
above my head,
I open the door to my home as the meadowlark begins to laugh.
Jun 2, 2012
Jun 2, 2012 at 7:55 PM UTC