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The screaming
children of Gaza
torment the sleep
of a troubled world,
and remain a real-time
unending nightmare;
anointing The Levant’s
fevered brow
with a diadem of
incessant grief.

Gaza is a burning
ankh that sears the
madness of sorrow
upon Egypt’s skull.

Gaza,
an unblinking
third eye
of shame,
peers into
Lower Egypt’s
closed window
ever reproaching
it’s turbulent
conscience;
chiding fellow
Muslims with
the ugly memory
of abject affliction,
the endless images
of a living Guernica
suspended in the hell
of indefinite imprisonment
all Palestinians are forced
to suffer.

As Zionists ***** the
steep walls of Apartheid to
extend its occupation
of Palestine, it
condemns the youth
of Gaza to a life of
incarceration with no
possibility of parole;
hardening the hearts
and steeling the resolve
of a new generation of
militants to demolish the
walls and the wardens
that imprison them.

The Zionist jailers
bestow upon
Ishmael’s Children
phylacteries of shame,
wearing the rolled
prayers of wailing pain
scribed with bits of
dust from the
the broken walls of
demolished buildings
and desolate homes
beyond habitation,
now housing grief
of trampled souls,
forcing recitations
of deliverance
to Allah while
davening an
incessant drone
of anguish at
the Wailing Wall
of Resentment;
decrying the
blood lust of
undying acrimony,
victimization and
the slaughter of
innocents, carried on
with the imperial license
of state sanctioned impunity.


Father Ibrahim's
feuding children may
share a sacred paternity
but remain the
divided brothers
of different mothers;
stoking a sibling rivalry
more bitter then
Cain and Abel.

Our anguish
never dissipates,
the gnawing
impulse of empathy
to assist the distressed
of Gaza is dashed
by omnipotent
powers recusing
the ability to act.

Sympathy is
embargoed
in the black
obfuscation
of religious
partisanship
while timely
assistance
to aid the
distressed
lie netted in
blockades of
realpolitik
affinities.

Gaza, where
Hashim is granted
his eternal rest,
restlessly inhabits
his unknown grave
from the destitution of
his profaned homeland.

Ghazzat,  “the stronghold”
countlessly conquered,
falling to Roman Emperors,
Lionhearted Crusaders
Ottoman Caliphates,
and British Mandates;
slipping from Egypt’s
geopolitical grasp as
as a casualty of
The Six Day War.

Gaza is now a stronghold of
resent and desperation for a
desperate conquered people.

Ghazzat, the prized city of
the western Mediterranean,
a four star Phoenician port of
caravansaries now unable
to trade with any partners
due to ungodly blockades.

Gaza, has grown wholly
dependent on the largess
of UN aid and meager
subsistence portions
doled out by well
meaning NGO’s.

Gaza, the foot stool of
the Levant and surely
the pathway Father
Ibrahim, Jacob,
Joseph and Jeremiah
traveled to escape
Canaan's famine;
finding at the close
of their sojourn
a table set with the
plenteous bounty
the Blue Nile
unconditionally offered;
the veritable feast
of abundance,
the generous yields
of the blessed delta
that sustained the
Prophets of Judah
and a thousand
generations of the
Nile’s Children.

Gaza, the Achilles
heal of Middle East
peace, land of the
Canaanites, Philistines
and Old Testament
heroes.

Gaza, a fortress for
Philistines who
imprisoned the storied
Sampson, revered for
breaking the chains of
imprisonment and righteously
destroying a pagan temple
in a suicidal act of heroism.

Gaza, where the myths and
legends of rapacious
holy crusaders captured
the western imagination
with the chivalrous gallantry
of religious warfare and
valiant last stands of
Templar Knights employing
the tactical imperatives
of terrorism in service to their
higher God.

Gaza, an oasis
by the sea now
lies dry and brittle
as the precious Hebron
waters of Wadi Ghazza
are diverted to serve
the agriculture of
Judah; condemning
a dehydrated Gaza
panting of thirst
to an imposed drought
and a war of
self preservation
to remove
the dammed rivers
of justice controlled
by intractable powers
laying upstream beyond
Gaza’s mean borders.

The Qassams
lunched by Hamas
are desperate
expressions of
exasperated people,
eager to call
world attention
to the growing
insufferable plight
of a people living
in a perpetual
state of siege.

Its a modern day
David slinging rocks
against an armor
clad Goliath.

Each Katusha
serves as
a justification
for Zionist
intransigence
and condemns
any possibility
for peaceful
coexistence
of a Two State
Solution.

The pointless attacks
invite massive
disproportionate
retaliation and succeed
in prolonging and
increasing the
measure of Gaza’s
agony.

The mystic grace,
the divine power
of satyagraha
-a non-violent
response to the
cruel enforcement of
Apartheid- is Allah’s
way to secure the
moral high-ground
and the surest way
for Palestinians to
expose it’s unholy
adversaries innate
contempt for civil rights
and a refusal to
recognized the
shared humanity of
all of Father Ibrahim’s
wayward progeny and
recalcitrant prodigal sons.

Mubarak’s fall
has allowed the
Rafah Gate
to swing open again.

The concertina
wire that separates
Gaza and Egypt
has been removed.

The prisoners
of Gaza have
an open portal
of freedom.

It is a Day of
Jubilee, a day
of pardon for
for the inmates
of prisons built
for victims.  

It is a day of
possibility for peace.  

It is a day to declare an
Exodus from the land
of bitterness.

Humanity is
offered the hope
of escape from
the prisons of
acrimony, to
freely move across
the staid borders
of intractability
and exclusion.

The hearts and
minds of Palestinians
and Egyptians
are free to connect
and unite once again.

Liberation is
possible only
when we uphold
and honor the
affirmation
of all humanity.

Music Video:

Silk Road
We Will Not Go Down

Oakland
2/9/12
jbm
a poem from the epilogue section of Tahrir Square Voices
1.

From our
safe windows,
we crane our necks,
rubbernecking
past the slow
motion wreckage
unfolding in Homs.

We remain
perfectly
perched
to marvel at
the elegant arc of
a mortar shell
framing tomorrows
deep horizon,
whistling through
the twilight to
find its fruitful
mark.

In the now
we keep
complicit time,
to the arrest
of beating hearts,
snapping fingers
to the pop
of rifle cracks,
swooning to
the delicious
intoxication of
curling smoke
lofting ever
upward;
yet
thankfully
remain
distant
enough to
recuse any
possibility
of an
intimate
nexus
with the
besieged.

2.

From our
safe windows,
we behold the
urgent arrivals of
The Friends of Syria
demanding
clean sheets
and 4 Star
room service at a
Tunisian Palace
recently cleaned
and under new
management
promising a
much needed
refurbishment.

The gathered,
a clique of
this epochs
movers and shakers,
a veritable
rouges gallery of
ambassadorial
prelates, Emirs and
state department
bureaucrats
summoned
with portfolio
from the
darkest corners
of the globe.

They are
eager to
sanctify
the misery
of Homs,
deflect and
lay blame
with realpolitik
rationalizations,
commencing
official commissions
of inquiry,
deliberating
grave considerations,
issuing indictments
of formal charges for
Crimes Against
Humanity
while
remaining
urgently
engrossed
in the fascination
of interviewing
potential
process servers
to deliver the bad news
to Bashar al-Assad
and his soulless
Baathist
confederates,
if papers
are to be
served.

Yes, the diplomats
are busy meeting
in closed rooms.

In hushed circles
they whisper
into aroused ears,
railing against
Russia’s
gun running
intransigence
and China’s
geopolitical
chess moves.

Statesmen
boast of the
intrepid justice
of tipping points
and the moving poetry
of self serving tales,
weighing the impact
of stern sanctions
amidst the historical
confusion of the
asymmetrical
symmetries
of civil war.

Caravans
of Arab League
envoys roll up
in silver Bentleys,
crossing deserts
of contradictory
obfuscations,
navigating the
endless dunes
with hand held
sextants of
hidden agendas.

The heroic
Bedouins are
eager to offload
their baggage
and share
on the ground
intelligence from
their recent soirées
across Syria.

They beg
a quick fix,
the triage of a
critical catharsis
to bleed their
brains dry
of heinous
recollections,
pleading
release from a
troubled conscience
victimized by
the unnerving paradox
of reconciling
discoveries of
perverse voyeurism
with the sanctioned
explanations
of their respective
ruling elites.

The bellies
of these
scopophiliacs
are distended;
grown queasy
from a steady diet
of malfeasance
an ulcerated
world parades
in continuous loop;
spewing the raw feeds
of real time misery;
forcibly fed
the grim
visions of
frantic
fathers
rushing
the mangled
carcases
of mortally
wounded
children
to crumpled
piles of smashed
concrete that were
once hospitals.

We despondently
ask how
much longer
must we
look into
the eyes
of starving
children
emaciated from
the wanton
indifference
of the world?


3.

From our
safe windows
we wonder
how much
longer can
the urgent
burning
ambivalence
continue
before it
consumes
our common
humanity in
a final
conflagration?

My hair already
singed by the
endless firestorms
sweeping the prairies
of the world.

How can we survive
the trampling hoards,
the marauding
plagues of acrimony
fed by a voracious
blood lust aspiring to
victimize the people
of Homs and a
thousand cities
like it?


4.

From my safe
window I stand in witness
to the state execution of
refugees fleeing the
living nightmare
of Baba Amr.

The ****** of innocents,
today's newly minted martyrs,
women and children
cornered, trapped
on treacherous roads,
mercilessly
slaughtered and
defiled in death
to mark the lesson
of a ruthless master
enthralled with the
power of his
sadistic fascist
lordship.

I cannot avert my eyes
marking sights
of pleading women
begging for the
lives of their children
in exchange for
the gratification
of a sadists
lust.

My heart
is impaled
on the sharp
spear of
outrage
beholding
careening
children mowed
down with the
serrated blades
protruding
from marauding
jeeps of laughing
soldiers.

I drop
to my knees
in lakes of
tears
reflecting
a grotesque
horror stricken
image of myself.

My eyes have
murdered my soul.

The ghastly images
of Homs have chased
away my Holy Ghost
to the safety of a child's
sandbox hidden away
in a long forgotten
revered memory.


5.

From my safe window
I seethe with anger
demanding vengeance,
debating how to rise
to meet the obscenity of
the Butcher of Damascus.

The sword of Damocles
dangles so tantalizingly close
to this tyrants throat.  

The covered women
of Homs scream prayers
“may Allah bring Bashar to ruin”

Dare I pray
that Allah trip the
horsehair trigger
that holds the
sword at bay?

Do I pick up
the sword
a wield it
as an
avenging
angel?

Am I the
John Brown
of our time?

Do I organize
a Lincoln Brigade
and join the growing
leagues of jihadists
amassing at the
Gates of Damascus?

Will my righteous
indignation fit well
in a confederacy
with Hamas and
al-Qaeda as my
comrades in arms?

Do I succumb to
the passion of hate
and become just
another murderous
partisan, or do I
commend the power
of love and marshal
truth to speak with
the force of
satyagraha?

I lift a fervent prayer
to claim the justice
of Allah’s ear,
“may the knowing one
lift the veil of foolishness
that covers my heart in
cloaks of resent, cure
my blindness that ignores
my raging disease of
plausible deniability
ravaging the body politic
of humanity.”

6.

Indeed,
physician heal thyself.

I run to embrace my
illness.

I pine to understand it.

I undertake the
difficult regimen
of a cure to eradicate
the terrible affliction.

This
pernicious
plague,
subverting
the notion
of a shared
humanness
is a cunning
sedition that
undermines
the unity of
the holy spirit.  

The bell from
the toppled steeples
still tolls, echoing
across the space of
continents and eons
of temporal time.

The faithful chimes
gently chides us
to remove the wedge
of perception that
separates, divides
and undermines.

Time has come
to liberally
apply the balm
that salves the
open wounds
so common to
our common
human condition.

The power of prayer
is the joining of hands
with others racked
with the common
affliction of humanness.

Allah,  
My eyes are wide open,
my sacred heart revealed,
my sleeves are rolled up,
my memory is stocked,
my soul filled with resolve,
my hand is lifted
extended to all
brothers and sisters.
Lift us,
gather us
into one
loving embrace.

Selah


7.

From the safe
windows of
our palaces
we live within
earshot of
the trilling
zaghroutas
of exasperation
flowing from
the besieged
city smouldering
under Bashar’s
symphony of terror.

Our nostrils
fill with the
acrid plumes
of unrequited
lamentations
lifting from the
the burning
destruction
of shelled
buildings.

Our eyes spark
from the night
tracers
of sleeking
snipers
flitting along
the city’s
rooftops.

The deadly jinn
indiscriminately
inject the
paralysis of
random fear
into the veins
of the city
with each
skillful
head shot.

These
ghoulish
assassins
lavish in their
macabre work;
like vultures
they eagerly
feast on the
corpses of their ****,
the stench of bloated
bodies drying in the
sun is the perfume
that fills their nostrils.


8.

From our
safe window
we discern the
silhouettes of militants
still boldly standing
amidst the
mounting rubble of an
unbowed Homs
shouting;

Allah Akbar!!!
Allah Akbar!!!
Allah Akbar!!!

raising pumped fists,
singing songs
of resistance,
dancing to
the revelation of
freedom,
refusing to
be coward by
the slashing
whips of a
butchers
terrible
sword.


9.

From my
safe window
my tongue laps
the pap
of infants
suckling from
the depleted
teats of mothers
who cannot cry
for their dying
children;
tears fail
to well from
the exhaustion
of dehydrated
pools.

10.

From my
safe window
my heart stirs
to the muezzin
calling the
desperate faithful
from the toppled
rubble of dashed
minarets.

We can
no longer
shut our ears
to the adhan
of screams
the silent
voices that echo
the blatant injustice
of a people under siege.


11.

From my
safe window,
I pay
Homage to Homs
and call brothers
and sisters to rise
with vigilant
insistence
that hostilities
cease and
humanity be
upheld,
respected and
protected.


12.

From my safe
window
I perceive
the zagroutas
of sorrow
manifest as a
whiling hum,
a sweeping
blue mist,
levitating
the coffins
from the rubble
of ravaged streets.

The swirling
chorus of
mourning
joins my
desperate
prayers;
rising in
concert
with the
black billows
of smoke
dancing
away
from the
flaming
embers
of scorched
neighborhoods.


13.

From my
safe window
I heed
the fluttering
wings
of avenging
angels
furiously
batting
as they
climb
the black
plumes,
lifting from
the scattered bricks
of the desecrated
city.

It is the
Jacob’s
Ladder
for our
time;
marking
a new
consecrated
place
where
a New Adam
is destined
to be formed
from the
pulverized
stones of
desolation.

14.

From our
safe windows
we peer into
resplendent
mirrors
beholding
the perfect image of
ourselves
eying
falling tears
dripping blood,
coloring death
onto the
blanched sheets
of disheveled beds.


15.

From our
safe windows
our voices are silenced,
our words mock urgency
our thoughts betray comprehension
our senses fail to illicit empathy
our action is the only worthy prayer


16.

From my
safe window
I hear the
mortar shells
walking toward
my little palace,
the crack
of a ******
shot
precedes
the wiz of a
passing bullet
whispering
its presence
into my
waxen
ear.


17.

From my
safe window,
my palms scoop
the rich soil
of the flower boxes
perched on my sill.
I anoint the tender
green shoots of  the
Arab Spring
with an incessant flow
of bittersweet tears.

Music selection:
John Coltrane
A Love Supreme
Acknowledgment

Oakland
2/28/12
jbm
Mike T Minehan Oct 2012
This is a poem to warn you of the licentiousness,
the lewdness, the lasciviousness and downright
wickedness of language, especially,
the evil consonants.

Consider, for example, the subtle sibilant 's', seemingly innocuous,
but the consonant first heard in ***.  
And take the letter 'l', standing up *****,
the stiff one in this lustful alphabet.
All boys know about the upright 'l',
as in blind, which they'll go if they play with it
too much, double 'l', well, they'll end up in hell.

The consonant 'b' stands for ***, of course,
everyone knows 'b' for ***,
the bold, barefaced, brazen one,
or, on all fours, raised up, the buttocks form an 'm',
with an inverted 'v' between the legs.
And 'c'!  'C' stands for - for,  no, no.  I can't.
Let's just say 'c' is curled up, crafty, by the coccyx, where it lurks,
cramped and damp, hopefully curtailed.

And 'p'.  Well, 'p' is 'p', just as bad as 's' 'h' with a 't'.
And what about  'f'? Don't worry, I'll give that one the flick, dead quick.
'f' starts a word that's totally perverted.
If you think I'll use the 'f' and add the 'c' 'k',
you'll have to wait another day.

Then contemplate spreadeagled 'x',
the final letter in the word of ***!
These consonants are wanton.
'W' has its legs up in the air. 'w' is wild and wet. Wicked, wicked.
'n' is bent over.  Naughty, naughty!

And 'y', why, 'y's the legs together and the ***** area.
Also, be wary of people who like the 'g' spot in there a lot,
also those who roll their 'r's too much
and others who lash out with s and m.
'r' and 'g' and 's' and 'm' end up in ******!

I believe the higher incidence of ****** offence is due to the influence
of consonants.  It's no coincidence. The evidence is that *******
is social as well as ******, of course,
and there's a preponderance of consonants in *******.
Such coitus should be interruptus
before these consonants totally corrupt us.

Now, the only course for moral rectitude
against such a sinful attitude with the grossest moral turpitude
is vigilance. With discipline and diligence,
we must become the moral militants
in the fight against the sibilants,
the awful incidence of decadence,
and the absence of innocence,
that's the evil consequence
of all the cunning consonants.
Otherwise incontinence with consonants
will be forever on our conscience!

Now. Think of every ***** word you can. This sin will be absolved in heaven!
Yes, ******* has five consonants, testicles has six and ******* seven!
Gynecological has eight, fresh spermatozoa ten and prosthetic devices eleven!
Repent! Repent! Redemption lies with you.  
It's true!  Think of it! If you eschew the consonants in all evil or ugly,
you'll be left with the purity of 'a', 'e', 'i' 'o' 'u'.

Mike T Minehan
Yeah, I know. This is a very silly poem, and I have no idea when it came from. But sometimes I like visualizing language, and here I've visualized some of the alphabet instead...
tension is mounting in Egyptian capital Cairo after military staged apparent show of strength during a 6th day of anti-government protests

"judging by the proofs she had before the effect of her beauty upon Caius Caesar and Gnaeus son of Pompey she hopes she will more easily bring Antony to her feet for Caesar and Pompey had known her when she was still a girl inexperienced in affairs but she is going to visit Antony at the very time when women have the most brilliant beauty and are at the acme of intellectual power" – Plutarch

Cleopatra strapped by great debt incurred under the reign of her father thought it imprudent to mint gold coins so only lesser metals were used to commemorate her reign gold would have survived the centuries better than baser metals

sword slashed blood-spattered stomach Antony’s corpse lies motionless across room Cleopatra drinks mixture of ***** hemlock wolfsbane she holds squirming asp between her legs with wary hands around its neck she lifts snake to her naked breast its fangs strike at her arm handmaiden Iras dying at her feet another handmaiden Charmion adjusting Cleopatra’s crown before she herself falls

Egyptian Pyramids Sphinx Pharaohs mummies internet cell phone blackout police stations plundered weapons stolen gangs of armed men attack at least four jails across Egypt before dawn Sunday helping to free hundreds of Muslim militants thousands of other inmates as police vanish from streets of Cairo and other cities

the couple jumping holding hands out of burning World Trade Center building i understand it was defiant gesture of love over death maybe they hardly knew each other the sight of them just tore me up inside

Cleo is out from being in her hair is shorter figure looks too thin the neighborhood changed old ghosts new skins Cleo is out from being in walks same old streets yet does not recognize thinks thoughts never realized sees people she believes she knows but no one is who they seem they talk different tongues glance sideways scheme shaved heads fat wads of cash beautiful young women scattered dreams Cleo is out from being in she orders ice with glass of gin sips drink sits back grins voice from past out of nowhere whispers hey Cleo where you been there’s a debt to be settled truckload of hunger basement full of sin you up for paying your dues again Cleo is out from being in skeleton packed closet ***** dishes in sink she murmurs i just can’t win
Egypt's
revolution
now
teeters
on the tip
of a
bayonet.

Mubarak
has been
routed.

The
scurrying
dictator
marched
out of office
by the trooping
shoes of justice.

Chased
away to
Sharm El Sheikh,
condemned to
a life of
counting
his stolen
billions,
reconciling
accounts,
conferring
with his
private
Swiss
Banker,
in the
stress free
swilling
cesspool
of a warm
jacuzzi.

Hosni's
former
deep
pocketed
bursars
Biden and
Cameron
don't waste
any time
to kick
the corpse
of old
Mubarak.

"We
applaud the
democratic
impulses
of the
Egyptian
people."
said Biden.

"We hope you
responsibly handle
your democratic
duties." added
Cameron;
neglecting
to mention
"We will
submit our
list of candidates
for Mubarak's
replacement
ASAP."

Even
Ban Ki-Moon
popped up
on the BBC
to deliver
a slap
to
Mubarak,
now
hiding
under
a kitchen
table at
his
modest
beach front
bungalow.

The Ruling
Military Council
issued a
statement
in appreciation
of Mubarak's
sacrifice,
graciously
leaving
his post
in service to
a peaceful
transition,
ceding
rule to
the justice
of his generals.

The statement
also commended
the sacrifice
of the martyrs
that fell in Tahrir
Square. "The
demands of the
people will be
met." The
generals vow.

Torturer-In-Chief
Suleiman
has also been
vanquished.

The fate of
his million man
apparatus
of repression
remains unclear.

We hope
for a raft of
pink slips;
but we
suspect
that ridding
a government
rife with
committed
fascists ain't
that easy.

There will be
no humiliation
for Mubarak
or his thugs.

Egyptians will
offer the despot
a courtesy
he never
extended
to his people.

The
Revolution
has fully
surrendered
Egypt
into the
custody
of a
posse
of Hosni's
homeboys,
now the
supreme
protectorate
of the nation.

The
constitution
suspended,
the old generals
now reviewing
other old generals
to determine
who will
wield
the state
scepter.

It will be
another
six months
till elections
they say,
it will take
some time to
author
a new
constitution.

"Be patient"
they advise,
as the
the generals
unravel
old scrolls of
dead pharaohs
for pointers
on how to rule.

Some
secular
militants
refuse to
retreat from
the square;
they fear
democratic
vistas may get
blindsided
by radical
Islamists
demanding
Sharia
Law.

Feminists,
Gay's
Liberta­rians
Socialists
liberal
republicans
getting
squeezed
by governing
militarists
and the easy
orthodoxy of
Muslim
Brotherhoods
is a pressing
dilemma.

Amidst the
tension of
competing
interests
and uncertain
pathways to
the future
the generals
get busy
managing
the state
of emergency.

They
raise
state
prayers
to
Allah
imploring
him to
uplift the
nation
from the
pedestrian
morass
of instability.

The good news
is that a clique
of generals
control
the industries
of the nation.

The offices
of government,
military
and industry
are now
seamlessly
one.

The problem
of democratic
inconvenience,
the messiness
of intrusive
red tape
is now
dispensed
with cool
administrative
facility.

Kinda
like a
capitalist
caliphate.

The
mullahs
of
commerce
running the
bakeries,
have long
been busy
baking
the bread
of tyrants,
dolling out
sparse loaves
to hungry
mouths
starving
for freedom.

The generals
must change
the recipe
or it risks
killing its
customers.

Egypt's
compradore
bourgeoisie
funded and
enriched
with
foreign aid
of bombs and
bullets will
fiercely
defend
its franchise.

The screaming
self will of Egypt's
state capitalism,
will assure that
the flowing profits
of American
bribes will keep
the peace
with Zion
sure.

On
Victory Day,
long flags
draped
the body of
Liberation Square.

We remember
the martyrs
who died
in the fight.

We renounce
any move
to derail
our fight
for freedom.

We troop on,
marching to
whistles,
whooping,
calling out
our just
demands.

We are
unsure
of our
next steps.

We are unsure
if the military
hears us.

The generals
have sent
the military
band
to play
the national
anthem.

Young soldiers
hand us flags
to wave.

We hear the
music, we
remain unsure
if they hear us.

A dictator is vanquished
but the dictatorship remains.

Long Live the Revolution!

You Tube Music Video:
Egyptian National Anthem

La Marsellaise

Oakland
2/28/11
jbm
(WIP)
from the collection Tahrir Square written during the Arab Spring Uprisings
Haitian style independence
no more whiteness at all
type independence
playing three rhythms at once
independence
blackness take over the entire
American sports and political world
independence
Went south to join the Seminoles
fight against the colonists
killer abolitionists
dangerous and feared
independence
economic
the beginning of the union
no more free labor
regulate that
government
paper bag 40 acres
and we are not ******* mules
independence
organized black militants killing
burning plantations of whiteness
yearning independence
captivating white audiences
nationwide
scurrying to the legal system
to constrict the laws
make more weapons
make more conflict
make it more dangerous to be black
independence
You will never find us again
whiteness
that independence
Andrew Rueter Oct 2017
Gun
The weak inherit the Earth
The meek inherit their lead
Unaware of their life's worth
Until after they're dead

We are hopelessly trampled by a bullet stampede
Inflicted upon us for the wealthy man's greed
They sell us death as a commodity
While we can only mourn solemnly

They are arms dealers
We are harm feelers
They are life stealers
When we can't find healers
For the fatal wounds that end our lives so abruptly
And the man with the gun has no need to trust me
He has placed his faith in Ares
His humanity he failed to carry
He sold it urgently to feel secure
But then his thoughts became impure
For whatever reason he cast a death sentence
He felt injustice and wanted to get vengeance
But to the merchants of wrath
He is just math
Numbers on a graph
They must minimize
With blatant lies

Businessmen will try to create a need for their product
But engendering fear for profit seems like misconduct
Because as the bullets are raining
And the militants are training
Their money is stacking
While terrorists are attacking
Their nature seems callous
When they rely on our malice
They see us as a body count
They see us as simple trout
Swimming upstream to die
So they can eat us
Convincing us we'll fly
With minds of a fetus

The bullet burns as it punctures our civilization
It fuels our bitter spiteful incubation
We sit in the chamber
As they utilize our anger
The rich get richer
We don't see the picture
When gunshots scatter crowds
And the echoes scatter our thoughts
They want the volume to be loud
So we'll forget what we're taught
That our lives are the price of a gun and a bullet
Our paranoid lives become hard to live to the fullest
Louis Brown Sep 2010
THE BIG JETS HIT THEIR TARGETS
TWIN TOWERS TUMBLED DOWN
BIN LADEN SMILES WHEN HE RECALLS
HIS FAVORITE KILLING GROUND
AMERICA'S DARKEST MOMENT
WHEN BLACK SMOKE FILLED THE AIR
AS STEEL AND MORTAR VANISHED
ONLY ANGELS WALKED THOSE STAIRS

CHORUS:
WE REMEMBER THAT SEPTEMBER
WHERE THE PAST IS ONE BAD DREAM
THOSE LOVED ONES LIVE WITHIN US
THERE'S NO CHANGING WHAT THEY MEAN
WE REMEMBER THAT SEPTEMBER
AND THE GRAVEYARD THAT WAS MADE
BY THOSE NINETEEN MUSLIM KILLERS.....
WHILE THE DEBT IS STILL UNPAID

AND NOW THEY WANT ANOTHER MOSQUE
NEAR VERY HALLOWED GROUND
TO BUILD  IT NEAR GROUND ZERO
IS AN INSULT SO PROFOUND
AND WHERE THEY'VE BUILT THEIR TEMPLES
THEY'VE BROUGHT MILITANTS WITH CLAWS
THEY HAVE NO RESPECT FOR WOMEN
SELLING ISLAM'S THEIR GREAT CAUSE

CHORUS:
WE REMEMBER THAT SEPTEMBER
WHERE THREE THOUSAND BURNED AND SCREAMED
NOW THOSE LOVED ONES LIVE WITHIN US
TIME WON'T CHANGE HOW MUCH THEY MEAN
WE REMEMBER THAT SEPTEMBER
AND THE GRAVEYARD THAT WAS MADE
BY THOSE NINETEEN MUSLIM KILLERS.....
WHILE THE DEBT IS STILL UNPAID
Copyright Louis Brown
Andrew Rueter Jan 2018
They punch me in the face
Until it is apparently asymmetrical
They call me human waste
And tell me not to be sentimental
When they're insistent
On our difference
I begin to see asymmetry
In the way they're treating me

Does anybody remember or even care
About what happened in Nisour Square?
A Blackwater slaughter
Killing sons and daughters
An unprovoked
Macabre joke
The militants were convicted
The victims remained deceased
The locals were livid
When the problem would repeat
We don't mind taking innocent lives intentionally
When we see their value asymmetrically

Does anyone remember when the city of Fallujah
Smoked like a hookah?
Thermobaric rocket launchers
That used depleted uranium
To melt insurgent craniums
Left behind waste
That is radioactive
The citizens could taste
The shame of being passive
When they couldn't reject
The spike in birth defects
A child is born with its heart protruding from its chest
So we can more easily grab it
That child was born with an asymmetrical breast
Because of our capitalist habit

Contractor corpses hang from a bridge
While we stand on a ridge
Separating chaos and order
A symmetrical border
Order oppresses
Chaos undresses
Both cause messes

We need to see each other equally
Or we'll continue seeing sequel sprees
We need to stop seeing asymmetrically
And adopt a completely loving creed
Sia Jane Mar 2015
Full Moon

Barefoot; each step sinking in mud
splashes of rain marry with
crimson drops in a puddle
of stormed waves
from an opened heaven

She kneels to the ground
simultaneously glancing
left, right, behind
cheeks blushed, her soul falling
as teardrops - her lowest ebb.

Ripping her cotton dress
she replaces blood soaked rags -
it’s been six days.

This war within herself
at only twelve years of age

Every nineteen days
her body a vessel; a period
of girlhood abruptly ends,
womanhood demurred.

Each & every month
persecuted;
Jesus nailed to a cross.

Amidst war-torn streets
fleeing torched homes
civil war displacing
orphaned sisters –
*****.
As militants continue to
prevail over children’s
innocence

Washing her sin away
red body fluids disperse
in mud, rain, water, soil -
her reflection lost
alongside any remaining dignity

On those same knees
Badriyyah pleads with God
to no longer bring forth
the fertility of conception
each cursed month.

Congolese civil wars
scraped away landscapes
Mother Nature
scraped away internal walls

& month after month
after month after month
this period endures
& a child of the night
stays hidden from sight.

© Sia Jane
The girls name “Bariyyah” in Arabic means ‘resembling the full moon.’
The word ‘*******’ has etymological routes relating to the ‘moon.’
So you have the completion of the synodic month relating to the motion of the moon each month.
"The Worst Period of Her Life" - Bring back dignity to these women. To donate £3 to ActionAid, text KIT to 70111. Having already fled war-torn conflict in Syria and the Congo, these girls and women suffer further humiliation every month as they cannot afford basic sanitary wear.
Jack L Martin Aug 2018
It was a hot summer Georgia morning.
The fresh smell of pine
The sounds of marching solders
Reveille played over the loud speakers

As cooks, we started our day early
Everything seemed normal
Normal for Army life, that is
Life that I got used to

I put on my uniform
Polished my boots
Walked over to the dining facility
Expecting to fail inspection, again

"Report to HHC Immediately!"
24th Infantry Division (mechanized)
"First to Fight"
This was serious

What was going on?
Confusion afoot
Kuwait was ambushed
Sadam must be stopped

We marched over to the gymnasium
There were stations set up
Line up for innoculations
Fill out your Last Will and Testament

March over to the barraks
Pack up your gear
Only what you can carry
Sneak in some comfort items

What about the rest of my stuff?
Someone will look after it
Don't worry, it's safe
Soldiers are a bunch of thieves

March over to the National Guard barraks
They look like the did in WWII
50 double bunks in a row
they smelled moldy

This was our new home
until further notice
I haven't slept
in 48 hours

No communication
to your family or firends
I snuck out
to the pay phone

Not sure what to say
other than don't worry
I love you
goodbye

I am one of
the first one hundred
soldiers to depart
Single, no close family

We board the ship
It is massive!
USNS Capella (T-AKR 293)
In the Savannah Harbour

Tanks, helecopters
Trucks, supplies
One hundred ARMY soldiers
Ready to disembark

We stand along port side
at parade rest
A tear rolls
Down my face

Thousands of civilians
Waving flags
Cheers of goodbyes
Crying children and wives

The ship leaves port
slowly pulls away
the cheers fade
into the ocean depths

First day afloat
The ship rocks slowly
Hard to get used to
Motion Sickness kicks in

I worked in the galley
T-Ration for breakfast
MRE for lunch
T-Ration for dinner

I ate with the Marines
A-Ration meals
Privilege of being
a Food Service Specialist

Trash accumulated
Throw it overboard
Alongside the bow
Death to the oceans

Many days pass
I read a book
Hyperion (Dan Simmons)
The only book I had

I sit on the deck
the sea in all directions
mystifies the soul
we are alone

I wake up to discover
Another ship next to us
USNS American Explorer
(T-AOT-165) Refueling ship

We reach the Suez Canal
Egypt looks beautiful
To the east: lush greenscape
to the west: barren wasteland

Egyptian Militants
watching intensely
along the shoreline
they saw my camera

Merchants come aboard
"Good deals for you,
American G. I."
I bought some batteries

I get to phone home
satellite communication
ten dollars a minute
worth every penny

We reach our destination
Twelve day journey ended
time to unload
organized chaos

All hands on deck
mechanized disembark
crash course
on driving a tank

Transported to my unit
in the tent city
they got there first
flown by commercial airliner

time to roll out
loaded my gear
WRONG TRUCK!
Ruck sack gone forever

Lost my walkman
lost my camera
lost my book
was in the ruck sack

to be continued.........
I joined the ARMY in 1989, straight out of high school.  Active duty station was Ft. Stewart, GA.  Assigned to the 1st Battalion, 64th Armor Regiment. Desert Rogues: "We Pierce!"
Z Atari Dec 2015
Look at the child with the rifle
She's posing for a photo
She just doesn't know what it means.
Give it three years, and she still won't know.
Except now her people,now her country have nowhere to go
She's 6 years old with an arms embargo
The country is suddenly three now
The people inside can't see,the people murdered along its beaches can't see.
The people washed ashore can't see.
Air strikes fall somewhere distant.
Militants front and center
Nothing else but to surrender
The country's identity is reduced to its language,their colors and the violence around them
Never did it experience serenity
Fully get the wealth from their oil and luxury
Nobody could guess that people could shake and shimmy along the beaches
Where the nameless faces appear,dreams dust in their open and clenched fists.
ConnectHook Jan 2017
Masked back-packing militants descend on DC.
The instigators' antics indicate true agitator's instincts. When the rest buy it, the best... riot ? Putin set the precedent by rootin' for the President. As for the protestors -- are they seeking to serve justice or just the Secret Service? Joined by thousands of patriot motorcyclists, the black-masked boast of hikers may be lost on a host of bikers. Hmmmm... the silent verve of our veteran friends proves that the violent serve wicked ends. The verge of silence may mean a surge of violence.
While snowflakes melt down, the state will clamp down as militants storm town. Eastern sages know: a mean Taoist turned teen Maoist may raise the base rating for race-baiting just to get a rise. Erasing a different face is not the same as facing a different race (and many of these mad Taoists seem a tad Maoist to me...) Opening the trunk, one forgets that elephants remember: when the mob rules, they rob mules. Democratic icons are stubborn things. Until the bandits are punished let's banish the pundits to the hinterlands of fake news.
        It's inauguration time, Dumbo.
Clenched-fist troublemakers will use any mass gathering as an excuse to undermine civil society. Social media and the irresistible lure of virality have only strengthened their incentive to "FSU" (f—- s—- up). Here's another thing you can take to the bank: "Mainstream" protesters on the streets of D.C. will look the other way at these lawless vandals who leech onto any available cause. Their common goal is not "social justice." It's destabilization and disorder.

from: www.frontpagemag.com
matt nobrains Jun 2014
it's the smallest voices that scream the loudest
I've never been a fan of the trending hero
or the underground superstar.
slam poets make me sick.
your attitude is a well concocted ploy
to touch indie hearts and
I hate it.
I love the ignored
the militants
the trashman painter,
the gas station attendent that
makes ****** artcore ******
in her boyfriend's garage
the sixteen y.o. with a tape recorders
and a circuitbent casio
howling blood into an old
speakercummicrophone
slash and burn
leave your best work sitting
on a park bench for me
ignore the plight and shove
your fingers down your throat.
I love the broken. the hurt.
the misanthropes the schizoids
**** victims
homeless
suicidal
single mothers
drug addicts
if that fire is in your shattered
legs reflecting the age of
a
billion dead scaffolds
soul of revolution raging
knife in paw
I will fall in love with you
and sigh at the detrious
in your wake.
let me see you naked and crying
my own wounds fester quiet
when everyone else is asleep.
have a drink,
you earned it.
Safana Jun 2021
Wow!
We deserve some...
THINGS, which are closely
to rise up like a changes
from the brain with purely
social thoughts in the kingdom
of alkebulans...

A bit change will landed, even
The names of some acts by us
will change, like...
Nigerian Corruption
Nigerian laundering
Nigerian cybercrime
Nigerian Boko Haram
Nigerian IPOB
Nigerian Niger-Delta Militants
Nigerian Kidnapping
Nigerian Political Violence
Nigerian Armed Robbery
Nigerian ISWAP
Nigerian OPC
Nigerian Afenifere
Nigerian Thugs
Nigerian Fraud
Nigerian etc.

To Beautiful U.A.R
May be our values
core will gain again
a golden sight from
the eye of the world
...


For my home country
Everything as a change to...
I welcome it
John F McCullagh Jan 2012
This loss is very hard upon his mother:
Enduring first his birth and then his death.
The time between -scarcely a generation-
But in that short span of time he proved his worth.

They are too few, the proud who wear the emblem,
And fight our countries battles in our stead.
When they found him, his position was surrounded
By the bleeding bodies of Jihadist dead.

Enroll his name among our Countries’ heroes
Remember him for all of time to come,
But put away the medal they awarded-
I need no medal to recall my son.

My brave strong son who first fought in Fallujah,
and battled militants in Kandahar.
He joined the fallen as his tour was ending
Hearts can't be mended with a golden star..

In the dark days that now will be our portion,
I will ponder certain questions in my mind:
Was this sacrifice truly required?
Is our suffering random or by design?
The poem" Semper fi" is a work of FICTION  It was inspired by a poem written by Padraig Pearse the night before his execution by firing squad after the failed Easter Rising of 1916.  I have changed the point of view from the mother to the father and updated the poem to the recent past.. My son is an ACCOUNTANT, not a MARINE.   I am stressing this because this poem, in an earlier version, was misunderstood to be based on Fact. Here is the excellent  poem which inspired my lesser effort:

The Mother
I do not grudge them: Lord, I do not grudge
My two strong sons that I have seen go out
To break their strength and die, they and a few,
In ****** protest for a glorious thing,
They shall be spoken of among their people,
The generations shall remember them,
And call them blessed;
But I will speak their names to my own heart
In the long nights;
The little names that were familiar once
Round my dead hearth.
Lord, thou art ******* mothers:
We suffer in their coming and their going;
And tho' I grudge them not, I weary, weary
Of the long sorrow--And yet I have my joy:
My sons were faithful, and they fought.
-- Padraic H Pearse
Harry J Baxter Mar 2014
Sleep on me like memory foam
never forget like September eleven
snow flurries are the forecast today
with a little bit of hopelessness
a new nasa study which I read on facebook suggests
that modern civilization will crumble upon itself within the next two decades
so the cold wind blows across the dusty plains
and the litter strewn streets rest easily like guerrilla militants
pay homage to the blazing skies
another day waiting for the bite to come
another day praying like mad men
the nostalgic characters we created are haunting us
we are all being called home
supper is getting cold
and we are all in need of a solid night’s sleep
before what is to come
Reza Mahani Apr 2013
Man looked at his wife as they were passing the crowd in the airport. She was enthusiastically chatting and laughing with their friends. If it was not for her deep desperation to have a baby, and her frustration with all their unsuccessful attempts at it, he could swear she is the happiest woman in the world.

Their friends, , a young couple from their home country, were also on their way back home for a short visit.Initially, they were going to change their flights in the airport. Their next flight was delayed, however, and now they had to spend the night in the city. Their friends had decided to stay in the city a couple of days and attend a wedding. He knew that his wife wanted to go to the wedding too, but they were not invited.

They all shared a cab to a nearby hotel and casino. As they walked up to the reception desk, he grew more and more paranoid about giving their personal information and credit card to the receptionist. He pretended that they were looking for a jazz club in that area. His wife and their friends were puzzled but they did not say anything. As they were leaving the hotel, he realized that their friends needed to stay somewhere for a couple of nights and were willing to get a room and share. But it was too late: they said goodbye and separated.

The next morning the two of them decided to walk in the city and do some sightseeing. They soon found empty streets and a city that looked like it was hit by a disease. The man felt more and more uncomfortable and wish they had known where their friends had stayed. At noon, he suddenly remembered that they were supposed to take a morning flight. Surprisingly, he did not feel any urgency. He continued walking the empty streets but his wife went back to the hotel. At night, he was even more surprised to see that his wife was pregnant, almost nine month.

Next morning, the man went out alone. The city had become a war zone. Tanks and militants were roaming around everywhere. In a few instances, he had to escape some of them who were trying to arrest him, and even got into a fight. He went back home in the evening to find out that his wife had delivered the baby.

As he was watching his wife carrying the baby around and kissing the baby passionately, he suddenly realized what was going on. They were dead. That would explain all the strange things that had happened in the past couple of days. The man suddenly felt a deep comfort from solving the puzzle. He could almost feel an excitement, similar to that time, a few years back, when he accidentally hit a man on the street while driving and almost killed him.

Satisfied with his discovery, he looked up and watched his wife playing with the baby. What an irony, he thought. She looked so happy and peaceful. He could break the news to her later.
Wrote this story on 2008-10-25 based on a dream I had. Some of my dreams have strangely complicated and fascinating story lines. I cannot write such stories when I am awake!
They took them…

With a ***, shovel and beards engulfed with disguise,
By fire, by force and harm

They heartlessly took them…

Loading with a military van from the snare, the school
Sabotaging their education and jubilance
At the brink of our oculus, like a hot blade through margarine,
Like the  evanescence of dew upon new dawn,
They were gone…


We cajole to Haram Islamic militants,
Not the slavery we signed up for,
Yet this is our story, but not our destiny.
It is profane and sacrilegious to talk slavery upon our realms.
Our ancestral dormancy and Jesus crucifixion outlines our history.
We were untrammeled...but today,

Our existence is dreary and clouded by mystery
We count minutes turning into tormented hours,
In lament of our own flesh and blood

They took them..
with needles and stylus they pinched poked and taunted us,
Like a bunch of sponges filled with voids,
Our hearts are painfully porous,
Dope them with defects,
Bring back our girls…

Haram saboteurs came in with a saber,
They took them…

How less of a man to not respect the words of the late Tata Madiba,
When he said"Never, never and never again shall it be that this beautiful land
Will again experience the oppression of one by another".
There will be war upon the element of Haram when Jesus intervene..
Bring back our girls..

(Nigreian acsent)

Chinekeee, man of Haram, bring back our girls_oo
I beg, why go they take?
Eeeh, god will go get you one day,

With our teary Nigerian eyes, will we ever see?
Adedagbo, our crown of joy ?
Aduke,   our beloved ?            
Afolayan  Walking in majesty...
Agbogu,  God settles dispute…

Bring back our girls.
" This poem addresses the Nigerian saga of kidnapped girls"
Brycical Dec 2012
We are soldiers*
of love--
all Generals in The Army of Party.
We are militants
of truth,
harbingers of peace.
We shoot
with our smiles--
spraying warm words
that feel like ****** knowledge bombs
staining your heart & brain.
We don't
leave craters & burn marks.
We're creators
of learning from the heart--
seeing with the mind.
We don't believe
in hate or love--
just vibrating to a frequency
of one conscious thought.
We don't judge
what's right or wrong--
we sing the songs of common sense.
We bring the gift
of shifting attitudes
just by listening to you.
We will always
live on despite dying everyday.
We see time
not as a line, but a rotating sphere.
We don't fight,
just accept, adapt & be.
Sam Temple Jan 2015
seamlessly shifting to future planning
scuttlebutts rebuff fluffernutter sandwiches
for something a little more… sophisticated
grease coated floatation device
slices dried mice precisely
clandestine militants throw rice
at the merger of church and state
hate groups **** on social norms
******* the truck drivers for ****
in rest area bathrooms –
doom laden maidens raid
safe houses set up  by underpaid feds
wretched and withdrawn, occupants pant
sweltering heat defeats all who enter
and the centrists flinch as both wings fling scented mud clods –
the gods of old sit on high watching the unfolding drama
three llamas graze peacefully on a Peruvian hillside
tide breaks shake useless dunes
and ruined looms sit broken
reminding the aged
of a non-mechanized life –
Carl Velasco Jan 2018
Concept:
youlovemeback.

The ingredients of cleanse
make their way
to your house.

There is

a

strobe,
two stones portioned off
a Ziggurat,
a present thing —
like wheels,
a teardrop,
nail clippings.

My father
would trim his nails
and bury them —
as seeds.

Stared
at that ***
all days and evenings.
Monsoons and
summer heat echoed.
Time circled back and forth.

Sometimes,

I would gargle
father’s beer and
spit into the ***.
Maybe it needed
Acrid, it needed
Strong. It needed
Disgusting,
Toxic. It wanted

wrong.

I turn 22.
The ***
Disappears. My father
too. Militants
took him away,
or so the chatter goes.
He wore Chinos, sun-dried
eyes, a hat.
Mice ate
the matchsticks
used for kindling.
The Queen Termite
Gave birth to more
hungry little ones
under the sink.
Dark, musty,
collapsing.
Memory, time,
fingertips. Thyme
rhymes

with mime,

I copy my father.
Trims nails.
Plants.
Waters.

Concept:
trytounderstand

This was only the nourish
he could give. It was
a copy of the nourish
his father could give —
Or so

The chatter goes.

Gather the stones.
Get the strobe.
Pound the nail clippings
and

an enzyme flows
Through, like tape recorders whirring
as they wind back to
play recorded confessions
one more time.

Free baptismals
at the church service
for hurried teens.
Free shirts for
the Insufficient.
Free lessons for
the young boy
who can’t read women.

Free at long, long last.

Concept:
fixtheheart
Sam Temple Jul 2015
startling images of earthquake destruction
mangled bodies strewn hitherto
charred flesh of orphaned infants
lie motionless on the partially uplifted
hospital/ monastery floor
trying to lift and remove rubble
in a desperate attempt to locate
the sobbing baby
which I can hear, but not see –
34 train cars piled
twisted metal sitting
in an oil and chemical spill
hazmat teams stare blankly
at the massive carnage
overwhelmed by the mayhem
and poisoned by their presence
within hours the first responders
have passed,
the last moments..
chocking and gurgling on their own blood
creeping up from internal damage –
wide-eyed militants stand armed
at the entrances to FEMA camps
angrily shouting and pushing American citizens
into places of detainment
while laughing about failed democracy –
night after night
I wake from terrible dreams….
Mt. Hood major eruption
ending Portland
and impacting the Columbia,
Juan De Fucca slippage
Oregon and Washington coastline in shambles
thousands dead and bodies lost,
rogue asteroid smashing headlong
into the Atlantic seaboard
leaving near ½ of our 308 million
washed away
like the Atlanteans
or the Egyptian Kings of old,
sweat coated sheets have become the norm….
nightly visitations of misshapen faces
poking and prodding,
looking at the Cascades
as harbingers of radioactive derbies
and witnessing the physical decline
of its natural inhabitants,
the ever propagandized
deadly threat of extremists
bent on killing innocents,
my tired eyes only wish for peace –
It is not kosher to refer
to oneself as a prophet or
seer or the future,
but those of you who choose
to blindly accept that everything remains
the same
will only be remembered
through songs and tales
yet unwritten –
Chapter IV
Gordian knot

Greek legend according to which the inhabitants of Phrygia, Anatolian region, in the current one needed to choose a king, so they consulted the oracle. The latter replied that the new sovereign would be the one who entered through the Eastern Gate, accompanied by a crow perched on his chariot. The one who fulfilled the conditions was Gordias, a farmer who had his cart and oxen for all his wealth. When he was elected monarch, he founded the city of Gordio and, in gratitude, offered the temple of Zeus his chariot, tying the spear and yoke with a knot whose ends were hidden inside, so complicated that no one could untie it. According to what was said then, whoever succeeded would conquer the East.
Alexander the Great, supported by Vernarth and a hand impregnated with globules from Eritrea, was on his way to conquer the Persian Empire, already united with both Bi steeds, Fire Hoof and Ox Head, in 333 BC. C. After crossing the Hellespont he transgressed the Sudpichi Stream like a weightless cloak of a Machi Begging to the Cosmos for Negechen for the rickety Rehue, prophesying to him on his hands dismembered of bravery, great assistance of 300 years of Nge -Nge Mapus souls in his furious nose that propelled him with anger; and which untied the Champollion knot with some sphinx uncovering Pandora's allegories from the Valleys of the Kings. Then he conquered Phrygia, where they faced the challenge of untying the diocesan knot. He solved the problem by cutting it with his sword, cutting his head between the eyes, one for each side ..., the South one was from Vernarth with his beautiful eyes saying "I always see light when I wake up and dawn at night to rub the back of my Alikanto always riding with Him in Lid Universal Patriotics”.  According to Curcio Rufo's narration:   "It is the same to cut it as to untie it." That night there was a storm of unburied lightning that symbolized, according to Alejandro, that Zeus and Joshua´s stone were with him Espanta cuculí, genuflecting his knee towards such a Period in his analogy, that he would go through the shadowy time zone of Time and his eroded geo intelligence Both exhorting the oracles appeared before the stormy voices saying: "We agree on the agreements with the solution and its knot avoiding more knots by the hands of empires without a solution."

It alludes to this knot, made of mane's manes killed in battle and sleeping maiden's hair for the hope of widowhood beyond Eden: "both meditates cutting and loosing." That is, it does not matter how it is done, the important thing is that it is achieved. Millions of arrows actually fall from their badly vibrated bows, before this motto that appeared on the arrows, with a single rope cut around it.

Currently the expression Gordian knot refers to a difficulty that cannot be solved, an obstacle that is difficult to overcome or a difficult solution or outcome, especially when this situation only supports creative or own solutions of lateral thinking. "To cut the Gordian knot" means to solve a problem sharply and unceremoniously; that is to say, that discovering the essence of the problem, we will be able to reveal all its implications.

Top Ten Oases:
Just half a day after arriving in Gaugamela, Etrestles from Kalavrita, who came from Messolonghi, joined them; He came with his Kanti Black Steed "Rain of Perennial Fog". They came from Crete where the ultra cosmic powers were transmuted through their noses. That is why Kanti, as he approached the pair Vernarth and Alexander the Great flew leaping and shooting blue fire down his foamy muzzle. His ears sparkled like a Laziko dance of the Mediterranean Dodecanese of the proto Sirtakis of the north wing of whispered compasses. Holy kisses and hugs are halted and uttered, and the Macedonian Saints bowed to Lord Etretles.

Etrestles says:
I come from Messolonghi; of the eighth cemetery and of the eighth day. I get stuck the Dionysian aroma of his intentions when untying the Gordian knot. I was welcomed by the Charioteer in his armored car, after sleeping a thousand years I was reborn next to my face of the current of the greater solar star. The search for that shouting made me celebrate the search for that shouting of you. The similiar hairy body that fell contracted on my wonderful fingers, delighting my humble tributes to the beetles that accompanied me to direct my sight to the sepulchral vaults near their bodie Incorrupt.
Which of all the columns erected is capable of opening all the columns built in the pavilion of these moles without shapes or caves of colors ..., only the vitalizing Aeolian pulmonary diaphragm of my reverie, is who I think would ... To all of us who are trapped in holy Hellenic soils, I bring you good news: Auriga supports me with her Blacksmiths from the twelve rivers of the Dodecanese, to loosen the barriers of You, Beloved Brother Vernarth, and of you, my Lord Alexander the Great. .  Our father Staktos and our mother Vitabión that her lineage and beautiful face have not been corrupted in a thousand years.   Since our ninth baptism in Ayia Lavra, where she saw me be buried for the ninth time. Whose archpriest with his holy oils made him slide down our partition, pretending to be a dance of blessed water for this task in Gaugamela. To all of you. Blood of my blood, I feel your sacred vertebral need speak from within!

Auriga says: Orion's *****; everlasting fuel, will give strength to their steeds, to rise above the great contest, to brandish my undulating Xiph swords, to unsolder the bars of their oppressed souls before spilling the blessed blood of a Hellenic Soldier as sweet syrup for the dying delirium of those who will see the boom of the fireflies decay, baptisms about past lives, deaths about future lives.

Etrestles says: My ****** Vernarth, by the underground caste conglomerate you will wake up! To you. Like me, one day I lay as I was to my crude death in my last life at the hands of a Spartan Soldier. You blood of my blood released my bars to determine my Hellenic situation!

As this happened, I put in an odalisque and blew a similiar flow of ***** into my ear from the numb Vernarth. The waves and waves of paradise caused amazement at the coming duel. Before the enemy more than 250 thousand infantry and cavalry, faked tanks, archers, Greek hoplites, Peltasts, elephants and sophisticated weapons of war. Beyond mercenaries of death sowing the last words of ardor in their hands of faith of triumph, before the Macedonian militants too inferior  to the hordes of Darius in account only of 47 thousand militiamen of Alexander the Great.

under edition, to be continued
VERNARTH IV  LIGHT WARRIOR
Paul d'Aubin Dec 2016
Le Troquet le Méribel à Croix-Daurade

(Chronique des années de Blues et de fièvres)

C'était un bar de Croix-Daurade,
Dans les années soixante-dix,
Placé sur la route d'Albi,
Près du Lycée Raymond-Naves
Qui lui donnait sa clientèle
De jeunes gens émerveillés
De découvrir leur liberté
**** des regards de leurs parents
Ce bar était dans l’air du temps,
Des banquettes de moleskine
Un jukebox passant les tubes
De ces «golden seventies»
dont les jeunesses s’étaient saisies
Pour jeter les bases d’un Monde
Qui puisse leur ressembler un peu
Les chansons étaient leurs bannières :
Parfois «Let It Be» des Beatles, parfois
«My Sweet Lord» de Georges Harrison
Quelque fois, l'harmonica de Dylan
Évoquant Monsieur «Tambourine Man»,
Et bien d'autres que j’ai oubliées.
Nous buvions le plus souvent
Des petits noirs sans soif ni fin,
Parfois quelques bières pour les garçons
Des diabolos menthe pour les filles.
Nos conversations infinies,
S'enflammaient d'esquisses de flirt,
Et nous étions tous fascinés,
par leurs regards pareil à des aimants,
Leurs les longs cheveux dénoués,
et leurs yeux emplis de lumière.
Les filles nous semblaient belles et douces
Et nous n'osions pas assez le leur dire.
Mais leur présence charmante
Piquaient notre fièvre de «Tchatcher»
Lorsqu'il y eu la grève au lycée,
Suite aux blessures infligées
au normalien, Richard Deshayes
Le café devint un vrai QG,
Où nous préparions nos expéditions,
Des militants vinrent recruter,
Et nous initièrent aux querelles
Qui n'avaient rien à envier
A celles des Byzantins assiégés.
Il y avait le bel Alfredo,
Et des étudiants qui faisaient
Tourner la tête aux Lycéennes .
C’étaient comme l’écrivit Louis Aragon :
«Des temps déraisonnables»
Mais c’était une époque de fantaisie
Ou le demain se conjuguait
Au rythme de notre insolence
Et d’une soif de vivre sans pareil.

Paul Arrighi
(Chronique des années de Blues et de fièvres dans les années 1970 à19 72 )
Robert Ueda Nov 2014
Mirrors for mirrors
Diaries for dust
Dead men for militants
Martyrs for rust

Tears over trophies
Prizes for price tags
Lawmakers for lovers son
Lies while the time lags

Up is quite down
But two is still two
Question me not
I said I love you
C N Kumar Mar 2014
Oh earth, in burning of sunlight
When see from street childhood,
Flowered smooth sound of smile?

Oh child, who mud finger put in mouth
Run and hide in this mid street
This for yours noted memorable day
And suggesting day of eats mind sweets.

Ridded, very fast and strength of world
And bitten screams are drown that chariot sound
All doors are closing for that sound not fall in ears
Shutter down of eyes for not seeing of street views.

Update our evening status
And wishes of the universal childhoods
Discuss with like and comment
During early morning
When sung the song of obsequies
For orphan childhood  
Open slowly your left eye
And see down in 6th floor
A colony behind your flat,
Under a plastic sheet roofed hut
How many children sleep with tiered
And not filled food even half stomach
And disturbed, turned and turned

What! Are you close your window?
Are you disturbed in that mid night views?  
Calm sleep your babe on form mattress
Look up and had deep breath from you.

Oh earth, in burning of sunlight
When see from street childhood,
Flowered   smooth sound of smile?


Discussion will improved on visual media
And the words are take sides  
Colony rabbles, future quotation militants,
Pimps, prostitutes,
Award them various statuses
And put up more rehabilitation charts.
Years of years entered in rule machine
Not getting salvation that scheme
They are secure sleep in urns
And souls of promises are spread in surrounds
Oh babe, all are in workshop
For making of yours dream land
And you, fall in mud pit of path side
Like a Skelton, like a fermenting worm
To seek food in dung pit with dogs
Still day and night competition pursues.
All dreams are reflect in deep eyes
Like fade out pictures
To sow, which letters seed?
And hence which tongue’s songs
To contribute,
And fill millions of stars flowering
Oh my child, in your eyes.

Oh earth, in burning of sunlight
When see from street childhood,
Flowered smooth sound of smile?
=======================C N Kumar.
In time,
Her blue eyes turned to amber,
Gaining serenity at the expense of dazzle,
She was, in short:
Diminished?
You know, the proverbial red,
Red rose misplacing its hue?
Over time, becoming the times that
Try men’s souls--as they say—
Particularly in times like ours.
Life at the Vicarage: an in-depth,
Stunningly frank & brutal TRIP 4-2.
Surely, the falcon & falconer
Out of range of each other, at last.
Share drowned innocence,
Sans conviction, intense & passionate,
An in-depth study--if you will—
If you won’t, *******!
A close encounter of mutual
Self-loathing & contempt.
Soon the blood-dimmed tide,
Mere anarchy loose as a goose.
I speak of a time without pretense:
Armed-black-militants
Killing-white-cops?
Are you ******* me?
Who has time to investigate
A simple case of what could or
Could not be spousal homicide.
But I digress.
Blood in the streets?
We haven’t seen that ****
Since Bobby Seale, Eldridge Cleaver
& Huey P Newton stalked the earth.
“Lord, Oh God!” we wonder.
“Deliver us a savior.
Rescue Us.
Rescue Me."
Sia Jane Oct 2014
Barefoot, each step sunken in mud
splashes of rain marry with
crimson drops in a puddle
of stormed waves
from an opened heaven

She kneels to the ground
simultaneously glancing
left, right, behind
cheeks blushed, her soul falling
as teardrops - her lowest ebb

Ripping her cotton dress
she replaces blood soaked rags
it’s been six days.

This war with herself
at only twelve years of age
every nineteen days
her body a vessel, confirmation
of demurred womanhood

Each month persecuted,
Jesus nailed to a cross
a period of girlhood abruptly ends.

Amidst war-torn streets
fleeing torched homes
civil war displacing
orphaned sisters - *****
militants prevail over innocence.

Washing her sin away
red body fluids disperse
in mud, rain, water, soil
her reflection lost
along the side of dignity

On those same knees
Chausiku pleaded with God
to no longer bring forth
the fertility of conception
each cursed month.

Congolese civil wars scraped away landscapes
Mother Nature scraped away internal walls
and month after month after month this period endures
and a child of the night stays hidden from sight.

© Sia Jane
**the girls name Chausiku is Swahili meaning "born of night"

"The worst period of her life"
Bring back dignity to these women
To donate £3 to ActionAid, you text KIT to 70111.
Having already fled war-torn conflict in Syria and the Congo, these girls and women suffer further humiliation every month as they cannot afford basic sanitary wear.
Julie Grenness Jun 2016
Yo, Earth, this is Australia calling,
Oz has decided to stop stalling,
We have finally sent you our bless,
We've agreed to share our feral pets,
Yes, it's time at last Oz did its share,
Feral gift pet sets from Australia fair,
First, to enable total world peace,
We're mailing crocodiles to the Middle East,
You know, "Never smile at a crocodile,"
They'll eat your ISIS guns with a toothy smile,
Next, we'll donate Red Back spiders,
Look out militants, they'll sit down  beside yer!
Our third gift is some great white sharks,
All programmed for Peace in their hearts,
Finally, funnel web spiders and Taipans,
We're sharing our pets with hostile lands,
All your wars shall be a failure,
Peace on Earth, from Aussies in Australia!
FEEDBACK WELCOME!

— The End —