Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
A poetic drama (One Scene)

( Egypt’s parliamentary farce)

(The spokesperson on the presidium strikes the table with a wooden hammer and asks for order. Participants become quiet.
Raise your hands and reflect your views on today’s point of argument— The Grand Ethiopian Renaissance Dam (GERD ) on Blue Nile. Various people representatives raise hands,
The spokesman says let us start with Mr. Hydrologist over there.)

Egypt’s globally
Topmost voluminous
Underground
Reserve of water
We could use later.
So via our media outlets
It is better
We dupe
The global community with
Much-touted chatter
“To Egyptians
Demand of water
To cater
Blue Nile is
A life and
Death matter!
As thicker than blood
Is water! ”

Of course,
From the Mediterranean
Or Red Sea
We could extract, desalinate
And use water,
But why should
We talk about that?
We better
Ask on Blue Nile
A farfetched exclusive right.

Though hydropower dam
Has no significant harm
We shall flout it
In a way it runs
Out of charm.
As  the Nobel peace winner
Premier  Abiy Ahmed put it
"Almost all Egyptians
Enjoy the supply of electricity,
While over half of Ethiopians
Are thirsty of such necessity.

Tragically, to date
Using a lamp
Covers most of Ethiopia's map.

For the rational,
It is a source of worry
Innumerable Ethiopian mothers
Still on their backs carry
Backbreaking firewood
So that go to school
Their children could.
What we say
Is if you  are remiss to help
don't stand on our way
While we're flapping wings
From fettering poverty
To break away!"


Also via a conduit
Diverting Blue Nile
Across the Sahara desert
A financial return
Egypt could get
That delights its heart.
The water from
Upstream countries
We do not buy
But paradoxically sell it
We shouldn’t why?

Like Israel
Using drip irrigation
Must not
Draw our attention.
We shall be extravagant
For Blue Nile’s water
Is abundant.
Unchecked lavishly
It must flow!
Pertaining to that
We have to remain adamant.

Also, the
Silt accumulation
In Aswan dam
Could be disastrous
The outcome,
Yet we have
To cry foul
This challenge-averting
GERD must not soon
Generate region-
much-needed power!

Though it is 50 % of the
Annual trans boundary
Water outflow
Other water-generating countries
Are willing to let go
Unwilling anything below,
Kind Ethiopia ventures
Holding only 13% of
The yearly flow to follow,
However, ingratitude
Must feature our attitude.
This may
Provoke a  dismay
But attention
We shall not pay.

(A tumultuous applause shook the parliament. Once more the spokesman asks for order. Then he invites a former diplomat saying “ it is your turn.”)

Once, by famine hit
When Ethiopia   asked
“Help me not why?”,
While others extended help,
Mocking, we did turn
A blind eye.

As our former bent
Whenever Ethiopia
Seeks  grant
From international
Development Institutions
On grounds of
Fighting poverty and drought,
Greasing palms  
We shall bring
Ethiopia’s plans to harness
Blue Nile to naught!
Use we shall
Many a phony diplomat
With a tongue of honey
And a heart of gall.

Tact we do not lack
So cautiously,
Our sanctimonious mask
Our targets
May not hack,
All out
We shall engage in
Self-selling talk!

From all things that fall
In the technical matrices
We shall make a sham politics.

(He sits enjoying a standing ovation. The spokesman invites a representative with a military background.)

We shall blow our
Trumpet in the air
“In lieu of
The reasonable 3 years,
Cooperatively,
From 4 to 6 years
To fill the dam
If Ethiopians dare,
War on it
We shall declare!
Barefacedly claiming
Fifteen to 20 years
Is what is fair!

In such infeasible way
Before it sees the day’s light
GERD will suffer blight.”

(He hiccups and continues)

“With a bellicose bent
To remind ourselves
Deliberately we shall fail
So many times Ethiopia
Chased out every
Egypt’s invading army
Between its legs
Shoveled its tail.
(Ex. Isma'il Pasha/ 1874 –1876
Gundet &Gura March 7–9, 1876)
But why should we care
Arsenal support
Hypocrites, who want to exploit
In the Middle East
Egypt’s political purport,
Will bring to our port.
The current catchphrase
"I can't breathe"
Demonstrates hypocrites'
Justice has no teeth!

We shall
Continue to brag
About GERD’s full actualization
Foot to drag.
I’m afraid
If we strike GERD,
On Aswan dam
Ethiopia will certainly inflict
A similar harm.
Its infantry
Acid-tested hero
Within finger-counted days
Will march into Cairo.

Its top official or
One from its mob
Cold blow up in Egypt a bomb.

We have to understand
As its former PM
Meles put it
“It is not
Its football squad
Ethiopia will deploy
On the terrain rough
When the going
Gets tough!”

We shouldn't worry
We have no history
Of battle front victory.
Poking our nose here and there
(Sudan, Somalia, Yemen,
Libiya, Palestine, Israel)
We shall make political trouble
As we are averse to self
-politics burgeoning dabble.

(He sat after enjoying a heartwarming laughter from the audience. The spokesman himself could not help unzipping his lips and invites a hoary headed historian.)

Subjects of colonization
It is our
Historic right
For the hanging-over
Mentality of predators
To fight
“Gobbling down
All resources
Is our right!”
We shall espouse
Unjust and inequitable deal
“Ethiopia fairly
GERD must not fill!”
We must gamble
Regarding the water division
There has to be a deal
That serves our colonial
Legacy a sign and seal.

There is nothing we hate
Than the following sentiment
Pan Africanists activate.
"We have to get
Behind our back
Days dark!"

(He sits accompanied by an affirmative nods. The spokesman invited Miss Environmentalist "it is your turn." "Thank you for the opportunity,"  she said and  standing she scanned the congregants
before speaking)

In parrying evaporation
GRERD being built in a gorge
Than Aswan Dam
In the desert
Draws better attention.
Though logical,
This we do not wish to hear
So we shall turn a deaf ear
Saying
“Your nuisance
We no longer bear!”

Of course
To avoid siltation
In GERD
Also to ensure
The continuous flow of water
Towards Green development
Ethiopia is making an unprecedented &
Unflagging movement.

Yes , Yes
Green development
Draws rain
Though that is
To our gain
From expressing
Appreciation to
Ethiopia’s timely move
We shall refrain.

From the voice of
Sagacious leaders of
Africa
It is better
To heed a hypocrite
From America;
That could not be a shame
In the political game.

(She takes a seat enjoying a high five. The spokesman invites a parliamentarian who is a member of the Arab league.)

As Sudan poses
A rational gait
Its voice has weight.
Our sugar-coated talk
It may not buy
Hence, the fuel-intoxicated
Gluttonous Arab League
Its voice
Needs to raise high.
White supremacists
Must try hard
To sweet talk Sudan
To our side.
Otherwise
Creating political heat
In to two its people
We have to split
To unseat
Its incumbent president
Popular support that ride.
This  insidious tide
From Sudanese mob
We have to hide!

We have a toy League
That doesn’t ask itself
“ Why
War-fleeing Arabs ,
Shunned by Arabs,
Seek a safe haven
Under Ethiopia’s sky?
Why  of all
In Prophet Mohammed's eyes
Ethiopia stands tall?”
That no one could deny
But we must
Neither wonder  nor ponder
“Why
For own advantage
Arabs-eating-Arabs
That commit  
Political suicide
Could not
Stand by
The reasonable
Ones’ side?”

Creating this and  
That pretext
We shall derail
The all-out task
To bring GERD’s to end,
At long last
To make it
As good as dead.

Why should we care?
If Ethiopia or the region is
Thirsty of hydropower
In so far as
Our conceited
Pride remains
In glory tower.


Moreover if soured
Pushed to the end or angry
Reflect  we must not
Ethiopians could tame
Its this or that tributary.

(When a wealthy merchant raised his hand the spokesman gave him a green light to speak.)

Pampering with money
Fifth columnists cruel
Let us keep on using
In Ethiopia
As runs the adage
Divide and rule,
Along ethnic
And religious lines
To  drive a wedge
So that Ethiopians will not
Come to the same page,
While turmoil in their country
Opts to rage.

We could ignore the fact
Ethiopians soon display
Unity and solidarity
When threatened gets
Nation’s  sovereignty.
In Ethio-Somali war
Ethiopians Karamara’s Victory
Talks loud such history.

I'm afraid
Our  divisive action could
Bring together Ethiopians,
Be it on left or right end,
Their sovereignty to defend.


Robbed of
Their alluvial soil
By a prodigal river
Ethiopia’s  farmers
Undergo a hard toil
If we are asked for that
Compensation to pay
“No!”
We  have  to say.

Note that
Using industrialization
Like Japan
Develop we can
Than irrigating  
A- scorching-sun
-smoldered land
Full of sand.

As the  jealously insane
What should worry Egypt
Must not  be what  it could lose
But  Ethiopia gain.
What I fear
In the diplomatic arena
With GERD Ethiopia
Will come forth
Shifting gear.
When Ethiopians' development
Proceeds apace
Ethiopia could Egypt displace.
So on its development
We  have to pose a roadblock
Or a spoke.
.

(This much  farce is enough for today .Parliament is dismissed says the spokesman.)////////
Science-based approach visa-vis politics- based approach. Colonial legacy has no room in the 21th century
Emily Grace Oct 2012
A simple bottle,
Cheap chunky plastic,
Designer garbage.
Empty of its liquid energy.
Glossy label parrying the flash,
Glaring retrieval of light.
Sickly bold orange cap,
Impudently tight,
Defending the blanched carpet below.
Moment of fragility,
Suspended on the humid waves of air,
Eternity in an insubstantial moment.
It wafts away from his fingers,
Plastic given wings,
Fixed by his steely eyes,
A forced arc,
Stretching to the ceiling.
Focused intensity.
An infinite gap looms
Instants before the catch.
He didn’t notice the stray,
A camera pointed his way,
Capturing this moment,
Making it magical.
Clarity is threatened by obscurity,
People pressing in,
Bending the frame.
Time is lost,
Too much wasted on boredom,
And playing catch with yourself.
Spine lax, body slumped.
Interruptions and distractions surround.
His face vivid in the mix,
Lost in the wash of faces,
So much like his,
Flushed by the same blood.
His unwavering gaze
Holds the emptiness in shackles.
Second of silence in the crushing sound,
Relentless muttering rumble,
The voices of family,
So constantly buzzing.
Jumbled tumbling voices.
A peanut gallery seeking constant attention.
The camera congeals the moment,
Silencing the mass.
In the absence the bottle and the boy
Infinitely alone,
Endlessly still.
Still Crazy Jan 2015
“A man is about as likely to ask for help for depression as to ask for directions, and for much the same reason,” said Real, who struggled with his own depression issues. “It's part of the male code, part of masculine culture.”

~~~

when they ask,

I say, parrying fast,
how you doing?

to the persisters, I mutter fine

which is 100% correct...



been fined for the accumulated

made-mistakes, wrong forks taken,

the weight invisible but the

body sags, nonetheless...



you know they know,

you know their thoughts,

why doesn't he snap out of it,

after all he is a man,

he has always been

what we needed,

why can't he

just go back to the person prior...



this code, is not law,

ten times worse,

genetic and culture passed,

double ******,

code so real, like the headaches,

the nightmares, that forbid equanimity...



not true,

we don't expect that of you,

thankful for all you have done,

but eyes betray,

a simpatico misunderstanding,

the instillers, can't take back

what they celebrated previous...



the signals everywhere, few ascertain,

cause the rule is never complain,

don't go near windows,

lest the sunlight diffused, offers no cheer,

but escape temptation ever on offer...



forgive yourself, someone intones,

but what infects my bones,

is non-responsive to the forget antibiotic,

which does not come in pill format



ask me for directions,

I will talk/walk you to your destination,

but when I'm lost,

I'm just a lost man,

who needs to do better,

forgetting is not in my DNA,

but lost is...choking on expectations

of being everyone's savior,

with no one to save you from yourself...
Dear you, From me: In case we should ever meet.

        You have lived in my mind now for almost half my life. When we first met I hardly knew myself, but still through my thoughts you crept; filling up the empty crevices, at times pinching and tugging on nerves and synaptic connections till I fell to my knees and wept. You didn't know then, but you also helped me collect inspiration and hope. Never mind the loneliness you caused inside and the occasional neglect. You got to know me in ways that still don't make any sense. Like, how on earth could you ever know that the thought of ever losing you made my heart full of dread and tense.
        You moved me in ways that I will not soon forget. Like that time my thoughts grew dark and grim: when I thought all hope was lost, was lost in life without any sense of how to cope, and then there you were perched upon a patch of white warm sand, directions in hand: A beacon sword of diamond light parrying the vast darkness of the open seas. Still though, it was just a hand. Back then you seemed so far away and hidden above sight that even through my periscope I could not make out your face on land.
        I do admit, I was an ungrateful man. I never truly thanked you for what you had done, in fact, all I recall ever doing is scolding you for the tangle of webs I had spun: always questioning why things were so bad and what I had done to deserve it. You though, you never lost faith, you never once asked to see my face. You just were. You were there on sleepless nights to step out from the recesses of my mind to run your fingers through waves of my disconsolate curly hair. Thank you for that, thank you for teaching me about compassion and humility, about honor and commitment, for showing me how to give hope and find strength. Thank you for not taking it easy on me. I was mad at you then for the swells of tears that made my pillow colder at night, for that sense of falling, for that black-hole you put in the pit of my abdomen after telling me you'd be with someone else tonight. For taking control over my body and mind and willing it to do things I had never done before in my life.
        It's still strange for me to think of how someone I had never met could affect so much change in me. Truthfully, you may be responsible for every ounce of good in me, but I also credit you with being the cause for some of the bad as well. Now that I know you better than before, I am comfortable with being honest in telling you what and who you are to me, what you've meant all this time, what you've been. You are the double edged sword that protects and defends me: A will and testament of steel forged in fire and ice, hardened and tempered through the passage of time. With a razor's edge, hand in hand, both you and I conquer all enemies, but when either of us grow tired or weak it is our blood that is drawn out of fear or jealousy.
       I laugh now because even when you cut me deep you always find a way back inside, always know a remedy. You have a resolve no one can resist. I guess that is why it's always you that I miss, always your face I lose but then find in mirrors, in strangers, in grocery lines.  It must also be the reason for your commitment to infidelity, and why everyone who knows you must have you. It gives light to the nights you slip out from beneath my covers to lay with as many others as you can. Somehow though, you always find a way to make your seductive conquest be okay; it is okay and I don't mind it. All I ask is that you come to visit more often and stay a little longer. I'd be lying if I said that I'm okay without you, but you have taught me patience if anything and gratitude, and I cherish every moment we spend together and am becoming more understanding when I see you with someone else. All I ask is that you don't rub it in my face, and now since I've seen yours you seem to want to change it every time you come back. Can you stop that? Can you live by me with just one set of eyes? It would mean so much to me if from now on the pale rosy cheeks I kiss belong to the same visage. Whether you do or not though, you continue to be the first and last greatest thing that has ever happened to me. So, just in case we should never meet , or till that day we both patiently seek, for you I write this to read and to hold while I lie asleep.

Sincerely From Me To You,
My Sweet Mystique
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2017
~
Bala^ comments:
"alignment - any which way one can if possible to make
****** and ******* simultaneously happen,
without any best position plan"

~

may all the gods bless you, Bala,
for waking me at 4:33 with this poetic induction
coaxed from my spinal fluid sanity
with perfected clarity

my own circadian rhythm masters internal,
the most reliably unreliable human container technology teachers,
semi-skilled in the entrainment arts for this impoverished body mine,
deem it appropriate that early morn messages of
propitious possibility be greeted immediately

entrapped, awaken me at four AM with great glee,
because these elusives^^  know exactly what stirs
this being's cochlear cockles into birthing a
poetic cookie ******* *******

your message meme provoking, inducing,
be honest man - simply seducing, my within
by your teasing words from without


"without any best position plan"

not to confuse the mere appearance of a routine
as worthy of the entitlement of "plan,"
much as the poem's own vanity chooses it own alignment
the relationship, the relativity -
always the
flexing flummoxing freaking insatiable pleasuring

when your thrusting unplanned message
****** and bests my brain,
releasing a fully formed, instantaneous parrying poem
from an aroused, passing, unsanitized, second of sanity

for no better *** than this...
as per the unplan?

this tissued life,
this in and out
of punching and counterpunching continuous,
but rarely contiguous,
for we are never aligned for more than a moment,
the moment that almost always goes unnoticed,
for the heart's ***** tissues,
are mostly torn by how life
uses us roughly

so here is an aligned confession fecundity

this poetry gig, my salve,
to tenderize the daily redness,
the irritation residual of having no plan

however these fingerprints decided for you,
to present, upon completion,
this soft-spoken loud *******,
a peaking, not a leaking,
** ** ** - a screaming

hallelujah, i'm aligned!

the man found albeit briefly
a  beat, a plan and its verbal, herbal,
best solution

may all the gods bless you, Bala,
for waking me at 4:33 with this poetic induction
coaxed from my spinal fluid sanity
with perfected clarity

the man and his plan, for a mega-second
his best,
unplanned but got and given,
in poetic planetary alignment
positioned

as are you and I -
the thousands of miles of distance tween us
as you read this
collage collapse
into a singular synapse
of ****** and *******

hallelujah, we are aligned!*

~

disclaimer:
anything you say to me, can and will be used
for a poem

~
5:55am
April 1, 2017
^K Balachandran  comment on
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1897028/alignment-the-theory-of-poetic-relativity/
"any which way
one can
if possible to make ****** and *******
simultaneously happen
without any best position plan"
Bala

^^http://hellopoetry.com/poem/747333/the-elusives/
Sibyl Apr 2015
How foolish it is
to make a princess cry
and never dry her tears.
O, pitiful knight, fret not
because your sins are never
without reason. You wield
a double-edged blade, and
for every tear she has shed,
you draw blood. What you have done
is for the better, and you should be happy.
Close your eyes and whisper to yourself:
“I am fine, I can handle the bruises
and cuts that I received,
albeit i know that it will not heal.
It just hurts me if I ever tarnish
such a beautiful yet fragile soul,
and so, all is fine and well.”
Hold your ground, be still
because she is not for you to take.
A prize so bountiful and rich
is for a champion to receive.
O, pitiful knight, oil your irons,
polish them, brace for the incoming impact.
The war is never done, though the princess
has been won. Guard her with all your might
even from afar because that is a task for you to do.
A princess needs to be strong, too, and
it can only be achieved by paying such a small price.
O, pitiful knight, you have been battered from the start.
holding that worn-out shield near your chest, staggering
to your feet, and never yielded to rest your mutilated heart
Do not show emotions, for it only weakens the soul.
Never let your sacrifice be in vain. Stand your ground,
because the war is never over for you.
Michella Batts Sep 2011
I am from my mama's toes,
as my dad
walked out the back screen door day after day,
its rusted hinge screeching.
A reminder of the torrential rain of argument
falling on my little head

I am from pine trees
of sap and sticky sweet
and the seed ticks. Climbing to the top
checking your neighbor for where they’re hiding later
I am from a southerly wind blowing
the smells of an unkempt garden as flowers grow tall
and strong, while families fall apart like the suffocating weeds next to the roses

I am from the strong arms of 5 different oaks
holding me up like my father was supposed to
the branches of those who tried to fill
the pothole covered road
in my heart, but never could.

I am from my brother’s teachings,
and long walks in a warm rain
always ending too fast.
The sword fights with a long haired bohemian
who stole my heart in a flash of lighting
that I took back with a parrying blow

Smoked filled rooms
as I pretend to be someone else,
and learned of life in a binary universe
trippin on my spear as I fight through life

Forbidden to get dull
Less I lose the fight
My brother’s disappointment; ringing in my ears

I’m from the struggle of believing
in not believing.
My life, proving to be the site of one’s parents,
setting out Christmas
as they realize Santa isn’t real

I’m from a humble beginning
and an arrogant pride
that has given me freedom
to go where those haven’t dreamed

I am from the life I have chosen
to make for myself
I am from Punnet squares
in the back of class
sitting next to a friend

Wanting to know what my kids look like
ff they’ll be as good as I hope
like my mama dreams

I’m from rain on a leaky tin roof
putting me to sleep
making false peace

I am from the water
that rushes through my veins
as I break through the walls
and join in another world, of fish and muddy water

I am from escapes to Neverland
in the moments were I remember
I’m a kid and you’re a kid
and I laugh because I don’t always have to grow up

From my mom’s lemon pie
I hail
like the sugary sweet stickiness
and the ****
pucker you lips boys
lemon.
and the fried chicken

From a stove that hasn’t seen
the fanciest meats
but left us with a five star feast
at my parents hands

I miss when I came from
a smoke filled house
detectors going off
fat back and grilled cheese
burning in the pan.

I like to think
I am from a world
and all I learn
all that made me grow

I am from distinct beginnings
as my life separated
but I have but one
means to an end

I am from a fire place
and screaming wood beetles
as we pressed their backs
but that’s a happier time
that I know I’m from
but can’t remember
I was too young

Now I am from a firepit
Tall
as our conversations
our father singing drunken tales
too beautiful to believe
to fantastical to forget
sparks flying at each crakle
like fairies of fire
cascading in the air

But also from his wrath
the anger
nights spent in a room crying
wishing I could leave
clinging on only because I had yet to learn
I didn’t need him.

So I came from silence
between me and him
longer than forever
louder than the Nazgual
screeching out at us through the TV
a movie my father and I shared, so we could pretend a little longer.

I am from sneaking out a window
not to leave
but return
to when me and you got along
the asphalt
raking out hands
while we climbed to the top
that frightfully tall roof.

the stars leaning in to catching our fall.
the forbidden bottle passed between us.
the world looking like a nicer place
until we crawled back in the doors of reality

From the tear, resting on the edge of these words,
as I recalled your laugh
the real one
the music of it.
cried because I have not yet heard it
someone stole it from your soul.

Maybe freedom can bring it back,
or only further burry it
were the mad men buried it.

I was taught to live
as though not else mattered
the autonomy offering freedom
but still cling to what we had, for however long
our childhood
not as great.
grown up too fast.

Queen Mab holds my origins too
as does Fantasia
and Disney.

Eargon and Sapheria
swords of blue flame
holding my attention
locked away in my mind
as I watched their adventures
and others go by.

A House of Leaves
containing confuzzeld wonderment.
my brother making me challenge
what literary told me was possible
enjoying the complexity
and escape

I am from the Moulin Rouge
the green fairy of absinthe
with same
long haired bohemian
sitting next me, holding my hand

I came from a Secret History
bunny, laying flat in the snow
Dionysus holding the blame
the Greek world with bigger secrets
6 people of a strained friendship

I am from a radio
and an Ipod
the CD player and TV
music being my soul

Ambient, Pop, Grunge
House, Rock, Jazz, Classical
Blue Grass, Country, Electronica
A multitude of noise, dying to a lullaby

Headphones
soft n’ squishy
pressed tight to the drum
drown out the world I beg
they comply
my fingers moving along the click wheel
for a new assault
cilia fibers dying off
you know the world I am from
we shared it often times
and yet you are shut out
the world of 2 sisters
roads walked together.
but I am not from you side of the street.

I am from a dirt road
made long ago
that you will sometimes wonder on to.
but run back
to the smooth and familiar
Pavement.
J T Gaut Sep 2012
Encircle me
arms parrying down
down comforters and mist
forces crush and twist
protect me in your blue

Breath returning stream
child in a cupboard
locked into shelter
firm pressed by fragile hands
a lioness in the brush

I find myself lost- or was it found?
in this hearth where I was bound
afraid to see the cost
so I sit
coalesced into your lap
let the thoughts float forth and back
And swirl around the finer points
of small man's musings
as the artist meets his idol,
song beneath the whispers
whispers beneath your love-
that mystical beast
so readily escaping
snapping at quizzical hands

stumbling around a dark room
after bright lights de-lucidate
and validate this mutual need
crushed again, by failure of seed
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2016
this one starts where so many have
bed-begun

a weekend morn,
sun flooding the chamber,
we swap YouTube fav's,
over cups of almost
hotter coffee

I ******
with
"Roxanne" by Police;

she subtlety point counterpoints my
unsubtle advances, parrying by
sending me dreams of
the **** promised land of

"El Tango of Roxanne,"
from Moulin Rouge

I concede,
she pleased,
pleases me,
that her triumphed victory came so easy

not realizing my plan all along,
realizing, my all along man plan

ah,
Saturday, Naturday,

making natural spring water
poems
drawn from the saucy source
mother (bed-sun-music) earth

this one ends where so many have
bed-begun
avril 9 2016
7:45am
Ian Webber Feb 2012
What is my mother like?
Perhaps she is a bespectacled story weaver
knitting tales that stretch the imagination.
That would explain my itch to write.
What if she is a food critic wielding a pen
dishing out opinions and parrying rebuttals.
That would explain my desire for food.
What if she is a state- of-the-art Neurologist  
stretching the frontier of the dream state.
That would explain my desire for sleep.

But what if she isn’t.

What if she sleeps all day, drinks sake all night,
doesn’t miss me, forgets to kiss her husband, doesn’t have a husband
needs her sons help, is throwing away another child.
One of my siblings.
How many sisters do I not know? How many brothers have slipped between the cracks?
My yellow mother
won’t ever know me.
I don’t want to know her.
Nat Lipstadt May 2014
Been off stubbing repeatedly,
my toes,
on the raggedy twisted
sidewalks of a sinking city, not mine,
where here, my own metaphor,
is being hand delivered,
to me, for me, by me

too many cayenne creole paroles,
none of them getting me any freer
none, as of yet,
making me a free parolee

been off studying some
of what I cannot yet do,
parole in libertà,
a language cosmopolitan
of creation, via creative writing
remolding all of the dix senses

been drawn and french quartered,
drilled down, found no unknown
solace deep bedrock grown,
so doing a redistricting of the map personal,
exposing my gardens, my Doric columns,
to any passerby with the
audacity so sheer to look me
in the face direct and say
laissez le bon temps rouler!

looking to liberate my words,
looking for liberty in my words,
in a different melting *** where here
I am a semi-low semi-free
person of color called
Old Fashioned White,
looking for a seasonal hurricane
to move me along,
push me to write in a new style,
developing cayenne words
smothered in jazz à la mode

multi-flirting with multi-fluency,
searching for Experimental
mellifluous words
stolenlen from, and built upon
a thousand years of languages,
river wide delivering its mountain deep
cargo of silt, a city of words, upon it built,
just like the great Mississippi,
changing course every one
                                               thousand years

my mouth, a river opening wide,
catching both salty and fresh,
god's love delivering,
doing the best I can,
writing real fracking poetry for poetry's sake,
not text messages of asstags
kissing nobody's ads of sad dead #hashtags,
following nobody noticeably,
but thrusting your good stuff into my orifices,
most pleasurably deep
                

but never parrying,
                   

      I am a poet social only in this:

my devotion to my crew
                                   stronger every day
for and
                           of that particular poetry,

           I can write better than anyone,
              so big,
                                    sooooooooo easy,

and that's, Steve, Bala, y'all,
how and what I'm doing
and by the way,

Putain Zang Tumb Tumb

you could look it up
In Nor'leans, studying alternate forms of poetry and discarding half-started poems on the street, arrived as a mate on board a steamship, standing on my only good left foot....
We fight delicately, sniping, taking and giving verbal punches.
Our skin doesn't bruise, maybe our egos our minds,
but our bodies no.
Our velvet arguing is seamless, flawless.
Anyone listening would hear witty repartee.
A couple playfully bantering, no more.
Polite meritorious armament of words.
Primed to fire a salvo of cruelty.
Cruelty, covered and handled with crushed velvet gloves.
Textured, cultured, arguing.
Polite parrying, pleasant resentment.
A bottle of wine, remnants of a meal, wounds needing to heal.
Less or more cruel than a punch? This seamless linguistic pain.
Bruises fade, pain subsides, mental cruelty resides.
© JLB
17/06/2014
Where did they hide a punch clock in the timeless solace?

Or did they hide it all?

Perhaps it’s difficult to see some mornings?

We walked together to the school bus-stop, Billie Jean and I,

…she seemed to have a thing for me although I don’t know why?

I had a birth deformity; my feet were horned like snakes,

…a scaly-green monstrosity that locked away my heart and mind,

…so that; like the time clock, no one would ever see me.

Even the trip to doctors in Thebes, it only made it worse,

...all the children in my town found out, and said that I was cursed,

An ancient Greek named Urias claimed;

That tranquil purple’s peaceful dawn had hid a pitcher of lies,

And Zeus’ anger at the act brought down lightning from the skies,

…and struck down the people just like me against a ballad of rainbow fusion sunrise.

For the dreamy cosmos exercises as the pantomime he realizes,

…the many fancies of his disguises that the panoptic mind has in its surmises,

And in their parrying fall the distended fragments of the egg,

…formed some like me who were formed quite queer, said to come from Apulian’s nightly fall of fear.

Glass-bottled visions of events not clear all framed in a circle of Plato’s Great Year.

My feet the scaly-green monstrosity which sealed my heart and mind,

Billie said it was a gift from that Great Old Father Time,

A spring of rocks, a great mountain, a whirlpool and a navel,

I guess one day I’ll become them all, if and when I’m able!
Ancient Greeks believed that a war in the heavens occurred and the original, "giants," of the Earth had been destroyed during it. One ancient author described something unusual about them, their feet, which had claws.

Today, "modern," science calls them dinosaurs and said that a weapon from heaven destroyed them. I like the Greek version better.
Part of me wants to hold the pain
the way I wish I could hold you
it feels more productive
than letting go.

How can I allow
the process, the universe, god
to take care of itself, when there is pain?

As if the preoccupation with the possibilities,
will protect you more than my prayers
as if the pain were a sentinel.

I hold the pain as a dagger.
Stabbing into the darkness, into the void.
Fending off invisible foe, parrying against suffering.

No one leaves life unscathed, and so I fail you.
I cannot protect you from life.
My honor is tarnished.

My love, please know,
I will be here when you are happy,
And especially when you are sad, scared, lonely.

When life bears down, and the weight is too much,
I will be here, prying apart the dimensions,
As an anchor to reality

My precious one,
You are beloved since always.
This love has always been, and always will be.
When all returns to the great silence,
This love remains eternal.
To my most venerable teacher, my highest honor, my greatest challenge. To my son.
Arihant Verma Aug 2017
I feel the vastness of the hand
like I move my hands to and from the sun
or the moon to fit it right across the diameter
when it lands on your back and I start
moving up and down, to find
that you can’t be controlled like the sun
and the moon can be, from a distance,
that when I will scroll down to your beloved circle
you’ll be a rebel’s soul, parrying quietly

When my tongue will be a mast
in the throbbing waves of your inside
pointing towards the sky, it’ll 
fight the battles of the seas,
with the purpose to make peace with it.
You will wet my tongue mast and I yours
moving, thrusting, squishing between
the winds of my *******,
you and I will sighs the winds of storms
like they were trying to create
another earth only more, more.

“It’s throbbing more and more,” she said

Let it feel that it longs for a pacifier,
that would heighten its heartbeats first
perhaps even a minor undetected heart attack
burning like the bed sheet under us
lilt of our movements making air
from the fans incapable of extinguising
the fire that will only rest once
it has watered all the trees inside.
MARS May 2020
A word like no other.
The world next to a mother
No matter how far away I go,
She always has me tethered

To my roots, my culture. I never forget
That horrendous day we met.
A wee babby in his uniform, parrying
Away at first sight.

You carved every inch of a masterpiece
Which grew ever thankful to you.
Though never chanted,
Your sobriquet remains holy in mine heart.

Shall God bless you
And life bequeath its bliss
For you, are a soul…
Crafted to craft.
This intriguing poem written by MARS explains the unconditional bond between a good teacher and a student. A teacher plays a major role in every individual's life and is considered as one next to a mother. She teaches through all her difficulties and sows light into every student, ultimately crafting them into a masterpiece. This vivid detail is brought out to the reader's eyes by MARS.
Jacobe Loman Jul 2016
Shaken with fear,
sabatons tarnished.
Metal singing a glowing sheen.
Shining sanguine red.
Imposing all who had seen.

Victor, we've fallen.
Parrying and glancing.
Terrible force riddled steel plate.
Morningstar chimes,
flung with hate.

Three held the ford,
gleaming silver cloaks.
Duality of mud,
brothers endured.
Morality seeps.

Hand and a half,
too heavy to bare.
Splintering buckler.
Oak; shred and tear.
Ripping and bludgeoning,
all shock and scare.

Metal meeting flesh,
sounded sirens became aired.
Spectacle turned glee.
Our banners, lastly reach.
Jamal Abboud Jun 2017
Haggard and perturbed by thy love,
why such price to be paid
may be penalised, may not is a threat
I kept silent, kept the promise we made
I have seen nobody, not even a single maid.
In a warm and lovely summer night,
I strolled moping, so late
Then wrote lines of our tale,
I winked at a blue star, I didn't rave
The glinting star witnesses, I was afraid,
The story which only the moon read excerpt,
And the craved passing comet heard extract,
Maybe! the news travelled are not so exact
I told a lonely sad violet, that lives near a cave
By the lake, she is sincere to me and great,
By coincidence, the owl heard,
And gleefully told the honest nightingales,
So mice rushed into each house with tales
By the morning, our love was sung by girls;
thy sister played possum parrying what's so near;
Thy father, mowing the lawn, didn't hear
But if thy mother noticed,
Justified would be thy fear.
Chris Thomas Mar 2017
Family values,
Sold on the black market
Five dollars for a segue from the chorus
Of a baby's happy first words
To the tears caused by daddy's final vice

Compromise,
The loft where secrets sleep
Parrying words with shields of skin
Tethering dreams to a fencepost in the lawn
To keep them from the clouds in the distant sky

Life escapes,
Like the air from a balloon
It erodes like a weathered mountain
All the lights are on in a three-story house
But everyone's home and drowning

In the dark.
Chi
Siblings parrying sincerity.
Brooklyn to Scranton to Bristol and back again
couches embrace
rewind it.
Front yard fabrication of a happy family
play pretends in the paper bark tree
squeeze my arm and ask me

are you okay con?
Written in January of 2019
nivek Nov 2016
constantly parrying cheap shots
under the breath curses
the aping ridicule
Robert Ippaso Sep 2020
Bitter, battered, bruised and spent
Throwing punches aimed to dent,
Bobbing, weaving, sighing loud,
Gladiators playing to the crowd.

Armed with words that cut like steel
Inflicting wounds that won't fast heal,
Nostrils flaring, bulging eyes,
Parrying blows with stifled sighs.

Indignation, slights of old,
Each man's purpose bitter, cold,
One sole aim, that fatal blow,
Boiling anger on full show.

As to us the silent horde
Stunned by this discordant chord,
We watch and wonder how we came
To such a place so sad and lame.

Is this all we now deserve
Screeching buzzards without verve,
Gone the poise, the weathered charm
Just two sluggers out to harm?
Slightly Lovely Feb 2020
We are divinely broken,
your gold blood hanging off my fingertips,
my breath curling down your throat.
My holy sword parrying your scythe.
A battle for the souls of humanity,
but my soul has already been tainted,
because your body awaits me when I drift into a world of dreams,
dear love of mine,
this mosaic we have painted,
cannot stay without shattering.
Particularly, when voicing and/or
writing bon mots doth betake
chuckling clownlike me
rumbled stilled skin,
and e'en rouses
this mummified corpse
(asleep for bajillion years)
among sleepers awake,
where mine inside belly
doth pleasantly ache

jollity the best medicine
most thus spoke Zarathustra,
asper nonpareil persona
American radio broadcaster
Doctor Demento would attest,
one need not buy,
nor spend real or "FAKE"
money, yet brilliant come
back (as averred by
unnamed modest chap)
sweeter than New York cheesecake

moist definitely more
delectable than grubstake
jamming gobstopper with
yodels, ring dings,
or mouth size edible
chocolate candied drake,
a propensity for parrying
thrusts humorously recently
adopted, though occasionally
embarrass self,

and perhaps I might
momentarily even forsake
such wordplay, but
honing humorous turns
of phrases come roaring
back to partake, and
appease simple pleasure
inexplicably to satiate
passion with English
Language and slake

unquenchable thirst
experiencing euphoria,
vis a vis yours truly
melding, jump/kick starting,
forging, distilling
reasonable rhyme
(albeit short lived) giddy
as if I won sweepstake
this newfound affinity
with whittling words

manifested during opaque
throes of fatherhood,
when ceaseless parental
demands sought fast break
from learning to
accommodate lest stressful
overwhelming anguish
found me undertake
king oft times frazzled state,
where among great

anonymous dead poets
society, posthumous renown
would be small consolation
for widowed missus,
whose then two little girls,
(now grown to womanhood)
would inconsolably shake
for ever and anon drowning
their sweet sorrows,
where profuse tears
engender lachrymose lake.

— The End —