Chewie hasn’t touched his food
I hope he’ll be o.k..
It hasn’t been the same for him
Since Leia passed away.

He’s a melancholy Wookie
as anyone can see.
He mopes around the ship all day
And he’s molting terribly

Twas bad enough when Obi-wan
was struck down by Darth Vader.
But it’s no surprise when an old man dies
That’s expected, now or later.

Our Princess was a force you see
Bringing gales of laughter
which is why we want her here
and not in the hereafter.

He’s a melancholy Wookie
as anyone can see.
He mopes around the ship all day
And he’s molting terribly.


I hope one day we’ll meet again
In Mos Eisley’s Cantina
That gold bikini may not fit
But we’d still be glad to see her.

R is for the radiance of the relaxation of  pure souls that float in the highest degrees of faith !
A is the awesome pure morals we try to keep in our minds and hearts
M is for the mercy of Allah that covers our hearts with blessings and love
D is for the duas and honest prayers we pray every night seeking Allah's super mercy
A another A for the ardent spiritual hopes of vanishing all the sins and mopes
N is for the new better version of our hearts with brand  new beats of faith, joy, love and mercy

Ramadan is our lantern of hope and blissful chance to get the blessings of Allah and spread peace and love all over our surroundings ...
Ramadan is the most fascinating chance to change towards the Best and to blossom the entire year with faithful flowers ...

'Hands off,' says the bag of cash to the robber.
Or, wishes it could have said,
Because it was an inanimate object,
While the robber was not.
The bag of cash was just a cotton satchel
While the robber was all flesh and blood.

'Where are you taking me?' the bag of cash silently wails.
It doesn't see the light of day
When the robber stuffs it into the trunk of his car.
Alone, the bag of cash occasionally jumps up in the darkness
As the robber's sidekick -- his car
Rushes him to an alien place.

'I have been forsaken,' the bag of cash mopes.
Once the robber takes it out,
The bag of cash will have to die.
It cannot imagine the horrifying thought
Of the robber slitting him open.
Its organs -- the wads of cash -- will all spill out in a puddle.
What did the bag of cash deserve
To meet with such terrible fate?

But the bag of cash hears a gunshot
Once, twice, and thrice.
And a flicker of hope lights up within it.
It sees the light of day again as the trunk opens
And, to its delight, sees the robber
Cuffed by the wrist and wearing a scowl.

'I can go home now,' thinks the bag of cash,
As the police officer takes it into his arms.
And once it's home, back in the vault
It can relay the frightening experience
To other bags of cash, bursting with paper bills and eagerness.

I only want to scream
till my throat, so raw it bleeds
Anger mopes buried deep
it molds to me, as I breath
Choking slowly, I thirst to scream
let out the need
and then repeat
and then repeat
let out the need
I only thirst to scream
choking slowly, it molds to me
as I breath
Anger mopes buried deep
till my throat, so raw it bleeds

I SCREAM!

I wish they could hear me sometimes.
I wish they could hear me crying in my bedroom over an idiotic boy.
I wish they could hear me throwing things left and right as I create a storm of my clothes over the latest thing that is enraging me to no extent.
I just wish they could hear me as I repetitively scream,
"YOU'RE SO STUPID" to myself over and over again until it is embedded into my brain and I feel it in my body.
But they can't. And they never will.

Deaf. That's what my parents  are.
Deaf as they talk to each other with their visual language,
Creating a three-dimensional image that communicates all their ideas through art.
Deaf as they imagine what the music I love so much sounds like,
But all they can ever do is wonder.
Deaf as they can see me, but never fully grasp what my voice sounds like as I screech and howl for their help.
My screeches and howls are like tiny whispers in their ears.

My mom once asked me, "What is it like to hear? I wish I could."
But mom, I am here to tell you that your ears are blessed.
You cannot hear the monstrosities that exist in the world:
The sound of loud eating, the sound of two cars crashing into each other as both drivers finally heed what's happening, but lastly, the sound of your own daughter weeping in her room with solitude as she mopes hopelessly.
Mom, you're so lucky to have never heard that.

She mopes around, thinking obscure things.
And clings to what seem to be her puppet strings.
She stops to stare, she stops to wonder.
She starts to cry, it starts to thunder.
The rain pours down onto her pain.
Can they see the difference? The tears and rain?
She cries for help. There’s no one around.
She gives out completely, crumbles to the ground.
Her hands shake, her eyes - red.
Her body shivers, her mind - dead.
She throws her head back and screams to the sky,
“HOW CAN YOU JUST SIT THERE TO WATCH ME DIE?”
She trembles there, shattered to pieces.
Then the clouds clear and the rain ceases.
Hushed suddenly, she stumbles to stand.
Her eyes fixed on a bright horizon of land.
She opens her arms in the face of dawn.
She closes her eyes, and then she is gone.
The only thing left are a few tangled strings.
You’ll never know what the chill morning brings.

There is that failure of communication,
At least of that soft civilized kind, the
Type that doesn’t involve blackened eyes

And broken teeth and bruises like fallen
Apples. She tries to hide her face behind
Her scarf, pulls up the collar of her coat

To conceal the bruises to her throat, pulls
The sleeves down to cover up discoloured
Arms and long skirts to mask the beaten

Thighs from her neighbours prying eyes.
He is full of jackshit and self-pity and
Mopes and sulks and blames her for the

Messy house, the kids crying, the bills high,
His fists flying. Unconditional love is the
Only real love, her mother said, lecturing

To her on her wedding eve, pushing the
Rosary beads between fingers and thumb.
Nights he doesn’t come home are best, she

Can sleep and unwind and rest. Even the kids
Can feel the peaceful air when he isn’t there.
His apologises are fake notes, they bring her

Nothing, reveal nothing, cast false hopes like
Wasted seeds, open up the pretending dreams
That life is always better than it is or seems.

There is a thing called Forever
it can be a scary thing
it watches you when you wake
notices when you sleep
hears every light whisper
knows every secret you keep
holds in its hands all you love
and at its feet all your hopes
your dreams hang from above
and everywhere it mopes
Forever is unknowable
for Time gave birth to it
because Time loved Uncertainty
so much that they had to be together
Forever.

She sits, she sings, she talks.
She ponders, she thinks, she worries.
She loves, she loses, she mopes.
             She lost,
                             Her Love.
                                            The Distance...

She falls, she yearns, she needs.
She wants, she sees, she feels.
She embraces, she holds, she engulfs.
             His touch,
                             His essance,
                                            He's everything...

She's falling,
                         in a new love.
She's losing,
                        her old love.
She's running,
                                                       pushing them away.
She's building,
                     walls for them to tear.
She wants,
                    to see who cares enough.
She needs,
                                                       them to tear the walls.

She's falling, falling, falling...
                                      She's feeling, embracing, falling...

                      Does he even know?

is empty
echo
stacco
on the walls
through the halls
we run
and ride
bikes
hikes
we planned but never did
parents put the lid
on our dreams and thoughts
now the cots
and pots
are set up on the floor
I just want you more
with jelly jello jiggling right to my core
pour
pouring
rain
raining
training yourself
to starve a little more
more
ore
or
oranges stacked
stupidly packed
all the dishes are broken
and here is this ****** token
to replace the love I could never give you
here is your cue
to take all you have and leave
leave
leave
leaving
you are always just leaving
leaves are always just leaving
and thieves are always just coming
cuming
on my nose
pose
hose down you hopes
its only about how she copes
mopes
mops
and brooms
scattered in rooms
overlooking gray grass and blooms
and the wind blows the petals hard
card
signed only with your name
I don’t blame
you or her for preferring
your and hers second chance
dance
dance
dancing
in the empty house echoing.

Sentient street,
As we walk through the gates of sentience,
Like a child,I quirked my head,
Left~right and back with innocence,
To glimpse at their seemly slums;a nimble haul of dread,
Tucked me,as I gander the miscellany artistry,
The winsome combs on their chambers,
By builders and framers,
For all;but the aesthetics I knew belonged to the affluent,
An erudition I needed not to imbibe as a student,

Oblivious of myself;I spotted their melancholic eyes in their inscriptions,
And read the histories and encryptions,
The stares they gave tremored my heart,
And tore the arteries apart,
My soul wept for their bereavement but tears was deficit in my eyes,

As I march to the yard of his repose;I said"A journey we shall all embark"
Gawking at the annexation of other chambers,as grief berserks,
I got there,

I stood meters afar and stared,
As the priest blessed the yard;And prayed for his soul,
Conferring him into the bossom of his maker,
And instructing the digger afterwards;to dump him into the hole,
His folks quaker,
And bade him their farewell with flowers,
In their last hour,

But as they fetch sands and stones to wrap him,
In their faces I saw grim,
When the diggers spat and slapped;his coffin with stones and shovels,
For this has been their long awaited muscle,
And in deligence;they deliver,
"This journey I will embark too"I said,
As I stood in my shiver,
And withdrew and left in mopes.


Sentient Street
©Historian E.Lexano

Every 12th of  May
a forsaken, lonesome day
even the sorrow mopes
life glances, then shies away

04/12/2016

That
That incoherent chatter mucking up the air
What encompasses it? They wonder
It is both fatally loud and excruciating silent
Every note weaving a magnificent tale
of heroism, romanticism,
of hollowness and loneliness.
They traverse the house searching both high and low
Paving "creation" wherever they go
Nearing the sounds of hope and woe,
They scheme as to what to do
"Death" one screams
"Maul it" another shrieks
"Torture it" spoke one with a wicked gleam
Opening a door to reveal the source
There a boy or rather a demon,
Perhaps something worse
With a shrill cry of war, outrage, and disgust
****** ensues shrieking it must
Pwch! A searing blast consumes all.
"It should have died with pain"
is all they said
But when the light dies, they lie dead instead
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry" the boy mopes
For without death, he has no hopes

“Mommy, bees flyin’.”

I stop sorting laundry. “What?!”
My head swivels around to where my son is looking, where the winter morning sun
is streaming through the window.
“Oh! Oh. No baby, those are dust motes.
Just dust floating around.”

The look of wonder on his face never falters. “Oh. Dus mopes.” He reaches his little arms out and stirs the air.
“So pretty, Mommy.” He’s smiling.
So am I.

And so we stand there watching dust swirl around in the sun beams,
forgetting all about the laundry,
but remembering well the sheer
magic of childhood.

I spoke with two people at the party Saturday.
A young police officer, short-haired, fit,
chiseled face who had two young children.
He felt constrained by the law, without discretion
to question mopes (perps) aggressively
or to let go those who were obviously no threat.
Even at a family function he seemed straight-backed, correct,
devoted to his role as our protector (and his children’s)
yet I thought perhaps too deeply in debt, indentured
to the rules and laws of legislators and destined
to be disappointed (or worse). I thought his courage
and devotion (to whom or what?) would surely
be poorly repaid and that this lesson
was necessary to ready him with wisdom
for death or further living. I worried like a brother
about the unpredictable dangers, even terrors,
he must daily face, and the pleasure he takes in facing them.
How will he return to the fragility of family,
of the soul alone, after wielding the force
of the state, the blind, combined will of us all?

Next a business exec, retired from a well known
global investment firm. At first we talked about
the lush beauty of the northeast compared to the arid west
(although he loves every inch of the west, too).
Then somehow we got beyond light conversation
when he complained about the perceived decline in values
for instance how the Ten Commandments can’t be publicly
displayed. He said we can all agree on God
but I said I have a mechanistic view of the universe
(although the unknowable always sits just out of reach
of the known). I told him my dad’s theory of reincarnation,
a good man and a corporate seeker of God also, whose shoes
I could never fill unless I swore belief in a supreme being.
No hard feelings. Then he told me the story
of his dying friend, an atheist, not even a deist
like the founding fathers, who opened his eyes for the last time
to correct the exec’s misperception that now he’d meet his maker.
Having exceeded the bounds of acceptable conversation
I went looking for my children. Nothing more to question.

Setting sun and dwindling daylight¸
celestial colours fading fast,
the horizon a delightful sight,
with the growing greyness,
the beauty only minutes will last;
Mysticism mopes the air, and
tinges of sadness and happiness
everywhere, and homeliness,
while seemingly serene,
morphing with memories,
sentiments and thoughts,
rend a numbing nostalgia of sorts;
Thus will twilight gradually present
the grimly gentle night’s descent

As do boats.
As do bodies lying in moats
surrounding castles' fortified walls.

Hope mopes.
Waiting in line at the airport to be cleared through customs,
unaware that it is itself contraband.

Hope is for dopes.
Every man is an island.

Some haven't developed proper ports yet.