"mikes" poems
Integration that we clamour for
Disintegration we design for
Unity in Diversity: India’s facet
Diversity , disunity are in closet.
No national spirit acts in rescue;
No co-ordination glares unique.
Vitiated Political Ambitions snarl
At the stranded panicky people.
The Himalayan chill frozen minds
Eat , drink in star bars and mines.
Father of the Nation Gandhiji weeps
At Highway junctions in Idol forms.
Harijans weep , Girijans weep, but
None to keep promises highly put.
In Legislature Canteen Primary needs
Pitiably play shadow-dance; no deeds.
Votes and Whiskey stirred black- horses
Rush to mikes in spikes ; roar for votes!.
Illiterate poor and injured minds again
Ink : first- finger for a five year tension !
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 10:06 PM UTC
He spoke about Mike far from the Jackson but more like the color Brown.
As if whites love to see white since the lightest part of his body was in the air before his demise.
I think you should cut that dread off you know the one for Mike Brown since you weren't there. Far from a activist I honestly don't give a **** Far from an activist you're just adding fuel to extinguishing flames. You know how words spread like aids. People saw what they saw, so they say. You're no Martin you're no Malcom you're more like Powell.
This is when I knew I was a racist since all lives don't matter so you say.
If I was to die today in the hands of a white man. You wouldn't care since I'm light right.
Spanish boy on the mic.
Like if my daddy wasn't black as Wesley Snipes. But you know how the ***** daddy story goes.
Never home.
Left mama with a belly on her own.
They don't want to be the fathers but sure in hell they want to hit the daughters.
I prayed one day you'll walk through that door without the bottle. That's my only memory.
A dream.
So if I was to die today you wouldn't care or maybe for half
I mean my dad left me slung
Guess that changes the fact the left me hug like a pair Jays on the electrical line
Never to come by.
Never to teach how to ride a bike.
Never to teach me how to fight.
This is when I knew I was a racist.
Because I hate people, I hate crowded places.
I hate 34th street I hate 42nd.
I hate the city life
I should be somewhere in the country side.
But back to the matter tell me would you care if I die today in the hands of a white man.
What if I got killed by my enemy since minority violence is not a hate crime to society.
You see Tito got popped by Jahim
And Jahim lights went off in the middle of the night by Piddy
But these life's don't matter right
Is just minority violence
Is not the same media feed.
So for all you rappers, poets and activist whose saw Mikes hands up round of applause.
You're just like the media feeding in to what your eyes didn't see.
Is not about the truth anymore ******* but the ratings.
So to the special guest of honor poet I must tell you I'm a racist
I have 6 dead Spanish friends killed by all hands
Black, white and of time
Don't speak to me about justice
This wasn't Gardner or Bell
And if there's beef let me know I always keep a glock close.
My life won't matter to you like to yours won't matter to me.
But if that's what makes me a racist,
Mother ****** what are you?
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 7:38 PM UTC
I miss you like maps miss fingers,
Like mikes miss singers,
Like hells bells miss ringers,
Like bringers miss takers,
Like ******* miss fakers,
Like cakes miss bakers,
Like lakes miss boats,
Like bad swimmers miss floats,
Like politicians miss votes,
Like doting parents miss school plays,
Like nymphomaniacs miss lays,
Like hypochondriacs miss prescriptions,
Like ****** misses addictions,
Like carpets miss friction,
Like Billy Bunter misses midnight feasts,
Like the grim reaper misses grief,
Like Henry misses the good fellas,
Like sand sculptures miss umbrellas,
Like Rubix cube devotees miss puzzles,
Like rabid dogs miss muzzles,
Like Van Gough missed his brushes,
Like speed freaks miss rushes,
Like pens miss paper,
Like the Mona Lisa missed Pater,
Like the canvas misses the creator,
Like the thirsty miss water,
Like the hungry miss food,
Like ***** miss the lewd,
Like the mind misses mood,
Like the tides miss the moon,
Like the sane miss the loons,
Like the dark misses the light,
Like the brave miss the fright,
Like the kite misses the wind.
I miss everything.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 3:25 PM UTC
Dignified, sturdy, solid
In all it's equine glory
The fact Mike tried to ride it
Is quite another story
Mike was set to ride the steed
Down the beach to have his lunch
When the horse grabbed Mike's shirt
And then proceeded to just munch
The horse stood nearly 16 hands
Poor Mike stood five foot two
The horse looked down upon him
Most tall children looked down too
Mike steadied it to get aboard
From the left side as he should
He got up and grabbed the bridle
All was seeming pretty good
Mike leaned down to pat it
Lost his grip and tumbled down
The horse just didn't notice
And he peed upon the ground
Mike got up and mounted
Once again upon the steed
He bucked up once and threw him
Mike thought he must be off his feed
The troop of trail ride horses
Made their way along the beach
Mikes horse went on riderless
It was now far out of reach
Mike went back to the hotel desk
Called a cab to beat them all
He was not to be outdone
Just because he'd taken one small fall
He met them at the barbeque
The horses stood out in the field
Mike would eat his lunch and then
He'd make this **** horse yield
He came with a nice apple
and some sugar as a treat
The horse just looked down at him
And stamped on both his feet
While Mike just stood there steaming
The horse ran like a shot
The others were all mounted
And poor Mike's horse was not
It joined up with the others
Leaving Mike away in back
So, he phoned once more for a taxi
And formed a new attack
He was **** bound and determined
To get upon this horse
If not to go out riding
But for a picture, why of course..
He met them at the hotel field
To get his picture just for pride
It didn't matter to him now
That he never got to ride
He'd show the photo to his friends
Of the horse he rode around
Never telling him of his great fall
And how the horse tossed him to the ground
The fact he never rode it
Mike now considered moot
For the horse stood for the photo
And then pooped in Mike's left boot
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 11:41 PM UTC
Holy Crap,
They Sold My Name!
No big deal, your name, your email, bought n' sold daily,
Like a baseball card, your picture and vital stats are on the internet,
Your credit card in the fine print tells you they love you much,
But the data they collect, might get credited to such and such.
You're fair game if your sign up for anything.
Now I know I am getting on in years,
Tho spry rhymes with die, I flatly deny
Any notion that
My great beyond is just around the corner!
But Holy Crap,
They Sold My Name!
Got a color brochure
Suggesting that when my travels are over,
A nice place to rest my head might be
St. Michael's Cemetery.
St. Michael's Cemetery
7202 Astoria Blvd, East Elmhurst
(718) 278-3240
Friday hours 7:00 am–5:00 pm
In case you want to check it out too...
Tho I live not in the Borough of Queens County,
My zip code but a hop, skip and jump away,
The cemetery adjacent to the Grand Central Parkway
Which is actually quite thoughtful of
The mass marketer who dreamed up this scheme
(And got paid a plentiful amount of bounty).
My kids could wave as they drive by,
On the way to LaGuardia or JFK, (airports)
And say, guilt free, they visit me regularly!
Sadly, their plot foiled,
I will be buried in
New Jersey soil,
Near to my pop, who liked the
Wide open spaces of suburbia
And shopping on Route 4,
Where the selection is great
And there is no sales tax.
But Holy Crap,
They Sold My Name,
And I am now target marketed,
Niched, pretty soon the boys from AARP
Will come calling, reminding me of the gap
Tween Medicare and the poor house!
Ok ok, grow up you say, tho your hair is full,
And not even a hint of baldness shines forth,
Nonetheless, its color is zebra striped gray,
And when someone says they got my back,
I think, please, please take it and keep it....
Oh yeah,
Dear St. Mikes
You might ask for some of your money back,
Cause this sily scribe is a member of the tribe,
Some call "those ***** (hint: it rhymes with Mikes),"
It starts with K and ends in yikes!
But thanks for thinking of me anyway.
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 5:32 PM UTC
Let it go and so fade away
to let it go
Oh yeah and so fade away
To let it go on and so to fade away
Im wide awake
Wide awake
Im not sleeping
Oh no, no, no....
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 9:56 AM UTC
Cross cornered disposition
Weary eyes state my present condition
Reveling misinterpreted guides
Keycards lock the door
With me inside the floor
Blood dripping on me now
Mops began to plow
Yellow taped neighbors disavow
Red clocks separate events.
News mikes electrify the tents.
Reporting flesh
Reprising death
Writhing pain
Cross cornered disposition
Weary eyes state the present condition
Never fooled by green grass
It will leave me.
It will pass.
Dec 17, 2009
Dec 17, 2009 at 7:16 AM UTC
Baltimore
this is a love poem.
Baltimore
this is a break up poem.
Baltimore,
I remember
when I first
fell in love with you.
It was 2012
I wandered around the city
taking ****** pictures of street art.
Took free public transit.
Spent the afternoon
at the old, old red Emma's
back when it wasn't bougie.
Baltimore
I knew what you were
but I couldn't help it,
I fell in love.
Baltimore
I remember courting you,
thinking maybe I could call you
Home.
You
Greatest City in America
you
both
gentrified
and
run down
all at once.
In 2014
you held me
through my numbed out days,
through my drunken nights.
You
with your ****** transportation
that might or might not arrive.
You
with your gentrified Hampden
where I once heard a white man say he felt
"So safe."
You
with your burnt out building I climbed
with a girl
who'd one day leave me behind.
You
with your street cats,
street rats.
You
with the Royal Farms
that sold cheap Mikes Hards.
I could barely love myself,
but
I still loved you.
Baltimore,
I need you to know
that I will always care for you,
but somewhere along the way
something broke in me.
Baltimore,
you held me then,
still hold me even now,
but it's getting time
for me to move on.
It's not you,
it's me.
My restlessness,
my ungratefulness,
of what you've done for me.
My inability to value
potential stability,
potential community.
It's not me,
it's you.
It's all the same with you,
same scene,
same bars,
same parties.
Baltimore,
I love you,
I really do.
Baltimore,
I'm sorry,
but we need to take a break
long-term.
Need to start seeing
other people.
Don't cry,
it's better this way.
And besides,
you're not,
could never truly be
home.
Baltimore
this is a love poem.
Baltimore
this is a break up poem.
Baltimore,
maybe one day
when the dust settles
we can be friends.
But for now,
I need to leave.
I love you.
Good bye.
May 30, 2020
May 30, 2020 at 6:27 PM UTC
it’s Passover and my boyfriend sneaks wine
from a Gatorade bottle in a neighbor’s dorm,
gets a pack of vanilla scented candles on loan
and a Bic lighter from a friend who uses it
to smoke their **** behind campus on weekends,
and we light a pair on a rain soaked bench where
the wind keeps blowing them out and the lighter
burns my fingers as I cup them around the flame.
it’s Passover and I sit in the campus café, listening
to two girls on guitars crooning into the mikes
“If you’ll stay with me, then I’ll make it worth
your time,” while my iced coffee melts and
the spotlights turn their hair red and blue.
outside the April rain drizzles down and I
wonder how old I was the last time I went to
Confession as I smell the wine on my boyfriend’s
breath while tasting the coffee souring on mine,
and I think- are these are the best days of our lives,
then, Passover on a rainy Monday night while
guitars hum and our reflections in the windows
flicker and warp, faint like candle light.
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 12:07 AM UTC
#noun
1. the scent of after-rain and earthy vanilla saturate the pages of the time-worn books piled around me like my very own wizard tower. multiloquent magician that i am, weaving words with merely my will and a quill, i cannot help but think that the smell itself is its own kind of strange and wonderful magic.
2. the sound of faint bass through headphones hanging from around my neck twines through the counter-melody looping in my head and is like my own background music. life is a movie-set and in every recording there is a harmonious strain picked up by the mikes with no discernible source. i am my own hero in this one.
3. the taste of mint on the tip of my tongue as i inhale the perfume of my garden reminds me of tree-shadows under noon-day sun, or creeks trickling through boulder fields. sparrows nestle on my collar bones, tickling my throat and filling my mouth with the summer-dust flavor of feathers.
4. the sight of a sweet shop or a library or a craft market or a street busker sends an effervescent thrill across my shoulders, seeing the pieces of the puzzle that makes up my art, on display for the world.
5. the feel of a pen in my hand is akin to being touched by the divine, with the power of pure creation at my fingertips. a world of my own making unrolls before me. it is an ever-evolving, stirring, dynamic creature of ink that is singing singing singing to my soul.
h.f.m.
Apr 30, 2018
Apr 30, 2018 at 3:09 PM UTC
I miss you like maps miss fingers,
Like mikes miss singers,
Like bells miss ringers,
Like cakes miss bakers,
Like lakes miss boats,
Like bad swimmers miss floats,
Like politicians miss votes,
Like doting parents miss school plays,
Like nymphomaniacs miss lays,
Like necrophiliacs miss graves,
Like hypochondriacs miss prescriptions,
Like ****** misses addictions,
Like carpets miss friction,
Like Billy Bunter misses midnight feasts,
Like the grim reaper misses grief,
Like Henry misses the goodfellas,
Like sand sculptures miss umbrellas,
Like Rubix cube devotees miss puzzles,
Like rabid dogs miss muzzles,
Like Van Gough missed his brushes,
Like speed freaks miss rushes,
Like pens miss paper,
Like the Mona Lisa missed Pater,
Like the canvas misses the creator,
Like how the thirsty miss water,
Like the hungry miss food,
Like ***** miss the lewd,
Like the mind misses mood,
Like the tides miss the moon,
Like the sane miss the loons,
Like the dark misses the light,
Like the brave miss the fright,
Like the kite misses the wind.
Like a phone misses a ring
Like every misses thing.
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 10:25 AM UTC
A light cracked the door,
And we heard:
"All rise."
He was experiencing Justice
Behind the glass, in a box.
He scratched and stretched
Skin over his eyes and stubbled face,
Needing a fix for his appearance.
Something was unbalanced
Before me.
Our view was that of figures bending,
Whispering inaudibly,
With ear pieces and muffled mikes,
Suspending us, and time.
At recess we talked of trials and errors,
And recalled the blind man's bluff;
Then someone called us over.
A solemnity plea was set before the judge.
Did he hear:
"Just over the limit...
Machines have a rate of variability..."
He wore no belt or laces,
And probably no socks.
That could make him unbalanced.
"All rise."
Again and again.
I almost fell to my knees,
Pressed and raised my hands
To surrender.
And I was just a witness.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 8:37 AM UTC
The warmth of sunshine on your face
& the trickle of a summer rain in your hair
is more real than
the electronic impulses
we generate
in our fingertips.
Yet,
we feel no less,
us lonely scribes,
living a million mikes apart,
in an age of computer technology
& still believing in signs
of the heart.
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 9:45 AM UTC
I did not know i was the thorn
To ***** my laughter mates to bleed
I did not know i was the stone
To heave burdens on their shoulders never meant to be their deed
Not even aware of my spikes
Which pierce their skins to tears
Ignorant to know that me was the somebody they sought for with mikes
Yet so near for all those years
I did not know i was the scissors
Cutting and perforating their hearts to feel with desire
Having no righteousness next to Jesus
But being granted the loyalty of a mayor
When i become binded no longer free like a bird in a hurry
Is when i know the demon in me but all i say is sorry
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 6:22 AM UTC
Adulteration of the beautiful
They say that 'beauty is in the eye of the beholder'
I don't know many things but the few things I understand and through observations made poets lyrical admired,
I look at the light fading from post trauma eyes a sense of deadness not quite surrendered but sort of halfway there,
We speak in these modern times of the 'walking dead'
but anti-psychotics aside amidst an angry ocean alive with gods tears raging against man made mess - best intentions not to be ignored but beauty resonates here and there
the voice-over deep husky alluring tones hurled through television screens and hidden 'mikes' treasures searched for but not hidden after all
We are here
We are ready, all fit and tightly wound,
Are we at an evolutionary turn?
About face, we are here, we are ready
We are not bad - just scared that modern technology belies our beauty
our human-ness
our humanity, right here, right now.
ACD
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 6:02 PM UTC
Who doesn't like likes?
Chase them in the night
Subs at Jersey Mikes
We're all searching for the light
Today he turns 13
Born downtown Taipei
One day Tokyo?
I pray one day he may
I'm not white he says
Just a hint of Asian eyes
What I wish for most
Unexpectable surprise
Gandalf the Wise!
Jul 25, 2021
Jul 25, 2021 at 3:42 PM UTC
Ommmmmmmm
Rest In Peace miles Blackburn
Ommmmmmmm
You were a blessing to have around
Ommmmmmmm
I liked being your bowling buddy
Ommmmmmmm
We used to get good scores together
Ommmmmmmm
I remember him saying to me
GO THE SWANS
When Adams Goodes was playing
And when they were actually good
Ommmmmmmm
You will be sadly missed miles Blackburn
Ommmmmmmm
I remember when I was watching my Itouch in bed and he hated it
Cause he wanted to sleep
I thought you were hating me
Ommmmmmmm
But I know now you were a great friend to have around
Ommmmmmmm
Please moles Blackburn
Think of us
As you enter your next life
I liked you mikes Blackburn
And I as Cronus will help give
You a great family for your next life
Ommmmmmmm
Ommmmmmmm
Ommmmmmmm
Farewell miles Blackburn
Have a good future life
And be blessed
R I P
Jan 7, 2021
Jan 7, 2021 at 6:52 AM UTC