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ConnectHook Sep 2017
White folks: pack your bags and go.
Our nut-brown world is quite offended.
Make your shame-faced exit NOW,
And leave your mansions unattended.
Wait—before you pass the doors,
It's time to settle ethnic scores.

No more ragtime Minstrel Show.
Our Moorish Science took it down.
Black lives matter. White, less so—
Now move your pale face out of town . . .
But first, shell out for racial shame
Caucasian losers of the game.

Cultural pride is ours alone:
Kings and Egyptian queens we were.
The glories of our race, well-known
Bedazzle in a darkened blur
(Clear to Africa's descendants—
Puzzling to you white dependents).

Blackness lent your world its light,
Taught the Dutch to tend those flowers.
Scandinavia grew bright
Under our beneficent powers.
Negroes gave your blondes their beauty;
Helped those Norsemen shake their *****.

The Seven Wonders of the world:
We built them all. No vain conjecture
Dims our banner, black, unfurled,
Above eternal architecture.
Arts and knowledge gained from us
Are what we threaten to discuss.

We invented math and science
Which you robbed from Timbuktu.
Swarthy wisdom's brave defiance
Caused Old Europe to renew.
All our treasure that you plundered
Testifies: your days are numbered.

Classics of our Greeks you stole:
Philosophy was never yours.
Shame upon your racist soul;
For Bach and Mozart both were Moors.
Misappropriated treasures
call for ruthless hard-line measures.

Latino fate falls next—but, where ?
Jews, Turks, and Arabs: are you. . . white ?
Orientals everywhere:
Choose your side and join the fight.
Blackness rising! Late the hour;
Heed your call to fight the power.

Crackers need to check your race—
Stop rooting for that ****** clown.
Rednecks all up in our face;
Racist throwbacks got us down.
But as your statues bite the dust
Your light goes dark (you know it must).

So move on out, oppressor, thief.
Long have you held our nation back.
In some white galaxy seek relief—
But here the light itself is black.
Stars are racist. So is the sun.
Now let God's great black will be done.
Truth is stranger than:
http://tinyurl.com/yc9va3pl

Candace Owens understands .
Rangzeb Hussain Feb 2011
Journey to Mecca – The IMAX Experience

Imagine the scene... There are crowds of people milling about, some in queues, some chatting by the windows, others sipping a warm drink. There are children playing in corners, babies drinking milk, and wherever you look you see people of all creeds and races united under the banner of a shared humanity. And what is the reason for this diverse cross section of society to be present in one place on a quiet and sleepy Sunday afternoon at Birmingham’s ThinkTank? The answer is right there across the busy foyer. It is a poster for a new IMAX film called “Journey to Mecca”. The very air bubbles with excitement and expectation as the cinema staff cut the proverbial ribbon and usher the people into the auditorium.

Space, vast and open, is the first thing that hits the audience as they take their seats and let their eyes wander over the immense spectrum of the IMAX screen. A map unfurls across the screen and a narrator explains the time and lays down the background to the scene that is about to commence. The year is 1325, the place is Tangier and the story is about a man who is about to embark upon a journey to the holy city of Mecca on a pilgrimage. The charismatic young man is Ibn Battuta, he stares at the stars that twinkle across the canvas of the night sky and he dreams of spires, of domes, of jewelled cities that sparkle in the desert sands, and his vision swoops like a falcon over the alleys and streets of the kingdom until they rest upon the Ka’aba, the sacred building at the heart of Islam.

Ibn Battuta bids farewell to his beloved family and sets out on his journey which will see him tested, both physically and psychologically, as he travels to the fabled city of Mecca. His trials and tribulations on the road to Mecca are detailed with an emotional richness rarely seen in modern cinema. The script is nuanced in a way that allows the audience to connect with the action and the various characters. The depth of research and the care in which the tale is told is delicately balanced. This is cinema as entertainment and as education.

The film reveals the magic and wonder of the Hajj by contrasting the life of Ibn Battuta with modern day worshippers at the same holy sites as those visited by the young traveller all those years ago. The scale of the event is brought to realisation in a way that will make even the most jaded film connoisseur gasp with astonishment.

In terms of technicalities, the IMAX technology is notorious for being extremely expensive and difficult to master. The format does not allow for the creative freedom that one can utilize in 35mm, so it is to the credit of the crew that this film looks seamless and breathtaking. Every single frame of the drama is a beautifully crafted canvas that seems to glow like a painting. The cinematography is exemplary and employs a painterly palette. The deserts and mountains are dry, cracked and dusty brown like wrinkled parchment while the sun drips golden lava across the scorching landscape. The white garments of the pilgrims are like beacons floating in the creamy dust of the desert sands whilst the tapestries hanging in the bazaars are lovingly stitched in green and blue threads; and the silver and gold bangles on the arms and ankles of the village girls ****** and twinkle. The atmosphere of warmth and friendship is apparent in every scene, especially when the succulent food is shared by the soft red glow of the campfires. High above this blend of colours, languages and the swirl of human emotions are the dancing stars that ripple in the heavens. The spectacle and sounds of a bygone era are stunningly designed.

The soundtrack also serves the film quite well. The music is never intrusive or melodramatic, it is there as a soft accompaniment to the proceedings. The use of strings, Moorish mandolins, African percussion and the human voice brings an exotic and ethereal ambiance to the drama.

“Journey to Mecca” is a journey of hope, a journey of understanding and a journey that will inspire. The sheer magnitude and beauty of this film left the audience awed and instilled a desire to learn more about the past which we sometimes neglect to reflect upon in our fast moving lives. This film is an ode to peace, love and compassion, and acts as a bridge of understanding between the past and present. And, as the film fades to black at the ******, there is a final haunting image that will resonate with every member of the audience. The message is simple and poignant. It illustrates the transient and swift nature of life; it shows how we glow brightly by the light of the noon day sun and then fade into the tranquil shadows of the coming twilight. Our journey in this life should be one that respects all of humanity despite our cultural or political differences. It is not often that one leaves the cinema knowing that your soul has been moved by something rare, delicate and exquisite. This was one of those rare occasions.
Rondu McPhee Aug 2010
I look out the window--an endless sky. The clouds are like nothing else--bold explosions and everywhere in the sky, infinite, above and still in time and space--Madness and Horror are said to have their own faces and names. Can't Beauty? Beauty has its own life--not a distinctive face, not a concrete identity--Beauty is breathing, standing, growing above us--the Clouds. I know that it's a bit foggy, I know what is actual is only actual for the one time and standing moment that it is there--maybe the Clouds move, travel, fade--but they never leave us. They're long, still and colossal enough to be viewed, admired, stricken, crushed beneath. I'm on a bus, travelling through San Francisco--a mystery on its own, mad like a spiral or giant--one with a heart and soul that is difficult to pinpoint and seemingly jolting, constantly moving throughout--down streets, through alleys, intensifying in the dazzling Golden Gate Bridge and boundary-less San Francisco Bay--a testament Olympian and profoundly simple, such a straightforward bridge with so many possibilities and tragedies. It's my destination, too.

I go to the Podesta Baldocchi--a flower shop, quaint, small, almost non-existent in the vertigo of San Francisco, but immortalized in another Vertigo--and inspiring search and enigma on its own--the vision of James Stewart chasing hills, corners, all the trails and paths for Beauty--a Beauty with two feet, a name, experiences--Beauty named Kim Novak. He follows Her, from the shores to the grave--She, praying at a cemetery, a faded figure in grief, He, watching obsessively like a predator--He finds Her on the cold shores, of the endless, alien seas--along the Golden Gate Bridge--on the verge of jumping. He saves Her, a metamorphosis of prey and personal freedom is triggered.

That's one of the many beautiful passages of Vertigo that I remember--passion, memory, disappearance, insanity, aggression. "Here I was born, and here I died", says the woman, named Madeline--a fatal, empowering woman of Beauty and melancholy, complex and deceiving. Chris Marker saw this too--a reservoir of thought from his Sans Soleil--the movie, the moment in time where memory and the Great Enigmas had finally been touched by skin and light. February, 1983.

Memory works that way.

That is one of the things I love most; memory. Memory is fading and escaping from me. I look down at my wrinkled hands--grief and nothing else--losing myself. I step onto the cliff where Madeline, where Grace stood. The sea is a rapture. Endless, everywhere, surrounding me from all corners--dozens of people have taken their life here. They jump from the bridge, they slip into the water and drown. Their entire breakdown and loneliness and humanity is silenced and stated in a small slip into the bay, or a thin, white splash--a miniature, but Greater Fall--beneath the bridge in all its magnificence and profundity, beneath the clouds, a silent act of Tragedy and Horror with a face, surrounded and drowned in Beauty and Rapture--breathtaking and cruel.

I am tired and lifeless. I can't stand it. I remember all the beaches, skies, nights, visions of the sun and daughters I've seen in my life, all the smiles I've faked, breaths I took--I hadn't thought of this until the nineties or so, in my wrinkled, tired years. I was remembering Marie--my only girlfriend and wife one I had met in the 40's--compassionate, dangerous, magnificent she was, like Madeline. Perfection and grace and danger. I had grown, loved, lived, watched everything and took every step with her--before she had died in 1989. She was my only care, my only love. I couldn't grip myself then. I hear my parents speaking, my mum and dad--dead now--my children, beautiful things--I couldn't keep them. I couldn't. I couldn't, their eyes porcelain--I went insane over all of it, a time to foggy to look back on. Time is the same stretch, place is the same and distilled--but memory is everywhere--one thing I love and can't stand.

And now I am here. The beauty is pastoral, distant, glowing and also deadly--like cloudy figures of steel and glass, concrete with fountains and blood in the shape of landscapes and towers--branches, cold, in a lonely place, fading from truth and Truth, identity and Greater Life--a thousand misty passions and poses stretched and scattered. I'm hopeless, I'm lonely, I'm cold. I'm wary, tired, confused with nothing left in me. I'm leaving, Reconciling beneath, below, and everywhere around Beauty.

I understand any doubts. I cannot take my nerves or my senses. They've failed, broken down on me--I've lost myself, very permanently this time.

I fall. I see nothing, feel everything crushing, me lying in the crystal bay--it fades. I can't see. I can't speak--I can't love, embrace, understand--I open my eyes, dizzy and faded, in a house, a rather cluttered, yet homely one. I believe I am small, looking up to my great pale towering mother, breats and lips and glowing limpid eyes... a fireplace, some warmth, some haze and some tears of joy. It is falling apart, where I am, but it is of embracing memory. I'm being looked and smiled at. I don't know where this is.

I close my eyes, I stand and open them seven years later. Cold water at my feet and sand--I look around to see a beach, stretched infinitely--past boundaries or understanding. The sea is dizzying. I look up to see that Beauty--still standing, moving across and thinning--that Beauty is sunless. Nothing but Clouds--an illusion, foggy and slippery of sorts--impossible and unbearable to experience. I stumble.

I look up, and there's now a ceiling--tall, blazing gold, marmalade and kaleidoscope--everything is blurring and melting. I'm in a hallway, with parents--a father and mother, loving, caring and safe; the only thing in front of me is a painting, swirled and swerved shore to thunder and graceful and passionate so distant--Holy, Andalusian girls from a Utamaro madman; thinly, finely lined, velvet in color and delicacy, colliding and cracked in shape, memory or sense. The painting falls, crashes, and the ceiling falls and opens to voices and laughs. I stumble, tremble, get knocked staggering, look down the hallway. It's crashing to black--I stumble to anyone; my father, the mad size of him, I rush and cling still around his arms--a shadow--then his terrible branches rising, fading, and everywhere--complete pitch black--coming for me? Far and off and a way a place cold and a lone in the Fall long and thundering--rippled--moving--then white--then clearly.

My next vision I can comprehend without running terrified is in Japan. It's 1964, I am 25. A television set, murky like playing out my dazed oxygen-starved hallucinatory real-fake mindbursting memories. Headlines, people, looking down at me. I can feel my knees again, and my heart. It's the Year of the Dragon, I'm nervous uncontrollably. Night after night, each one passing by as I blink, walking, everything changing, changing from me, I can feel. Or maybe I can't. I keep my eyes open, and don't lose my breath, hiding in rooms and feeling and apart torn so vast. I look at my surroundings--I don't know where I am--I think in my last passage? passed on through a thousand miles and faces and every conscious and spirit. My last one. I can't hide, though. I'm dying, my last breath and vision being me fading through time--such a quick thing--spinning and burying the Earth As I Have Watched It Through The Years in snow and rain and static and the Dead--I can only stare at the streets. I'm with my girlfriend Marie, it's November 28th, 1975.

She says to me, "What's wrong? You're on the balcony alone. You've been there for hours."

Marie, hold on tight, please. I'm lonely, terrified, frightened--I made a mistake, life is coming and going with all radiance and fleeting and darkness and closing doors. I've witnessed my birthday from another room. I've thought of my life again. I've seen it, distorted, everywhere, in colors and in heaps of broken fragments, images and ruins. I need your help--

"Nothing, just enjoying the city. It's beautiful," I say. It's nightfall, blinding rain, in Paris. That's where we spent our vacation, me and Marie. I love her; she'll be gone the next morning.

Then I go back. Different times, warm times, times like beauty and solid, everything going racing and wayward that I can't see a color and then white then eyes pale and hyacinths all over the place--I see Marie in the distance, oh Yes like poised like drips like canvas all around surround floating laying, kissing me, the Day I'd wrapped gently around her now I can see it like a reflection, and O I can't take it--that very last look, her face vivid--and I can't look back and I can't look down or up--just her face, lovely, wrapping more and Closer and oh Yes all around me and my mouth is going insane so tired and limpid losing words and tract and

And I can see you so lovely so gracefully and yes I will kiss you and gently cradling and your skin like rose and blossoms with the smooth touch from an Eve in flesh shrouded red and raw and when I feel anything else running through my veins like clockwork oh Yes it blazes all lovely like a reflection and the last lonely place left to fade to is only the Clouds and Sea and oh yes with all the magic of the Rite of Spring and the fogs and streaks of August O but then now I see I see O Lord I see the one-thousand-one dead poses and faces like this marie not the one I know but her Beauty erased a lying a loft a living Girl a shape a branch and yet still loving in her stone face-without-a-face so Anonymous so Kiss Me Deadly leave me taking me sprawling around me creeping crouching touching growing up my skin and veins and conscious watching all the artifice leave me and all colors and thought coming up lashing melting seething roiling yes oh yes just like a reverie like genuine insanity haunting and boiling like sweet crazed Narcissus in all the Moorish vines so thorny so lost so complicated and savage rose gardens is all one can see like solid waves--in the distance, the bold-coifed Wooden Duke, the blue Queen, away from the warped, whirling war scape outside and cold and I'm taken back a bit now bundled away from all the rows and thorny laces of buildings among buildings way in the distance out the window like crooked Van Gogh details and the noir jagged edges and tete-a-tete feeling of Life and Hope that the neons floating down streets give you when all seeping and spraying in your eyes and O the tangled webs and thorns and spiders of the panes and glass and shards and sharp'n'smooth curls and spiraling rings of it all and O the strewn of flesh like insect and myth and negative space and city all coated and sprawled I'm going to explode and I look up to see every bit of sand, waves, bold lines and streaks above and beyond me, all those curves and rods very dizzying and all beating and throbbing like mad and my vision went like some frothing beast held and dissected under light and shape oh Yes I say and I tell you while being dragged through all the Andalusian flowers and raindrops beside and above me and the Universe and the Love that could've been it's all above me too like a rose growing and blossoming with all the melting grace of a Holy girl oh Yes I say and state as clear again so rapturously like a living poem and as I leave everyone and leave this illusion I can sigh and pause and oh my goodness it's all spinning and apart and transcendent like the first Clouds and Grace above a monochromatic world--a speck--Nothing in its embrace--I stop, gaze with the recollection of every gesture of love and love's death in my life--I'm somewhere, everywhere, from the cosmos to the sea--and the ****** comes before me--Marie, Marie--and I burst and split like dust--she speaks to me. She listens, she hears, the only thing, milky, porcelain eyes and skin like nothing else--I ask her where I am. She opens her mouth, bestridden and humbled like a shadow or a monument. Glowing like birth, she told me--solemn, silent, fuzzy--she told me that I'm dying. "Life is slipping--all of you, your raw hands, your face, your memory--everything is slipping, gently. You're being erased from the world, experienced, dismaying--you're far from it."

I asked, "Where?"

She stared, bled, disappeared into thin air and continued, "I always get lost, thinking or looking into the sea or sky. Infinite, lovely. It never ends. Never, ever ends. I look at it and cannot help but forget about every bit of land, forget any shore, stone, or war, or the clearest whisper--because it fades away from me, so clearly, and I can't help but stare down the endless waves and curls, because they go on forever. They're everything. They're all mist and unbearable, simple and Everything--I think you're at the end of Everything."

My last Beauty.
Queso Nov 2012
Man had wept
as he watched the fall of Lucifer,
not so much due to the tragedy itself,
rather than the cutting, crystalline
beauty of the Icarian descent

After the absence of three hundred years
since the forgotten burning of Magdeburg(1),
when the Devil had returned to Europe
from the smoldering ashes of
South Africa(2),
Namibia(3),
and Congo Free State(4),
the soft hills of Picardy were
embroidered in gold
with roses and clematises

And since our girl had been fed with naught
but the shimmering positivism of Auguste Comte
from a silver spoon manufactured in Manchester,
beneath the charmingly moorish face of a lover
and a Prada he wore
quilted with railway, nation-state,
Art nouveau, electricity,
and liberal democracy,
never in her wildest, most horrendous nightmares,
-one of which was mere few dozen Jews dying in pogroms-
could she possibly imagine
His robust fingers,
so caressingly wrapped around her neck and cheek,
concealing the bayonet claws
of mustard gas and industrialized massacres

A god whose name we only knew
and whose warmth we only read of,
had called for the blood sacrifice of utmost purity,
to be fed to its altars for the promises of salvation

As the Devil ravaged her body frozen as the Siberian gulags
and her soul smoking away to the chimneys of Auschwitz,
he raked his nail to her cheek seized by the throat,
lasciviously whispering,
‘Here, this,
This is the kiss of progress
You have thrown so warmly your arms around’

Ninety-eight years had passed
since that fatal kiss of a lovesome late June,
though the summer days had returned in Picardy,
roses and clematises
no longer bloom on her hills
except as tributes for silenced youth
which petals lay as a civilization’s tears
as shroud over a massive bomb-crater of La Boisselle(5)

And never again, could she fall in love,
notwithstanding all the lover’s whispers
of the rational organization of human society
or the ultimate liberation of the working class,
for in her heart have always lingered,
the shadow of the Devil
whose chilling warmth of the Lubyanka cells
and the fiery dearth of the crematoriums of Poland
we had shared as whole, consummate days of youth

For there lies a tragic aestheticism
in deflowering of a rose just about to bloom,
for one delirious sense of snapping off the stem,
we had burned away all ardor of love for a century

---------
(1) http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/SackofMagdeburg
(2) Concentration camps were first used as means of civilian incarceration by the British against the Afrikaaners during the Second Boer War
(3) http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/HereroandNamaquaGenocide
(4) http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Congo
FreeState#Humanitariandisaster
(5) http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lochnagar_Crater
Where olive leaves were twinkling in every wind that blew,
There sat beneath the pleasant shade a damsel of Peru.
Betwixt the slender boughs, as they opened to the air,
Came glimpses of her ivory neck and of her glossy hair;
And sweetly rang her silver voice, within that shady nook,
As from the shrubby glen is heard the sound of hidden brook.

'Tis a song of love and valour, in the noble Spanish tongue,
That once upon the sunny plains of old Castile was sung;
When, from their mountain holds, on the Moorish rout below,
Had rushed the Christians like a flood, and swept away the foe.
A while that melody is still, and then breaks forth anew
A wilder rhyme, a livelier note, of freedom and Peru.

  For she has bound the sword to a youthful lover's side,
And sent him to the war the day she should have been his bride,
And bade him bear a faithful heart to battle for the right,
And held the fountains of her eyes till he was out of sight.
Since the parting kiss was given, six weary months are fled,
And yet the foe is in the land, and blood must yet be shed.

A white hand parts the branches, a lovely face looks forth,
And bright dark eyes gaze steadfastly and sadly toward the north
Thou look'st in vain, sweet maiden, the sharpest sight would fail.
To spy a sign of human life abroad in all the vale;
For the noon is coming on, and the sunbeams fiercely beat,
And the silent hills and forest-tops seem reeling in the heat.

That white hand is withdrawn, that fair sad face is gone,
But the music of that silver voice is flowing sweetly on,
Not as of late, in cheerful tones, but mournfully and low,--
A ballad of a tender maid heart-broken long ago,
Of him who died in battle, the youthful and the brave,
And her who died of sorrow, upon his early grave.

But see, along that mountain's *****, a fiery horseman ride;
Mark his torn plume, his tarnished belt, the sabre at his side.
His spurs are buried rowel-deep, he rides with loosened rein,
There's blood upon his charger's flank and foam upon the mane;
He speeds him toward the olive-grove, along that shaded hill:
God shield the helpless maiden there, if he should mean her ill!

And suddenly that song has ceased, and suddenly I hear
A shriek sent up amid the shade, a shriek--but not of fear.
For tender accents follow, and tenderer pauses speak
The overflow of gladness, when words are all too weak:
"I lay my good sword at thy feet, for now Peru is free,
And I am come to dwell beside the olive-grove with thee."
There was a roaring in the wind all night;
The rain came heavily and fell in floods;
But now the sun is rising calm and bright;
The birds are singing in the distant woods;
Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods;
The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters;
And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters.

All things that love the sun are out of doors;
The sky rejoices in the morning’s birth;
The grass is bright with rain-drops;—on the moors
The hare is running races in her mirth;
And with her feet she from the plashy earth
Raises a mist, that, glittering in the sun,
Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run.

I was a Traveller then upon the moor,
I saw the hare that raced about with joy;
I heard the woods and distant waters roar;
Or heard them not, as happy as a boy:
The pleasant season did my heart employ:
My old remembrances went from me wholly;
And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy.

But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might
Of joy in minds that can no further go,
As high as we have mounted in delight
In our dejection do we sink as low;
To me that morning did it happen so;
And fears and fancies thick upon me came;
Dim sadness—and blind thoughts, I knew not, nor could name.

I heard the sky-lark warbling in the sky;
And I bethought me of the playful hare:
Even such a happy Child of earth am I;
Even as these blissful creatures do I fare;
Far from the world I walk, and from all care;
But there may come another day to me—
Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty.

My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought,
As if life’s business were a summer mood;
As if all needful things would come unsought
To genial faith, still rich in genial good;
But how can He expect that others should
Build for him, sow for him, and at his call
Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?

I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy,
The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride;
Of Him who walked in glory and in joy
Following his plough, along the mountain-side:
By our own spirits are we deified:
We Poets in our youth begin in gladness;
But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.

Now, whether it were by peculiar grace,
A leading from above, a something given,
Yet it befell, that, in this lonely place,
When I with these untoward thoughts had striven,
Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven
I saw a Man before me unawares:
The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.

As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie
Couched on the bald top of an eminence;
Wonder to all who do the same espy,
By what means it could thither come, and whence;
So that it seems a thing endued with sense:
Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf
Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself;

Such seemed this Man, not all alive nor dead,
Nor all asleep—in his extreme old age:
His body was bent double, feet and head
Coming together in life’s pilgrimage;
As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage
Of sickness felt by him in times long past,
A more than human weight upon his frame had cast.

Himself he propped, limbs, body, and pale face,
Upon a long grey staff of shaven wood:
And, still as I drew near with gentle pace,
Upon the margin of that moorish flood
Motionless as a cloud the old Man stood,
That heareth not the loud winds when they call
And moveth all together, if it move at all.

At length, himself unsettling, he the pond
Stirred with his staff, and fixedly did look
Upon the muddy water, which he conned,
As if he had been reading in a book:
And now a stranger’s privilege I took;
And, drawing to his side, to him did say,
“This morning gives us promise of a glorious day.”

A gentle answer did the old Man make,
In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew:
And him with further words I thus bespake,
“What occupation do you there pursue?
This is a lonesome place for one like you.”
Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise
Broke from the sable orbs of his yet-vivid eyes,

His words came feebly, from a feeble chest,
But each in solemn order followed each,
With something of a lofty utterance drest—
Choice word and measured phrase, above the reach
Of ordinary men; a stately speech;
Such as grave Livers do in Scotland use,
Religious men, who give to God and man their dues.

He told, that to these waters he had come
To gather leeches, being old and poor:
Employment hazardous and wearisome!
And he had many hardships to endure:
From pond to pond he roamed, from moor to moor;
Housing, with God’s good help, by choice or chance,
And in this way he gained an honest maintenance.

The old Man still stood talking by my side;
But now his voice to me was like a stream
Scarce heard; nor word from word could I divide;
And the whole body of the Man did seem
Like one whom I had met with in a dream;
Or like a man from some far region sent,
To give me human strength, by apt admonishment.

My former thoughts returned: the fear that kills;
And hope that is unwilling to be fed;
Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills;
And mighty Poets in their misery dead.
—Perplexed, and longing to be comforted,
My question eagerly did I renew,
“How is it that you live, and what is it you do?”

He with a smile did then his words repeat;
And said, that, gathering leeches, far and wide
He travelled; stirring thus about his feet
The waters of the pools where they abide.
“Once I could meet with them on every side;
But they have dwindled long by slow decay;
Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may.”

While he was talking thus, the lonely place,
The old Man’s shape, and speech—all troubled me:
In my mind’s eye I seemed to see him pace
About the weary moors continually,
Wandering about alone and silently.
While I these thoughts within myself pursued,
He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed.

And soon with this he other matter blended,
Cheerfully uttered, with demeanour kind,
But stately in the main; and when he ended,
I could have laughed myself to scorn to find
In that decrepit Man so firm a mind.
“God,” said I, “be my help and stay secure;
I’ll think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor!”
Rabbit Sep 2018
**** the Police
Coming straight out the underground
Young brother got it bad
Cuz I look Mexican and I'm brown

Can't forget to do diarrhea
on the sheriff deputies
Cuz you wear a uniform and a badge
think you deserve respect like a G

Biggest violaters of civil rights
in the ******* land
take advantage of everybody
cuz you think we're stupid and you can

Where are you going? What's your name? Are you on Probation?
California is not a stop and identify state
How about I cuff your ***
Take you to an alley and let out all my frustration

Am I under arrest?
Or am I free to go is what I ask
Boo bop & slit your throat
come up from behind with a ******* Chucky mask

I'm the worst ******* nightmare
there ever has been
A conscious, Chicano, 5 percenter
Moorish American free national citizen

How about next time you **** one of us
We hunt you down, home invade your family
and launch you all of a cliff in a bus.

Quick to leave a pig bleeding left for dead in a ***** ditch
***** sewed to your mouth, you wanna be me punk *** *****.

Or we'll cut your head off
and stick it to a thousand foot pole
start the vampire nation, count Vlad's idea yea I stole.

14th amendment, 85 percenter
corporate security guard
driving a big *** truck with your undersized *****
and you think your all hard, you ******* ******.

You're obvious and pathetic
I got no time to play
We don't die we multiply and the movement is here to stay.

Get off me stupid I ain't signing no autographs
Che Guevara reincarnated now who has the last laugh?
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
proud villager, proud not, or prodding as anti-urban, proud protruding villager, a wordsworth villager, proud and protruding villager, well... shakespeare matters in paris, worth an advert about national competition; so far away from home i have a competitive streak against prussia or russia or austria... one's up, two tow a down... hence the chandelier, and the piano... proud villager... some say fermented potato was enough to forget southern France and the crescendo of fermentation; i know, but eastern europe is like arfrican exotica... if there's a palm tree or a coconut in Warsaw, let me know, i'll be the first to buy suntan lotion and holiday over there; you ******* colonial carry-on *** theme detention x100 **** **** **** in the rushes giggles.

Erik would be so proud, pound for pound,
unlit cigarette in mouth i read an article entitled
boardroom boss, bedroom slave*
about anglo women in ennobled violent ***, plums
in eye-sockets and all manners of ***** -
i laugh, it's funny - it has to be, as a quasi monk it
can only be funny - via 'would it ever matter?' -
a patent of zoology was once
stressed for psychology to consider,
it wasn't, thank **** or thank god?
well you have to laugh -
with Christianity you have the starting
point, man above angel (via Christ)
claims superiority but is declaimed
superior by being reduced to animality -
if man claims himself an angel
he will have to claim himself an equal
among the tilling beasts and the beasts of
households -
thus man claiming himself equal among angel
will claim himself equal among animal..
forth more the value of psyche
than forth the value of animation -
breath above animation /
animation above breath -
had i too the knowledge -
i'd sooner shun the adventure of discovering
Greenland from Norway than via
discovering a woman's pierced *****
in the sea of the bedroom readied for
whip and shackle as accompanying motherhood!
what an english neglect -
no! of course i wouldn't! nearer my care for cold sea
and a sailors' fate than a patriarchal
**** fated to a warm bed allowing a guiding maxim
to continue onto fortunate lips as a guise
of guidance readily repeated and within the one
concerned entombed - what sexuality there was
to speak of, it will be only an epitaph a while in guise
reminiscent of where body stood and shadow
took to replenishing a memory of Odysseus -
for with no bedroom was he to be bound
as the highest expression she offered and offered indeed;
for no bedroom in solo or in harem
was to be the endless Atlantic a home to make eternal
justifiable as a worship of carved stone of Anubis
or her chiral pairing to keep sunset with sunrise:
a Moorish insomnia.
David Pollard Jan 2012
[Las Meninas, Oil on Canvas, 1656, Prado, Madrid]

I am the first proud pronoun I
against the fear of my invisibility
each morning rising from
minor nobility like my parents
(no son of a converso – lies –)
into the light of mastery;
now as a Knight of Santiago
- the king himself painted the cross
  you see in Las Meninas -
nobilitas is in the faces
royal with ancient lines
(you understand I did not
trade
am Moorish of Seville
and Portugal).

Not from the mind but back
into its expectation.
I see the work reflected
into the lens of sense
to supplement the work into the real
express itself by what
a slavish love of detail cannot supply
it was the power
to give them what they did not see
the scorn in lips
from ****** generations
bought by my brush
among them into monarchic trade
and what they thought as glory,
dwarves and all larger than life.
that painted me so high
those royal portraits by the score
keyed to the colour of fame
silvered and golden
mine.
Dauphin Dolphin Jan 2012
The ceiling of the grand ballroom
Opens as if it were taking in a deep breath.
All of the golden oil painted negative space
And striped Moorish arches allow the chandelier to shine
Blood red.

The pirates hung from the ceiling,
Each with his wrists bound to his ankles,
Festooned in the shape of a teardrop
Or a bell or a drop of blood.
The Jolly Roger slowly turns
Without even a slight breeze or breath,
Dangling from a single chord of rope.

How jolly Roger used to be before the navy came,
Smiling at the sinking enemy ships set on fire by black powder.
Perhaps he still smiles, even through the darkness,
Even through the gaping, gasping
Cannonball holes you can almost hear moan
On the side of his ship far below the surface of the sea,
And hangs high and proud on his ship’s tallest mast.

Perhaps the pirates hang high too, robust and glorious
Like their billowing flag, shameless and naked
With nothing to hide and everything to be proud of, a trophy
Not for a queen and her navy
But for themselves and the successes of their wanderlust.
Apteryx Apr 2011
Alorè, she-winged orb,
     *Aidenn's story,

As of ev'ry of all stars absorb
   Moorish wars and glory.

Dulcet wings she tether,---
  Mighty kinsmen grayed
By unlocking clean of her
   Beauty's Bridesmaid.

  In each pearling Note
    As syrup entwining
Silently thro' her sacred throat---
  Who here pins a-singing?

Voyeurs there take pleasure
       Leering forward
At the Seraph's ******* treasure,
  All mastered by one measure
Of Alorè's harsh sharp-sword.

Alorè's wings do they a-part
      Off of the Empyrean
Out the dead the sun of Lords depart
    The Dawn of Aurorean.

         Ancient welfare
     Upon Achaean's Night,
Where all the sea-seraphs a-delight,
No mortal can't escape the light
   *Of the She-Winged ******* affair.
(c) 2011
Filmore Townsend Aug 2013
losing thoughts to the margins in
some great depression of creative
outlet. taking inked works from a
revered Shakespeare born of the
Moorish states, filling out cata-
combs of this one's entombed
thoughts. and pondering Paris
of some earlier century, how
those writers flocked together.
how this one loathes his current
centuries other writers.
and these, are we, birds of a feather?
flocking, so to be better caught
by twelve-gauge scatter shot?
perhaps we are of a generation
lost, with blinders grown thru years.
expats stranded in a sea of comp-
lacancy in isolation with warring
souls raising higher parapets for
safety? this one's soul may have
raised too high fortifications,
forcing attrition upon the inhab-
itants. this one's soul may have
slaughtered the others for fear
of a low-cat staring up to
the eyes of its King. and
lone heart-beat echoing off
solid stone walls built of mortar
mixed with sweat and tears from
desecrated - of the desolated - and
now forsaken culture only a
quarter-century out. this one's
dogma consisting of self-martying
psychopomps pre-proclaiming ..
     'I went out myself into
     an immortal body, and
     now I am not what I was
     before. Now born in mind.'
this one's canonized martyrs only
seeking migration and division.
seeking the Kepigori for hopes of
retrieving knowledge lost - placed
without qualm of forgetting - the
ancestors bore unto still setting
mounds of clay mixed blood. and
when finally set, when finally full-
formed, when finally upright and
springing forth the common know-
ledge which was taught once in
truth. and, now breaking in thought
while this one's hours rot, while this
one leaves an abrupt end.
Oh, this is why I hate love!
How I used to moon over it;
shape it and craft it and run after it
in my brambles,
how I used to indulge it in my *****
protect it from any uncivil desecration
cherish it for its wilfulness
relish it for its greed;
how I tainted my heart with its fake scent!
It just dawneth on me!
Oh how I fervently remembereth the scene; the very afternoon scene, before me:
I was heaving my dull steps against the sheepish grounds;
so peaceful in their breezy slumbers;
unlike the busy grass afield!
their dainty colours blackened by the whirring clouds from afar.
Hung cozily amongst the sky, whose childishness wasth adjourned by
the sleeping rain!
Oh but it was none yet coldeth but temperate;
when his moorish figure, blent into the naturalness of the afternoonth;
retreated into the lingering scene,
swiftly and lightly as the chirruping birdth aloft,
as if no anguish was within reach,
as wildly glistening as the mirth of the old den!
How my soul warmed towards the sight of him,
and on he went to relate his selfish story.
How I celebrated it - its giddy, gullible outset!
How I endorse its unknowing innocence!
How I adorned it with my passion!
His reclamation proceeded,
I was but astounded to hark to the rest;
into it he amorously poured the account of a bizarre creature;
namely a stranger;
invariably a woman!
How insolent!
He named her his love;
he waveth his moronic praise at hers;
at her charm, andth not mineth!
I was spurned, my heart was churned;
despite my stranded efforts to keep my pair of
relenting eyes
unblinking;
I steadied my legs, I was more than ready to
bounce and go
sway myself away from this gloomy tragedy
as before me the story undesired unfolded:
my love was repressed, my heart was
bludgeoned, heartily bludgeoned,
and I was silenced; could no longer feelth the tinges of blood
in my latent veins.
He hath slaughtered my peace!
My inner visions, hopes, and dreams!
I hath lost all of which!
I hath lost my shrieks; I could not voice my despair;
yet I could not utter my grief!
I was cursed and condemned;
my soul was appallingly dishonored;
my entirety is for lifelong anger,
desolation, ignominy and utmost desperation!
My crossness against the Creator arose,
like a wave of torment,
a surge of unbecomingth animosity,
as to no matter how I suppressed it unthinkingly,
all ended in vain:
My stern heart shan't ever melt to love again.
Oh my love, my love,
my princeth, my deviousth prince,
the only one I was so ardently fond of
how could thou deepen my misery?
How could thou ****** my sweetest virginal affection
in the midst of my isolation?
Like the sultry willows
whose memories unshaken, unbitten in the most
melodious, but pallid from the heath
in this musty, salubrious air
my blooming flowers hath died
I am brokeneth, I am torn!
I am writhing in my vainness,
my foolish longing, unmissed and unsung by the dandy branches aboveth
Dancing in my own blueness, weariness that is both livid
and unforgiving
scared by the heartless world
in the course of this barren winter.
Winter with no whiteness;
winter unholy and fulleth of diminutive, evil suffrage.
How ungodly!
I am raked into pieces;
and this is what remains.
This is my misery; oh how I could not riseth above the misery itself!
This is my solemn admonition,
this is my fate!
I have no right to love,
to embrace and to be embraced,
and from this day on I wanth but to dismiss my love;
onto my heart was bestowed not serene affection but intelligence;
and intellect is far better regarded than love!
How sully, narrow, and vicious love is!
How unimportant it is in the eyes of glory,
and the sea of fictitious admiration.
I quit the monstrousness of yon outer devastation;
I take hold of my pen,
and swim deeper into my whining words, again.
Terry O'Leary May 2013
12 BARS

Twelve brazen bars, one frozen lock!
Confined, sublime, an ancient Roc
endures inside a barren cage,
her catacomb in sundown sage.

Of former days there is no trace
except displays of fallen grace –
Twelve dreams, abiding in her place,
are free, inhabit yawning space:

               12 DREAMS

... of wings unfurled, and seething eyes
that dredge the depths of dawning skies,
devining clouds that cling below,
once ice, dissolved in morning’s glow;

... of clutching winds that carry free
above an anguished leaden sea,
dispersing dust of distant stars
midst chunks of chain in slave bazaars;

... of swooping to a silent shore
to perch beside the ocean’s roar,
at last to feel the sobbing breeze
message the leaves of rooted trees;

... of stalking strays and twilight tramps
within the fog of lighthouse lamps
that blink forlorn through caldron nights
in search of shades of errant Kites;

... of darkling vast deserted lands,
with shadowed stones on windswept sands,
where ghosts of Moorish maidens lost
disgorge faint groans in mourning frost;

... of blotting out the bloated moon
while feathers beat a banshee tune
and glimmers dance and prance aglow
upon a pearly pale plateau;

... of tasting cool torrential rains,
beyond the realm of binding chains,
and sipping freedom they exude
in quite drops of solitude;

... of vanquishing a galley crew
aboard a ship in midnight dew,
beneath the pierce of seagulls' screams
that mock the strands of scarlet streams;

... of sating once an aching craw
with tearing beak, with ripping claw,
and echoed by an eldritch screech
while feasting on abandoned beach;

... of restive thoughts and weary wings
that drift on haze in smoky rings,
obscured within the opal shroud
of her resemblance in the crowd;

... of croaking caws in broken rhyme
in winter woe, in summer clime,
while building nests of sundown sage
beyond outside a barren cage.
Joe
Joe.
Part of my past.
Part of my lust.
Part of my blood,
part of my heart.
Once a shadow t'at consoled my woes,
shrieks, and nightly throes.
A charm my ****** soul adored;
as thou walked in across th' door.

O Joe, my sweet lover by th' moonlight;
how I drift'd past thee t'at very first night!
Thy smile as scarce as th' pond'ring evening
As t'ose humorous wobbly leaves outsideth
span 'emselves around,
shaking all over with tremendous salutations-
and hark closely-how 'eir moorish souls engulfed in excitement,
uponst seeing th' floods of our passion-yes, my love!
But battered soon t'ey wert, yes, t'ey wert-indeed,
whenst my colours but faded away,
as into t'is outlandish world 'twas to sway-
and thus part with thee, querida!
How all t'at congregating laughter yonder
wasth but scornfully tossed apart, in th' course of one
languorous shiver
into minuscule frowns and ash-like smithereens
upon t'at realisation-ah, t'at night, t'at very night!
And how my heart darkened!
Flown into despair my peace was,
as our innocent shimmers of young love was torn
and recoiled from th' newborn bastion of future union-
at which our hearts had so unknowingly, and inanely, gladdened.

O Joe! But look, look once more at our intertwined hands!
And th' flesh, robust flesh of our fingers
which art so created for each ot'her-look how t'ey fit, so cruelly fit-
and ah, how we should now be gazing so passionately at one anot'er
meanwhilst our bodies so genuinely embraced within each ot'her's arms,
on our dear whitewashed eiderdown, querida-
just like in th' preceding night frolic of mine!
How we sat on t'at pink long bench yonder-on top of th' flowing river,
with t'ose silvery rocks, and searing ripples
jutting out beneath us,
me in my best frock, and thee in thy grey suit-
whilst th' wrens sang and flew 'bout 'eir partners and flirt'd-
and upon th' sight of wishful dusk, thy kiss then I tasted-
how sweet 'twas as berry fruit!
And as th' surly winter greet'd-our love'd still remain childish
and grateful,
just like th' panoramic view out of yon windows-
nursed and wooed by th' mountains afar-night and day,
ye' plump and girlish in its own way
but never, never feels sad-in its own life, merry and gay.

Blessed be thy soul, Joe querida!
How in t'is lil' den of my abode
I shall but always remember thee;
a painting so dearly cherished in my days-
and so is its well of stories and hearty murmurs of consolation
to all my greatness and solitary imagination.
How illustrious thou art-as once, my love, and ah, just a swerve
of t'is memory of thee
is but to be keenly celebrated
by my excited heart-yes, querida, as thy remembrance is no other
than a whisper of plain fondness-t'at imbues my maternal love and soul
with th' holiest charm and sanctity a woman canst yearn for!
Show me th' way, dears't friend! Dwell inside me-be my torch, guidance, and
guardian light-so I canst always stay with thee-
as we both striveth t'wards destiny.
Paul Goring Jul 2011
And the cor anglais
Plays
The snake charmers
Medley
In the oriental artifice
Created for you

And the jasmine soaked
Velvet
Of the cushions and curtains
Masks
The devotion
Engendered by you

And the blue tiled
Fountain
And Moorish arched garden
Cool waiting
For moments
Gifted by you
To the town of Atienza, Molina's brave Alcayde,
The courteous and the valorous, led forth his bold brigade.
The Moor came back in triumph, he came without a wound,
With many a Christian standard, and Christian captive bound.
He passed the city portals, with swelling heart and vein,
And towards his lady's dwelling he rode with slackened rein;
Two circuits on his charger he took, and at the third,
From the door of her balcony Zelinda's voice was heard.
"Now if thou wert not shameless," said the lady to the Moor,
"Thou wouldst neither pass my dwelling, nor stop before my door.
Alas for poor Zelinda, and for her wayward mood,
That one in love with peace should have loved a man of blood!
Since not that thou wert noble I chose thee for my knight,
But that thy sword was dreaded in tournay and in fight.
Ah, thoughtless and unhappy! that I should fail to see
How ill the stubborn flint and the yielding wax agree.
Boast not thy love for me, while the shrieking of the fife
Can change thy mood of mildness to fury and to strife.
Say not my voice is magic--thy pleasure is to hear
The bursting of the carbine, and shivering of the spear.
Well, follow thou thy choice--to the battle-field away,
To thy triumphs and thy trophies, since I am less than they.
****** thy arm into thy buckler, gird on thy crooked brand,
And call upon thy trusty squire to bring thy spears in hand.
Lead forth thy band to skirmish, by mountain and by mead,
On thy dappled Moorish barb, or thy fleeter border steed.
Go, waste the Christian hamlets, and sweep away their flocks,
From Almazan's broad meadows to Siguenza's rocks.
Leave Zelinda altogether, whom thou leavest oft and long,
And in the life thou lovest forget whom thou dost wrong.
These eyes shall not recall thee, though they meet no more thine own,
Though they weep that thou art absent, and that I am all alone."
She ceased, and turning from him her flushed and angry cheek,
Shut the door of her balcony before the Moor could speak.
David Barr Nov 2013
The heart-warming sound of an acoustic guitar provides sincere resolution amidst the anguish of uncertainty, in the same manner as the classical Spanish guitar projects her intensities in Sierra Nevada assertions.
Consider the beauty of the finca, as she is a throbbing source of sustenance where romantic pastels merge into an array of Moorish delight.
Let us never forget that such instruments of eternal communication cannot find affiliation in the arenas of Roman legacy.
I give thanks to the order of being for the tuning of the symmetrical aphrodisiac.
Stu Harley Oct 2015
what
Don Quixote of
Quixote of La Mancha
witness
the
sound of
wooden castanet dance
Moorish guitar strings
from
windmills
upon
Spanish the hills
ngaio c beck Jul 2013
It was dark in the mountains of Sollum
Near Benghazi close by the sea
And the shadows of early September
They cling to the dark Euka tree

The night fell softly around us
The dunes brought a cool restful peace
The skies list their Orange-bursting thunder
As the shell-fire would finally cease

Our dead,(yes alas there were many)
Burning on with a smell oh so foul
Was mixed with the odor of dying
And the final expelling of bowel

We waited,(we numbered just five now)
Of the hundred that came to this place
While a victory we never doubted
It's now bitter finish we face

Our names and this battle forgotten
Again 'neath the soft desert moon
A lover and there his beloved
They rest by the old Moorish ruin

The desert will cover our presence
In less than a lifetime or so
O'er our graves the Bedouin wanders
And the laboring caravans go
How thy litheness dimmed by the light
but with gleams of c'rious insight
And shalt then thou start to sparkle
Grab victory, win the battle

Thou art just a little devil
Whose story gives people a shrill
But still thou never lose thy thrill;
abound with tricks, traps and bad will

How thou dwelt there within my heart!
Delights it and tears it apart!
Thou art the sky to my blunt night
Thou hold my fear and squeeze my fright

A little devil, just as thou art
Unloved by many holy hearts
But to me thou art not a fiend
At times thou art my only friend!

Thou liveth both my body and soul
Mocks the good deeds but praises the foul
When I am hurt thou start to grow
Give my en'mies a gravely show

How t'ose tears wrapped along thy eyes!
Blame the sick moon and moorish skies!
They've no love despite their promise
Our suffering's just what they shalt wish.

But I dear you, my little mate
Thou art my laugh and childlike path
Although unpraised just as we are
from each other we shan't be far.
ConnectHook Apr 2020
Patricians have our best interests in mind.
Administration is impartial, kind.
Keeps us laughin’, keeps us singin’—
And I’m Hildegard of Bingen.

She gets it like she gets the working class;
My head is nodding, up my Marxist ***.
White woke wedding bells are ringin’
Happy Hildegard of Bingen.

Government will gladly redistribute.
As our paychecks sing eternal tribute.
Gangsta-leanin, frontin’, blingin:
Chill with Hildegard of Bingen.

Icecaps, like medieval saints, are HOT.
Climate is in crisis when it’s not . . .
Global warning: winter’s springin’
Heating Hildegard of Bingen.

Intersectionality has meaning.
Hormones lie, biology’s demeaning .
Genderfluid queens are kingin’
Checkmate, Hildegard of Bingen.

Transnationals are cleaning up the mess;
Their CEO’s have little to confess.
Silver in the till, ka-chingin’
Profits Hildegard of Bingen.

Hildegard, the Moorish maiden, lauded.
Wokeness smiled. Diversity applauded.
Flames ascend and seraphim are wingin’
To the throne of Hildegard of Bingen.
Prompt #15: write a poem inspired by your favorite kind of music.
That could mean incorporating refrains, neologisms and flights of
whimsy, or repeating/inverting lines or ideas –
whatever your chosen musical form would seem to require!
Kenya83 Nov 2017
I see you not, but completely
Your eyes twinkle
You and my thoughts smother me in goose pimples
Pores, blemishes, weathered wrinkles
Delicious Pigment, salt and pepper sprinkles
Your imperfections are my weak spot
Aesthetic flaws a turn on
Dark lashes
Dreamy brown eyes
How your eyelids crinkle when you squint in the light
An impulse to run my hands through your ebony hair
behind your ear, let me linger here
And down to the sides
Of your neck
Your skin reacts with my breath
To touch with mine, that bottom lip
That thought's enough to make my tummy flip
The desire to explore your face
Is impossible to articulate
I don’t possess the vocabulary
To do you justice poetically
But can we get back to your neck
For just a sec
You know, that part just below your ear
Has me longing to place my mouth there
And I’ve not yet mentioned your hands
How I yearn for them to explore my lands
Entwine them in mine, till the thickness of your fingers and the Slenderness of mine, in time, demand change
I’ll open my palms inviting your embrace
Aroused by the pressure and the weight and pace
Your fingers trace my face
And brush my lips, I turn my head, closing my eyes
Savouring the skin on skin collide
In encouragement and moorish praise
Wondering if our thoughts are the same
Speaking words I would never have usually found
Or said out loud
But how can I rephrase
I'm high on dopamine pathways
My mind a maze, my body ablaze
You are a drug
I can't overdose enough
My brain rewards with desire and lust
An addictive thrill, a heightened rush

Daydreams end and drugs wear off
Realities crush
Until the next time I get high on you and us
Salmabanu Hatim Jul 2019
I may be good or bad,
A calm sea,
A tumultuous storm,
Jovial or moorish,
Sometimes  I may hurt your feelings,
But, one thing  I promise you love,
I will never leave you alone.
11/7/2019
KathleenAMaloney Oct 2016
Be Not Afraid
Power
All That Is Taken
Will Bee ReStored
Gladsomw Well

Moore is the World
Of Moorish Goings
Vandals Taken
Thru Gaytes
Once Impeccable

Occult is the Focus
Space ReExistant
Rainbow
Ein Stahl
Ist Er Lieben
Grogen Eisner kinder
Du Bist HA  
A Wit  Fure
A wit Fure
Dawnstar Jun 2018
Oureana, young and beautiful
Rests in her den of lavish comfort,
Looks from her Moorish palace balcony,
Sipping honey from a wooden bowl.
Draped in red damask and easter green,
She watches the soldier ride below.
"Princess, do not look at him!"
Softly comes the desperate hum
Of a servant overlooked and ignored.
"Even now I wish you peace,
To hear the crack of battle nevermore."
Updated Nov. 5, 2018.
Torin Mar 2016
I found you
After the lights were turned off
After the campaign for Moorish dignity
Failed miserably
Spin Fortuna's wheel
And hope it lands in a beneficial spot

Your voice still speaks
As loudly as if you were next to me right now
After you died in a car
Breathing in the fumes of life completely undiluted
I listen to Jimmie Spheeris
As I recognize we are living in a confederacy of dunces

And no neon bible exist
Without you
I was worried most would not know what I am referencing
Kenya83 Jul 2017
The butterfly flutters,
Her wings,
She dances loud in my stomach,
The mere thought of you sets her a flutter

The stars,
They twinkle,  
Like finely cut diamonds absorbing all light,
And reflecting in your eyes

Your Smile,
So forever,
That when I observe,
Silently, I say to myself,
"oh my god"
That smile heats my entire body

A body,
So moorish,
In lust,
I bite my lip as I envision,
My palms against your skin,
Caressing the softness and the rough
Pat Villaceran Oct 2018
She's queen of the desert,
peasant of the land
At night when the wolf howls,
she'd be Mother of Nile

At times when the heat kills
She fought for the light
A warrior in darkness, the
hope of the man

Her strength is as fiery
As the madman's eyes
that the Concord dictates
she's the beast immortal

Nobody thought to challenge
her reign, nor tried
to understand how
her plans were made

But everyone envies
to the core of their hearts
Some even sided
with devils' betrayal

Everyone wonders how
she got her Crown
Who made it possible
her defeating these odds

Nobody knew she's but
a slave in the wars
the one that smells,
with the bruises and the scars

No one knew her pirate
woes. The solitude
and the silent crows

But those moorish
Nights that saw it all
They took the pain, the screams
The fall

The academe & politicos
knew her too
Asked why'd she disappear
too far, too soon?

What's curious is that
she didn't know at
all, the lives she lived
had made her whole

It was probably fate or God
or faith, but she lives
the lives of her
seven tales
Pat Villaceran. All rights reserved. © 2018.
David Betten Oct 2016
SANDOVAL
            Your brigs of bustling pilgrims light at last
            On this sweet-scented isle called Cozumel.
            Depopulating half of Cuba’s farms,
            The skills of our six hundred souls, or so,
            Erupt now in a pitched activity.
            We’ve confiscated idols, and our cross
            Now overlooks the rising ropes and tarps;
            Our cannons hedge the campground, with our horse,
            As secret weapons, hidden in the ships.

ALVARADO
            Now what a breezing cakewalk will it be
            To pacify this docile flock of lambs!
            Let’s ****** the sweetmeats from their trembling lips,
            And wean them to the yoke of servitude.
            Vassals alone make masters out of men.

CORTÉS
            Not yet so fast. For Cuba’s stewardship
            Forbids such a carnivorous regime.
            Father Olmedo warns us not to tease,
            Much less ******, the native nymphs.

ALVARADO                                                        Cortés,
            We trust that you, like all stargazing men,
            Crave glory, fortune, and above all, fame;
            That royal favor and divine accord
            Will light on those who quell idolatry,
            And carve new lands for God and His Castile.

CORTÉS
            But like a gentlemanly pirate, I.
            For Cuba’s governor deceives himself.
            His pure concern for human chattel, gold,
            And bandying the Indies as it were
            A distant annex of the Moorish war
            Has wrought a desert from a paradise.
            Long-term success requires a colony.
            And with what wherewithal! These islanders
            Stand head and shoulders o’er Carribbeans,
            With their rich-painted books and towering keeps,
            The graceful girding of their modesties-

SANDOVAL
            Their slave trades, and their binding bright bouquets-

ALVARADO
            Distilling liquor: Culture’s surest sign.

CORTÉS
            Our prime directive is to baptize them,
            Not march before their eyes the Seven Sins.
            But how to learn their Tower-of-Babel tongues?
From my play in verse, thefloralwar.com
Frankie Fuller Mar 2016
He was never one
For their Minstrel Shows
Have you ever heard
Of a shadow calling an unknown name?
As daydreaming in and out of time
He once escaped from those
With slave and plantation mentalities
A place of paper tokens
They never liked the silence around a prayer
They never enjoyed a single whisper
He hid from their stump speech
The blackface clown
Pranks of a lost society
A drifting thought of breeze
From grey to dark green
To moorish tones
One could be never seen
A whispers were as close as a dream
One whisper was as close
As the wind that blows
The shadows of the clouds
Were once racing by so  
Boldly under the governed moon light
A slumber of peace
A single rain drop
Once ran down his face
and such was to
tease a tear
He was once the sand so
Scattered by the wind that blows
There no pretentious person
Could hid nor find
As vintage ice
His hands were from ancient nights
As time passed by
His hands became tender or loving
A glacier that became slowly liquefied
A cold unfermented drink
Poured so sweet and dear
Which formed cold gentle streams
Beside a village green
A single Dandelion
Dawnstar Apr 2019
Oureana, Queen of Granada,
Looks from her Moorish palace veranda,
Reclined in a den of lavish repose,
Sipping sweet milk from a porcelain bowl.
Draped in damask and easter green,
She watches the soldier ride below.

“Resist your whim, don’t look at him!”
Softly comes the desperate hum
Of a servant forgot and ignored.
“For you, this sin evokes the din
Of sieging torrents, wind and war…
I wish, my friend, you’d hear again
The crack of battle nevermore.”
I reworked this poem from last year.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2016
of the few that might quote,
  or least, the ones that might be quoted:
a reference of uno nacht -
there abiding, equal to Poseidon,
     a courteous signification of what zodiac
there is, among oyster clams and seashells,
there i stood and upon no words divine
felt to continuum necessity to riddle
man with Dante, but merely with, ape.
   there i stood:
tumbleweed at hand and two flits,
and there the cavern deity of human weakness,
   as pleb unto pleb... the jealous hands weaving
a Bulgarian acronym to what was once Greek
that became Cyrillic....
floundering under the guise of promise...
  noose abiding Hindenberg...
   never will you agitate the pleb...
    leave them like the priestly caste:
begrudging the slack on redneck culturalism -
                      then woe...
and of woe much is said that isn't done..
but then appropriated with the times,
a love affair chimes the culprit's chalice
as with all jades of resurrection,
three hyenas, and so too three Medusas,
and so top three sybils...
    in orchestra said as much
that only a man could have said them,
had he clothed himself in being one:
-  thrice the brinded cat hath mew'd...
leisure be! no claim of self-defence!
  but a claim instilled nonetheless -
      as anything concerning self-reliance!
woe to the wordings of man...
that she claim no crown above the peacock's
or the pigeon's coo, or the lion's roar,
or the nano-sound of an ant's architecture construct...
or the crow's croaking segment,
or the cackle of a magpie's segmentation...
o woe man.. for you are but nought disguised
and at times disguising such splendour...
that you make so little focus,
              and yet so much abhorrence...
that you may be crowned rex -
    but neither tyrannical nor tetra-sourced governing,
should a wind turn into tornado,
   or the earth into an earthquake...
the water into a tsunami...
            or a fire a wildfire spontaneity -
or the Zeusian bolt into insomnia and techno...
  cure all, and cure none at all..
    skylark Macbeth... at least you were not forsaken
to rest in a psychoanalytic deathbed with continual
resurrection to answer prayers,
    as might the necromancer of Endor embodied by
Freud... resurrect you to the suitor Hamlet...
  and how fortunate you are... for fortunate you are
mein herr...
                 or so act iv continues...
- thrice and once the hedge-pig whin'd (whined).
- harpier cries: 't is time, 't is time!
- round about the cauldron go;
    in the poison'd entrails throw -
  toad, that under cold stone
    days and nights have thirty-one
swelter'd venom, sleeping got,
    boil thou first i' the charmed ***,
- double, double, toil and trouble:
fire, burn; and, cauldron, bubble.
  - fillet of a fenny snake,
in the cauldron boil and bake;
eye of newt, and toe of frog,
       wool of bat, and tongue of dog,
adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting,
lizard's leg, and howlet's wing...
   and naught to recite the ancient Graeae
   conferring...
                   or what one called the splinter
eye, or what was shared among the three...
then repeat, the common incantation,
   and say: woe the moorish lad enthroned...
i have my prickly finger pointing toward
the heath... and thistle kissed, and the tartan
            as harmonious dressing toward
     a ******* of 70 years by all accounts
considered: a happy marriage.
                      oh no, don't teach me what i might
abhor... teach me music with your words!
          don't make words an act of polity and
of what goes around and never comes back
in terms of romancing truancy -
teach me logic, a logic that's hill-bred
   and goat-tango for a heart's hefty sum of
lost thought! teach me this! preach me this!
i have a second home, of what is nought
but the harrowing abyss: where i hear no Slavic
and i hear no Anglican, where i hear no Farsi
and i hear no Sanskrit... but the aim
of resurrecting a lingo of near dodo Celtic.
  no ethnicity is nation bound.
      then unto the Graeae once again
- scale of dragon, tooth of wolf;
witches' mummy; maw, and gulf,
or the ravin'd salt-sea shark;
root of hemlock, digg'd i' the dark;
liver of a blaspheming Jew;
      gall of goat, and slips op yew,
silver'd in the moon's eclipse;
nose of Turk, and Tartar's lips          -
and perhaps after such things were and had been said,
   i might too engage in a blasphemous benediction,
            cross-my-heart-and-sever-three-fingers
and out comes the Byzantine conscription -
rhyme a lot and rhyme what's willed -
      rhyme a dot and rhyme: standstill.
take to road and take to breath -
      take to sleep and take to craving earth -
  for no acrobats in the tomb -
     the Hindu acrobats remembering flame -
             in dust spoke of a whirlwind incantation -
and said: memorise me by allowing the billionth
man my own location...
      or as the Mandarin maxim suggested...
eat a dog, eat a cow, eat a horse, eat anything,
       and relegate all importance solely to plough...
aye Hibernian and you Lothian kin -
          tell them fables of the lost Loch Fin -
tell them things that will keep them grounded,
and not spread their arrogance
   to clap toward a tourism...
         well... one can only wish to revisit
the plagiarism of the Graeae... had but one
the pursuit of what was original, and what coupled us
to sin, in making us un-justify a god,
                       and justify our perpetuated ordeal.

— The End —