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"provoked" poems
When I was just a little girl, And as little girls were taught then, I played with dolls and a teaset, Made mudcakes for food, Wore skirts, made my hair into ponytails as I was let. I saw the boys with the abandon which comes with free wear and play, And I thought to myself, why am I a girl. When I was older, a teen and as teen girls were taught then, Walk, talk, rock softly Don’t draw too much attention Or attempt to explore too much. I saw the boys then with the abandon which comes with freedom to play, sit, be as they want , And I thought to myself, why am I a girl. When I was sixteen, oh sweet sixteen, And as sixteen year old girls were taught then, Don’t wear clothes that show your frame, That’s indecent and you will be in another home and will incur alot of blame. Don’t wander, argue, or express an opinion, You’re a girl, being humble, quiet and gentle becomes you. I saw the boys then with the abandon which comes with freedom of movement and speech, And I thought to myself, why am I a girl. When I was older, and passionately sought a particular career, I was admonished as many other girls in my time, It’s not a career for women, late nights, more men to be around, When you get married, that’s not going to work and troubles will abound. I saw the boys then with the abandon which comes with the freedom of pursuing their dreams, And I thought to myself, why am I a girl. When I was married, and setting a home, working and raising a family, I left my work as many other girls in my time, For my husband to follow his work path, Unquestioningly, unflinchingly, resolutely. I saw the men then with the abandon which comes with freedom of being in control of their lives, And I thought to myself, why am I a girl. But this is just the surface of my questioning being a girl, When boys and men around tried their stunts on girls and women, I questioned my existence. When many girls and women I know, Were told to stay mum on men close who took advantage of them I questioned my existence. When In the workspace, Women got paid less than men because their salary were subtly looked at as secondary salaries, Or needed to speak louder to be heard, I questioned my existence. When the onus of keeping a relationship working was the woman’s responsibility largely, I questioned my existence. When a woman got hit by her spouse, Its she who may have provoked him. When a man strayed, Its she who was not a good enough wife that he had to look elsewhere. I questioned my existence. The atrocities many men are capable of, The filth many men spread, **** hate, aggression, manipulation and more Abuse, gaslighting inside closed doors, Wearing a mask of sophistication outside Animalistic and entitled beings to the core. My apologies to men who are not, And I know some, But they are but a handful, Too insignificant in the larger way the world works. But then I see me, A harbinger of change, In my home and around. Raising my son differently, Advocating for change purposively, Actioning resolutely what’s right, Woman for women with all my might. I see so many more women now who retain their selves and are beacons of hope, They don’t sit around and just mope. And I am glad I am a girl, And I question no more, I question no more.
0
Feb 16, 2020
Feb 16, 2020 at 4:28 AM UTC
I AM A GIRL
When I was just a little girl, And as little girls were taught then, I played with dolls and a teaset, Made mudcakes for food, Wore skirts, made my hair into ponytails as I was let. I saw the boys with the abandon which comes with free wear and play, And I thought to myself, why am I a girl. When I was older, a teen and as teen girls were taught then, Walk, talk, rock softly Don’t draw too much attention Or attempt to explore too much. I saw the boys then with the abandon which comes with freedom to play, sit, be as they want , And I thought to myself, why am I a girl. When I was sixteen, oh sweet sixteen, And as sixteen year old girls were taught then, Don’t wear clothes that show your frame, That’s indecent and you will be in another home and will incur alot of blame. Don’t wander, argue, or express an opinion, You’re a girl, being humble, quiet and gentle becomes you. I saw the boys then with the abandon which comes with freedom of movement and speech, And I thought to myself, why am I a girl. When I was older, and passionately sought a particular career, I was admonished as many other girls in my time, It’s not a career for women, late nights, more men to be around, When you get married, that’s not going to work and troubles will abound. I saw the boys then with the abandon which comes with the freedom of pursuing their dreams, And I thought to myself, why am I a girl. When I was married, and setting a home, working and raising a family, I left my work as many other girls in my time, For my husband to follow his work path, Unquestioningly, unflinchingly, resolutely. I saw the men then with the abandon which comes with freedom of being in control of their lives, And I thought to myself, why am I a girl. But this is just the surface of my questioning being a girl, When boys and men around tried their stunts on girls and women, I questioned my existence. When many girls and women I know, Were told to stay mum on men close who took advantage of them I questioned my existence. When In the workspace, Women got paid less than men because their salary were subtly looked at as secondary salaries, Or needed to speak louder to be heard, I questioned my existence. When the onus of keeping a relationship working was the woman’s responsibility largely, I questioned my existence. When a woman got hit by her spouse, Its she who may have provoked him. When a man strayed, Its she who was not a good enough wife that he had to look elsewhere. I questioned my existence. The atrocities many men are capable of, The filth many men spread, **** hate, aggression, manipulation and more Abuse, gaslighting inside closed doors, Wearing a mask of sophistication outside Animalistic and entitled beings to the core. My apologies to men who are not, And I know some, But they are but a handful, Too insignificant in the larger way the world works. But then I see me, A harbinger of change, In my home and around. Raising my son differently, Advocating for change purposively, Actioning resolutely what’s right, Woman for women with all my might. I see so many more women now who retain their selves and are beacons of hope, They don’t sit around and just mope. And I am glad I am a girl, And I question no more, I question no more.
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73
Your perception of me pre-existed, you saw black and you felt danger, you saw my skin and with it painted a personality from the prejudice of your mind. You don’t know me, yet you assume that I am just like every other dark skinned man out there. So that is why I feel angry when you cram yourself in the corner of elevators, if you could only realize I am the one who is truly backed into a corner, provoked by your ignorance, until I become what you painted me. With your judging eyes, cautious smiles, and nervous actions you made me this way when in the beginning I was just me. Now after all you have done, and all I have done, I’m just trying to be me again. I just want to be me.
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May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 7:23 AM UTC
Prejudice & Ignorance are Synonymous
What I fear isn’t hairy eight legged creatures crawling into my mouth at night What I fear isn’t the whole “Something’s gonna come out of the dark and eat me,” while I’m trying to get a glass of water in the middle of the night. Nor even when my father angrily yells at me Because in all honesty he starts regurgitating spit from his mouth making it so hard to take him seriously when he’s drooling. What I’m afraid of is… I’m afraid of tomorrow… You see, Once upon a time On a Saturday Night I was so excited to finally finish writing my second chapter of my fan fiction Talking to a few friends. And relaxing from my stressful day of a Saturday. Then suddenly a wild message about financial aid appears, Now, This isn’t where my fears start coming to life This isn’t even where my thoughts were being provoked. This was just a simple conversation about financial aid information. You see,| My friend knows little about financial aid and my friend asked about the information I know. I thought, “Well I have limited knowledge on this…I’ll give my friend my best answers and hope it turns out alright.” Well, Things didn’t turn out the way I had imagined it. You see, This private conversation evolved into a group chat And even the financial aid information conversation evolved into, “How are you going to pay for your college expenses?” You see, I don’t fear of creatures with eight legs, I don’t fear of monsters in the darkness I don’t even fear of my father’s angry tone! I fear what tomorrow’s going to be I fear that my future will only just be a dream. It’s so hard to be focusing on where I’m going to be at next year when this year looks like the saddest thing on Earth. It’s so hard to concentrate on tomorrow when today looks like a horrible nightmare. Today, I’m stressed I’m not stressed about my grades I know I work harder than the average student. I’m not stressed about the guy I might like Because right now, A boyfriend is not what I be needing. I’m stressed that I may not get a job I’m stressed that my dad may lose his I’m stressed that my mom can’t find another I’m stressed that I won’t be able to pay for my ACT Ticket I’m stressed that I won’t be able to afford my SAT Subject Ticket I’m stressed that I won’t be able to pay for my college apps And I’m stressed that I can’t get fee waver Because according to the government my parents make too much for me to have one When in reality My family barely survives on a paycheck. It’s getting harder and harder to survive on that paycheck Because presently speaking It’s getting harder and harder to pay to keep on living. And because I don’t have a job yet, My parents are still forced to pay for me to keep on living. I’m stressed that I’m not going to have a tomorrow I’m stressed that I’m not going to go to a college to pay college expenses for I’m stressed that this fear is going to keep controlling my life! But… I can’t let that happen… I can’t let this fear run my life. ‘Cause sooner or later its going to run it down tot eh ground and I won’t be able to recover from that I can’t let this fear consume me, Because I’ll never find a way out. I fear something… I don’t fear eight hairy legged creatures crawling into my mouth at night, I don’t fear monsters eating me alive while I’m trying to get something to drink. Nor do I fear my dad yelling at me. I fear of tomorrow. I can’t focus on where I’m going to be at next year when today is all foggy with no sign of light.
0
Dec 11, 2011
Dec 11, 2011 at 4:29 AM UTC
I fear.
What I fear isn’t hairy eight legged creatures crawling into my mouth at night What I fear isn’t the whole “Something’s gonna come out of the dark and eat me,” while I’m trying to get a glass of water in the middle of the night. Nor even when my father angrily yells at me Because in all honesty he starts regurgitating spit from his mouth making it so hard to take him seriously when he’s drooling. What I’m afraid of is… I’m afraid of tomorrow… You see, Once upon a time On a Saturday Night I was so excited to finally finish writing my second chapter of my fan fiction Talking to a few friends. And relaxing from my stressful day of a Saturday. Then suddenly a wild message about financial aid appears, Now, This isn’t where my fears start coming to life This isn’t even where my thoughts were being provoked. This was just a simple conversation about financial aid information. You see,| My friend knows little about financial aid and my friend asked about the information I know. I thought, “Well I have limited knowledge on this…I’ll give my friend my best answers and hope it turns out alright.” Well, Things didn’t turn out the way I had imagined it. You see, This private conversation evolved into a group chat And even the financial aid information conversation evolved into, “How are you going to pay for your college expenses?” You see, I don’t fear of creatures with eight legs, I don’t fear of monsters in the darkness I don’t even fear of my father’s angry tone! I fear what tomorrow’s going to be I fear that my future will only just be a dream. It’s so hard to be focusing on where I’m going to be at next year when this year looks like the saddest thing on Earth. It’s so hard to concentrate on tomorrow when today looks like a horrible nightmare. Today, I’m stressed I’m not stressed about my grades I know I work harder than the average student. I’m not stressed about the guy I might like Because right now, A boyfriend is not what I be needing. I’m stressed that I may not get a job I’m stressed that my dad may lose his I’m stressed that my mom can’t find another I’m stressed that I won’t be able to pay for my ACT Ticket I’m stressed that I won’t be able to afford my SAT Subject Ticket I’m stressed that I won’t be able to pay for my college apps And I’m stressed that I can’t get fee waver Because according to the government my parents make too much for me to have one When in reality My family barely survives on a paycheck. It’s getting harder and harder to survive on that paycheck Because presently speaking It’s getting harder and harder to pay to keep on living. And because I don’t have a job yet, My parents are still forced to pay for me to keep on living. I’m stressed that I’m not going to have a tomorrow I’m stressed that I’m not going to go to a college to pay college expenses for I’m stressed that this fear is going to keep controlling my life! But… I can’t let that happen… I can’t let this fear run my life. ‘Cause sooner or later its going to run it down tot eh ground and I won’t be able to recover from that I can’t let this fear consume me, Because I’ll never find a way out. I fear something… I don’t fear eight hairy legged creatures crawling into my mouth at night, I don’t fear monsters eating me alive while I’m trying to get something to drink. Nor do I fear my dad yelling at me. I fear of tomorrow. I can’t focus on where I’m going to be at next year when today is all foggy with no sign of light.
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72
♦   ♦   ♦ She was an earnest devotée. Her ideals, birthed in Chardonnay were globally diverse (read: white). A liberal bark preceded bite. Her crystal clearer than her vision; she provoked bemused derision as she breathed intolerance toward all who would not dance her dance. She swooned for distant pagan tribes, attuned to their exotic vibes – rapt in multi-culti piety strangely deaf to her own society, judged by her as abomination; unredeemed. The background station always stuck on N.P.R. (the soundtrack of her culture war, Pacifica News and Democracy Nows, and other progressive holy cows) Her motherland a shameful mystery: guilty first, and void of history – its origins defiled, corrupted… while she enjoyed uninterrupted freedom to pursue her whims: misguided one-world global hymns. The sisterhood of hu(man) kind was foremost in her earnest mind – even should that same sisterhood be sealed by her well-meaning blood. Out on a date with global death she hoped to unify the earth in solidarity with causes led by killers, warlord bosses, thugs she never knew existed who, if she’d met she’d have resisted. Her theory landed far from her praxis spun, by default, on an evil axis. Hot with zeal she fumed and stormed quite certain she was well-informed, at benefits, non-profit functions rallies, boycotts, left-wing luncheons; warm with righteous spite for Israel, aiding and abetting Ishmael with fellow-travelers, like-minded similarly hateful, blinded, rattling sabers, scimitars, axes… (lunacy never wanes, but waxes hotter with the passing years as activists confront their fears). She finally shilled for the Intifada (stopping short of reciting Shahada), reaching out to the terrorist with righteous raised progressive fist… offering thus her neck to blade: collateral to be repaid by murderers who couldn’t care less about her open-mindedness.
0
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 9:57 PM UTC
Suicide by Diversity
♦   ♦   ♦ She was an earnest devotée. Her ideals, birthed in Chardonnay were globally diverse (read: white). A liberal bark preceded bite. Her crystal clearer than her vision; she provoked bemused derision as she breathed intolerance toward all who would not dance her dance. She swooned for distant pagan tribes, attuned to their exotic vibes – rapt in multi-culti piety strangely deaf to her own society, judged by her as abomination; unredeemed. The background station always stuck on N.P.R. (the soundtrack of her culture war, Pacifica News and Democracy Nows, and other progressive holy cows) Her motherland a shameful mystery: guilty first, and void of history – its origins defiled, corrupted… while she enjoyed uninterrupted freedom to pursue her whims: misguided one-world global hymns. The sisterhood of hu(man) kind was foremost in her earnest mind – even should that same sisterhood be sealed by her well-meaning blood. Out on a date with global death she hoped to unify the earth in solidarity with causes led by killers, warlord bosses, thugs she never knew existed who, if she’d met she’d have resisted. Her theory landed far from her praxis spun, by default, on an evil axis. Hot with zeal she fumed and stormed quite certain she was well-informed, at benefits, non-profit functions rallies, boycotts, left-wing luncheons; warm with righteous spite for Israel, aiding and abetting Ishmael with fellow-travelers, like-minded similarly hateful, blinded, rattling sabers, scimitars, axes… (lunacy never wanes, but waxes hotter with the passing years as activists confront their fears). She finally shilled for the Intifada (stopping short of reciting Shahada), reaching out to the terrorist with righteous raised progressive fist… offering thus her neck to blade: collateral to be repaid by murderers who couldn’t care less about her open-mindedness.
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57
she stood there on the side blond curls bouncing with pride Get it! Get it! arms flung about announcing pink shoes and blue jeans worn with attitude of a more senior form Get it! Get it! before it’s too late Get it! Get it! the tide won’t wait orange ball floating being drawn in and out as she stood there ordering and starting to shout a small group are playing and arranging their roles for a future life being determined by personalities bold Get it! Get it! as blue shoes are soaked in salty water and laughter provoked all ends in happy joyfulness neat but some are more happy with their dry feet
0
Sep 5, 2016
Sep 5, 2016 at 8:28 AM UTC
Little Orange Ball
Yes its big yosef a true heavy weight makin' earthquakes through all states watch for the snakes In the grass never front for the cash who wanna clash? With a mighty Titan I'm on a God status love hoes with the **** size of Trish stratus Now tell me who's the baddest ya on a one way trip with Gladys Knight On a Midnight train to Georgia no one heard of ya Ya flows is wack your skull will get crack fuckin' with the mack I make a love connection from my smif and wesson learned ya lesson no plexin' On my team one man supreme like a lion i be the king makin' suckas sing Lullabies I feel ya soul cry reaching for the sky Ain't no ******* allowed puff a cloud til the city unda a smoke shroud Fools Talk loud but die silent known to be be violent If provoked by a fake loc my pistol loves to smoke it stays high Leavin' holy bodies to fry Who could outwrite this? my style will diss rhymes deeper than an abyss make ya **** Out ya own blood as ya face down in the mud with no crud Touchin' my eyes sleep with one eye Open scopin' and hopin' got more scams than Ken Copeland I'm still floatin' On cloud nine almost to ten sippin' gin never see me grin my lyrics touchin' Every last one of you wack rappers so come again.....
0
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 11:40 PM UTC
Lightweight
An exchange of temptations that led to a hidden ordeal On an act of carnal ecstasy made to seal a deal The gamble to see if it’s worth lending a piece of the soul While trembling inside for the choices that would soon take toll The signs of deceit slowly surfaced but were shrugged despite suspicion Until a hasty flight provoked inner unrest and affliction Vivid memories of a previous torment come back haunting Knowing full well the Succubus affinity for betraying With logic and reason as both weapon and armor Against an enemy not easily made for capture Bargaining on a final bet that her grip be brought to nothing To release the mind from seemingly rotting The bargain commenced along with foreseen treason The sought peace only a hollow victory in a silently echoing frustration In total silence with a feeling that heavily burned A mental wall built to signify the lesson learned Screams of pain of the innards locked away in reticence Occurring to just seemingly mock the brilliance With great resolve brought by the treachery writhing in virulence Came the vigilance of avoiding such penitence And to never again taste the Succubus’ Sting in Silence
0
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 9:09 PM UTC
Succubus Sting in Silence
You turn me on, you make me misty-eyed, My nascent science of love, years back, When I followed you downstream, to bloom it began, The sight of flowers blossom, in earnest we did invest, Your frail hands, soft and tender, Your electric touch, skin-deep not, You taught me to watch the stars, in reflection I wondered, The Antares and Aldebaran, caught my sigh, Provoked, you opened the gates to your heart, You filled me in, you turned me on, Oh the Aroma, and the beauty to behold, Two star-crossed lovers, As breath-taking as the Maasai Mara, we opened to a new world Full of life, Full of energy, Reasons why you turn me on!
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Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 5:08 AM UTC
You Turn Me On
Visions of vengeance on my mind Awoke a past's persuasive ghost Like a parasite disposes it's host I left her loving soul behind Hearing this demon's wicked rants My resistance caved to thoughts provoked Her love inside me I have choked With these bare trembling hands My restless spirit keen to elope Now indulges in all luscious leisure Yet looking for a hidden treasure With a face not showing idle hope
0
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 9:05 PM UTC
A past's persuasive ghost
Breeze bellows, leaves echo in quivering psithurism, dithering like unbroken smoke, this approaching omen goads. Dozing crows slumbering in rows, droves of locusts' silenced drone, almost comatose in repose; nighttime overtones choir of toads' raspy croaks answered by alto of crickets' orchestral strokes. Gust encroaches; robed boughs cloven open, bring into scope and focus me juxtaposed, suspended apropos. Although motionless and petrified in stone, provoked by zephyr coaxing to and fro; swaying pendulous and no longer frozen, locus gently thrown. Death rattle moan evoked from throat, reflex can't say no to rigor rigidly posed, final sigh in silence, awoken vocal, expelled and disposed. Smote by morose emotion, gun loaded then exploded by neurosis, now bloated necrosis decomposes into gross ochre. This trophy and this ode both an opus to my inability to cope; romanced i proposed, eloped and betrothed to my own inappropriate composure. Pocket full of posies plucked when luck bestowed and tears in a cup, a toast; crying copiously, tempest runneth overflowed, eyes swollen and soaked. Dipped my toes in the coast of this ocean's amorphous folds, gripped by undertow holding control of my soul; swiftly shipwrecked in shallow shoal, an old atoll. On sandy floor, water burrows roads; digging, carving, roams through unmarrowed silica and sandstone eroding into a cove. A host for opal geode trove, enclosing a technicolor rose, from the depths a glowing mosaic shone Unopened lotus floats on foam of lapping waves, a boat; prone to no grandiose notion or motive, adrift as wind stokes. I suppose this only shows the total corrosion into which I dove, the only foes to oppose are those of burdens, so only weightless can I atone- I must let go.
0
Mar 11, 2024
Mar 11, 2024 at 11:02 AM UTC
Note to Self (Part 2)
Breeze bellows, leaves echo in quivering psithurism, dithering like unbroken smoke, this approaching omen goads. Dozing crows slumbering in rows, droves of locusts' silenced drone, almost comatose in repose; nighttime overtones choir of toads' raspy croaks answered by alto of crickets' orchestral strokes. Gust encroaches; robed boughs cloven open, bring into scope and focus me juxtaposed, suspended apropos. Although motionless and petrified in stone, provoked by zephyr coaxing to and fro; swaying pendulous and no longer frozen, locus gently thrown. Death rattle moan evoked from throat, reflex can't say no to rigor rigidly posed, final sigh in silence, awoken vocal, expelled and disposed. Smote by morose emotion, gun loaded then exploded by neurosis, now bloated necrosis decomposes into gross ochre. This trophy and this ode both an opus to my inability to cope; romanced i proposed, eloped and betrothed to my own inappropriate composure. Pocket full of posies plucked when luck bestowed and tears in a cup, a toast; crying copiously, tempest runneth overflowed, eyes swollen and soaked. Dipped my toes in the coast of this ocean's amorphous folds, gripped by undertow holding control of my soul; swiftly shipwrecked in shallow shoal, an old atoll. On sandy floor, water burrows roads; digging, carving, roams through unmarrowed silica and sandstone eroding into a cove. A host for opal geode trove, enclosing a technicolor rose, from the depths a glowing mosaic shone Unopened lotus floats on foam of lapping waves, a boat; prone to no grandiose notion or motive, adrift as wind stokes. I suppose this only shows the total corrosion into which I dove, the only foes to oppose are those of burdens, so only weightless can I atone- I must let go.
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95
Forever beating heart; Why do you flee the safety of my chest once more? Is it so that you may confront your opponent... has the mind provoked you? Perhaps you sailed north of your own accord; to pry open my lips and pour out love as I battle to suppress your persistence.
0
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 12:59 PM UTC
-Prisoner-
(I don't really hate pantoums, but once, when I wrote about the rules for repeating forms like pantoums and villanelles, one girl commented "I hate pantoums and villanelles. I guess I get bored easily." But this only provoked me to write a Pantoum using her words, just a little edited.) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I hate pantoums and villanelles because I'm very easily bored when a poem goes on and on, and tells the things that have been said before. Because I'm very easily bored, I get impatient for lots of stuff. The things that have been said before don't need repeating. Once is enough. I get impatient, for lots of stuff I get to hear throughout the day don't need repeating. Once is enough to understand what you have to say. I get to hear throughout the day the same old news again and again. To understand what you have to say should not be hard. Intelligent men and women don't need those extra lines when a poem goes on and on, and tells what it's said before, too many times. I hate pantoums – and villanelles!
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May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 3:15 PM UTC
Pantoum -- "I hate pantoums . . ."
Harbinger of light, I curled away From chaste, un-daunting rays. And cursed the sphere high in the sky For showcasing my pain You brought me terms and phrases That withered on deaf ears I longed to wrench them from my head When ballads provoked tears Your touch? It singed like acid I yearned to shed this skin Discard this haggard carapace; Exhume the girl within. Your gaze took me to pieces And plucked a shattered shard To hold before my wretched face; Remind me what we are. I’m stained with shadows where you’re light And loud where you are soft. I’m rough, disheveled and clumsy My company’s high in cost. I twist and draw away from you I flee and weep and hide Everything that makes you up, Is who I am inside.
0
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 7:59 PM UTC
Inside
He is werewolf He's moody and easily provoked He's highly loyal and protective of those he love while he can be intense at times He is generally a laid back person but if a fight comes his way He will fight to the death, if necessary He seem normal to most people no one understand how different he can be. It's like a light switch flips for him sometimes and then he's a completely different creature
0
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 1:09 PM UTC
The Werewolf
They are silent and beautiful, gorgeous in in the white halo, cemented in a beautiful terrazzo, baring the names of fallen soldiers, the European soldiers that fell in Wars; second and first and the heinous silent wars, i hope this is why they have a proverb; white sepulchre, only baring the white dead, only chiefs but no dead Indian. Common wealth graveyards are all over in Africa, in India , panama , Latin America and europe, the active fronts in which the allies fought ****** they are beautifully placed in silently posh areas, in langata when in Nairobi, in Mbaraki when in Mombasa, in Matisi when in Kenya, In Namusungui when in Lodwar, They bear horizontal silence with white names engraved on their beautiful face shouting the glory of European empires, which provoked the evil sense in the heart of the king's horseman in Kenya, in the city of Nairobi, to steal the graveyard lands, he made them his urban home with an uppish courtyard, for him the dead white neighbours are better than in-corruption. I walk around the commonwealth graveyards, in the all quarters of erstwhile British empire, looking for the names of African soldiers , who died in thousands fighting for the queen the royal bloodied woman of England;Elizabeth, Looking for the sons of Ethiopia who stood with the second duce Benito son of Mussolini, fighting for Hitler,for Shintos in the European war, i have seen no name of any African, I have not seen Wandabwa wa masibo, who was conscripted into the first world war, Along with his father Biket wa Khayongo, Biket back after seven years in 1918, carrying Wandabwa's Belt, Wandabwa died in the field, Where was he buried, he is nowhere Not anywhere among the soldiers in cemeteries, I have not seen Nasong'o wa Khayongo, who was conscripted in 1940, to fight against ****** he was conscripted on his nuptial evening, even before he had had the first *** with his new wife, he went away crying, he never came back, his name is nowhere in the graves the commonwealth graves that bare names of the fallen, Fallen soldiers, but they all bare white names in the black world. you come to Africa, Kenya, Nigeria, Malagasy,Egypt, whatever the geographies of Africa, and you keep keen, you hear someone is called Mr. Keya, or Madam Keya, or you come to Bungoma county of Kenya, you meet a man that is of the circumcision age group, Known as Bakikwameti Keya, Bakinyikewi Musolini, Keya is subverted sound for Kings african rivals; KAR the African sound for KAR is Keya, in reference to mass conscription of Africans into the KAR, to fight ****** A child born during that time is Keya, A man circumcised during the time is in the age group of Keya, A simple lesson in regard to our people, taken away to fight the colonial power and left to died and rot away in the bush with a simple courtesy for ceremonial burial, that come along with the death of soldiers, who passed away in the battle field.
0
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 4:13 AM UTC
Commonwealth War Graveyards
They are silent and beautiful, gorgeous in in the white halo, cemented in a beautiful terrazzo, baring the names of fallen soldiers, the European soldiers that fell in Wars; second and first and the heinous silent wars, i hope this is why they have a proverb; white sepulchre, only baring the white dead, only chiefs but no dead Indian. Common wealth graveyards are all over in Africa, in India , panama , Latin America and europe, the active fronts in which the allies fought ****** they are beautifully placed in silently posh areas, in langata when in Nairobi, in Mbaraki when in Mombasa, in Matisi when in Kenya, In Namusungui when in Lodwar, They bear horizontal silence with white names engraved on their beautiful face shouting the glory of European empires, which provoked the evil sense in the heart of the king's horseman in Kenya, in the city of Nairobi, to steal the graveyard lands, he made them his urban home with an uppish courtyard, for him the dead white neighbours are better than in-corruption. I walk around the commonwealth graveyards, in the all quarters of erstwhile British empire, looking for the names of African soldiers , who died in thousands fighting for the queen the royal bloodied woman of England;Elizabeth, Looking for the sons of Ethiopia who stood with the second duce Benito son of Mussolini, fighting for Hitler,for Shintos in the European war, i have seen no name of any African, I have not seen Wandabwa wa masibo, who was conscripted into the first world war, Along with his father Biket wa Khayongo, Biket back after seven years in 1918, carrying Wandabwa's Belt, Wandabwa died in the field, Where was he buried, he is nowhere Not anywhere among the soldiers in cemeteries, I have not seen Nasong'o wa Khayongo, who was conscripted in 1940, to fight against ****** he was conscripted on his nuptial evening, even before he had had the first *** with his new wife, he went away crying, he never came back, his name is nowhere in the graves the commonwealth graves that bare names of the fallen, Fallen soldiers, but they all bare white names in the black world. you come to Africa, Kenya, Nigeria, Malagasy,Egypt, whatever the geographies of Africa, and you keep keen, you hear someone is called Mr. Keya, or Madam Keya, or you come to Bungoma county of Kenya, you meet a man that is of the circumcision age group, Known as Bakikwameti Keya, Bakinyikewi Musolini, Keya is subverted sound for Kings african rivals; KAR the African sound for KAR is Keya, in reference to mass conscription of Africans into the KAR, to fight ****** A child born during that time is Keya, A man circumcised during the time is in the age group of Keya, A simple lesson in regard to our people, taken away to fight the colonial power and left to died and rot away in the bush with a simple courtesy for ceremonial burial, that come along with the death of soldiers, who passed away in the battle field.
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65
*Through the incredulity burning in the grim reaper's eyes, He unwillingly received the souls of those who did not deserve to die ... The bright fluids of life lay bare and insignificant in the godforsaken lands He sighed the heaviest breath he could muster Death was his trade, but this affair had him loosening his grip on the scythe Mumbling the dead's prayer, The half-living defied fate's ruthless threads And squirmed for barren hope A child nearby cries for the light to save him As the shadows devoured their youngest feast, so far Now standing alone, the reaper cursed the gods Who may or may not be listening to him He was disgusted with the greed of these people And their bloodbaths Where those who avoid death and the ones who thrillingly seek it Summon each other with empty excuses Thinking these are enough to fling their guns at the righteous Drink the innocent blood like the finest wine from their vineyards! Stab the weak at their remaining spots Oh how foolish they are! How foolish indeed! He pities those who speak death as their honor When they have only lived like rats Scavengers of chances that purifies their filthy names He scorns those who do not even speak of death In their wild belief that some curse will hand them like a platter to their graves When death is the end that no one , not even him, can escape Those cowards! No one lives to cheat that dark fate! No one! The reaper was provoked by humans Them and their incessant wonder and fear of That that is unknown Them who have stopped looking at their small, definite lives To anticipate what they could not even begin to understand Feeding their illusions that a special place awaits their petty souls to rest on Ahhh!!!He was tired of them all Might as well finish his job...*
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May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 5:44 PM UTC
Stories x Poetry: The Grim Reaper
*Through the incredulity burning in the grim reaper's eyes, He unwillingly received the souls of those who did not deserve to die ... The bright fluids of life lay bare and insignificant in the godforsaken lands He sighed the heaviest breath he could muster Death was his trade, but this affair had him loosening his grip on the scythe Mumbling the dead's prayer, The half-living defied fate's ruthless threads And squirmed for barren hope A child nearby cries for the light to save him As the shadows devoured their youngest feast, so far Now standing alone, the reaper cursed the gods Who may or may not be listening to him He was disgusted with the greed of these people And their bloodbaths Where those who avoid death and the ones who thrillingly seek it Summon each other with empty excuses Thinking these are enough to fling their guns at the righteous Drink the innocent blood like the finest wine from their vineyards! Stab the weak at their remaining spots Oh how foolish they are! How foolish indeed! He pities those who speak death as their honor When they have only lived like rats Scavengers of chances that purifies their filthy names He scorns those who do not even speak of death In their wild belief that some curse will hand them like a platter to their graves When death is the end that no one , not even him, can escape Those cowards! No one lives to cheat that dark fate! No one! The reaper was provoked by humans Them and their incessant wonder and fear of That that is unknown Them who have stopped looking at their small, definite lives To anticipate what they could not even begin to understand Feeding their illusions that a special place awaits their petty souls to rest on Ahhh!!!He was tired of them all Might as well finish his job...*
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53
strike my eyes lovely for S. B. by way of introduction, when you have gone to confession, freely admitting you have nothing left for others to harvest, no seed to plant a new crop, and lies and laughter, interchangeable, there is no poetry left, not even raisin scone crumbs, one good friend informs that a forgotten five month old poem, a computer has selected & resurrected, for distinction so months later you snicker for you have been seriously self-kicked away from writing, all your vocabularies, trite and yellowed overused, and you read really good poetry and are slapped-seen-outed by the impoverishment of your own no-winsome word-smithy, no delusions, even this, but a-quick script, more a thank you note, and it’s the only lasting quality is the genuine nature of its intent but the poem itself falls bottom of the cliff, short on quality, a victim of your dissatisfaction let me explain better she messages you while the time difference works in her favor, she reads while you sleep the sleep of the soul-exhausted, she, scoffing at your claims of motivation deprivation, as she cherishes this forgotten one, with words that cannot be ignored the poem**                  strikes her eyes lovely daggered, this morning phrase cannot go unchallenged   for this a compliment that any poet would weep for, be inspired by, stung into action, provoked, ego flattered and challenged to-do more-better, what writer could want for anything more! who can own this ability   accept this ultimatum of success, a cross-word crucification to strike down lovely the readers eyes, almost all once, almost excuses me forever for trying and failing so many times you smile but not in the chest where lovely needs to strike you for if you cannot strike the readers eyes again and again, then... let the moment gleam, and then disappear, again and again, stored but not restorative 11/21/18 Miami
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Nov 22, 2018
Nov 22, 2018 at 7:49 AM UTC
strike my eyes lovely
strike my eyes lovely for S. B. by way of introduction, when you have gone to confession, freely admitting you have nothing left for others to harvest, no seed to plant a new crop, and lies and laughter, interchangeable, there is no poetry left, not even raisin scone crumbs, one good friend informs that a forgotten five month old poem, a computer has selected & resurrected, for distinction so months later you snicker for you have been seriously self-kicked away from writing, all your vocabularies, trite and yellowed overused, and you read really good poetry and are slapped-seen-outed by the impoverishment of your own no-winsome word-smithy, no delusions, even this, but a-quick script, more a thank you note, and it’s the only lasting quality is the genuine nature of its intent but the poem itself falls bottom of the cliff, short on quality, a victim of your dissatisfaction let me explain better she messages you while the time difference works in her favor, she reads while you sleep the sleep of the soul-exhausted, she, scoffing at your claims of motivation deprivation, as she cherishes this forgotten one, with words that cannot be ignored the poem**                  strikes her eyes lovely daggered, this morning phrase cannot go unchallenged   for this a compliment that any poet would weep for, be inspired by, stung into action, provoked, ego flattered and challenged to-do more-better, what writer could want for anything more! who can own this ability   accept this ultimatum of success, a cross-word crucification to strike down lovely the readers eyes, almost all once, almost excuses me forever for trying and failing so many times you smile but not in the chest where lovely needs to strike you for if you cannot strike the readers eyes again and again, then... let the moment gleam, and then disappear, again and again, stored but not restorative 11/21/18 Miami
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48
His words hypnotized me Unbelievably, unexpectedly.. always "I'm so sure about the powers of the Zodiac", he said, But two capricorns are too much alike Our horns entangle when we show our infamous pride, Yet we're much more than that, The passion, the lust, the everlasting craving! He is a stranger, a shadow, a fantasy, And he never misread my thoughts He found them lingering in the voice I never spoke He's the stranger I need How could such an insignificant creature rouse me this way His inspiration shifted my thoughts, my words, my beliefs! We mold so peacefully, full of hate, and lust Two strange capricorns afloat He talked to me in metaphors I needed to understand, Every syllable leaving me speechless yet provoked Moving my mind, he conquered my body, the way his instincts taught him to.
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Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 2:56 PM UTC
The Stranger
To you i would give the passion of the sun and the shine provoked from simmered grass and if the moonlight was not safe from your eye, it's buttermilk glow i would surely pluck down. To you i would give the midnight chimney smoke that sillouette on the sky putting cobbles underfoot. Take my taste of salt as sea white mer-men come a breeze in the laughter of workmen's homecoming. I give the feeling when swallowed by field flax pinpricks of cotton, i'd lay you down bare-skinned. You empty the film on my flesh camera, I keep the removal cuts.
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Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 7:08 PM UTC
Removal Cuts
To be imbued with the conviction that empathic listening is a panacea, by the surreptitious, murmurous harbinger and his mellifluous words, provoked brooding that my comprehension of his susurrous eloquence was a mondegreen, when this scintilla of sagacity left a fetching ingenue crestfallen. By the surreptitious, murmurous harbinger and his mellifluous words! I adopted a propinquity to this furtive, ephemeral epiphany, but when this scintilla of sagacity left a fetching ingenue crestfallen, I discerned this lagniappe beleaguered our dalliance. I adopted a propinquity to this furtive, ephemeral epiphany. When she became inured to petrichor I knew my method pyrrhic, and when I discerned that this lagniappe beleaguered our dalliance, I vowed to rectify the imbroglio for my quintessential cynosure. When she became inured to petrichor I knew my method pyrrhic, and I ruminated that her insouciance was only forbearance. I vowed to rectify my quintessential cynosure of the imbroglio, and fabricated a denouement to return her to halcyon incipient. I ruminated that her insouciance was only forbearance, until hearing her state our conflation made each a moiety of our own panoply. She fabricated a denouement to return us to the incipience of halcyon with ineffable felicity, and I remembered with ebullience my inamorata's words. Hearing her state our conflation made each a moiety of our own panoply provoked brooding that my comprehension of her susurrous eloquence was a mondegreen. With ineffable felicity I found ebullience in my inamorata's words and was imbued with the conviction that empathic listening is a panacea.
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Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 4:58 AM UTC
Our own language
To be imbued with the conviction that empathic listening is a panacea, by the surreptitious, murmurous harbinger and his mellifluous words, provoked brooding that my comprehension of his susurrous eloquence was a mondegreen, when this scintilla of sagacity left a fetching ingenue crestfallen. By the surreptitious, murmurous harbinger and his mellifluous words! I adopted a propinquity to this furtive, ephemeral epiphany, but when this scintilla of sagacity left a fetching ingenue crestfallen, I discerned this lagniappe beleaguered our dalliance. I adopted a propinquity to this furtive, ephemeral epiphany. When she became inured to petrichor I knew my method pyrrhic, and when I discerned that this lagniappe beleaguered our dalliance, I vowed to rectify the imbroglio for my quintessential cynosure. When she became inured to petrichor I knew my method pyrrhic, and I ruminated that her insouciance was only forbearance. I vowed to rectify my quintessential cynosure of the imbroglio, and fabricated a denouement to return her to halcyon incipient. I ruminated that her insouciance was only forbearance, until hearing her state our conflation made each a moiety of our own panoply. She fabricated a denouement to return us to the incipience of halcyon with ineffable felicity, and I remembered with ebullience my inamorata's words. Hearing her state our conflation made each a moiety of our own panoply provoked brooding that my comprehension of her susurrous eloquence was a mondegreen. With ineffable felicity I found ebullience in my inamorata's words and was imbued with the conviction that empathic listening is a panacea.
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24
Expectations swagger And clutter. Small talk Loiters dangerously near big talk As gazes dance between Lazy freckles. Questions are asked That require too complicated Of answers. Answers too uncertain And even once certain, Limbs putrify and freeze In the daunting path That has been figured, Fathomed, barely And never traveled. Habits, self inhibitions, Self-destructive agendas, Pull at the walker As his own mind swivels, Exhausted, Tipping into madness. He’s found the path But finds self-provoked Difficulty in walking it.
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Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 12:38 AM UTC
Path “Blockades”
adjacent at my right, your thoughts with you are, strewed in opposition, calling out my name, i am the child, you are the adult, why wont i understand, for i have no experience, no life lived, my intrigue provoked, ideal foresight, but that, all they are, questions to actions, tell me im wrong, just an ignorant soul, for i must see the world, the way that you do, and for the sake of the horse, hope the legs can support, the stead in which you ride, for it must be cold, one thousand jen high, should i bow at your feet? as my opinion indifferent, blasphemer, heathen, tell me to seal my mouth, say "I dont listen", over again, you never heard the words, "your hurting my chest", stepping on my lungs, hearing one phrase of words, "you dont listen", but i heard every word, whether i agree or not, is another lore, but ill admit im wrong, will you do the same?, now i'll hope you know, i judge you not, i love that you have opinion, for you are only human, even if the whip strikes my back, ill never stop, continue your attack, for these are my thoughts, you made me this way, you cant change my brain.
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May 21, 2010
May 21, 2010 at 6:32 PM UTC
stubborn
When Charlie was a young'un with a crayon and some paper He would scribble til the paper ripped and the crayon turned to vapour His mother would console him and she'd offer her advice But just to drive the message home, she'd loudly sing it twice Follow the lines, my boy, just follow the bleedin' lines Just pick a side and stay there, always follow the lines If you're not a fool then fake it If you show your spine they'll break it Follow the lines, follow the lines, follow the lines So when Charlie went to high school, how he tried to walk in stride But the boredom of geometry provoked his naughty side His professor would chastise him with a ruler and a cane And, as an aid to memory, he sang him twice again Follow the lines, young Charlie, you follow the blasted lines Give it a try, you'll soon see, never cross over the lines Don't be smart or play the joker Aim for mainly mediocre Follow the lines, follow the lines, follow the lines When assembling a wardrobe with his Allen key and spanner He threw himself into his task in an overzealous manner So when he called his father to report a broken bone His old man tutted ruefully and sang right down the phone Follow the lines now Charlie, just follow the ******* lines Don't improvise or gamble, why didn't you follow the lines Dodge unnecessary ructions And adhere to the instructions Follow the lines, follow the lines, follow the lines So in time, he raised a family, the lines etched in his head One day he heard a buzzing from his aging garden shed As he listened at the planking, how his face was drawn and long For between the buzz and rustle, squeaked a tiny little song Follow the lines, buzz-buzz, just follow the buzz-ing lines Follow the bee before you, just buzz and follow the lines Find the flowers when it's sunny Fetch the nectar, make the honey Follow the lines, follow the lines, follow the lines Buzz buzz **
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Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 10:09 AM UTC
Follow the Lines
When Charlie was a young'un with a crayon and some paper He would scribble til the paper ripped and the crayon turned to vapour His mother would console him and she'd offer her advice But just to drive the message home, she'd loudly sing it twice Follow the lines, my boy, just follow the bleedin' lines Just pick a side and stay there, always follow the lines If you're not a fool then fake it If you show your spine they'll break it Follow the lines, follow the lines, follow the lines So when Charlie went to high school, how he tried to walk in stride But the boredom of geometry provoked his naughty side His professor would chastise him with a ruler and a cane And, as an aid to memory, he sang him twice again Follow the lines, young Charlie, you follow the blasted lines Give it a try, you'll soon see, never cross over the lines Don't be smart or play the joker Aim for mainly mediocre Follow the lines, follow the lines, follow the lines When assembling a wardrobe with his Allen key and spanner He threw himself into his task in an overzealous manner So when he called his father to report a broken bone His old man tutted ruefully and sang right down the phone Follow the lines now Charlie, just follow the ******* lines Don't improvise or gamble, why didn't you follow the lines Dodge unnecessary ructions And adhere to the instructions Follow the lines, follow the lines, follow the lines So in time, he raised a family, the lines etched in his head One day he heard a buzzing from his aging garden shed As he listened at the planking, how his face was drawn and long For between the buzz and rustle, squeaked a tiny little song Follow the lines, buzz-buzz, just follow the buzz-ing lines Follow the bee before you, just buzz and follow the lines Find the flowers when it's sunny Fetch the nectar, make the honey Follow the lines, follow the lines, follow the lines Buzz buzz **
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38
Behind tinted windows we all have battles that rage Its only what's on the surface we can see There's the girl you called a **** for being pregnant There's the boy you made fun of for crying There's the girl you shoved in the halls The boy you called lame The boy you beat up for kissing another boy Behind tinted windows we all have battle that rage Its only what's on the surface we can see She was ***** His mother is dying She's already being abused at home He has to work nights to support his family That's his only reason to live Behind tinted windows we all have battles that rage Its only what's on the surface we can see Her sweatpants and hoody provoked him Cancer is a ***** Her father is a drunk His father is in a wheelchair and can't work His family told him they'd rather him dead than gay Behind tinted windows we all have battles that rage It's only what's deep inside we can't see
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Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 7:36 PM UTC
Behind Tinted Windows