"militants" poems
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
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 1:46 PM UTC
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
Oct 3, 2017
Oct 3, 2017 at 6:34 AM UTC
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
Sep 6, 2010
Sep 6, 2010 at 10:20 AM UTC
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
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 6:24 AM UTC
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
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 7:38 PM UTC
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.
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 3:45 AM UTC
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.
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 3:09 AM UTC
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
Jun 3, 2021
Jun 3, 2021 at 12:10 PM UTC
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?
Jan 10, 2012
Jan 10, 2012 at 7:15 PM UTC
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.
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 1:28 AM UTC
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
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 12:58 PM UTC
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.
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 1:57 PM UTC
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.
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 8:57 PM UTC
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 –
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 12:17 PM UTC
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 –
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 12:35 PM UTC
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
Jan 23, 2018
Jan 23, 2018 at 3:16 AM UTC
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
Dec 10, 2016
Dec 10, 2016 at 7:09 AM UTC
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
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 4:01 PM UTC
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.
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 12:51 PM UTC
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, **** YOU!***
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."
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 11:51 PM UTC