"jungles" poems
Dito sa Lungsod ng mga siksikang tren
sa umaga at sa gabi ng paglubog sa mga makinarya,
Ang sentro ng pabrikang papel at usok, na buong bilis
sa inaliping katapatan at tapang
ay naninirahan palagi sa piling
ng mga madaming mga ipis at daga.
May nalilimutan na mahalaga tungkol
Sa tahimik na hele ng mga flourescent na ilaw, kaalwanan
ng mga matatayog na pangako ng condo't bagong mga kainan, magagarang mga pabuya.
Mga panibagong mga tagisan ng lakas
sa mga makabagong Coliseum ng Roma,
sa bawat amoy ng dugo at bagong silang.
May tipo ng sukal na wala sa mga gubat, at tunog ng mga
malalakas na putok ng baril na wala sa digmaan.
Tila sa kahit anong panahon, mag-alsa man mismo ang Kalikasan
at magpadala ng Tsunami,
magpalindol at magpaputok ng bulkan
sa panahon ng kakaibang asul at pula na buwan
sa pagkakabuwal ng bagong bilang
ng mga magsasakang sa mga mass-suicide
mula India, Korea, at Pilipinas dahil sa di-pantay
na mga batas kalakalan:
Ipadala man ng mga makata't hukbong
gerilya ang kanilang pinakamatikas at
pinakamatatapat na mga bilang sa mga pagsubok
ng panibagong mga pag-aaral at pagsasapraktika,
maaaring Puting Elepante din ang
hindi sasapat ang kabayaran para sa mga utang
na dapat matagal nang nabura at naigpawan.
Mula sa lakas at pwersa hindi lang ng mga diyos
ng mga sari-saring pampulitikang mga pormasyong nagdidirehe
sa mga kilos ng mga taong kapit na sa patalim,
Kung hindi mula din sa lakas ng mga nangahas mabuhay
at lumikha ng mga paraan para makapagpatuloy na
makapagaral ng sariling pagkamulat:
Ang kaaway na papel na salapi o papel na tigre
ay nilikha din ng tao para din lamang
maunawaan ang mga sariling kahinaan,
mamulat sa mga repleksyon ng mga nagbabagong
sarili sa gitna ng unos, upang matiyak ang yapak at
mabuo ang mga hanay at kahandaan ng mga
unang hawan, at huling mga walis.
Ang mga kalabisan ay para lamang mapatingkad
ang kahinaang dala ng kasaysayang nagluwal,
ang kawalan ng pagpapahalaga sa binubuhay na mga palitan.#
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 2:26 AM UTC
I am the ******
Singer of songs,
Dancer...
Softer than fluff of cotton...
Harder than dark earth
Roads beaten in the sun
By the bare feet of slaves...
Foam of teeth... breaking crash of laughter...
Red love of the blood of woman,
White love of the tumbling pickaninnies...
Lazy love of the banjo thrum...
Sweated and driven for the harvest-wage,
Loud laughter with hands like hams,
Fists toughened on the handles,
Smiling the slumber dreams of old jungles,
Crazy as the sun and dew and dripping, heaving life
of the jungle,
Brooding and muttering with memories of shackles:
I am the ******
Look at me.
I am the ******
17.4k
The concrete jungle.
Home of the dreaded concrete beasts
Who lie in plain sight for the world to see
Crouched in marble ledges, twisted in metal beams
Wrapped around handrails, perched in their cemented trees
They laugh at those who cannot perceive
Because they don’t believe.
And who am I,
Yes possibly me
To find my identity
In removing my wooden sword from its sheath
Placing it beneath my two shuffled feet
To answer the alluring call of the beasts beckoning
To my hero’s heart, for my eyes to blink
To suddenly see them as they were meant to be.
In a world between
Real and imaginary.
For it is I,
Yes I believe it to be
Chosen to find my destiny
In a single push
That propels me
Into the path of the snarling beasts
Approaching their stairs and rails, ledges and beams
Gaps and bumps and ramps with speed
And as they stare at me hungrily
Opening their mouths expecting me
I will stand strong on my wooden sword
As the wheels of fire erupt beneath
And the scenery blurs in the flash of the rapidity
I bend my knees and grit my teeth
My eyes narrow and the drum in my chest crescendos its beat
A shout explodes from my chest, a primal scream
As I press on
In the concrete jungle.
Home of the dreaded concrete beasts
Who quiver in plain sight for the world to see
And whimper at the sight of who they now perceive
Because I do believe.
And it is I,
Yes undoubtedly me
Who will find my destiny
Conquering the concrete jungles of the world unseen
Surfing the concrete waves of the world between
With my loyal vessel being the wooden sword from the sheath,
That remains steady in the face of danger beneath my feet.
I am alive
In the concrete jungle.
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 12:55 AM UTC
Reinaldo was the name they gave the great white elephant
Who came to clear the jungles around Sao Paulo
A clever notion that because Reinaldo was born in the jungle
Any jungle would do just fine, Brazilian or Siamese made no difference
Just as clever was the notion that because I was a black man, educated
I would do just fine directing other black men to do work, English or Portuguese made no difference
Was I truly so much a fool, twice over?
Reinaldo occasionally was afflicted with slothfulness
Some of the men thought it was from lack of **** and whip
I was of a mind that it was due to lack of companionship
It was costly enough to ship one giant beast across a great sea
I left a wife, in Maryland, whom I never loved and who never loved me
I admit before the plan was in motion I never considered that Reinaldo could have a family
Sometimes, I wonder, did he have a wife who never loved him?
Loneliness became a common theme in our new home away from home
And Reinaldo and I became friends, at least I thought of him fondly
As far as I could say, of all the men he responded best to me
At times it seemed a load of lumber was hauled as a personal favor
For the handler too soft to handle with fear and anger
But as much as loneliness was a theme, so was change, and death
The lifespan of an elephant compares to the lifespan of men
Were this scheme of mine to have worked as desired
I could have sent for a cow, and made Reinaldo a sire
Soon it was revealed that slothfulness was a symptom of an elephant young, healthy and wise
Who sensed not his own, but a friend's imminent demise
Now I am left to wonder how Reinaldo will fare in a world stranger than I could have known
His softest handler and only friend bedridden, waiting for my disease to take its final toll
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 6:28 PM UTC
I am Guatemala
I am its mountains and its shore
I am its black sand beaches. I am its artists and its poor
I am the mist from its volcanoes
I am its limestone richly carved
I am the Mayan, and the Latin. I am the hungry and the starved
I am its folklore and its future
I am its markets and its clothes
I am the abandoned and forgotten. I am its children no one knows
I am its colorful conventions
I am its jungles and its fare
I am its colonial traditions. I am the pilas in the square
I am Guatemala
I am its living and its dead
One is always Guatemala, no matter how far we are spread
May 28, 2016
May 28, 2016 at 9:06 PM UTC
Living freely in this world
My vulnerability, feels so lost
As it seeks the skies to escape all
Perched high away and hiding
My heart forsaken
For my vulnerability
Has left
The little bird has flown
My retreating heart lives behind
Many layers of frozen ice
The warm waters of my heart
Have all frozen over
Come back, come back little bird
A teardrop falls
For I see the loss of potential
In this frozen pond
Where waters should be warm
My heart should sing
Great rich jungles, it should bring
My pride wounded by this world
I stare into my murky depths
My standing in this world falling
As my legs are taken
By the jaws of a giant beast
Far away a bird twitches
My stomach twists and turns
Absorbed I am into the belly
Of a great giant crocodile
I begin to feel my vulnerability
In these dangerous warm acidic waters
As I merge into a crocodile
And high above a bird leaves his perch
As the ice layers break
With the force of my tail
New eyes see the self importance in people
Of this earth, with all their arrogance
I will bring you back to earth
For I am the last living dinosaur
Born from a time when T.rex reigned
And even the birds had teeth
For I still live in waters
Where Piranha's seek to
Frenzy on living flesh
And I am to be scared of you
I warn all of those who wish to disturb
My open and most precious heart
That rests in silence over my pond
For your flesh will quiver
With the sound of my ancient growl
And your eyes will panic
With the sight of my jaw
A quiet bird flutters closer
Bring your bitterness and all your sourness
For I am hungry and love rotten meat
And your disregard feeds my fury
Circle my pond
Where my heart rests softly
With rich and green waters
Bursting and growing in love
For I am not scared to feel
And I will lounge and grab
As a tonne of me, slaps itself
Bang, hard on this earth
For I am here to feel it
And not escape it
But you will be blind
And lost in my depths
I will turn you over and
Your arrogance will feed me
As I grow stronger
You will be ripped limb from limb
A little bird comes closer
My heart free from noise
A silence nestles in me
And all innocence is seen
Beautiful souls float freely
Butterflies dance and play
And my beautiful vulnerability
returns in sweet song
And rests softly in my jaw
A strange paradox becomes so very clear
With a little bird we hold so dear
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 7:54 PM UTC
Much has been said
against me
however,
I will not be spiteful
or allow hatred,
the beast of darkness
that resides
in the black jungles
of arrogance
and ignorance,
to infect me;
for that is no reason
to give way to anger.
So I refuse to let anger
ugly my heart;
for anger
is the scorpion’s poison
of peace
and love, it’s sunlight.
I choose light
contentment and happiness,
as poetry’s not a contest
of winners or losers;
it is the essence
of a poet’s soul.
Feb 15, 2018
Feb 15, 2018 at 7:52 AM UTC
Ophelia has
flower petals
growing beneath
her tongue, and
I can taste
honeysuckle
when I kiss her.
There are highways
in the grooves
of her hips.
I like to trace them,
and get lost
somewhere between
intimate whispers and
an unsteady heartbeat.
Ophelia has a
mocking jay stuck
in her throat, and
it sings to me
when she finds
herself stuck in
tangled vines and
dwindling
self-confidence.
She weeps at least
an ocean a day,
and that's more
than my diminutive
hands can catch.
I think I'd like to
spend a few eternities
exploring the peculiar
jungles of Ophelia.
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 12:06 AM UTC
I am from New Jersey.
From the paradise of small towns
And the inferno of concrete jungles.
I am from truck tire playgrounds,
Porch Clubs, and the whistle
Of the Riverline.
I am from divorce.
From alcoholism and denial,
From broken doors and hearts.
I am from next to hell.
From pouring out full forties
For one's homies passed away.
From too many candlelight vigils
And sidewalks littered with fourth grade pictures.
I am from the garden state.
From cows, corn, and Clinton,
And tractors in the parking lot.
I am from tradition.
From pasta and seven fishes,
From "Mafiosa!" screamed in the streets
And "No WHOPs" pasted on storefronts.
I am from love.
From three parents and four siblings,
From six dogs and duplicate holidays,
And the smell of tulips and holly.
Jul 2, 2017
Jul 2, 2017 at 10:09 PM UTC
If I were ever to chance upon, a real life Genie
and being ever so kind, he granted me wishes freely
I wouldn't waste any time, and ask him quite loudly
'Give me a Flying Carpet, and make the sky cloudy!'
Astride my bed with wings, I would swiftly reach the sky
and dive through the clouds like through butter a hot knife
feeling the wind in my hair, laughing with unbridled glee
as a soaring eagle feels in the air, light, and free
Next I'd become a Lion, to roar and roam the jungles deep
Growling and tearing into poachers, and savoring the meat
I would rule all the mighty creatures, as their rightful king
and all the forest's denizens would my praises sing
Soon after I would ask for a ship, and a crew of souls brave
I would visit all lands afar, upon my Master of waves
without a single glance behind and not a spot of bother
I would see and feel and taste all the world has to offer
From above I'd go beneath, diving as a blue whale
The murky depths of the oceans whistling past my tail
All the wondrous sea dwellers, and all the buried wonders
would become a part of my enchanting under sea tale
Last of all I'd ask the genie, to build with his hand
a nation built for all the poor orphans of every land
where they eat and drink and make much merriment
and also study, play, and sleep with gladness in them
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 3:08 AM UTC
I’m not good at being forward
I have this habit of becoming disordered
I let my emotions change the color of my sleeve
In my aspirations I hope to find belief
I walk through jungles and rainforests
Once in a while I see through the canopy
Into the skies of my memories
And request that stars dance to the rhythm of us
I keep them alive to avoid the gathering of dust
My memories, caught in the Pensieve of your eyes
Have ignored all the times I told myself lies
I may not be your ideal Superman
But I’d accept Peter Pan if you’ll go with me to Neverland
I’ve rarely been so captivated by a girl
Sure, Zooey Deschanel is quirky in New Girl
And Emma Watson bewitched me from the start
Anna Kendrick was perfect in Pitch Perfect
Alex Morgan is the luckiest 13 I’ve ever seen
But I choose you! To fill my canteen
You quench my thirst when the loneliness dries me
I was not made to walk in a desert
My heart is an amphibian
Living like a Floridian in the ice-cold tundra we call Rexburg
You still need the sun, no matter how much it snows
I’ll trudge on in the jungle; dormant in the night
I’ll carry on with you in mind, until the time is right
Once I’ve faced death, or even a spider
Then, I think I’ll top the greats; George of the Jungle, Aslan, Mogly, Tarzan, Batman, Peter Pan, Harry Potter, Genghis Kahn, Michael… Jackson or Jordan
They’re all kings and I’ll be in their league
As I shake off the fatigue and find courage in you
To make it through the awkward moment of simply saying
“You’re a real kind of gorgeous”
In that chorus, played on my rhythm of heartbeats
I found my way out of the back streets
From deep in the jungle I’ve come to know as Fear
A jungle that disappears when your presence is near
Sometimes I have to stop walking, stop thinking
I feel like I’m on the verge of something spectacular
Anything normal might ruin that
Oct 27, 2012
Oct 27, 2012 at 11:14 PM UTC
Two weeks, a whirlwind.
Grasping hands and locking lips,
love sneaks in.
Why do I never see this coming?
Perhaps it's never happened before, really.
Who am I to judge?
Rivers and jungles and foreign thoughts...
So far from here yet,
I have faith.
In you.
In love.
In that life will go on, either way.
And that another strong wind is coming.
Jun 23, 2011
Jun 23, 2011 at 10:52 PM UTC
We humans have messed around
With Mother Nature and her eco-system
For years and years
Decades and decades
Centuries and centuries
Felling gazillions of trees
Turning forests into concrete jungles
Filling ponds, lakes, rivers and seas
With tons and tons of toxic waste
Releasing enough carbon monoxide into the air
To wreck the entire troposphere
The list of sins against Nature goes on and on
With no end in sight
Given all this, who are we to complain
When Mother Nature has had enough
And unleashes her fury on us
Through earthquakes and tsunamis
Avalanches and volcanoes
Hurricanes and tornadoes
Floods and droughts
And so on
Remember, Mother Nature has blessed us
With oodles of riches
In the form of plants and trees
Mountains and forests
Ponds, lakes, rivers, seas and oceans
And last but not the least, oxygen!
It is time we show her some gratitude
And more importantly, respect and compassion
And stop messing around with the eco-system
Remember the famous old saying
Live and let live
It doesn't mean infrastructure shouldn't be developed
We can build roads
We can build a railway network
We can build houses
We can build schools and colleges
We can build hospitals
We can build libraries
However, as my grandfather used to say
There is a limit to everything
And we should also plant trees
Build gardens and parks
Switch to renewable sources of energy
And cut down severely on emissions
A balance should be maintained
After all, messing around with Mother Nature
Will only bring about our own downfall
There have been enough natural disasters
Caused by human negligence
Let's not add to the list
Which is already longer than the river Nile!
May 9, 2022
May 9, 2022 at 12:54 PM UTC
Within this jungle, which is ours
I ride the back of Thunder-cloud, my friend
Around and through the thickets
thick banyan trees & palm fruit fallen leaves
Down muddy earthen paths
until everything is green and shadows
until inside its heart, the rain forest
trees of this jungle are city buildings - tall
and choir of fauna high and low
do not fear to sing beneath our cathedral's shade
In this kingdom of flora and ruby rich dirt
belongs to thunder-cloud and dirt-poor me
A Mowgli on his elephant,
hollars ahead to any that hear "We are free!"
Here, far from the whips' lashing, guns,
away from the loud business of murderous money
They who say that I am nothing
in their eyes who abacus my worth with looks
with upraising lust of wolves
but I a free man, a simpleton for beloved (Earth)
I am dark skinned
Krishna on my steed of thunder-clouds
A native son of brown & green wilderness
caterwauling to the beyonds unknown
Within our jungle, brother thunder,
my elephant of deep clouds gray
we are Mammoth and as wild as wide
as open as free... with every step forward
on this living journey
we will take
a peaceful kind of smile
will only be what is written
upon each lovely lovely face
*(Within our jungles...we live simply
without the Man's hate
not today will I hunger, nor will I thirst
fed on real wonder, drank clouds of Himalayan rain
without a rupee to my name... on the back of thunder
my gentle Ganesh - I have no one to blame.)*
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 3:11 PM UTC
Sprang forth with no branches or leaves. Small roots.
Bore mangoes, papayas,guava and bananas. Hybrid, mid limb grafting.
The trunk is a figment but it stands non less. You see
my family tree never was and always will be.
A roadside shade with low hanging fruit.
Was never planted.It was a deposit from the bowels of an exotic bird
of the jungles that sampled at leisure the offerings of the rain forests.
The Hardtack and marmalade came on ships with the kings business
Mixed with the Nigerian Fu-Fu ,the Aztec maize the Mayan legumes.
and all points of the compass.
Old Joe Denegri, The Blancaneaux , The Cattouse, The Melado, The Pinks
The Flowers,The Orozco and more. And boundless from the ***** of opportunity.
Piecemeal and untethered. But it is the tree that I must cling to.
However rough the bark.
The sap runs heavy and slow in the humid Belizean heat.To meet the earth.
Cool breezes blow a haunting disharmony. A sweet unity in chaos.
The soil is rich,pungent and forgiving. Soon, A bell tolls in the distance.
The Sea mists my dreams.
A stairway of coconut fronds to azure skies.
Nighttime smells like creation.
The still slackened pace.
The small rat race.
Tempest in a teapot.
Urban-rural.
Coolie gal.
Creole boy.
New Chinese.
Old African.
Ubiquitous Espania.
Garinagu. Mosquito coast.
Children of Mennon.
Old Basque faces.
Things we call races left with small traces
of what?
My tree, her tree, histree.
I am you and you are me.
I see me in your face and you see me.
We are and will continue to be.
Blended.
a hybrid. An orchid wild.
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 5:02 AM UTC
The honey in the lion sounds like a delicious thing––
a gentle balm capable of subduing
the cruellest of monsters.
According to the stars and tattooed,
you fancied yourself king of the jungle––
lazy in hot African afternoons.
Golden and tawn with sleepy sun-gold eyes,
shaggy mane, muzzle red with
the blood of a gazelle.
Did you think me such easy prey?
Or was I so much fermented honey,
only a sweet intoxicant.
Sun warmth seeps from jungles of cold concrete.
I mistook your gargoyle wings
for those of a guardian angel’s.
I overlooked your rough skin, your
crooked hawk nose and your skinny ribs,
and assigned fine things in you that didn’t exist.
So duped, I acquiesced to your slimy kiss.
Your mouth a neglected cemetery,
teeth a row of mossy tombstones.
Vampire. Incubus. Your seduction like grotesque death.
You named me tempest in a teacup,
but I was the eye of the storm.
Until the night the eye was eradicated,
and the storm blew in,
striking me dumb with your sound and fury.
But no spattered blood and no spreading bruise
to be found in the pattern of the kaleidoscope.
No cause for alarm.
Today I am lost in a picture show,
a beautiful world coloured by nostalgic past.
Women’s lips the vivid red print of a velvet valentine.
Head in the Clouds, I fantasize about a certain scene.
Because you think violence is ****
retaliation – ********** in my dream.
Give me an eye for my eye,
for all the eyes you plucked, from women and breadwinners.
Give me blood running down your back, sweet as honey.
Sep 22, 2016
Sep 22, 2016 at 5:37 PM UTC
1
We're not in darkest Africa
and jungles don't adorn,
this little bit of overgrown
that wraps around our lawn,
2
Plants of pretty colors
sit comfortable in there bed,
and about two dozen footsteps
find us at the potting shed.
3
Our potting shed has seen better days,
some parts have been rebuilt
and it's suffering from subsidence
for it's slightly on a tilt.
4
The walls desperately need painting
because the wood has got some rot
but a boring place to come and sit
it definitely is not.
5
Odds and ends adorn the shelves
and the places spiders tread
where the dust has piled on the weight
and the woodworm may have spread.
6
Smells that we first come across
carry the scent of damp,
foul stinks from half empty sacks,
paint tins that have gone rank.
7
An old oil lamp expel the rust
like dandruff from my head
reigning down golden crumbs
that looks like toasted bread.
8
We think that we have found some proof
of what might linger around
footprints so large and evident
that a Tigers walked upon this ground.
9
So while we have been sleeping
and resting through the night
there's been a Tiger in our shed
but he keeps out of sight.
10
We've sorted through many boxes
we've moved some things aside,
looked into shadows with a torch
but we can't find where he hides.
11
Perhaps he's gone out hunting
for an evening meal,
eyeing up the neighbors dog
with energetic zeal.
12
Perhaps he's out sunbathing,
sitting somewhere in a tree
camouflaged with all those stripes,
that's the reason we can't see.
13
I don't know if he's Sumatran,
Siberian or Bengal
and he doesn't ever show himself
or come to me when I call.
14
I believe he stays outside all day
and only hides in here at night
but I won't come down here when its dark
only in the light.
15
He is a wild animal so
one must take the some care
for he could be stalking us as prey
he could spring from anywhere.
16
But we leave the door unlocked for him
and we've made a comfy bed,
and a sign that just reads "WELCOME"
to the Tiger in our shed
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 6:43 PM UTC
His eyes ...
The most beautiful
shade of emeralds
deep as jungle
holding many secrets
reflecting his emotions
his smile lighting up
the golden flecks
in his iris
like the sunlight dancing
in the lush green meadows
his demons turning
gold flecks into black streaks
like shadows ready to
take over the jungle
but
the moment her hazel eyes
looked into his emerald ones
she knew
she was lost in the deep
jungles
never to be found again !!
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 1:47 AM UTC
It's late summer, too humid and hot to really do much of anything
without having your t shirt sticking to your back
like an extra layer of skin.
that time of year when the air makes the city turn still-
just for a second.
if you don't freeze the frame, it'll be like it never happened.
I'm lurking like a ghost in the woods,
my blue hair glinting through the trees.
I'm finding abandoned concrete jungles, broken skateboard decks
and graffiti scattered like memories from when everything was okay.
Sometimes, if I'm too sad, the universe lets me find a house.
One that makes me gasp; one that turns the air get a little colder.
I go alone, others tend to rush in,
spray paint in hand, loud footsteps and rough voices
echoing through the deserted hallways.
I am always quiet, always still,
i make sure to blend into the walls like i am breathing
with the creeping ivy.
My heart is still searching for the place it will call home.
I've seen a lot of dilapidated houses and i'm still searching,
unable to find what I'm looking for.
My heart found an apartment in yours.
I never realized I was subleasing until someone better came along.
Its late summer,
and once a girl told me that it will get far worse before it gets better.
Well, its getting bad again but I'm still breathing,
so i guess that counts for something.
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 5:17 PM UTC
Commit ****** then flip an ounce, a nonchalant verse that promotes the internal joust, with
pride earned as the only badge that counts.
Tap the snare drum for a bar, or vibing melody,
our backwards society stereotypes "thugs" as, "what drugs are they selling me?"
Rap is art in raw form,
intended to excite the youth who see death as a norm, the daily street storm.
Women de-humanized for a buck,
men taught to only treat them good if they **** and don't run out of luck.
The concrete jungles can only have just one king upon a throne, as the vicious cyclone continues destroying futures of the youth unless they succeed in the booth.
Youth commit ****** then flip an ounce,
pride earned needs to be denounced.
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 5:06 PM UTC
The cats get the Cradle
the beetles get the bread
and the cherry-cheeked children,
the children
all are dead
The world is growing smaller
the Sun is getting hotter
it is all a fault of ours
a fault of ours so faulty
falling gently, screaming, kicking
to the ground
so we give
The cats the Cradle
the beetles get the Bread
and the cherry-cheeked children,
the children
all are dead
Men are exploding
children are smoking–
smoking needles
eating beetles
black and pink
Beatles
The Beatles all are dead
not the legend, just the passion
so instead we give
The cats the Cradle
and the beetles to the bread
and the cherry-cheeked children
the children
all are dead
because the world
turned upside-down
all together, upside down
sons in shoe-heels
lipstick jungles
deep violet secrets
girls in pants
panting
running from understanding caring
claiming you are open-minded
too open-minded to mind
the option
of a closed mind
so instead,
**** the trees for
the cat’s cradle
feed the beetles to the bread
since all the cherry-cheeked children
and their childhood:
all dead.
Dec 31, 2010
Dec 31, 2010 at 9:27 PM UTC
Hi! I’m a hamster on a Wheel!
Gamely running on my bony little legs
[I’m getting somewhere! I’m getting somewhere!]
Every once in a while, I look left or right
See my **** and my compressed pellet food sitting in the same positions
as an hour, a day, weeks ago – and I realize:
IT APPEARS THAT I’M ACTUALLY GOING NOWHERE!!!!!!!
Which surprises me each time it crosses my little hamster brain, until I’m distracted
By my pellet food, the call of the Wheel, and other sundry carnal desires
Roiling superficially in my hamster-angst
While working the Wheel, surrounded by the detritus of my saccharine prefabricated life
I fail to notice
Outside my cage
Hands, lifting, carrying
Thousands of miles traversed
Steaming deserts
Steaming jungles
Steaming cities
Brutality, kindness, sensuality, love, hatred, atrocities, age, youth, heat and cold
All flashing by my glass shell as hands carry me towards a final resting place
Until
A jarring, toppling blast shakes my world
Tearing me from my Important Work on the Wheel
I look up, pellet crumbs falling from my mouth
Just in time to see my cage tumble from hands
Over a rail
Down
Down
Flash of blue
Flash of brilliant light
Flash of blue
Down
Smacking into a vast expanse of water
Unimaginably immense
Outside of my realm of comprehension – I mean, I’d never seen it in my hamster cage before, so why should I even expect it to exist?
What is it’s purpose?
It makes no sense!
It has no place in the world!
And as I slowly drown in the secret withheld from every hamster since the beginning of time
I take one last longing look at the Wheel, the cage, the pellets
And curse them
Curse the Deception that told me they were all that mattered
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 9:15 PM UTC
Past rolling hills
green valleys and beautiful woods.
Over falls wondrous
and meadows gold.
Through towns and villages
snow covered and cold.
Over oceans vast
and jungles deep
Lies,
the mountain mammoth.
Great stones
mere bones
before its sprawling feet.
Standing in awe
at its Gothic magnificence.
All creations lying under the shadow
of this monstrous heap.
They dance in reverence
they bask in the terrible embrace,
of the mountain mammoth.
This far away mountain
oh fiery fountain.
Oh ginormous mongrel
oh hideous evil.
Enveloping all life
purging all love.
Decimating madness
the end of all things.
Fear erupts from it
like water from a spring.
Darkness covers the mountain
darkness blacker then pitch.
Darkness that no light ever can touch
not even the stars
those resilient lanterns.
All hope is dashed at the walls
of the mammoth mountain.
All hope is forsaken at the foot
of the great fiery fountain.
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 12:14 PM UTC
Plastic plates bowls and cups
loaded on recycling trucks.
You've had your party thrown it away,
Less to wash up at the end of the day.
But few fall out they blow in winds,
Escape the grasp of the recycling bin.
Not all bags are renewable plastic,
Less strong now not so fantastic.
So write a note for a new tote,
Handles far stronger less likely broke.
It's not our problem it's goods we buy,
There wrapped and packaged to the shoppers eye.
But when the seas are less serene
Choked on plastics and polystyrene.
Death tolls rise numbers of sea life plummet,
Dont ya think its time we do summit?
To a turtle or whale a tasty dish,
To dine upon the jellyfish.
Not a bag for life that passes by,
That binds them to starvation before they die.
So the seas bob in colour of plastic pollution.
Times running out what to be a solution?
Its high time we started a clean up revolution!
To use less packaging to educate all.
Before the tides continue to rise and we loose them all.
The ice caps are melting at an alarming rate,
How long before for all it's too late.
Eco systems absorb UV,
cool the world for nature to be.
Polar life need ice to remain,
In cooler climates to sustain.
But as they melt and tides continue to rise,
Am losing hope for their demise.
Leave the jungles and forrests for self restoration,
Less fossil fuels and deforestation.
The trees keep falling from constant felling,
With palm oil growing; plantations swelling.
Our orange ancestors the orangutan,
Has been their homes since the jungles began.
To break life cycles whole eco systems,
It's time to change the world with our wit and wisdom.
Else what do we leave to the future generations,
Man on earth just viral abominations.
Apr 27, 2019
Apr 27, 2019 at 11:48 AM UTC