"homelands" poems
A Muslim boy with a clock
Is seen as a terrorist with a glock
Maybe i'm right, maybe i'm wrong
But if he were White, Asian, Hispanic or even Pacific Islander
Nobody would of suspected anything.
When are we going to stop fearing an entire race for only a portion radical and illogical ways of treating others?
I don't tolerate people who behead others if they don't agree with their religion
I don't agree with the repressive governments that control everyone and stone them for minor misdemeanors
There are good men out there fighting this evil that has plagued their homelands
I'm all for ending terrorism of all kinds
But let's stop terrorism of innocents too
Sure, i'm afraid of what the radicals will do to their own people, my people and the rest of the world
But i'll be dammed if i treated somebody from the Middle East like a monster when i don't even know who they are
If it wasn't for a Middle Eastern girl
The Syrians girls wouldn't have an improved education
If it wasn't for a Middle Eastern man fending off the Taliban and risking his entire village to keep Marcus Littrell alive
He would of been KIA a long time ago.
What about the ones who fought and died for America?
Nobody ever mentions them
The media wants me to hate them all, but i laugh and shake my head
Warped minds trying to warp others
I only see the ones who want to do us harm, and the ones who want to live peacefully and away from a life of hell
Brothers and sisters, just a different culture and skin color
I'm sorry if America seems racist or hateful, but i'm proud to be the one who throws those two words in the trash
Because i'm not afraid to speak my mind
And i welcome everyone here
America is everyone's home.
If only the Soviet Union never invaded Afghanistan
If only the people were not scared
To be free like America.
Unity for all,
Religious differences and Cultures alike.
I hope one day a Muslim man or Woman can walk down an American street without being labeled as a terrorist.
I hope one day these repressive governments fall into the hands of democracy
And we start the Age of Unity again.
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 4:23 PM UTC
Immigrants, especially those who don't return,
create idealistic homelands.
They imagine that all their
Woes, hurts and indignities
Would not exist
in their imagined homeland.
In their minds, homeland
is in stasis.
The life they left is lingering
waiting for them to return.
They cast winter upon the ponds of their
homelands
And live lives skating over the surface
Each time coming closer to
shattering the illusion
and gasping
in the icy
waters
of change.
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 12:10 PM UTC
I have seen the blood of my loved ones, spilled on a dusty road;
Seen the fall of kings, powerful warriors and the bold;
The skin of mothers and little children, broken by cold;
The ancient landmarks of the fatherless, siezed and sold.
I have heard the cry of the homeless but no one there to save;
Heard the wailing of the deserted, seen the tears of the brave;
Many driven from their homelands, now hiding in caves;
And a father toiling night and day, treated as a slave.
I have heard of dreams of many, still unrealised;
The ****** daughters of priests, lured or defiled;
The goals of youths, swallowed up by pride;
And the future of generations, poorly discerned.
I have read government policies, unfavourable for the common man;
Heard of national resources, expended without concrete plans
Communities connive to eliminate a defenseless clan;
And a nation sold into modern slavery, by reckless polititians.
Many tears have droped, sweat and blood everywhere;
Many races have been run but the end seems nowhere near;
Many have waited hopelessly for a better year;
Many have stood up but crawled back for sake of fear.
A day will come when the oppressed will arise;
Like Martin Luther King Jr. did,though his blood was a price;
Like Nelson Mandela did, even though his act was termed a vice-
For the freedom of the enslaved and oppressed but the wicked's sudden demise.
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 3:26 AM UTC
Why am I called "white"?
Why am I an absence of color
To be associated with purity
Flawless innocence
A clean slate
Why am I called "white"
When I have the blood of monsters in my veins
There is nothing immaculate about my heritage
Simply from a lack of pigmentation
My hair is braided with the ******* of masses
My eyes see the broken lives of the oppressed
My ears hear the echoes of homelands invaded
And my hands hold the books with the historic lies enclosed
Why am I called "white"
Compared, as if, to the paper
On which my people's crimes could be written
Repeating so frequently with so many new victims
But we are never called to justice
And the cycle remains unbroken
When we are addressed
We stand up from our thrones, screaming
"Unfair, cruel, why attack me?!
I don't understand, what privilege do you see?!"
We act like the victims, fed by the system
And we eat it up with our metaphoric silver spoons
Why am I called "white"
I've been stained from the years of hatred
Perpetuated by a people who claim guiltlessness
Just because they are a newer generation
What was once called subjugation
Is now appropriation
But both are used to deny culture and rights from nations
But I won't sit by and prolong this delusion that we are any better
Any more beautiful then any other one of God's creations
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 5:52 AM UTC
artist working by candle light,
neon lights, coffee shop lights...
~~~
to, for & from SJR
~
this force,
burnt soul kindling,
rampant urges that bow a man's
spine
write write rite right
consumption of the soul
straighten up, flex,
flex to the curvature of the Earths
invitation to
write write rite right
cast my eyes to the mountains,
from whence will come my help?
street prowler, heart growler,
Art Deco lampposts,
the mountain range of east seventy second street,
begs the baggers question,
each a post
begging each other,
from whence will come my inspiration?
lick the stubbled sidewalks,
fall down living in their caverned cracks,
light needed needy soft heated
orange and green pizza neons
say here,
if you see upon what be,
your homelands colors of veracity
from
candle light,
neon lights,
coffee shop lights.
all queries so queer,
so cheerfully answered
in the ***** air,
in warped woof of
city write lights
he goes home
in the dark of a green moon,
and its delighting inviting
moonlight,
he composes
what is his eyes have
decomposed into a single memory,
and is satisfied
unto sleep
praising the eyes,
light lidded, but eager closing,
that
had wisdom given
to observe
light various by which to
write write rite right
4/16/16
10:30am
nyc
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 10:42 AM UTC
I dream of traveling
To northern Syria or Iraq
To join the YPG
Or Peshmerga
Peshmerga means
"Ones who confronts death"
To fight bravely
Alongside them
Knowing each day
Could be my last
Although it has been
Many years
Since I have fired
A weapon
(It was in an indoor range
With A Springfield M1903)
I just need some practice
I dream
Of fighting
With the YPG
In their just cause
Their way of life
Being threatened
The U.S. Government
Does not condone
Volunteers
From our military forces
Going to help the Kurds
That's fine
I just have my limited
ROTC training
I could train there
I'm fit
And I'm able bodied
And there I will finally
Be part of a community
The YPJ
Strike fear
Into the hearts
Of Daesh fighters
They fear they will
Go to hell
If they are killed
By the YPJ in battle
The YPG and YPG forces
Are courageous and strong
They fight a war against evil
All year long
You defend your homelands
Kurds of the YPG and YPJ
You did not choose war
It was forced upon you
Long live the YPG and YPJ forces
I pray you will one day live
In peace and security
And although
Many will
Not understand
If I die
At least I die
Fighting with
People I love
For their right
To live peacefully
Can you hear
The Ululation
Do you listen
To the YPJ's cry?
Long live the Kurds
Daesh fighters must die
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 10:34 PM UTC
in the annals of cricket
those of greatness get a mention
for what they've achieved on the wicket
these men stand head and shoulder
above the rest
their contribution
to the game
has
been written as the best
three men have inspired
younger players
in their homelands
they've accomplished
much on wickets
throughout the many cricket playing
lands
Steven Waugh(Australian Captain)
the master strategist
who had a captain's mind
replete with brilliant tactics
when he took to the pitch
the opposition teams
would quiver in their
collective boots
field placement
over deliveries
the weather conditions
all of these factors
actuated in his mind
so he could
bring an innings
of a notable kind
Sachin Tendulkar (Indian Batsman)
the king of the blade
who none can equal
in test matches
his cuts and cover drives
were worthy of an epic prequel
his style with the bat
twas magic to see
he had a prowess
of majesty
Vivian Richard (West Indies All Rounder)
he was never phased
he held his nerve
with the bat or the ball
a tradesman
who fielded what ever came at him
and in his relaxed style
chewed on a piece of gum
and demolish
the bails
with a Caribbean hum
cricket's hall of fame
that 22 yard pitch
where three greatest of the game
performances
did of fans
ever bewitch
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 6:45 PM UTC
Sing out, nation of IMMIGRANTS!
Sing your glorious song
Of how this country was built—
Of what made this nation strong.
Sing about all the challenges
And hardships our ancestors found
When trying to build their lives
And get their feet on the ground.
Sing of the PERSECUTION
That drove them out of fear
To abandon their native homelands
And often haunted them here.
Sing of the Native Americans—
Of the proud and varied nations—
Displaced from their territories,
And forced into reservations.
Sing of our fellow Americans
Originally brought here by force;
Let the melody echo
Kindness and REMORSE.
Sing of the jobless, the homeless,
Whose families suffered the bane
Of a harsh, cruel existence
And here sought relief from their pain.
Sing of the countless refugees
Who fled from war-torn places,
Hoping to live in PEACE
In a land of welcoming embraces.
Sing of the life of the immigrant
Who faced prejudice and jeers—
Whose struggles for rights and acceptance
Sometimes lasted for years.
Sing of the factory workers
Who worked under hellish conditions—
Whose voices were long unheard
By the deaf ears of politicians.
Sing of the plight of the miners
Who extracted the underground coal—
Of the dangers that they encountered
As they worked in that dark, dusty hole.
Sing of the laborers from Asia,
Who helped lay our tracks—that’s a fact—
And to whom we showed our thanks
With the Chinese Exclusion Act.
Think of the German, Norwegian...
All farmers who tilled the soil
To feed a nation that took
For granted their sweat and toil.
Sing of those working in fields,
Because of whose work you are able
To place with minimum effort
Fresh strawberries on your table.
Sing about all of the workers—
Such as the ones that you
Hire to do the work
That you refuse to do.
Sing of the great DIVERSITY
That people brought to this land,
Lest we forget who we are
And how to understand.
Sing of our immigrant nation
Before our memories fade
And we lose our self-identity,
And our actions become a charade.
Sing of the "huddled masses
Yearning to breathe free,”
And may others expect
KINDNESS from you and from me!
Sing of our generous nature
And let us try to fashion
A nation full of heart,
Built on love and compassion.
- by Bob B
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 7:00 AM UTC
We should strip Churches of their beloved tax-exempt status
if they should continue to fail to reach out to those in need:
the poor, those chased out of their homelands by tyranny,
or those who seek asylum from any type of oppression.
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 4:31 PM UTC
Traveling a rocky shore,
In spite of waves that threaten.
Carried deep into the sea,
Into a lapse of memory.
As darkness pulls my very soul
The deep can't slay my fate.
Lost in all its meaning,
While I see my final day.
Awakened by the truth,
As I stare in much confusion.
Struggling to stand,
And to see through blinding light.
Beckoning me onwards even further
through the ocean,
As I struggle in its wake to see the source of mystic beauty.
I follow to the homelands,
Where the birth of man has happened.
Staring in amazement at the sunken ancient islands.
Enlightened in the truth of life,
My travel has been ended.
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 7:41 PM UTC
Hundreds try to cross the hostile border
They seek a better life in Northern lands
Acquiring this dream is of high order
No promise for the future in homelands
They run the gauntlet of patrolling guards
Which disallow entry into America
They want escape from their domestic yards
These people yearn for the soils of Arizona
The journey they'll take is perilous
Some manage a successful traversing
Though the road they've traced is dangerous
Yet they're willing to risk everything
Mexican people are seeking a route out
From land which has no prospective sprout
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 9:34 AM UTC
Movement of time collides
with tear drop melody
darkened angel
to final day symphony:
gun blasts in homeland
enter familiar flesh-
different tongues conceal
common threads that makes us
wounded souls call for God
in bomb dimpled lands-
far from American eyed reach
and inside
amidst spiritual sands
Treading with foot print patterns
around rock’s pure holiness
meditating in temples
laden in gold tributes
seeking truth’s distant comfort
guns blast in homelands
families wonder why-
pain embraces consciousness
dripping hints of salvation
into thick Iron pools
of Christ’s calling
red horse not so distant
seven seals awakening
run back to one
it’s time to find love
Feb 24, 2018
Feb 24, 2018 at 12:31 PM UTC
il colosseo roma in leather-scented dusk grips the night, marble hand on woman's thigh; these evening breaths are half-lit by awning lights and candle-flame laughter. waiters serve wanderers searching for home under the light of the half-moon – they don't tell us that these shores have too much mystery for us. some homelands are sun-steeped histories cradling darling secrets between ancient bricks, ancient tombs.
the amalfi coast whispers seashell lullabies to the old-souled man plying whiskers of melodies out of his tin-flute, traipsing in a pit-patter down the sandy road leading to the ocean beach. he watches drowsy-eyed windows blink pulses on the beach – they caress us to sleep in lulls and crescents.
the florentine memories are all mine - bacchan dreams; how you turned my head away from the window, wrapped me in whiteness like newborn's skin. you, the child of a mountain spring where gods were born - the softness in your neck betrays this to the doves. heartbeat an adagio in old italy, heather scent stirring the air like eye of newt in witches' brew. love, your body like a holy city – lamplit streets between dusk and dawn leave little to the wishes of the heart.
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 7:51 PM UTC
To all my co-seafarers out there
We're a kind of man that is rare
Sailing port to port is never easy
It makes our mind look messy
Grieve to achieve more and more
We sail to make our own lore
It's hard to have a safe sail you know,
Just to make my times flow and glow
For our family's on our homelands
Too far but cannot cut our bonds
Even if we are far from our loveones
A day with them will be our lance
As we sail through depths of sea
Only the future in your eyes, I see
Partly inloved without a body,
Of me waiting to be full heartedly
It's sad to say how people judge us
Disregarding it but it has a mass
We don't talk for us to believe
Is these words is what you give?
They say we're fool and full
Fool to trust our "I Love You"
And full of girls that we've made "I do"
But they know nothing but judgements
It feels good when you're way back home
Stealing kisses and hugs that comes
Years or months? Sad but there's also weeks
But its fine even a peke on your chicks
It's hard when we need to leave again
Let we connect with a paper and a pen
Our eyes won't lie to "I miss you"
All I wanted is to be with you
As of now we're heading east
To sail to other lands for a fiest
Not to make love to other girls
I'll finish my job and buy you rose
Jun 28, 2018
Jun 28, 2018 at 8:26 AM UTC
Snatched from the grasp of my slippery hand
as we were being evacuated
the hardship to reach the borders and safety
the pressure at last released
such noises of gun fire and the inevitable panic
pitiful humanity scared and sick!
Surging forward afraid they were being deserted
trampling upon each other
screams of many children and mothers separated
soldiers callous and cruel
degrading those forced from their homelands
all they owned in their hands!
My wife forced from my grasp in the wave
of such utter chaos and despair
snatched like a tree branch in a fast moving river
now not water but human misery
without hope stability or permanent destination
my search I start in desperation!
Searching for her betwixt the endless conflicts!
The Foureyed Poet.
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 10:05 AM UTC
I had nothing to say when i flew away.
Above the clouds,
beyond the trees.
Whisper no secrets to wandering clouds
and spray tears like the stars
across heavens and homelands.
Sep 9, 2010
Sep 9, 2010 at 7:21 AM UTC
Even sound leaves an impact
a trace in the air that meets your ear. A planned impact.
Shuffling feet on grass can crush
the hills of ants whose homelands impact.
Bombs leave silhouetted scars,
bodies slip between cracks in politics. Man’s impact.
Vist a foreign land for a week.
Carry-back-culture-in-boxes-and-cans-impact.
The aftermath of a butterfly’s wings?
Can we ban impact?
Finally able to withstand the sharpness of tongues.
Stop walking on eggs shells. Demand impact.
When a King turns his head, let the letters roar.
Revolution makes a grand impact.
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 2:29 PM UTC
Cast adrift
my mind wanders
Unchartered
homelands
become mine own.
reading others works gives one a glimpse of their nations pride and beauty.
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 7:58 AM UTC
I am from everywhere,
My homelands nowhere.
In the final night
Take me to the Constellations.
Now while the words still flow,
While the world is a despairing beauty.
While I am full of life and laughter
And I do not fear the end.
Now while the day is at its peak
And my calloused hands grow stronger.
Today, not on the morrow,
For I do not know any better, or want to.
In the final hour let me die,
Not of death, but of life!
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 2:33 PM UTC
a never ending summer
left a foul taste in my mouth
a stench on my clothes
and far too many take backs,
ten-dollar scratchers, and lessons on
how to properly **** yourself.
maybe the word
no
could have dropped out of my mouth
instead of my lips closing down
left to drown in my broken shell.
I felt so pale, no gold inside, just a joke
just a plague.
there's no mistake
I'm gonna bake
this summer come
but won't be numb,
will no longer crumble at the sight
no longer hide away my eyes, maybe
find myself at night with a friend
I hold too tight. I stay up late,
can't help but write.
all my thoughts, they're here for the taking.
staircase downward falling
against walls, she crawls,
feels like something forgotten,
keeps on running, unburies thoughts,
she hides no more, she's here for the taking.
sometimes poetry's repeating all the beating
we try to hide, but it's also gathering the feelings
that we often take for granted,
mistake that our lovers are ourselves
that their shame and crime is intertwined
with the person you have come to find
when you look in the mirror
or the eyes of another,
when you speak to your mother
or to a friend whose lost some other
part of themselves they see in you
so they talk and act on through
try not to hurt or shame, it's a humble game
experience doesn't always have to be defeating
when we can't help ourselves from greeting
all the travelers from their homelands,
looking for deeper meaning.
words can be whatever you make them
it's an expression of thought, communication
is one of the most incredible attributes to being human.
a voice is a projection of your breathing mixed with feeling.
next time I'll try to say more of what matters
and less of what I don't care is best.
this life is a lesson, there's no way to fail,
it's not a test.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 12:07 AM UTC
What cultivates the greatness of our homelands?
Tis not the land, the rocks, the earth, the sea,
The treaties writ for nobles by their own hands
Decrying common views as heresy.
Great Britain was still great long e'er the sun rose
Blessing the nets of Europe's wedding veil,
And when her arms extended to her old foes,
She stood alone, defiant, to prevail.
Tis in the heart, the will, the strength of mind
Of each proud lad and lass that calls her home
Wherein the Great of Britain seeks to find
The inspiration of her epitome.
On her 'twas said the sun would never set,
Let not her sons and daughters e'er forget.
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 12:01 PM UTC
Glenshane Pass separated you both.
23 miles away in the same time, same place as my father’s childhood.
So when you talked of your da digging Toner’s bog and waxed lyrical about sheughs, I knew in our English class what exactly you were saying (when others didn’t).
Your words float over time & space to me now.
A celebration of the intimacy of our homelands.
A holy adoration of long gone voices that still resonate.
You never strayed, never.
It was always in your heart, always:
the land, the forgotten lanes, the broad fields, the lost language of it all.
I keep a certain comfort now with your lines as I Iay in my southerly home,
knowing that I am forever tithed to the townlands of our shared ancestry.
I thank you.
May your words stay alive as song as Ireland still has its beauty
and may their illumination still shine on us all.
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 5:46 PM UTC
Let us sit and talk about all the injustices of the world
And how it affects us, and every young boy and girl.
We have created a world of insecurities and doubts.
Is this what life is all about?
The education is failing them, but not so much from the school
But because we have changed all the rules.
We have created an “I don’t give a **** “attitude
For all the young to see, this includes wars, slavery, and poverty.
How can they grow? When they’re surrounded by all of this!
Isn’t there something that we missed?
Is it the fact that we are supposed to set the example?
Of what is right and wrong, and make this world for them
“Just “and “strong “.
People have left their homelands to come here for a better life
Now they have to think twice!
We are creating the same things they tried to escape from!
What has this country become?
Government buildings are shutting down
And on the “Obama care “republicans frown.
The only solution that I can see is have the children run the countries.
Most children don’t know about bigotry and hate
Let’s keep their minds fresh before it’s too late.
They must not be exposed to the evils of the land
And shown the brotherhood of love that they understand.
Children will bicker and argue like all of us do
But they don’t hold a grudge and follow thru.
They may not know about finances and the bottom line
But they’ll learn it, given time.
They do know how to BARTER and it is
So much easier and not that much harder.
They say: I have a yo-yo and you have a top
Let’s exchange it and call it “even Stevens “or
“I HAVE A BALL AND YOU HAVE A BAT “
Let’s go to the park and play.
HOW ABOUT THAT!
They may have the answers to the problems that we seek
Cause as we get older, our minds get weak
We just see things in black and white, while they
See things that they know are right.
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 12:51 AM UTC
Bravely you answered the call
for your fatherlands,
fought revolutionary wars for your mothers,
protected you children from the scourge
of corruption & greed,
the murderous acts of
villainous human-rats.
You became nocturnal sentinels,
counted stars, cupped cigarettes,
yearned for new creations,
kept faded photographs
in the special pockets
of you tattered knapsacks.
You learned the art of insomnia,
slept in the mud & dirt of your homelands,
spit lead into the sick hearts of the wolf pack,
whom you were always certain would **** you.
You became eternal combatants
& fought with great zest,
confessing your strength
from machine-gun nests,
laughed like mad dogs under fire,
those times when things seemed dire.
You were killed with fireballs & tracers,
gunships & tanks & planes & artillery,
died in shallow trenches
& in hardened bunkers,
in the thick jungles
& in endless deserts,
on mountaintops
& on beaches,
even in the cornfields
& on the city streets
of your own neighborhoods.
You were assassinated by pariahs,
the enemies of your people,
your blood watered your lands,
helped to nourish
your strong beliefs,
the flowers of freedom
& now you sleep soundly,
deep under the sacred-grounds
gifted to you
by the same blood
shed by your ancestors,
your forefathers & mothers,
brothers & sisters, aunt & uncles,
all the members of your family trees.
And with great love
poetry will be written
for you rebels,
recorded histories
& unknown graves
will be the stark reminders
of the size of your hearts
& your mountain of courage
will forever stand as testimony.
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 8:34 PM UTC