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Gourab Banerjee Sep 2015
A path

In a wood

Surrounded with skyscraper Redwood's

Alone I'm

Walking through the path

Some birds're twittering

Don't mess me up with a tourist

I'm not here to rejoice beauty

But,I'm here for my livelihood

For some wood

To feed my Siblings

I'm a wood-cutter

So,Wood is my Livelihood-Written on 27.09.2012
Even as the sun with purple-coloured face
Had ta’en his last leave of the weeping morn,
Rose-cheeked Adonis hied him to the chase;
Hunting he loved, but love he laughed to scorn.
Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him,
And like a bold-faced suitor ‘gins to woo him.

“Thrice fairer than myself,” thus she began
“The fields chief flower, sweet above compare,
Stain to all nymphs, more lovely than a man,
More white and red than doves or roses are;
Nature that made thee with herself at strife
Saith that the world hath ending with thy life.

“Vouchsafe, thou wonder, to alight thy steed,
And rein his proud head to the saddle-bow;
If thou wilt deign this favour, for thy meed
A thousand honey secrets shalt thou know.
Here come and sit where never serpent hisses,
And being set, I’ll smother thee with kisses.

“And yet not cloy thy lips with loathed satiety,
But rather famish them amid their plenty,
Making them red and pale with fresh variety:
Ten kisses short as one, one long as twenty.
A summer’s day will seem an hour but short,
Being wasted in such time-beguiling sport.”

With this she seizeth on his sweating palm,
The precedent of pith and livelihood,
And, trembling in her passion, calls it balm,
Earth’s sovereign salve to do a goddess good.
Being so enraged, desire doth lend her force
Courageously to pluck him from his horse.

Over one arm the ***** courser’s rein,
Under her other was the tender boy,
Who blushed and pouted in a dull disdain,
With leaden appetite, unapt to toy;
She red and hot as coals of glowing fire,
He red for shame, but frosty in desire.

The studded bridle on a ragged bough
Nimbly she fastens—O, how quick is love!
The steed is stalled up, and even now
To tie the rider she begins to prove.
Backward she pushed him, as she would be ******,
And governed him in strength, though not in lust.

So soon was she along as he was down,
Each leaning on their elbows and their hips;
Now doth she stroke his cheek, now doth he frown
And ‘gins to chide, but soon she stops his lips,
And, kissing, speaks with lustful language broken:
“If thou wilt chide, thy lips shall never open”.

He burns with bashful shame; she with her tears
Doth quench the maiden burning of his cheeks;
Then with her windy sighs and golden hairs
To fan and blow them dry again she seeks.
He saith she is immodest, blames her miss;
What follows more she murders with a kiss.

Even as an empty eagle, sharp by fast,
Tires with her beak on feathers, flesh, and bone,
Shaking her wings, devouring all in haste,
Till either gorge be stuffed or prey be gone;
Even so she kissed his brow, his cheek, his chin,
And where she ends she doth anew begin.

Forced to content, but never to obey,
Panting he lies, and breatheth in her face;
She feedeth on the steam as on a prey,
And calls it heavenly moisture, air of grace,
Wishing her cheeks were gardens full of flowers,
So they were dewed with such distilling showers.

Look how a bird lies tangled in a net,
So fastened in her arms Adonis lies;
Pure shame and awed resistance made him fret,
Which bred more beauty in his angry eyes.
Rain added to a river that is rank
Perforce will force it overflow the bank.

Still she entreats, and prettily entreats,
For to a pretty ear she tunes her tale;
Still is he sullen, still he lours and frets,
‘Twixt crimson shame and anger ashy-pale.
Being red, she loves him best; and being white,
Her best is bettered with a more delight.

Look how he can, she cannot choose but love;
And by her fair immortal hand she swears
From his soft ***** never to remove
Till he take truce with her contending tears,
Which long have rained, making her cheeks all wet;
And one sweet kiss shall pay this countless debt.

Upon this promise did he raise his chin,
Like a dive-dapper peering through a wave
Who, being looked on, ducks as quickly in;
So offers he to give what she did crave;
But when her lips were ready for his pay,
He winks, and turns his lips another way.

Never did passenger in summer’s heat
More thirst for drink than she for this good turn.
Her help she sees, but help she cannot get;
She bathes in water, yet her fire must burn.
“O pity,” ‘gan she cry “flint-hearted boy,
’Tis but a kiss I beg; why art thou coy?

“I have been wooed as I entreat thee now
Even by the stern and direful god of war,
Whose sinewy neck in battle ne’er did bow,
Who conquers where he comes in every jar;
Yet hath he been my captive and my slave,
And begged for that which thou unasked shalt have.

“Over my altars hath he hung his lance,
His battered shield, his uncontrolled crest,
And for my sake hath learned to sport and dance,
To toy, to wanton, dally, smile, and jest,
Scorning his churlish drum and ensign red,
Making my arms his field, his tent my bed.

“Thus he that overruled I overswayed,
Leading him prisoner in a red-rose chain;
Strong-tempered steel his stronger strength obeyed,
Yet was he servile to my coy disdain.
O be not proud, nor brag not of thy might,
For mast’ring her that foiled the god of fight.

“Touch but my lips with those fair lips of thine,
—Though mine be not so fair, yet are they red—
The kiss shall be thine own as well as mine.
What seest thou in the ground? Hold up thy head;
Look in mine eyeballs, there thy beauty lies;
Then why not lips on lips, since eyes in eyes?

“Art thou ashamed to kiss? Then wink again,
And I will wink; so shall the day seem night.
Love keeps his revels where there are but twain;
Be bold to play, our sport is not in sight:
These blue-veined violets whereon we lean
Never can blab, nor know not what we mean.

“The tender spring upon thy tempting lip
Shows thee unripe; yet mayst thou well be tasted.
Make use of time, let not advantage slip:
Beauty within itself should not be wasted.
Fair flowers that are not gathered in their prime
Rot and consume themselves in little time.

“Were I hard-favoured, foul, or wrinkled-old,
Ill-nurtured, crooked, churlish, harsh in voice,
O’erworn, despised, rheumatic, and cold,
Thick-sighted, barren, lean, and lacking juice,
Then mightst thou pause, for then I were not for thee;
But having no defects, why dost abhor me?

“Thou canst not see one wrinkle in my brow,
Mine eyes are grey and bright and quick in turning,
My beauty as the spring doth yearly grow,
My flesh is soft and plump, my marrow burning;
My smooth moist hand, were it with thy hand felt,
Would in thy palm dissolve or seem to melt.

“Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear,
Or like a fairy trip upon the green,
Or like a nymph, with long dishevelled hair,
Dance on the sands, and yet no footing seen.
Love is a spirit all compact of fire,
Not gross to sink, but light, and will aspire.

“Witness this primrose bank whereon I lie:
These forceless flowers like sturdy trees support me;
Two strengthless doves will draw me through the sky
From morn till night, even where I list to sport me.
Is love so light, sweet boy, and may it be
That thou should think it heavy unto thee?

“Is thine own heart to thine own face affected?
Can thy right hand seize love upon thy left?
Then woo thyself, be of thyself rejected,
Steal thine own freedom, and complain on theft.
Narcissus so himself himself forsook,
And died to kiss his shadow in the brook.

“Torches are made to light, jewels to wear,
Dainties to taste, fresh beauty for the use,
Herbs for their smell, and sappy plants to bear;
Things growing to themselves are growth’s abuse.
Seeds spring from seeds, and beauty breedeth beauty;
Thou wast begot: to get it is thy duty.

“Upon the earth’s increase why shouldst thou feed,
Unless the earth with thy increase be fed?
By law of nature thou art bound to breed,
That thine may live when thou thyself art dead;
And so in spite of death thou dost survive,
In that thy likeness still is left alive.”

By this, the lovesick queen began to sweat,
For where they lay the shadow had forsook them,
And Titan, tired in the midday heat,
With burning eye did hotly overlook them,
Wishing Adonis had his team to guide,
So he were like him, and by Venus’ side.

And now Adonis, with a lazy sprite,
And with a heavy, dark, disliking eye,
His louring brows o’erwhelming his fair sight,
Like misty vapours when they blot the sky,
Souring his cheeks, cries “Fie, no more of love!
The sun doth burn my face; I must remove.”

“Ay me,” quoth Venus “young, and so unkind!
What bare excuses mak’st thou to be gone!
I’ll sigh celestial breath, whose gentle wind
Shall cool the heat of this descending sun.
I’ll make a shadow for thee of my hairs;
If they burn too, I’ll quench them with my tears.

“The sun that shines from heaven shines but warm,
And lo, I lie between that sun and thee;
The heat I have from thence doth little harm:
Thine eye darts forth the fire that burneth me;
And were I not immortal, life were done
Between this heavenly and earthly sun.

“Art thou obdurate, flinty, hard as steel?
Nay, more than flint, for stone at rain relenteth.
Art thou a woman’s son, and canst not feel
What ’tis to love, how want of love tormenteth?
O, had thy mother borne so hard a mind
She had not brought forth thee, but died unkind.

“What am I that thou shouldst contemn me this?
Or what great danger dwells upon my suit?
What were thy lips the worse for one poor kiss?
Speak, fair; but speak fair words, or else be mute.
Give me one kiss, I’ll give it thee again,
And one for int’rest, if thou wilt have twain.

“Fie, lifeless picture, cold and senseless stone,
Well-painted idol, image dull and dead,
Statue contenting but the eye alone,
Thing like a man, but of no woman bred!
Thou art no man, though of a man’s complexion,
For men will kiss even by their own direction.”

This said, impatience chokes her pleading tongue,
And swelling passion doth provoke a pause;
Red cheeks and fiery eyes blaze forth her wrong:
Being judge in love, she cannot right her cause;
And now she weeps, and now she fain would speak,
And now her sobs do her intendments break.

Sometime she shakes her head, and then his hand;
Now gazeth she on him, now on the ground;
Sometime her arms infold him like a band;
She would, he will not in her arms be bound;
And when from thence he struggles to be gone,
She locks her lily fingers one in one.

“Fondling,” she saith “since I have hemmed thee here
Within the circuit of this ivory pale,
I’ll be a park, and thou shalt be my deer:
Feed where thou wilt, on mountain or in dale;
Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry,
Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.

“Within this limit is relief enough,
Sweet bottom-grass and high delightful plain,
Round rising hillocks, brakes obscure and rough,
To shelter thee from tempest and from rain:
Then be my deer, since I am such a park;
No dog shall rouse thee, though a thousand bark.”

At this Adonis smiles as in disdain,
That in each cheek appears a pretty dimple.
Love made those hollows, if himself were slain,
He might be buried in a tomb so simple,
Foreknowing well, if there he came to lie,
Why, there Love lived, and there he could not die.

These lovely caves, these round enchanting pits,
Opened their mouths to swallow Venus’ liking.
Being mad before, how doth she now for wits?
Struck dead at first, what needs a second striking?
Poor queen of love, in thine own law forlorn,
To love a cheek that smiles at thee in scorn!

Now which way shall she turn? What shall she say?
Her words are done, her woes the more increasing.
The time is spent, her object will away,
And from her twining arms doth urge releasing.
“Pity!” she cries “Some favour, some remorse!”
Away he springs, and hasteth to his horse.

But lo, from forth a copse that neighbours by
A breeding jennet, *****, young, and proud,
Adonis’ trampling courser doth espy,
And forth she rushes, snorts, and neighs aloud.
The strong-necked steed, being tied unto a tree,
Breaketh his rein, and to her straight goes he.

Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds,
And now his woven girths he breaks asunder;
The bearing earth with his hard hoof he wounds,
Whose hollow womb resounds like heaven’s thunder;
The iron bit he crusheth ‘tween his teeth,
Controlling what he was controlled with.

His ears up-pricked; his braided hanging mane
Upon his compassed crest now stand on end;
His nostrils drink the air, and forth again,
As from a furnace, vapours doth he send;
His eye, which scornfully glisters like fire,
Shows his hot courage and his high desire.

Sometime he trots, as if he told the steps,
With gentle majesty and modest pride;
Anon he rears upright, curvets and leaps,
As who should say ‘Lo, thus my strength is tried,
And this I do to captivate the eye
Of the fair ******* that is standing by.’

What recketh he his rider’s angry stir,
His flattering ‘Holla’ or his ‘Stand, I say’?
What cares he now for curb or pricking spur,
For rich caparisons or trappings gay?
He sees his love, and nothing else he sees,
For nothing else with his proud sight agrees.

Look when a painter would surpass the life
In limning out a well-proportioned steed,
His art with nature’s workmanship at strife,
As if the dead the living should exceed;
So did this horse excel a common one
In shape, in courage, colour, pace, and bone.

Round-hoofed, short-jointed, fetlocks **** and long,
Broad breast, full eye, small head, and nostril wide,
High crest, short ears, straight legs and passing strong,
Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide;
Look what a horse should have he did not lack,
Save a proud rider on so proud a back.

Sometime he scuds far off, and there he stares;
Anon he starts at stirring of a feather;
To bid the wind a base he now prepares,
And whe’er he run or fly they know not whether;
For through his mane and tail the high wind sings,
Fanning the hairs, who wave like feathered wings.

He looks upon his love, and neighs unto her;
She answers him as if she knew his mind:
Being proud, as females are, to see him woo her,
She puts on outward strangeness, seems unkind,
Spurns at his love, and scorns the heat he feels,
Beating his kind embracements with her heels.

Then, like a melancholy malcontent,
He vails his tail that, like a falling plume,
Cool shadow to his melting buttock lent;
He stamps, and bites the poor flies in his fume.
His love, perceiving how he was enraged,
Grew kinder, and his fury was assuaged.

His testy master goeth about to take him,
When, lo, the unbacked *******, full of fear,
Jealous of catching, swiftly doth forsake him,
With her the horse, and left Adonis there.
As they were mad, unto the wood they hie them,
Outstripping crows that strive to overfly them.

All swoll’n with chafing, down Adonis sits,
Banning his boist’rous and unruly beast;
And now the happy season once more fits
That lovesick Love by pleading may be blest;
For lovers say the heart hath treble wrong
When it is barred the aidance of the tongue.

An oven that is stopped, or river stayed,
Burneth more hotly, swelleth with more rage;
So of concealed sorrow may be said.
Free vent of words love’s fire doth assuage;
But when the heart’s attorney once is mute,
The client breaks, as desperate in his suit.

He sees her coming, and begins to glow,
Even as a dying coal revives with wind,
And with his bonnet hides his angry brow,
Looks on the dull earth with disturbed mind,
Taking no notice that she is so nigh,
For all askance he holds her in his eye.

O what a sight it was wistly to view
How she came stealing to the wayward boy!
To note the fighting conflict of her hue,
How white and red each other did destroy!
But now her cheek was pale, and by-and-by
It flashed forth fire, as lightning from the sky.

Now was she just before him as he sat,
And like a lowly lover down she kneels;
With one fair hand she heaveth up his hat,
Her other tender hand his fair cheek feels.
His tend’rer cheek receives her soft hand’s print
As apt as new-fall’n snow takes any dint.

O what a war of looks was then between them,
Her eyes petitioners to his eyes suing!
His eyes saw her eyes as they had not seen them;
Her eyes wooed still, his eyes disdained the wooing;
And all this dumb-play had his acts made plain
With tears which chorus-like her eyes did rain.

Full gently now she takes him by the hand,
A lily prisoned in a gaol of snow,
Or ivory in an alabaster band;
So white a friend engirts so white a foe.
This beauteous combat, wilful and unwilling,
Showed like two silver doves that sit a-billing.

Once more the engine of her thoughts began:
“O fairest mover on this mortal round,
Would t
Gourab Banerjee Sep 2016
A path
In a wood
Surrounded with skyscraper Redwood's
Alone I'm
Walking through the path
Some birds're twittering
Don't mess me up with a tourist
I'm not here to rejoice beauty
But,I'm here for my livelihood
For some wood
To feed my Siblings
I'm a wood-cutter
So,Wood is my Livelihood-Written on 27.09.2012
Daisy, Daisy, how lovely
to be a banal child.
Safe from harm and hurt and death,
your roots do hold you wild.

Your life doth last some while
as you carry on
nourished by your parent ground;
shan't your woes be gone?

But oh, how lovely it would be
to be the blessed Rose;
what charm, what awe, what livelihood
one of that kind knows.

Daisy, Daisy, how lovely
to live a mundane while.
Your beauty lies in lengthy life,
your commonplace beguiles.
We, the voice of the most oppressed,
Work in the profession remaining the most humble,
Throughout histories, as slaves our lives still remain tumble,
With our strangled necks, we are deliberately suppressed

For the centuries, our voices remain unheard,
Like a weeping fish at the sea,
We are treated zombies at the rush of a blood,
Collecting by hand, the human society’s poops & pea

Things for us got intensely worse,
We work as a group with an isolated curse,
For our livelihood, go into manholes as bare-bodies
Mostly get out as dead-bodies

From pathology to oncology,
We are treated untouchables, even by the modern technology
We are the oxygen-offering trees that remain green
Hurting ourselves, collecting excreta making this world neat &clean

With our hand-cuffs we shout and fight,
Rulers remain drunken-deafs to our plight,
Hell with your knowledge, to those who go to college
And keep pushing us to the drainage,
We remain living dead and frustrated, to get our right

When asked about work, we remain dumb and blind,
Fearing the responses to our ***** revelations,
Because humans are unemphathetic and unkind
To get our life some elevations.

Our mind said us “Please think! Please Think!”
When we revolt not to work, societies stink,
We warn, Witness your locality *****,
To our sufferings, if you keep blank & empty.

We are a collective voice,
Representing inhuman humanity,
That keeps the society on a poise,
So raise your voice, with a clarity of choice
To get us work with the utmost dignity!
Manual scavengers is a decent term. People who collect human and animal excreta on bare hands are the manual scavengers. The quality of these people in the south-east Asian countries like India remain pathetic. Their voices are often neglected and ignored by the rulers. They remain struck in a state of vicious circle, where poverty and untouchability keeps chasing them continuously and push them towards this work. This poem is a pain of the masses that had been engaged in manual scavenging for centuries immemorial that continues unlikely, till the present day. Rulers don’t offer the mandatory occupational standards and technological support to the manual scavengers. The motive of this poem is to voice their concerns to help them work peacefully and offer them a dignified life. This poem is written in the style of a ballad.
rage has a way of awakening
the sacred fiery feminine within me
i suppose i should be accepting of flippant
dismissals and easily broken
plans(promises)

after all, it is what is expected of my gender—
to be silently accepting
to be smiling and forever forgiving
to be blind to your *******.

but I’m not that kind of *****.

the waters of many rivers flow in my veins
over the rocks and thorns that are growing inward in my inner darkness
wise and warrior women of my past lives swim in these brackish tides and they
are having none of your **** today

there is a predator that hunts in the base of my skull
that loves to feed on

boys {I would say ‘friends’ but none of you are deserving of that title}
like
you

through heavy breaths and gasps between too hot sobs this creature is released
and it reminds me
with the worst of pain
that i
am stronger than you
that i
am stronger than anything within your petty soul

we’re all made of energy and mine is too bright to be diminished by the likes of you

while i feel worthless and want to destroy myself
{because the easiest way not to feel
is to bring blood,
to bring forth ribs,
and cheek bones, and burns—— for the longest while I thought the fault lied within myself, that I was worthless and disposable, but now I see that I’ve only been attracted to the weaker breed of human because you are easy to manipulate. You were stupid enough to consider my compassion a license to abuse my over giving heart}

this animal keeps me in line, holding my hands within its claw riddled appendages
tight enough to bring blood, holding me still until my cries turn into war songs
my frantic heart beats into the sound of war drums.
my tears become paint streaking my face, readying me for another battle.

the scorpion ever present in me rises, barb dripping with the poison
my tongue would love to lay into your psyche

but you aren’t worth my words.

my words are my livelihood and nothing i could say could
every arouse any interest nor care from such a small minded individual as yourself
whose ambitions are the small fractions of debris beneath my scarred feet.

in this holy and reverent cold I thought I needed the warmth of companions, but I realized I was skinning myself raw to cover others who would only ***** out the flame keeping me alive.
my heart thrives in this harsh season and the skeleton of the scorpion comes alive in solitude.

the warrior woman within me is reborn this night.
she has watched my neglect and has pulled me into her armed embrace
and tells me through stoney and unforgiving eyes

that you were never worthy of my radiance
ryn Feb 2015
There once was a man
Whose livelihood was rubber.
He worked long and hard; and wore a tan,
He was a plantation tapper.

One night he packed,
In haste after a long day of toil.
Quickly had his belongings all sacked
Under light from a lantern that reeked of kerosene oil.

He was ready, flame from the lantern he did ****.
Overhead, the midnight moon brightly shone.
Bound his sack to the rack above the rear wheel,
Mounted his bicycle and soon he was gone.

The dirt trail leading back,
Undulating with gravel all strewn.
Almost treacherous this forgotten track
He only relied on light from the moon.

The air was cool just like any other,
But something was different about this night.
Squinting ahead he spotted a figure.
Flagging him down was a lady in white...
To be continued...

Based on a story I heard.
ryn Feb 2015
The new day still saw the man
Whose livelihood was rubber.
He had worked really hard; earning his darkened tan,
He was the plantation's tapper.

The evening sun had long set
Leaving the plantation in a shroud of darkness.
Relying on what little light the moon would let.
He treaded carefully; sidestepping potholes and jutting buttress.

His sack slung over one shoulder,
He found his way to his trusty ride.
Nightly routine he would execute over and over
Mounted his bicycle and rode off with the moon as guide.

All day long, he had been thinking of the night before.
He had then learnt that he was the target of a ghostly trick.
As he cycled, he got worked up, more and more...
He cursed the spirit who had made him the fool so quick!

As he looked ahead, straining his eyes to discern the sandy track.
His eyes caught something that came within sight.
Standing by the side against a background of black.
There she was again...all garbed in white...
To be continued...

Based on a story I heard
Jordan Oct 2013
Denim clad godess, smoke machine chariot. Your livelihood is my breath, Take me to your place of solace where I can feel the suns rays emanate from my chest.
www.max-flow.tumblr.com
John Hosack Jul 2010
Looking through a complex eye
poisoned by countless vials of nitroglycerin
the world sings a familiar tune of
an ineradicable human urge for lethal conflict.

A world view
of culturally intolerant tyrants and a place
where Robin Hood does not exist, instead
his former self sits wallowing in the tragic misadventures of human dignity.
Society now aids the pauper,
who is but a superficial vagabond sitting intrigued by
hopeless people from distant lands.

As the innocent of Beirut lie murdered
the reaper tastes regret,
while bank accounts paint self portraits
instilled by ephemeral yet righteous morality.
Dangerously speeding through the lanes of life
to make it home just before it rains;
the world all encompassing
is never the concern.

Halos hover above diet pills dressed in simple linens
for everything is an easy fix;
lies, hatred, ignorance, and blatant evil,
all can be fixed by ignoring the even lies (the even lines that lie above).
A Gouedard Jun 2014
The Miner, Absolom
(a haibun)


green hill where sheep graze
white bones and coal, buried, held
seasons all the same
  
My grandfather worked in the mines from age thirteen to seventy. His life was closed in by mountains, the green one at the back, the dark looming one at the front and the pit head along the valley., winding the men in and out of the shaft, day after day, dawn until dusk when they came home singing  

boots ring on the road
deep valley voices echo
backyard starlit smoke

.
They worked on their bellies or crouched, often in water for days, water that undermines rock. Shaft collapses where frequent. Life was cheap. He came home covered in coal dust to his wife and two sons, sons he was determined to keep out of the mines. Yet he loved that coal - coal that he always polished with care before lighting a fire, brushing dust off black diamond surfaces.

water breaks through rock
with wood and straining shoulders
man becomes the beam

He saved twenty lives that day, men he had known from boyhood. When his lungs were affected they laid him off, no pay, no pension, no life. He bought an insurance book with the money he had and every day he trudged over the mountains and valleys gathering pennies that would help to secure some livelihood to the widows who lost their men in the mines. He never told his wife that when a family couldn't pay he put the pennies in for them rather than leave them unprotected.

winter, summer, fall
the mountain hangs over all
tired to the backbone

When the mines were nationalised my grandfather went straight back to the coal face despite his age. He wasn't going to miss those days of glory. Safety was suddenly the watchword and changes were made very fast. Hot showers were installed at the pit head and the miners came home clean at last.

men stripped to the skin
hot water, steam, baptised
brothers singing hymns
These days religion is a business
So I just pray at home when I feel dizziness
Hey,you asking me who this is?
Well...it's ziia in the flesh
With a wishlist

I wish:
That everything could go back to normal
When giving tithe was not informal
Not men of God driving fast cars
For breakfast having TV Bars

Take me back to the time
When man did not live by bread alone
But by every word uttered
By the Lord of hosts...
Tired of false prophets
A true story by  Thula Bopela**

I have no idea whether the white man I am writing about is still alive or not. He gave me an understanding of what actually happened to us Africans, and how sinister it was, when we were colonized. His name was Ronald Stanley Peters, Homicide Chief, Matabeleland, in what was at the time Rhodesia. He was the man in charge of the case they had against us, ******. I was one of a group of ANC/ZAPU guerillas that had infiltrated into the Wankie Game Reserve in 1967, and had been in action against elements of the Rhodesian African rifles (RAR), and the Rhodesian Light Infantry (RLI). We were now in the custody of the British South Africa Police (BSAP), the Rhodesian Police. I was the last to be captured in the group that was going to appear at the Salisbury (Harare) High Court on a charge of ******, 4 counts.
‘I have completed my investigation of this case, Mr. Bopela, and I will be sending the case to the Attorney-General’s Office, Mr. Bosman, who will the take up the prosecution of your case on a date to be decided,’ Ron Peters told me. ‘I will hang all of you, but I must tell you that you are good fighters but you cannot win.’
‘Tell me, Inspector,’ I shot back, ‘are you not contradicting yourself when you say we are good fighters but will not win? Good fighters always win.’
‘Mr. Bopela, even the best fighters on the ground, cannot win if information is sent to their enemy by high-ranking officials of their organizations, even before the fighters begin their operations. Even though we had information that you were on your way, we were not prepared for the fight that you put up,’ the Englishman said quietly. ‘We give due where it is to be given after having met you in battle. That is why I am saying you are good fighters, but will not win.’
Thirteen years later, in 1980, I went to Police Headquarters in Harare and asked where I could find Detective-Inspector Ronald Stanley Peters, retired maybe. President Robert Mugabe had become Prime Minster and had released all of us….common criminal and freedom-fighter. I was told by the white officer behind the counter that Inspector Peters had retired and now lived in Bulawayo. I asked to speak to him on the telephone. The officer dialed his number and explained why he was calling. I was given the phone, and spoke to the Superintendent, the rank he had retired on. We agreed to meet in two days time at his house at Matshe-amhlophe, a very up-market suburb in Bulawayo. I travelled to Bulawayo by train, and took a taxi from town to his home.
I had last seen him at the Salisbury High Court after we had been sentenced to death by Justice L Lewis in 1967. His hair had greyed but he was still the tall policeman I had last seen in 1967. He smiled quietly at me and introduced me to his family, two grown up chaps and a daughter. Lastly came his wife, Doreen, a regal-looking Englishwoman. ‘He is one of the chaps I bagged during my time in the Service. We sent him to the gallows but he is back and wants to see me, Doreen.’ He smiled again and ushered me into his study.
He offered me a drink, a scotch whisky I had not asked for, but enjoyed very much I must say. We spent some time on the small talk about the weather and the current news.
‘So,’ Ron began, ‘they did not hang you are after all, old chap! Congratulations, and may you live many more!’ We toasted and I sat across him in a comfortable sofa. ‘A man does not die before his time, Ron’ I replied rather gloomily, ‘never mind the power the judge has or what the executioner intends to do to one.’
‘I am happy you got a reprieve Thula,’, Ron said, ‘but what was it based on? I am just curious about what might have prompted His Excellency Clifford Du Pont, to grant you a pardon. You were a bunch of unrepentant terrorists.’
‘I do not know Superintendent,’ I replied truthfully. ‘Like I have said, a man does not die before his time.’ He poured me another drink and I became less tense.
‘So, Mr. Bopela, what brings such a lucky fellow all the way from happy Harare to a dull place like our Bulawayo down here?’
‘Superintendent, you said to me after you had finished your investigations that you were going to hang all of us. You were wrong; we did not all hang. You said also that though we were good fighters we would not win. You were wrong again Superintendent; we have won! We are in power now. I told you that good fighters do win.’
The Superintendent put his drink on the side table and stood up. He walked slowly to the window that overlooked his well-manicured garden and stood there facing me.
‘So you think you have won Thula? What have you won, tell me. I need to know.’
‘We have won everything Superintendent, in case you have not noticed. Every thing! We will have a black president, prime minister, black cabinet, black members of Parliament, judges, Chiefs of Police and the Army. Every thing Superintendent. I came all the way to come and ask you to apologize to me for telling me that good fighters do not win. You were wrong Superintendent, were you not?’
He went back to his seat and picked up his glass, and emptied it. He poured himself another shot and put it on the side table and was quiet for a while.
‘So, you think you have won everything Mr. Bopela, huh? I am sorry to spoil your happiness sir, but you have not won anything. You have political power, yes, but that is all. We control the economy of this country, on whose stability depends everybody’s livelihood, including the lives of those who boast that they have political power, you and your victorious friends. Maybe I should tell you something about us white people Mr. Bopela. I think you deserve it too, seeing how you kept this nonsense warm in your head for thirteen hard years in prison. ‘When I get out I am going to find Ron Peters and tell him to apologize for saying we wouldn’t win,’ you promised yourself. Now listen to me carefully my friend, I am going to help you understand us white people a bit better, and the kind of problem you and your friends have to deal with.’
‘When we planted our flag in the place where we built the city of Salisbury, in 1877, we planned for this time. We planned for the time when the African would rise up against us, and perhaps defeat us by sheer numbers and insurrection. When that time came, we decided, the African should not be in a position to rule his newly-found country without taking his cue from us. We should continue to rule, even after political power has been snatched from us, Mr. Bopela.’
‘How did you plan to do that my dear Superintendent,’ I mocked.
‘Very simple, Mr. Bopela, very simple,’ Peters told me.
‘We started by changing the country we took from you to a country that you will find, many centuries later, when you gain political power. It would be totally unlike the country your ancestors lived in; it would be a new country. Let us start with agriculture. We introduced methods of farming that were not known I Africa, where people dug a hole in the ground, covered it up with soil and went to sleep under a tree in the shade. We made agriculture a science. To farm our way, an African needed to understand soil types, the fertilizers that type of soil required, and which crops to plant on what type of soil. We kept this knowledge from the African, how to farm scientifically and on a scale big enough to contribute strongly to the national economy. We did this so that when the African demands and gets his land back, he should not be able to farm it like we do. He would then be obliged to beg us to teach him how. Is that not power, Mr. Bopela?’
‘We industrialized the country, factories, mines, together with agricultural output, became the mainstay of the new economy, but controlled and understood only by us. We kept the knowledge of all this from you people, the skills required to run such a country successfully. It is not because Africans are stupid because they do not know what to do with an industrialized country. We just excluded the African from this knowledge and kept him in the dark. This exercise can be compared to that of a man whose house was taken away from him by a stronger person. The stronger person would then change all the locks so that when the real owner returned, he would not know how to enter his own house.’
We then introduced a financial system – money (currency), banks, the stock market and linked it with other stock markets in the world. We are aware that your country may have valuable minerals, which you may be able to extract….but where would you sell them? We would push their value to next-to-nothing in our stock markets. You may have diamonds or oil in your country Mr. Bopela, but we are in possession of the formulas how they may be refined and made into a product ready for sale on the stock markets, which we control. You cannot eat diamonds and drink oil even if you have these valuable commodities. You have to bring them to our stock markets.’
‘We control technology and communications. You fellows cannot even fly an aeroplane, let alone make one. This is the knowledge we kept from you, deliberately. Now that you have won, as you claim Mr. Bopela, how do you plan to run all these things you were prevented from learning? You will be His Excellency this, and the Honorable this and wear gold chains on your necks as mayors, but you will have no power. Parliament after all is just a talking house; it does not run the economy; we do. We do not need to be in parliament to rule your Zimbabwe. We have the power of knowledge and vital skills, needed to run the economy and create jobs. Without us, your Zimbabwe will collapse. You see now what I mean when I say you have won nothing? I know what I am talking about. We could even sabotage your economy and you would not know what had happened.’
We were both silent for some time, I trying not to show how devastating this information was to me; Ron Peters maybe gloating. It was so true, yet so painful. In South Africa they had not only kept this information from us, they had also destroyed our education, so that when we won, we would still not have the skills we needed because we had been forbidden to become scientists and engineers. I did not feel any anger towards the man sitting opposite me, sipping a whisky. He was right.
‘Even the Africans who had the skills we tried to prevent you from having would be too few to have an impact on our plan. The few who would perhaps have acquired the vital skills would earn very high salaries, and become a black elite grouping, a class apart from fellow suffering Africans,’ Ron Peters persisted. ‘If you understand this Thula, you will probably succeed in making your fellow blacks understand the difference between ‘being in office’ and ‘being in power’. Your leaders will be in office, but not in power. This means that your parliamentary majority will not enable you to run the country….without us, that is.’
I asked Ron to call a taxi for me; I needed to leave. The taxi arrived, not quickly enough for me, who was aching to depart with my sorrow. Ron then delivered the coup de grace:
‘What we are waiting to watch happening, after your attainment of political power, is to see you fighting over it. Africans fight over power, which is why you have seen so many coups d’etat and civil wars in post-independent Africa. We whites consolidate power, which means we share it, to stay strong. We may have different political ideologies and parties, but we do not **** each other over political differences, not since ****** was defeated in 1945. Joshua Nkomo and Robert Mugabe will not stay friends for long. In your free South Africa, you will do the same. There will be so many African political parties opposing the ANC, parties that are too afraid to come into existence during apartheid, that we whites will not need to join in the fray. Inside whichever ruling party will come power, be it ZANU or the ANC, there will be power struggles even inside the parties themselves. You see Mr. Bopela, after the struggle against the white man, a new struggle will arise among yourselves, the struggle for power. Those who hold power in Africa come within grabbing distance of wealth. That is what the new struggle will be about….the struggle for power. Go well Mr. Bopela; I trust our meeting was a fruitful one, as they say in politics.’
I shook hands with the Superintendent and boarded my taxi. I spent that night in Bulawayo at the YMCA, 9th Avenue. I slept deeply; I was mentally exhausted and spiritually devastated. I only had one consolation, a hope, however remote. I hoped that when the ANC came into power in South Africa, we would not do the things Ron Peters had said we would do. We would learn from the experiences of other African countries, maybe Ghana and Nigeria, and avoid coups d’etat and civil wars.
In 2007 at Polokwane, we had full-blown power struggle between those who supported Thabo Mbeki and Zuma’s supporters. Mbeki lost the fight and his admirers broke away to form Cope. The politics of individuals had started in the ANC. The ANC will be going to Maungaung in December to choose new leaders. Again, it is not about which government policy will be best for South Africa; foreign policy, economic, educational, or social policy. It is about Jacob Zuma, Kgalema Motlhante; it is about Fikile Mbalula or Gwede Mantashe. Secret meetings are reported to be happening, to plot the downfall of this politician and the rise of the other one.
Why is it not about which leaders will best implement the Freedom Charter, the pivotal document? Is the contest over who will implement the Charter better? If it was about that, the struggle then would be over who can sort out the poverty, landlessness, unemployment, crime and education for the impoverished black masses. How then do we choose who the best leader would be if we do not even know who will implement which policies, and which policies are better than others? We go to Mangaung to wage a power struggle, period. President Zuma himself has admitted that ‘in the broad church the ANC is,’ there are those who now seek only power, wealth and success as individuals, not the nation. In Zimbabwe the fight between President Robert Mugabe and Morgan Tsvangirai has paralysed the country. The people of Zimbabwe, a highly-educated nation, are starving and work as garden and kitchen help in South Africa.
What the white man told me in Bulawayo in 1980 is happening right in front of my eyes. We have political power and are fighting over it, instead of consolidating it. We have an economy that is owned and controlled by them, and we are fighting over the crumbs falling from the white man’s ‘dining table’. The power struggle that raged among ANC leaders in the Western Cape cost the ANC that province, and the opposition is winning other municipalities where the ANC is squabbling instead of delivering. Is it too much to understand that the more we fight among ourselves the weaker we become, and the stronger the opposition becomes?
Thula Bopela writes in his personal capacity, and the story he has told is true; he experienced alone and thus is ultimately responsible for it.
Ryan Cenzon Oct 2013
Welcome to Manila.

Feel free to fill your lungs with the nocturnal breeze

Signed by the nation's capital as it flows its life on the roads that lie under the moon's lunar glow.

The scents of Sampaguitas, rugby, human excrement, and the smell of burning gasoline

Constituting the sources of a rising problem that pollutes the air of a land

A land where people ignore the screams of health issues

For the latest news about events in the envied personal lives

Of hypocritical second-rate and overpaid actors who have become the annoying faces

Of household television screens in the Philippines.


To the left you'll see a wooden cart filled with discarded recyclables that serve as a livelihood by day,

And a bed by night as it stands on the road lined with the gutters

The gutters that serve as stomachs of the city, the only stomachs of the city that aren't suffering

From starvation and Ulcers as they are filled to the brim with the population's toxic waste,

Reeking into the air with a stench that only compliments

The smells of poverty and corruption, as the taxes that are meant to pay for progress

Are redirected to the politician's own pockets to be spent on his prostitutes and casino gambling.


Hear the music of manila; the harmonious sounds of infants that weep

As they are trapped in a living nightmare as they toss and turn and try to sleep along the roads

Buzzing with the sounds of beeping horns through the late rush hour traffic

Mixed with the sounds of the occasional clink of the falling silver peso coin into beggars' cups,

And other  homeless people  under the delusional impression

That pedestrians actually care for their well being and listen to their creaking voices

As they beg for spare change, while deep down they beg and pray

For a total change in the states of their starving lives.


The dark reveals the most candid face of the nation

like an ironic twist in nature as in the shadows, more is seen than under the burning  light of the
pretentious day.

The street lights are like the eyes that witness  ice picks piercing innocent  flesh
and purses being taken from passers-by

While in the shadows of alleys nobody sees the slow and painfully traumatic scenes
of young teen-aged girls being *****

And motorcycle gangs that rain semi-automatic ammunition into skulls of lawyers just stopping by at Shell for gasoline.

Seldom heard in the air are the faint whispers in heads that hold the scattered thoughts and memories
of depressed drug addicts walking along Chinatown near the railroad tracks

Inhabited by people who blame their neighbors, their families, and the government,

And never blame themselves for their lives that have brutally fallen beneath the vicious line of everlasting poverty.
Experimenting with an execution of poetry far from my traditional style
At night! I am not a thought
Over the infamous sunlight;
But rather one with heightened breath,
A creature like all beings,
I hath life and sometimes death.

At night! What a solitary life
That I oft' bathe myself in blood;
It hath a romantic smell to touch
And fantasies on its very own,
Like the world around is torn
When I drink it, when I taste it.

At night! What a succulent sight
And dried livelihood, such might
Who may think of such grandeur
In the afternoon's bad odour?
The night presents to me a lovely light
To hunt and race towards the night.

At night! What a lovely lace
And fierce sigh to embrace;
Unlike those held stiffly in breath
I am at all in no fear of death,
And there, a thousand skies
Shall not watch my shaky lies?

At night! What a cold showdown
As I float in midair in town;
Every piece of flesh is tempting,
Now that my thirst is seeping
Through the dire brass of my lungs,
That I know not between us.

At night! What a sacred taste
Of one's opened flesh;
I am as violent as Desire itself,
And trembling as 'tis troubled night.
What if I cannot love, nor hear myself
That I can see the Light?

At night! What a bare heaven
Up there, that hath opened;
But again, 'tis committed to poor souls
And t'ose alive only, unlike me
I shall not breathe, nor be old;
Nor shall my stale beauty

At night! What a loneliness
A story, and yet a broken sadness
I shall wander to dusk and dust;
And pain myself with roaming lust
Shall I be the human, and again
I cannot flirt with the earth's rain.

At night! What a tasteless breath
The very end that feels like death;
When one ain't ill, and just no;
I cannot be here until tomorrow
I had love then, but 'tis now death
An apparition I hath not had

At night! What a wordless call
And yet I hath no longer words;
My lover, my human lover
Then, he died of my cold hunger
I hath been placed in my own hell;
And cannot fake such tears so well

At night! What a wondrous sight
Sitting in mercy by the rainbow;
Ah, my love, who was once in fright
Old as his human self by the window
And I, was not born to see the light
And he died, I could not know.

At night! What a clueless moon
And a rabid but endless tune;
And the cloud, but cannot speak
Although I wish to ask he sea
Within the reserved, but pretty week
To sail my lover back into me

At night! What a tireless roam
And I cannot stop even by my poem;
To devour such a long life
And hurt that may be tough,
Miseries that may be naive
Tears that may not be enough.

At night! What a severed sight
I hath, that I cannot fly right
Who saith I shall need such wings
That shall not read, nor sing?
I might just turn human by then;
Joining my love in death again.

At night! What a sturdy light
That awaits me behind the grass,
Satisfying me the whole night
And gone as more days pass
What is good, and what is rigid
Who shall come to me again, merry meet?

At night! What a buoyant step
And I may put again my cape;
I may not be late, but too sweetly
I hath to seek more life for me;
I may not die, but to die reverently;
For him, I shall dream for free

At night! What a childish touch
But there is no more time to watch,
I kneel down and sip hungrily
At the heartbeat dying down by me;
T'is time, 'tis of a village *****
Hastily split by her brown bench.

At night! What a cold April
And who knows what summer feels;
I might lay about to seek some idyll,
While the skies but a flamed torch
To read riddles of the far North,
And drink my heap, my Lord.

At night! What a sweet sick dream
To my lost love, my limb
I like to writ all in a poem,
And drink of love in my room
What is better than love, my life?
What is sweeter to kiss, my lips?

At night! What a shuddered rose
And a catchy, stunned prose
But I may not be a true lover;
A truth, that one always hides
After the setting sun, the thin nights
Who shall craft myself an ode?

At night! What a shimmered thought
That I had remembered about you,
About a song I knew was true
And we embraced, while seeing
The night was already looking;
And hark! The sour stars finally cheering.

At night! What a blundering smile
And hastened sweat of love,
A shyness that never leaves me
And my cheeks, my beauty;
I can rest here, and for a while
I think I can leave my everything.

At night! What a blushed cheek,
For love is so soft, so meek;
For my love is held in midair,
Given but treated so unfair,
I am gasping for some fresh air,
But shan't cry, nor care

At night! What a young heartbeat,
But again, 'tis not mine;
For human blood is always a cure,
Although cold, minuscule, and unsure
I hath no care what 'tis all about
My hunger is there, and frets too loud.

At night! What an insane bird,
And so shockingly treacherous;
O my love, should I vouch for thee still,
And be kind, whilst all stands still;
But again, 'tis as chilly for my poetry,
For there is no life for one like me.

At night! What a rigid flute,
That is flamboyantly blown still,
I may not be by the long route,
But I love you, and want you still,
The thought of humans make me sick;
But without such breath I am so weak;

At night! What a lifeless sun,
Celebrated by all inhumans;
I am nobody that one wants,
I neither lighten nor illuminate,
And I do not appear in one's dream,
I am a devil, and not as I seem;

At night! What a poet, and poetry;
A poetry wearing a black veil,
And is read out of the doors,
I hath written strongly across the moors,
I hath been invited by such discourse
And troubled itches, troubled sights.

At night! What a vast suburban,
On the outskirts of my last town;
And I have to move, yet, I do,
Although I am a recent and new,
And to be with the morn, too vague;
I am afraid I shall be too late.

At night! What an edgeless voyage
That has come of life, of age;
A stellar one as I go again
In search of new vinegar and friends,
And who says a vampire has much to make
Whilst 'tis all for their crude sake?

At night! What a holy night;
And sounds ring and sing about me,
Those of bloodied hearts none shall see,
And I coldly devour again before the dawn;
And be asleep in the afternoon,
To wake up to the solitary moon.

At night! What a clouded light;
And voices entrap me in unison,
Throwing about new destinations;
In which my rough food shall satisfy me
And intensify my rugged beauty,
As I have no halos under the sun.

At night! What a trembling sigh;
But to me all skies are not too high,
And heights shall ask me to play,
Basking my life in the glory of those days.
And who is the sun, to seep into me,
I am dead, just like I was meant to be.

At night! What a coloured weep,
Of everyone in their drowned sleep,
But who says a sleep is peaceful,
Alight in hell, and be healed painful;
And be astonished for days after,
Feeling like life in short is forever.

At night! What an adorned heart
Whose one can cheer from afar;
But to humans, love may be distant
So soon as there rises a new moment;
I, who cannot feel tinges of emotion
And its cursed, fatal passions.

At night! What a demure feel
That one may just fall ill,
For neither I nor they have shared passion;
My life is too full of temptations.
And who should soar into the night -
All love to praise the faint daylight.

At night! What a sanguine wish
That one may just cold kiss,
They wish they couldst do in person
With no reason, no concoction;
But what is a wish not so bright
That we canst only witness in daylight?

At night! What a passioned chest
That should be put to rest,
Hath it undergone too many tests,
Between the East and West,
And the fatality of our hunger,
That feels eternal, and lives forever?

At night! What a loving heat
That I feel all in a single beat;
That I am not cold in cold any more,
That I can see now, unlike before;
To attain such quietness, and peace -
To dream and be alight in midnight bliss.

At night! What a loving heart
That I crave for from miles apart;
And I just know that I love you,
And your eyes, being too human
I knew they would be true,
But could I still see you then?

At night! What a new love;
That was born from the hunt
That none wishes for, nor wants
But I was there, waiting for thee
Behind the furry fir tree
That one hath died, and another
Is born, to bind me forever

At night! What forbidden love;
For 'tis a human again, and madly
I have fallen in love too badly;
In my flights, my giddy travels
I may have fallen too naively
That I cannot stay behind the wheels.

At night! What a love in profusion
Dead then, but not in union
Ah, but 'tis all a story
Not in life, for I do love to tell
That I shall not feel deep, nor sorry
For love hath always been a hell

At night! What a love blooming
For one cannot stop cheering
In silence, like me, hearing
For another love to come, clearing;
That I can turn human, and to heaven
To a faith I should hasten

At night! What a love searing
All hate, all curses, all bearings
And I, a vampire, shall sing my song;
That I hath waited for love too long
But in my eternal life, o dear
Perhaps thou canst ne'er be here

At night! What a love tempting
And I cannot stop laughing
Until I am full of disgraced tears;
And not of untold fears
For fears are not mine, and not hours
We have no death, nor blurred hours

At night! What a love promise
For us to be wise, and kiss
I hath longed to have wedding bliss;
But again, I am not the first
For vampires 'tis all the worst;
I hath only my rhymes, my words!

At night! What a love story
That I canst only feel within me
And to swallow such gurgling tearsl
Wouldst be crowded, be weird
I hath no life to entertain me
Nor a lover to hear my poetry

At night! What a love tale
That I canst only relish in hell;
Perhaps, I am not like one my own,
In exhaust and fumes, I am alone
Under the stars and moon that know
I shall face every day, and tomorrow

At night! What a love kiss
That I dream of, like a butterfly
But all is indeed a tired lie;
In all eternity, hath I been cursed
And in all worlds, hath I hurt
For whose I hath no more words

At night! What a love wish
That I cannot blame mine, nor his
To all wise, that are not wise;
To all whiteness that is a lie
For love hath but been a thief to me
And a harm to my living sanity

At night! What a love charm
That I hath discarded from my arms;
For I cannot feel, nor see you
In growing anything anew,
I hath seen but too few
I cannot have you in my arms.

At night! What a love war
That I hath removed from my tales;
I hath shut myself off of the door
And be the one no-one tells,
Who shall choose not to be alight;
To love with softness and bright?

At night! What a love heart
And a soreness cast away
I hath not seen the night, nor day
And stayed stiff again, today;
I cannot play in the afternoon,
Nor face the loving, dancing moon.

At night! What a love joy
That I hath not to tease,
Nor to pleasantly annoy;
I hath turned to dust, and dust is me
Pale as the armour of my beauty,
Eternal to life, and I can be
Not to love, not to be free.
Mike Essig Apr 2015
If only I were a clerk
sent by some company
to inventory you.

I would be very
thorough.

Toes to nose,
thighs to eyes,
hips to lips,
north to south:

not one
delicious morsel
would I overlook.

Of course,

protocol would require me
to kiss, taste or touch
each lovely portion

for quality control.

Yes, I would be
painstakingly thorough
indeed.

That is a job
I could love.
   ~mce
Good work is hard to find these days...
I INSPIRED THIS SHOW, BUT THROUGH EMAILS, CAUSE SINCE DAD DIED
I HAVE BEEN TRYING TO BURY THAT OLD KODGER, YA SEE I KNOW DAD HELPED
A LOT OF PEOPLE, BUT TREATING ME LIKE A LITTLE SHY BOY, LIKE THE WAY
HE DID, WASN'T HELPING ME, I WAS TRYING TO BUILD MY LIFE, AND LIKE
NORMAL KIDS, I ARGUED WITH MY PARENTS, AND DAD, DESPITE HELPING
MY BROTHER AND MOTHER, AND OTHER MEMBERS OF THE COMMUNITY
AND FAMILY, HE REALLY NEVER HELPED ME, IN THE SAME WAY, HE SHOULD'VE
TRIED TO FIGURE OUT WHY I WAS FIGHTING HIM, I DON'T WANNA HEAR HIS
VOICE IN DEATH, SAYING, SHUT UP DUMMY, TO EVERYONE ELSE DAD HELPED THEM
TO ME, DAD LOOKED LIKE, THE OLD GRUMBLE *** FATHER, ON THE WONDER YEARS, IT LOOKED LIKE, HE WANTS TO TEASE, THERE ARE WAYS, FOR DAD
TO BREAK, HIS PRECIOUS ROUTINE, TO BE A BETTER FATHER TO ME, HEW
SEEMED TO THINK THAT I WANTED TO BE A LITTLE SHY BOY TO HIM, BACK THEN
IT FUCKEN MADE ME SCARED OF DAD, IN A WAY, AND ALL THAT TRIGGERED OFF
WHEN I TOLD THEM, YOUR NOT MY REAL PARENTS, TO TELL YOU THE TRUTH
DAD WAS A LITTLE SHY BOY, CAUSE HE SO NAIVE, THINKING I WANTED TO
BE TREATED LIKE A COOL KID, OR A MANS KID TO A FIGHT, I DID ALL THAT
TO TRY AND EXPLAIN TO DAD, THAT, I DON'T WANT TO BE A COOL KID TO HIM
DAD WAS SQUARE, VERY SQUARE, AND DESPITE ME TRYING TO UNDERSTAND
HIM, I STILL THINK DAD WAS SQUARE, NOW, I KNOW PAT ISN'T MY DADDY, BUT
HE HELPED ME MORE THAN DAD DID, LIKE SHOWING ME HOW TO BE COOL
DAD DIDN'T WANNA BE COOL, BUT I HATED DADS DISCIPLINE, RIDUAL, LIKE
TRYING TO STOP ME FROM BEING A BIG MANS KID, PLAYING SHOWS IN MY ROOM
EVERY TIME I SQUABBLED WITH DAD, I HATED HOW, HE WAS TRYING TO GET
THE L;AST FUCKEN WORD, I TRIED TO BE A COOL KID TO DAD, BY JOKING LIKE
A COOL KID DOES, BUT MAYBE DAD WAS WORRIED ABOUT THE TEASING LIKE
ALL PARENTS, YEAH, LIKE ALL KIDS, I HATED, BEING THE YMCA'S DIRECTORS SON
BUT, THIS WAS DADS LIVELIHOOD, I CAN'T STOP DAD, TRYING TO BE A GOOD FATHER, LATELY, I HEAR DADS VOICE SAYING, SHUT UP DUMMY, I AM NOT DUMB
I AM A NORMAL PERSON, WITH A SLIGHT INTELLECTUAL DISABILITY, AND DAD
TREATING ME LIKE A LITTLE SHY BOY, MADE ME FEEL, LIKE A REAL LOSER, WELL
NOW DAD, HAS TO YA KNOW PROVE HIMSELF TO ME, AND BUDDHA WITH ADVICE
FROM ME, PUT DAD IN LISA CAMPBELL'S ******, AND HIS FATHER IS DAVID
CAMPBELL, TO TRY AND SHOW, ME, WHAT DAD WAS DOING, CAUSE, I REALLY
HATED, BEING TREATED LIKE A LITTLE SHY BOY LIKE THE WAY DAD TREATED ME LIKE ONE, IT WAS SHOWING, THAT DAD WAS IN FAVOUR, OF THE HORRIBLE
TEASING THAT WAS HAPPENING, I THINK MY VOICES, HAVE MORE PROTECTION
THAN DAD, EVER COULD, I KNOW DAD, DROVE ME TO BASKETBALL GAMES
AND TO FRIENDS HOUSES, BUT THIS SQUABBLING WITH HIM AND MUM, GARBAGE
I REALLY HATED, I HATE BEING TREATED LIKE DAD, AROUND MY HOUSE, I HATE
BEING TREATED LIKE A COOL KID TO A TEASE, TO ANYONE, I HATE TEASING
FUCKEN LEAVE ME ALONE, YOU BIG OLD FOGIE, DAD, ALL YOU WERE DAD
IS AN OLD FOGIE, AND DESPITE ME TRYING TO REACH OUT TO YOU, YOU
STILL WANTED EVERYONE ELSE TO LIKE YOU, AND CARE ABOUT ME, I WALKED
AROUND CIVIC ALL NIGHT, CAUSE NATURALLY I WAS WORRIED ABOUT GOING
HOME AND BEING TREATED LIKE A LITTLE SHY BOY, SO I HUNG AROUND THE
CIVIC, TRYING TO BE A YOUNG DUDE, I TOLD DAD TO **** A LEMON, IN THE
NOTION, DAD WILL SAY, I DON'T WANT TO TEASE, BRIAN, BUT, WHAT IS WRONG
WITH ME HAVING AN IMAGINATION, IT'S BETTER THAN DADS ****** NOTION
OF ME BEING TOO SHY FOR THE REAL WORLD, CAN'T DAD MISS THE FUCKEN
NEWS, TO TRY AND UNDERSTAND, HIS SON, AS OPPOSED TO TRYING TO SQUABBLE WITH ME, I KNOW DAD HELPED, BUT I HATED DAD DOING ALL THIS
HE WAS A REAL ******, YEAH I WAS NICER TO MY MATES, BUT DAD WAS
TO ME AN OLD GRUMBLE ***, AND I THOUGHT DAD WAS A LITTLE SHY BOY,
ALL BECAUSE, I DESTROYED HIS AURA, THIS SHOW EXPLAINS, HOW I VISIONED
DAD BEFORE ALL THIS LITTLE SHY BOY CRAP, A NICE MAN WHO HELPS HIS
KIDS HANDLE THE REAL WORLD, BUT IN THE 80S, I VISIONED DAD, AS A
STUPID OLD KODGER, WHO IS SCARED, OF HIS KIDS GETTING TEASED
TAKING MY FOOTY AWAY, CALLING ME DUMMY, TRYING TO TREAT ME LIKE AN
ADUKT, NOBODY WANTS TO BE, STOPPING ME FROM BEING A YOUNG DUDE
IN THE WRONG WAY, I KNOW DAD TRIED TO HELP, BUT, I HATED BEING TREATED
LIKE A LITTLE SHY BOY LIKE THAT, I WANT TO LIVE MY LIFE LIKE IT'S ONE BIG
ADVENTURE, DAD, MOVE FUCKEN ON TO DAVID AND LISA CAMPBELL'S FAMILY
WITH ROBIN WILLIAMS, STOP SAYING SHUT UP DUMMY, LET ME BE COOL, YO ****
Mohd Arshad Apr 2014
Bravo! My little lizard
In the stillness of night
When the cacophony is dead
And men keep to their comfort
And all creatures make a comeback
Thou creep to my wall
And hunt for your preys

Thou alone in our world
Walk dauntless of shadows and ghosts

In my bed I lie
Watching thy journey
And that pushes me out of my bed early
To earn my livelihood under the burning sun
LD Goodwin May 2014
1.
You can never go home,
not to the home you left.
When you leave, you get bigger.
Not necessarily in girth, but in consciousness.
When you come back,  everything,
even the walls of your parent's house,
seem to have shrunk.

2.
Look.....
Here comes the parade.
With its paper mache floats
and twirling batons.
Cub scouts and boy scouts,
all in a neat blue and drab green row,
followed by a high school marching band
playing "Stars and Stripes Forever".
From bygone wars, limbless surviving soldiers flinch with every cymbal crash.

3.
I watched billows of cottonwood clouds
swirl down a summer hometown avenue,
they met on the street corner for a song........
"Alley Oop", or "I Like Bread And Butter"
These ghostlike voices will live there forever,
innocent, asleep, numb, waiting.
Soon, the postman will bring your future.
Soon, you will be just a number on a lotery ball.
Soon, you will have to dissect luck or fate.

4.
I took my 87 year old Father to gather his tools
from his long time place of work.
The instruments of his livelihood.
He did not need them anymore, he had retired.
Some tools he had used since World War II,
some he made for a specific job.... never to use again.
All neatly placed in toolboxes built in the 30s and 40s,
yet not a trace of rust.
These were the tools of a tradesman,
a (Tool and Die Man).
He once told me, “Son, if I can’t fix it because I don’t have the right tool, I will make the tool”.
I thought him to be Superman.
But there I was, loading up my Father’s history,
to take home, to be sold to the highest bidder.  
I myself have made my living playing music for audiences.
I also have tools.
Guitars, amplifiers, harmonicas, microphones.
There will come a day, in the not too distant future,
when I will have to “retire” the instruments of my livelihood.
Though I will not be as stoic as my World War II Father,
I will go kicking and screaming to the pawn shop,
remembering every song that fed me,
and every chord that made people dance.
Middlesboro, KY May 29, 2014
My child bearing years, you see
But nothing can replace the intoxication
Of a new pair of lips and limbs when the clock strikes midnight
Forever at my lips, bidding adieu to sobriety
I can follow and fall into the arms of a new sincerity
Unburdened by half-baked promises, letters of stress and civil warfare
I can be your wife, I can be your life
But only for a night

Forever at my lips bidding adieu,
This is a dance I love to do
My nature proclaims a livelihood of attraction
A constant hunger and desire for justification
My dance I continue
I waver into the night
A flimsy frolic in the daze of whiskey
Lips and limbs anew
A dance of forgiven sins and Spanish limbs
A dance of forgiven sins and German fingertips
A dance of forty five minutes and millions of pelvic on my hips
This is my dance, not his.

The partners come and go
But the dance is me.
I am the ringmaster
My name belongs to me.
Forever alight with song and dance

A chance of meeting a new thrill
The intoxication of one night spill
A class of movies and sin
A dance that begs for gin.


This is my dance, my dance is me
You can join, but not in sobriety.

A cuddle or two is nice aftercare,
But the idea of true love is a story hard to bear
A few limbs, millions of genitals makes my fix
For my dance is me, my dance is I
Burning ablaze in the wake of the night
I am me, you are not
My dance is me, My dance is I

Forever forever engraved in my soul
A dance of my own
A life made for me, made for the rich lining that resides in my whole.

I am whole. I am me. I am the dance with or without sobriety.
Come hither, jealousy.
Amanda Jean Oct 2016
I am frustrated.
I am at fault.
I am not at fault.
I am trying but
I am wasting away.
I push forward
But you push back.

And I am so confused
Together? Apart? What do we do?
Place blame
Take blame
Ignore the fact that it happened?
Continue forward
Move on
But together or separate?

What is deserved?
My wallet
My livelihood
My cigarettes and gas money?
My heart
My feelings
My emotions
My body?

Push it to the limits
But what for? For us? For you? Is it worth it?
For you. For this.
Why?
Your worth?
Your heart and mind and soul?
Can we make it
Or will we break?
Jay M Wong Mar 2013
Captured by a passing gust, minute petals dance in the warmth of the heavy air. The sun rests overhead; its blinding, piercing rays, malicious in warmth, scorch the innocent earth. The air is hot and heavy – suffocating, if not, stifling. There lacks any existence of life in this barren wasteland. It is a dry and it is dead; the depleted desert stretches for miles and all that could be seen is but the dry terrain – the earth and sand engulfing everything that was once there. And still the minute petals dance in the blazing heat; their owner, a withered flower, suffers the harshness of the burdened terrain. Whether it be the blazing heat or the heinous droughts, the flower struggles for survival, its florid beauty, withered, but it continues to exist and play the role Someone gave.

I was born – their first baby.  I had inherited all my precursors’ failed dreams and was burdened at birth by their expectations and goals. I was to achieve what they failed to achieve, be what they failed to be. I was to walk in their footsteps and finish their unfinished business. My parents were the first to set foot on American soil; hoping to succeed in this new society, they had set valuable goals for themselves – which unfortunately they failed to complete. And knowing that their desires were no longer achievable, they bestowed their past dreams to the next generation.

Did I first hate their burden blaming Someone for placing me into the heavy shackles of the past. I felt their goals, a mountain of failure, upon my shoulders. I was drowning deep in the ocean of my precursors – their dreams, their desires, a treacherous wavefront upon my chest. I was a vassal made to fulfill the dreams left behind. I was a culprit perished in the barren lands. But above all, I was blind.

My mother was burdened by my birth; her dreams, a shattered mirror, were no longer a reality. In order to nurse my toddler self, her desires were put aside, as she worked multiple jobs to support not only our new family, but the existing family consisting of my father and his siblings, due to the death of their mother months before my birth, and the abscondment of their father to flee financial issues. She had sacrificed her livelyhood and personal dreams for the family's posterity. She had forfeit her wishes to a foul hindrance, one whom abolished her hopeful dreams: me – my birth, an anchor upon her merchant barge.

Yet, numerous times have I waken in the midst of night to find a glaring beam beneath the door; its illuminating glow, penetrates my room through the confined entrance. It was my father finally home. He was never someone to talk to for he was always at work; he was never home for his restaurant never permitted; he was never present at my birthdays but cake was bought from his sweat and soul. And often would I not see his face for months due to our disarranged schedules. Had I hated him for his absences. But now do I love him for his sacrifices. He had trusted the next generation with his heart and soul, and his absences were solely to support his loved ones.

Had I not understand, beclouded by the mist of Why me’s and I cant’s, but now do I find their bestowment a gift. Slowly, have I grown to understand; their pain, their suffering were merely a token for my success. They have gambled their livelihood solely for my efforts; it is something simple I love you’s will never equate; their debt, I must attempt to repay – sole gratitude will never recuperate the wounds of a broken dream. Their wounds tears my eyes when I envision them. Their ideals yields a weight upon my chest. Their agony crumbles my heart like an unneeded paper. In the past, did I not understand their ways but now have I realized the blessing they bestowed upon me.

Therefore, I was granted their heritage and must fate drive me to abide by its path. Do I now understand the pain they have suffered and the sacrifices they have made. I was born into a family of high hopes and expectations – I was their withering flower. Have I grown to accept that role – to shadow my precursors hoping to shatter their traditional defeat; it is the role Someone gave. And He will never be blamed again for He will rid this blazing heat and treacherous terrain so that this flower will cease to wither but bloom in the autumn air.
Originally an essay that was written as part of a college application in 2010. Now, it is a fragment of a biography.
uzzi obinna Oct 2015
I want to be a king,
Not the king who wants to boast with the title attached to his name;
Not the king to whom only exercise of power and authority is his aim;
Not the king whose work is only meant to bring him fame;
Not the king who will blame others but himself will he not blame.

I want to be a king,
The kind of king whose heart is broken when his people are in pain;
The kind of king who considers the comfort of his people as great gain;
The kind of king who will ensure that his people are never slain;
The king who will encourage love among his people but hate he will restrain.

I want to be a king,
Whose interest is to search diligently to find something vital to do in a man’s life;
A kind of king who will fight immorality and would not desire another man’s wife;
A kind of king who will encourage peace among his people by authorizing that they put away strife;
A king who could deprive himself of comfort if it means providing his people with a standard life.

I want to be a king,
The kind of king whose desire is not to be served but to serve;
The king who will not withhold the wage of the poor but pay every man exactly what he deserves;
The king who would rather die than see others starve;
The king who will not divert or misuse the funds in his nation’s reserve.

I want to be that king,
Who will win the trust of his people only by being trustworthy;
Who will place the interest and livelihood of his people firstly
That king who will always represent his people by acting and speaking justly;
The king who for the sake of the innocent, bring to judgement the guilty.
Nigel Morgan Jan 2013
Zuo Fen meets Jia Li and her child Hui Ying. The temporary guardian of the palace speaks with the help of one of the pack-horse men who understands something of the dialect this young woman owns. Zuo Fen would rather envelope Jia Li with her eyes than communicate in three-way speech. And so when Jia Li begins haltingly to tell the same tale told to Meng Ning the previous night Zuo Fen halts her translator with a gesture until the story – and this is what it appears to be – is told.

(Here Zuo Fen assumes the persona of Jia Li as part of her rhapsody titled The Sorcerer of Eryi-lou)

Alone in this crumbling palace
I guard my father’s charge,
He has been ill since late Spring
And I have disgraced my family
With a child whose father stayed
but a week trading horses.
Hui Ying was born here
And here we hope to stay.

I have now come to recognize
Many spirits of the past.
Mostly invisible I take them by surprise
In their mortal form; meeting a lady
And her maid on the hall terrace;
Seeing two men bent over
A game of go in a lesser chamber.
Music and the sound of poetry float
Variously through the many rooms.
The aroma of food comes and goes.
The burning of incense is ever present.

For many seasons my village supported
Palace life during the Emperor’s summer visits.
We provisioned and provided animals
For food and transport. Our young men,
Our women too were propositioned
For the more elaborate practices of the court.
Twenty summers long the palace secured for us
a livelihood beyond expectation.

Over time the events of the Emperor’s
Last sojourn in the palace became
For us the stuff of legend, though we do not
Embroider its story and have remained silent
Out of respect for the Emperor’s memory.
We know his son has rarely ventured here.

Let me only tell what has come from
my father’s lips, what he as a young man
Witnessed and through his guardianship
Has protected and honoured. He was chosen
By officials of the Emperor as a trusted servant,
A man who would oversee what had been precious,
What had been valued here, and is still deemed to be.

My father has spoken to me of the disappearance
Of the Emperor’s second wife with the sorcerer Yang Mo,
A disappearance witnessed by the whole company of visitors,
By the Emperor himself, and his son. I am charged to tell
Of this only to those bearing Emperor Wu’s seal.  Know I speak
With all truth and honesty in lieu of my father’s presence.

Amongst the many guests honoured by the Emperor
The sorcerer Yang Mo arrived by invitation
To spend part of the third season at Eryi-lou.
Already well-known to the court he had come
At the express wish of second wife Xie Jiu.
It is said that he created many remarkable illusions.
Unusual objects and rare animals were summoned to appear,
Rain fell and winds blew inside the Emperor’s hall,
There were piercings of flesh and limbs seemingly severed.
One morning it is said Yang Mo caused a boat
To appear on the lake, thereby at odds with the legend
That no vessel should ever touch its surface. Forthwith,
The Emperor decreed that such sorcery should
cease. But he was discouraged by second wife Xie Jiu
Who wished to visit the boat and sail on the lake.
Yang Mo offered to escort her across the waters
And led the assembled company to a small beach where
A path of red slate had been laid.  This appeared from
within a cave in the hillside. From thence it travelled
to the water’s edge and beyond, under the water
in the direction of the magical boat. Yang Mo is said
to have brought wind and fire and smoke
To play upon the company, finally inviting Xie Jiu to step
On the Red Slate Path and accompany him across the waters.
The couple walked slowly down the path into the lake
Gradually divesting themselves of their garments
As the waters consumed them. Then, before their very eyes
The Emperor’s guests and entourage saw the boat
Enveloped in a pall of smoke and disappear from view.
Yang Mo and Xie Jui were never seen again.

The Emperor was enraged, realizing suddenly
he had been tricked and made to look a cuckold
in front of his own court. In such a remote region
He had the slenderest of means available
to search for the missing couple. He resolved
to leave Eryi-lou immediately. Neither He or
His son nor his court has ever returned.


Allowing Jia Li to tell this tale without interruption had proved a right and wise decision. No sooner had the young woman realized her story had grasped the undivided attention of this celebrated courtesan than her words of description seemed to take on a rough poetry. Zuo Fen felt herself summoning unbidden images of the sorcerer’s illusions, moments of secret and forbidden congress between Yang Mo and Xie Jiu, the appearance of the sailing vessel from the early morning mists, the lovers slowly processing down the Red Slate Path, the disbelief and then fury of the Emperor.
      When Jia Li had taken leave to comfort her infant child Zuo Fen called Mei Lim to summon Meng Ning. She was clearly troubled by how her autumn visions from the west had brought her to this place and its unforeseen legacy of magic and deceit. The illusion of the sailing vessel and the walk into the lake on the Red Slate Path, both were elaborate and well-contrived artifices. They required skilled assistants and collaborators and the most careful planning. Sitting in silence opposite one another the courtesan and the chamberlain set their minds to consider the possible and elaborate trickery that might have been brought to bear on the complicit theft of the Emperor’s second wife. It seemed clear that all official record of what had passed had been expunged, and the Emperor had decided to abandon not only his summer sojourn but also his palace - immediately and forever.
        Zuo Fen wondered at the fate of the lovers. There could be no future for them within the known territories of the Empire. Their lives would have to begin again far distant. The province of Yunnan perhaps? But she laid that thought aside.

(to be continued)
Nairi Kalpakian Jul 2015
Angel sits on her bed talking to her boyfriend, they’ve dated for two months and he says that’s enough.

“Ang think about me, think about us, do it for us”.

Angela is hesitant but her gaze remains fixed at the ceiling lamp, a moth in a trance

Keeps bumping into it making audible clinks

Angela opens her mouth slightly, hesitantly

“Where are you, Baby, I’ll come to you right now.”

“You’re gonna do it?”

“I’m ready, yes. I trust you and Love You with my heart Baby.”

“That’s what I wanna hear, I’ll leave the door unlocked. You are the Best.”

The call ends and the screen on her phone goes dim

It was a breezy evening, Angela decided to dress appropriately

One arm through the sleeve, then the other, then one leg through the pant, then the other

Shoes, socks, watch

Appropriate

Lock the door, hop on the bike, which she learned to ride

At nine years old, the crux of her life, a little later than most

She learned to go fast at ten, to catch up

A left at 11th, and straight down three blocks to Baby’s place

Illuminating the whole street at 12:00

The door was unlocked like he said and she entered like she said

“I’m here, are you ready?” “Yes, please go ahead.”

Angela had never done this before but she loved her Baby so much

So, she started with her hands by making a slight incision at the webbing between her thumb and pointer

All it took was a slight tug to peel off an inch of her skin, and then more, and then more and then more

Until her whole left hand was exposed to the elements, to Baby’s great delight

“More”

She nodded with a slight smile on her face, and began to scrape off the rest of her arm

Muscles and tendons revealed themselves, twitching slightly as if surprised by their own existence

“Get it all off! Stop teasing! I love you, I want more!”

Baby laughed and Angela made sure to laugh louder as she tore away to reveal her deltoid and her pectorals across her chest

Next her stomach went, then her crotch, her skin making hollow thuds on the floor whenever they fell

She wasn’t very neat but after all, this was her first time.

The frenzy of the moment left Ang breathless, so this is True Love she thought, blood and mirth

Baby held her all night long and traced his fingers across each strand of tissue, not afraid

Angela could feel every individual filament in her left arm tense and flex and squelch to supply her livelihood, their livelihood

And she smiled for herself, the greatest sacrifice she could give, and all for Baby

tearing herself apart made her feel complete!
Tommy Johnson Mar 2015
Hello doctor I'm in so much pain
I will pay any amount to make it go away
You see, my head is pounding and I can't see
My burned throat is what's really ailing me
Not even my shattered heart hurts this bad
These lacerations are making me go mad

I need to speak but it hurts so much
I need a vocal crutch
The wounds filled with **** and misery
Why oh why has karma done this to me?
Shouldn't have been a loud mouth
So my throat is closed now

There must be some sort of pill to heal me
Perhaps a shot, a needle, yes a vaccine
It strangles me from the inside out
I can't even scream for help
No I can't make a sound
I'm asking for a remedy
Oh please I'm begging on my knees

Worst pain I've ever felt
Inability to talk
Choke in my sleep
Nightmare where I'm in a sonic lock

Inflamed
Engulfed
Infected
And swollen
I fear
Ill never
Ever
Speak again

Worst pain I've ever felt
Inability to talk
Choke in my sleep
Nightmare where I'm in a sonic lock

I need to speak but it hurts so much
I need a vocal crutch
The wounds filled with **** and misery
Why oh why has karma done this to me?
Shouldn't have been a loud mouth
So my throat is closed now

Lost my voice
To the pain
Lost my choice
It was slain
And now I wither in silence
Doctor, doctor gimme your compliance
Sahil Suri Aug 2013
Discordant
yet innately harmonious
a cacophony of noise
shrouding my body
the harsh
empowering light
battering from above

the oppressive
heat and humidity
caressing my body as I walk

Barefoot on the open gravel

Shouts are heard
from countless merchants
from the shops and bazaars
the honking of horns
the ringing of bells
from bikes
and motor rickshas

people bustle around
performing a dizzying range of tasks
yet all working
to a common goal
to survive

Yet amidst the chaos
Children run through the streets
weaving between countless giants
to sate their desire for fun
and exercise their fragile innocence

unmarred by the horrors of the world.

India...
A beautiful mess
of livelihood and dreams of success
a true cultural experience for the senses
While it may not seem the most appealing at first
I don't know how else to stress
an amazing experience for all who enter nonetheless
Sa Sa Ra Dec 2012
A Native American Code of Ethics
                                                       ­         *From Shaman Cloud & the FireBear



1.      Rise with the Sun to pray. Pray alone and pray often. The Great Creator Spirit will listen when you speak. Find the peace that comes from being alone.

2.      Be tolerant of those who are lost on their paths. Ignorance, conceit, jealousy, anger and greed stem from lost souls. Pray that they find guidance.

3.      Search for yourself by yourself. Do not allow others to make your path for you. It is your road and yours alone. Others may walk it with you, but no one can walk it for you.

4.      Always give your best to others; your company gets the best bed, blanket and food. Treat them with respect and honour.

5.      Do not take anything that is not yours. If something was not earned or given it is not yours.

6.      Respect all of the things that are placed upon this Earth. People, animals, plants and rocks are all children of the Great Creator Spirit. Honour their place in the chain of life. We are all interconnected.

7.      Honour other people’s thoughts wishes and words. Give each person your attention and allow them expression. When you give an idea away, you no longer own it. If someone uses your idea, you take no credit. If someone doesn’t use your idea you take no offense. Your ideas are no longer yours as soon as you give them away.

8.      Practice Optimism. If you put negative energy into the Universe, it will multiply and return to you. All people make mistakes. Mistakes can be forgiven. Bad thoughts cause illness of body, mind and spirit.

9.      Nature is not for us, it is part of our sacred family. Live in balance with all of nature. Tread softly on Mother Earth.

10.  Children are the seeds of our future. Plant love in their hearts and water them with wisdom and life’s lessons. When they are grown, give them space to be themselves.

11.  Be truthful at all times. Honesty is the test of one’s will within the Universe.

12.  Keep yourself balanced. Consider that your mental, physical, spiritual, emotional and volitional selves must work on harmony at all times.

13.  Make conscious decisions as to who you will be and how you will react to life. Accept the consequences of your own actions.

14.  Always respect the privacy and personal space of others. Never touch the personal property of others, especially sacred items.

15.  Be true to yourself. You can not nurture and help others until you can nurture and help yourself. Live your truth/

16.  Respect the religious beliefs of others. Never force your beliefs on anyone else.

17.  Share your good fortune with others. Tithe and participate in charity.
Always give back to others, that they too may have a good life.

18.  Always walk your thoughts before you make important decisions. Find your place of inner peace and operate from there. Walk in peace that others may do the same.

http://motherpeace.net/A%20Native%20American%20Code%20of%20Ethics%20by%20Firebear.htm

­This originally appeared in the "Inter-Tribal Times," October, 1994
http://www.nativevillage.org/Inspiration-/nativeamericancodeofethics__.htm


The Afu-Ra-Kans, (Africans),
were always happy to teach the human family that which was beneficial to all.
The following is a portion of the first constitution.
You can find the full version in aforementioned book by Scholar Chancellor Williams.


1. The right to equal protection under the law.
2. The right to a home.
3. The right to land sufficient for earning livelihood for one€™'s self and family.
4. The right to aid in time of trouble.
5. The right to petition for redress of grievances.
6. The right to criticize and condemn any acts by the authorities or proposed new laws. A. Opposition groups were recognized by law.
7. The right to reject the community'€™s final decision on any matter and the right to withdraw from the community unmolested; the right to rebellion and withdrawal.
8. The right to a fair trial. A. There must be no punishment greater than the offense or fines beyond the ability to pay. B. Fines are determined by the income status of the individual and family of that individual.
9. The right to indemnity for injuries or loss caused by others.
10. The right to family or community care in case of sickness or accidents.
11. The right to special aid from the Chief in circumstances beyond a family'€™s ability.
12. The right to a general education covering morals and good manners, family rights and responsibilities, kinship groups and social organization, neighborhoods and boundaries, farming and marketing, rapid mental calculation and family, ****, tribal and state histories.
13. The right to apprentice training for a useful vocation.
14. The right to an inheritance as defined by custom.
15. The right to develop one'€™s ability and exercise any developed skills.
16. The right to protect one€™s family and kinsmen, even by violent means if such becomes necessary and can be justified.
17. The right to protection of moral law in respect to wife and children, a right which not even the King can violate.
18. The right of a man, even a servant, to rise to occupy the highest positions in the state, if he has the requisite ability and character.
19. The right to protection and treatment as a guest in enemy territory, once one is in the gates of the enemy's village, town or city.
20. The right to an equal share in all of the benefits from common community undertakings, if one has contributed to the fullest extent of his ability, no matter who or how many were able to contribute more.

The Afu-Ra-Kan, (African),
constitution teaches the world that the human being is endowed with fundamental, inalienable,
God given rights.
Every human being is entitled to these rights.
In this original society, in Afu-Ra-Ka, (Africa), women were equally endowed with these rights.
The King could not violate the constitution and deny any human being his or her God-given rights.
The King could not violate any human being, because of the belief that every human being is the house for the soul and spirit of the Divine Creator.

This is the philosophy of the Afu-Ra-Kan, (African):
Every human being, whether male or female, is the house for the soul and spirit of the Divine Creator.
It is time now for the Black man and woman to become Afu-Ra-Kan, (African), again.
It is time for the Black man and woman to teach, once again, that all human beings, Black, Brown, Red, Yellow and White, have the potential to become the house for the soul and spirit of the Divine Creator.

This philosophy must be taught to all people, regardless of race, class, color or creed.
It is up to the Afu-Ra-Kan, (African), to stand up for the fundamental rights of every human being, regardless of race, class, color or creed.
The prophets taught this philosophy.
Jesus taught this philosophy.

Let us all strive to be Afu-Ra-Kan, (African):
Male and female houses for the soul and spirit of the Divine Creator.
*

Thank you for reading these words.*
http://www.thankaboutit.org/gpage3.html
Indeed; 'It is time now for' All Men and Women 'to become Afu-Ra-Kan, (African), again.'
"Male and female houses for the soul and spirit of the Divine Creator"

The Heavenly Spirit with this Our Earthly Existence!!
UNITE WITHIN
Star Dust, R

Afu Ra Ka
Which reminds me...Sa Sa!!!
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/in-lakech-ala-kin/

Been a while sorry I am behind on reads,
overly buzzed busier reading these;
~Hearts Of All~~
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/my-needs-deep-of-all/
~Sa Sa LOVE!!!
..R~~

Visual Reinforcement;
Facebook pics here only!!

~Spirit of the Divine Creator,
Inwardly Received...~~
~Without is as Within,
Inwardly Reflected~~
https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=449340938461153&set;=a.422381444490436.98406.100001557525105&type;=1&theater;

Time To Unite
https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=449341261794454&set;=a.422381444490436.98406.100001557525105&type;=1&theater;

Earth Will Be Reborn
https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=449341148461132&set;=a.422381444490436.98406.100001557525105&type;=1&theater
PNasarudheen Jun 2013
Justice loves injustice
Doctor loves disease
Foreman  loves damages
Livelihood for  the sages.
I cry for justice bold ,sold
In deaf  ear for years old.
Justice or my lawyer ,unjust
Put off  hearing , file in dust.
Democracy or Bureaucracy
Suffocate in  ugly Autocracy.
Political labour;  unions cruel
Compel  the subjects   crawl.
Equality , freedom, justice
Sweet for poster slogans  
Pay and use  roads  lead us
Pitiably to the island Mess
Of  Fuss , hiss; kiss of miss
As frogs spring over   Bliss.
— for the American Mustang



Strung up on one leg, bled dry while alive,
unloaded off trailers crammed full
of the crippled and blind —mares
giving birth on three legs, foals trampled
by stallions, and a wave of fear
hovering over tossing manes
like the sea after Moby **** surfaced
for the first time. Last year,

135,000 horses died —

rounded up in hundreds and sent
off to slaughter like feeder goldfish,
three stops from Canada
or Cabo, displaced from plains
once revered for their livelihood.

In 1969, Vonnegut
wrote, “And so it goes…”

In 2061, our children will ask about the wild
horses who used to live in their backyards
as they catch the last fireflies and bottle
them up in jars, flickering and dying
like tired bulbs giving up on electricity —

2015 sees Henderson, Nevada grasses paying tribute
to power-plant-lines and a suburb built
on Tralfamadore fiction: house-mounds
and picket fences caging domesticated dogs,
curb-lined streets and caution signs, billboard
warnings of humanity’s fixation with progression,
combined like coffee with an overabundance
of half-and-half and too much sugar — only 99 cents
at Dunkin down a little ways, and home
to the dreamers who forget the word freedom.
The word  I don’t like is  "independent"
In this vast universe everything is " interdependent"
There is no scope for vanity
Even for the richest man in the Vatican city

For our shirt we need a button
And a sick man may need mutton
To get our shoes mended, we need a cobbler
If we go to hotel, we want a server

The church needs a preacher
A mosque needs a prayer
The temple needs a priest
And the depressed soul Jesus Christ

For our travel we need a bus
And for our livelihood a money purse
A scientist needs laboratory
A politician wants idolatry

The list is endless
Nothing is useless
The tiniest thing like a pin has its utility
None should over estimate their priority
Heading up the coast a ways
The fog wall rolling in
Couldn't make out where we're going
Much less see where we've been
It covered like a blanket
A black hole by the sea
It was like something from a movie
One that now was starring me
The road lines were invisible
As we ventured through the mist
I couldn't see a single thing
I'm sure you get the gist
We pulled off at a sign of life
A diner on the side
We figured we'd be safe here
And rest some from our ride
The hostess seemed quite startled
When we entered from the gloom
You'd have think she'd seen a spirit
As she led us through the room
"No one's out on nights like these"
"The sane folks hunker down"
"A fog like this could last for days"
We said we're from out of town
We asked about a haven
Somewhere we could get a bed
She told us of an old place
Run by a fellow known as "Red"
She made a reservation
While we were waiting for our meal
Told "Red" we'd be there rightly
He could not disguise his zeal
"Not many folks come out this way"
"At least not for the night"
"The fog here is monotonous"
"It gives most folks a fright"
You could hear the rolling thunder
of the waves upon the shore
But, beyond that you heard nothing
Not a sound came through the door
"Red' said if we were willing
He'd tell us 'bout the place
It was nautical in flavour
A real interesting space
He got our bags secured
And he came back to the fire
He said "What I'll say is all the truth'
"I'll not be called a liar"
The b and b we were now in
Was a lighthouse in years gone by
It stood upon this craggy cliff
To see that no one did not die
One hundred twenty years it stood
His family manned the light
There was always someone here to see
Sailors made it home at night
Ships were lost upon the rocks
From waves come straight from hell
The light was there to guide them
And the town had a large bell
Most times the ships weighed anchor
Stayed away and rode it out
But others, tried their mettle
They wouldn't turn the ship about
There were life boats manned and ready
To go and get survivors from the sea
I've been out many times myself
And I only saved three
The rocks and waves and currents
Take a body far from shore
if we don't get there right quickly
Then we'll n'ere see them no more
The light was a stern warning
That the rocks were looming fast
And if they didn't alter course
Then they surely wouldn't last
We asked who manned it nowadays
He said "no one at all"
It was run by automation
It all changed after the squall
A storm came in five years ago
The light was burning bright
But the snow and ice and wind
Were blocking it from sight
The boat went down without a trace
The boats were still left docked
We couldn't hear their sirens
All the boats remained here locked
They couldn't hear the fog horn
And the light would not shine though
They'd lost communication
And they took down thirty two
The government came in and said
"We have to make a change"
"We need a better lighthouse"
"One that has a longer range"
"So, they put in a new signal"
"Amped the horn and closed me out"
"I was allowed to live beneath her"
"So, I knocked a few things out"
"I opened up the "Lighthouse"
"Never thinking folks would stay"
"But, business has been steady"
"But, only on bad days"
"I've never been back to the light"
"Since they amped it up a notch"
"They took away my livelihood"
"It was a kick into my crotch"
"But, now I get a pension"
"And a few people like you"
"So, I sit here and tell stories"
"And you'll bet I know a few"
"But, now I see you're tired"
"Some advice and then good night"
"Make sure you wear the blindfolds"
"Because I can't turn out the light!!!"
Gourab Banerjee Sep 2015
Ship's my worship

It's my bread

My livelihood

  " everything

After all,I'm a Sailor- 06.09.2012,Thursday
Zach Willett Nov 2012
i am at the top of beggar’s peak
i have lived alone
i brew tea and sit serenely staring at the top of the world
the sky holds me in and i am thankful

i am wading in mudslap creek
i have swum alone
i splish, splash and stomp in the gold forest with all my livelihood
the earth holds me up and i am thankful

i am strolling in baldie woods
i have seen a home
i cut, craft and toil all the day long in perfect serenity
the world embraces me and i am thankful

i am dead in this gracious world
i have lived content
i breathed, climbed and sang all my life without wrong and all things were gold
the gods love on me and i am thankful
I’ve been listening to a lot of Willie Nelson lately,
A bootleg copy Outlaw Willie’s “Greatest Hits,”
Permanently inserted into the CD-player of my Honda:
An automobile preference,
An immediate dead giveaway,
A tag better than a license plate,
Useful for identification purposes,
Distinguishing friend from foe,
In this case a rolling, conspicuous enemy of
Detroit & rust belt environs.
Like other zombie-American consumers,
I **** the livelihood of my countrymen,
Once again, selling out friends & neighbors,
Doing my bit for Capitalism,
Exporting another job overseas.
I do my bit to help the 1%
Pay Labor back for the
Capitulations of the 1930s:
Unions winning concessions
In the street, pickets & strikes,
Boycotts & violence,
Largely mobbed-up violence.
Willie does a nice cover of “Heartbreak Hotel,”
Different, yet raw like Elvis,
And rocking.
But I digress.

So I’m thinking about the HOA Board,
(HOA: Home Owners' Association)
Local Thanes of Cawdor,
As if people over-55,
Living in gated lunacy,
Actually needed a 4th level of government.
The HOA Board turned down my landscape modification again.
Of course, they are just busting my *****.
They know I’m a hothead,
A deeply anti-authority type,
Forged in childhood in the street,
Through ringalevio & stickball,
“Your Mother” taunts,
******* contests,
Belly bumps,
Bones of contention,
In short: Brooklyn 101.
Retired now & for awhile I think
My problem with authority retired with me.
Just when I'm thinking
My lessons are finally done,
I realize there’s one more report card.
And Citizenship is a Grade:
“Plays Well With Others”
As it was for boys,
The measure of a man,
“It’s a community we have here,”
The HOA Doge & Ministerial Cohorts,
Conspiring to provoke
The sociopath in me, a fit description
For any would-be antagonist,
For anyone challenging
The Restrictions & Covenants,
Openly arrived at, in secret.
My neighbor,
Good Citizen Bernie
Reminds me that a community is
Entitled to know whom it’s dealing with.
The price of real estate not always
Effective for screening out
Potential psychopaths.
A determined caste-climber &
Boat rocker slips through now & then.
Insecure & angry because of it,
The schoolyard **** gone grey,
Yet hasn’t figured out the object of life is
To win friends & influence people.
Retirement: a Carnegie Deli &
Serenity Smorgasbord,
“Plays Well With Others.”
The HOA leadership has the right,
Has a duty to distinguish
The merely eccentric
From the clearly a present danger.
So they bust ***** about rules broken,
Code infractions, sordid violations,
Community norms transgressed.
Better you flip your wig
Under close observation & preparedness,
Than go off spontaneously.
One more massacre;
Another random bloodbath.
svdgrl Mar 2016
Do you solemnly swear or affirm that you will faithfully execute your role as a citizen in this democracy, and will to the best of your ability, preserve, protect and defend the constitution of the United States?

Do you expect your president to? Your congress?

You don't have to believe in politics because even if you don't
they will still exist.
They will still make decisions that effect your livelihood.
You could move away, sure, but if you lived here long enough,
you're an American.
And wherever you go, they will see you as your country.
They'll hear it when you speak.
You could refuse to preach for a country you're not proud of,
that's fine.
But the grumblings often heard from these masses, the complaints,
the horrified hushed whispers and the disdain,
those shouldn't be uttered either.
Those masses were the students in school who never received awards for participation,
they're embarrassed by their government but have never stepped foot in a polling booth, better yet, never even registered to vote.
I know, because I was one of them.
We know the arguments.
We all fear that our vote wont matter.
I'm part of a generation where it seems that
giving a **** isn't cool anyway.
Dank memes are meant to be liked and not followed up on.
Armchairs are in every home and those who sit in it keep it warm.
But there's more on our heads, guys.
And even more in our hands.
They can blame us left and right for the indifference we practice,
but we'll only justify it in our silence.
Give a ****.
Give two.
Sitting around in echo chambers
only results in deafening noise.
And you can't run away if you can't hear them coming.
And the voices, they sometimes make me sick to my stomach.
but I'm stronger than fear mongered puke.
And though it's "cooler" to bask in your sickness amongst my peers,
It doesn't move anything.
I don't need to know or be a minority personally to know that they're being hunted.
To believe their stories, that have been proven countless times anyway.
And I strongly believe that neither does anyone else.
Bystanding up to the man will result in blame games.
Do something. Even if it's not much.
There's promise out there.
You just have to make an oath to find it.
George Krokos Oct 2011
A fisherman casts his net out in the waters where fish are to be caught
then has to haul it back in again for the catch that his livelihood sought.
From "Simple Observations" - ongoing writings since the early '90's

— The End —