"redzone" poems
While Waiting For The Train #4
Sitting here, thinking about work
and the inherent contradictions
of housekeeping.
Or, should I say:
Sanitary Engineer,
Building Maintenance.
In reality, all it is
is an old fashioned janitor.
Or, as some of my friends say:
“Old **** janitor!”
Affectionately,
but also with an edge.
oo0oo
But this isn’t what I am thinking about.
No, it’s more the routine
and its mindless activity.
As we often say:
“It’s the same old, same old”;
or, “SSDD”;
same **** different day.”
Today for example,
it was a Thursday Monday.
It’s always a Monday of some kind.
And Monday kind of describes the job too.
oo0oo
This too, is not what I am thinking.
It’s more the executive decisions
a janitor must make.
Decisions that determine
the ‘smooth’ functioning of a factory,
office, or where ever.
You laugh!
But really, it’s true.
Ever go to the bathroom
and there is no toilet paper?
See, I exaggerate not.
Or what if there were no
forks, knives, or spoons
in the lunch room.
Then what?
Are you really going to eat that
crispy green salad
with mushrooms and feta cheese,
smothered in ranch
with your fingers? Please!
oo0oo
But, even these earth shaking decisions
are not what I am thinking.
It’s those ever present,
critical questions:
sweep, mop, then pull trash?
Or should I pull trash, sweep
and then mop?
This monotonous rotation
determines the rotation
of the earth around the sun;
the phases of the moon
and when will I clean the bathrooms,
causing the most inconvenience
to everyone.
This by the way, is most satisfying
and one of the few perks of the job.
Sweep,
mop,
pull trash;
sweep, mop, pull trash.
Or, pull trash,
sweep,
mop!
It can give you grey hairs,
all this responsibility
and decision making.
oo0oo
Sitting here, now on the train home,
a brilliant,
not to mention uplifting,
idea rampages through my tired mind.
Tomorrow
I am going to be rebellious-
an open radical!
A free thinker!
Tomorrow, I have decided
will be “Liberation Day”.
“Janitors of the world unite!”
Tomorrow there will be a revolution,
as I,
the **** Old Janitor will:
mop,
pull trash,
then sweep!!!
(written as~~redzone 5.14.09 - Aztec Warrior)
© 2014 redzone
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 11:10 AM UTC
*DECEMBER DREAMS
December dreams spiral
thru the whiffs of smoke,
emanating from forest hidden Cherokee homes.
They pirouette the way notes
imagine Lester Young’s
tenor music to be;
the way Blue Jays flap
while protecting their territory.
~~~
The Eastern mountains,
snow covered and brown,
rise gently as I walk
yet provide glimmers of ancient valleys
carved out by receding ice.
There is the feel of human destiny
washing me as a breeze
sings thru wild peach trees;
And a breeze lifting sharp talon hawks
with its hunting melodies
carrying the owl's secrets
thru even more exotic landscapes.
~~~
Over looking the Talamaque River,
I rest on the brown
frozen earth becoming
lost in ancestor dreams.
I can see the blood flowing west.
I feel the tears soaking the ground
where Dogwood now grows.
And Grandfather speaks to me
with a warm sun in the ‘long ago tongue’:
“Redzone, it is good to
have these memories.
To remember the trees
the bear and the chic-a-dee.
One day, May will arrive with the morning crows
and Turtle will once again discuss
constellations with the Moon.
Our people, will no longer be forgetful
of who we are and how far we have to go."
~~~
December dreams spiral
thru whiffs of smoke
and Lester Young plays
with the flapping Blue Jays.
~~Aztec Warrior/redzone 12.15.01~~
(written after finishing a collection of poems
by Ron Welburn called “Coming Through Smoke
and the Dreaming”)*
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 12:34 AM UTC
The Notebook
A small leaf fell from the notebook. It was Autumn colored transparency, gentle to the touch, not dried and brittle, but still seemed alive with vibrancy. Its shape was unusual to me and I discovered the tree it came from died out thousands of years ago.
The notebook, old leather bound, seemed just as old. A bit larger than my hand, you could feel wear of millennia in the symbols etched and raised on the back and spine. On the cover, a leafless, ancient and gnarly tree. It’s trunk at least 10 men, arms stretched around, with fat, ugly limbs touching the sky. It felt alive, breathing as my fingers brushed across the tree and symbols below it. An exciting warmth flowed in my mind and without really thinking, I picked up my pen and wrote my name atop the first page.
It made me smile, cause as I wrote “REDZONE”, the letters turned into ancient, ornate symbols and the space around me shifted, almost a dimensional phase in astral synchronicity but a dream walk reality. The paper, handmade papayra, drank in the ink coloring it with the passion of Time, licorice and figments of imagination.
Under my name, more symbols appeared smelling of musk, jasmine and blue nile; the words: “POET, WRITER, SINGER OF IMAGES AND PAINTER OF WORDS.” In smaller word symbols: “Keeper of our Stories and Origins”.
As I began to understand the notebook’s meaning, a single leaf materialized on the ancient tree. And a second small leaf of Autumn’s design formed as I wrote:
Small leaves unfolding
In Autumn’s hue, written in
Sun rise morning dew.
^^^
Leaves painted by words
Will cover this ancient tree
With life origins.
Aztec Warrior/redzone 9.26.16
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 9:15 AM UTC
*LAUNDROMAT SONGS
"How long shall they **** our prophets as we stand aside and look?”
‑‑ Bob Marley
Saturday morning,
the scene's the same
round and round
suds and foam,
round and round
energetic flashes of life
play, giggle and roam.
"Can I have a quarter
to play video games?
Hey mom, can I get a
soda and some chips?"
~~~~~
It's always bedlam,
even at 3 am,
always the same
neighborhood faces
some smiling, others
wrinkled like
clothes with a stain problem.
Clothes and lives
sharing destinies.
***** clothes, old and worn,
***** hard driven lives.
Both, beat and torn,
both trying to get clean
fresh from this
bone weariness
reflected like patched knees,
lost buttons,
mismatched sox
or those brown streaked undies,
reflecting our brown stained lives.
~~~~~
Round and round go the clothes.
Round and round so goes our lives
that no matter what we do
seems always in need of mending.
Round and round
women, kids
and clothes in tow.
Men, if there,
in the background,
begrudgingly,
but always fighting for control.
~~~~~
Sometimes though the juke wails
joyful music prevails
causing feet to tap
and lips to smile.
Maybe some Miles
or hip hop Coup
announce a new rinse cycle.
Some young'un dropped the coin
but you can see
all are keeping time
with these way out songs.
Finally, eyes reveal hidden,
no more suppressed,
revelry,
clothes are folded musically.
The kid knows his tunes,
out jumps a "classic";
"Redemption Songs".
Marley at his best
conscious style, a request.
"Won't you help me sing
these songs of freedom.
Redemption songs.
They're all I ever had
redemption songs."
~~~~~
You can see it in
lint filled air swirling,
eyes gleaming,
kids screaming;
you can taste the hope
and dreams.
A joyous hunger
of patched jeans,
men and women sway
in unison. For 3 minutes, 25 seconds,
on this very early morn,
the possibilities of relations
rinsed clean
of men and women
folding clothes
smelling fresh,
wishing for a better way.
~~~~~
It is only a glimpse
this Saturday morning.
A round and round
scene
that holds promise
as old, worn clothes
wash,
spin,
dry
and leave refreshed,
clean.
On this morn
a few eyes, alert
wishful,
leave singing;
"Redemption songs,
they're all I ever had,
these songs of freedom."
~~redzone 5.22.99~~
(posted by Aztec Warrior writing as redzone)*
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 12:11 PM UTC
*On this Friday night a poem to share with all who wish someone would write them a love poem. Or in some other show of affection give them love and kindness.
Bright Star
by John Keats
Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art —
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like Nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priest like task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors —
No — yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft swell and fall,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever — or else swoon to death.
I think if I would write a poem of love for the one I love,
It would be to simply voice softly in her ear, this poem written
by John Keats and given to his love, Fanny Brawne…. redzone to_____,
a softly voiced enchantment in the night’s sky.*
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 7:52 AM UTC
*DUCT TAPE
"Abdullah Thani Faris al Andzi lost both his legs in a U.S. bombing campaign in Afghanistan while he was employed as a humanitarian aide worker. After his first leg was amputated, he was arrested by bounty hunters and turned over to U.S. forces. While in custody, his second leg was amputated. He has been held at Guantanamo since 2002, where he has received inadequate medical treatment and often been forced to walk using prosthetic limbs held together only with duct tape."
- from "poems from Guantanamo: the Detainees Speak"
~~~~~
As the bombs rain,
they tell us they are for peace.
So I ask them:
Do flowers bloom
or grass grow
held in such chains;
or seeing humans
suffer such pains?
~~~~~
Mountains weep,
and I speak in tear filled oceans,
whose ebb and flow
erode my beach of hope;
all I have left are curses
told in Arabic qasid verses.
~~~~~
As the bombs rain,
ripping apart innocent people's limbs,
they say they are for peace.
And I ask:
will birds fly
and sing their songs,
or will they,
like so many of us,
have only plastic legs
held together with duct tape?
~~redzone (Aztec Warrior) 9.23.10
(Another earlier poem I wrote using a different pen name)*
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 6:07 PM UTC
*BECOMING CONSCIOUS AFTER EATING A YELLOW MOON
yesterday I ate a yellow moon
as it rode low, and slowly
encountered a twilight sky.
it tasted like vanilla crunch.
but you know, eating the moon
gives you a headache,
like the kind you get if your face
was slammed against the wall,
then kicked in the gut
when you were down.
the kind of headache
I’ve had since I was three;
at least that is what I was told.
I can’t remember much
about those early days.
besides the headaches,
I have been deaf since ten
and I carry a limp as well
as a glass eye
from having philosophical
discussions with each cellar step
as I bounced down.
I now find it hard to open the cellar door
cause I swear I hear crying
coming from down there.
I know it must be me
sprawled on the blood soaked floor
and I think I might go crazy
if I saw myself.
~~~
you know what’s really crazy though?
for the longest time
I loved him; would follow him
do everything I could to please him.
bring him his pipe
or the newspaper
get him coffee.
except on those days
where his eyes were red
and he stank of **** thenI would plead:
“oh daddy. don’t be mad at me.
please don’t hit me. no,
no, not mr. johnson, that
hurts so much.
I’ll be good. I promise.”
~~~
even now, I think I love him.
I never meant to push him back,
to knock him down the stairs
I guess if I had called
the ambulance right away
everything would have been okay.
but the judge said that it was wrong
to stab him so many times;
to cut off his johnson
and stick it in his mouth.
somehow though,
I never understood why.
it’s not like he begged
for mercy
and he never once cried!
~~~
I am home now,
back from another conversation
with electricity,
sitting in my room
at St. Mary’s starring blankly
at this huge, yellow moon.
as I savor its vanilla crunch,
I am trying to understand why
I feel like I am to blame?
trying to remember if I ever smile;
work up the courage to hate him.
(Written under this pen name)
~~redzone 10/29/02
Posted as Aztec Warrior 10.31.15*
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 11:39 PM UTC
*ANCESTOR SPIRITS CALLING
The other day u gave me your heart,
it was bleeding in a poem,
beating on drums and
calling to kindred spirits in the night;
describing the pieces torn
ripping u apart.
What’s that u say,
I am who I am,
but who is that?
U say I am who I am
yet this was stolen from me
beaten, ripped
torn away in eyes that
do not see the spirits of the Earth
or the dreary, continuous pain
carried on ripples of time
never fading,
still flowing
after all these years
of shattered life.
And yet u say I am
who I am,
but why?
Why am I only
who I am to you?
Seen only within your eyes
and point of view?
Seen, stolen, defined
by your Eastern skies?
~~~
Don’t I also walk a
path with streaks of red,
drifting, flying on blue sky clouds
carrying me to gentle streams
and sun set dreams?
Why can’t I also follow a path
that sings to me
from forest shadows
beneath a moon of my hue
and left scented
by my ancestor’s sorrows.
A path where the Turtle
speaks of the Earth’s motion
as it surfs a solar wave;
the Eagle drops it feathers
for me to find
so I might write
the Wolf’s howling story;
the Bear rears her cubs
to sing love songs to
the white tailed deer
and Blue Jays guard the moons night time tale
of how humans gave birth
to a world of pain.
~~~
The other day u gave me your heart
it was bleeding in a poem
dripping a life denied
seeking still a gentle setting sun
and gentle waters
not found under Eastern skies.
A heart listening to different
beats all at once
trying to decide who I am
as you say,
but I wonder,
am I?
Isn’t this something
I alone decide?
The drum still beats
the dream of no tears
of ancestor songs
pointing to the path
of I am who I am
knowingly,
willingly!!
~~Aztec Warrior/redzone 3.31.02~~
(written using pen name 'redzone')*
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 6:49 PM UTC
*“Black Velvet”
There use to be snow up there,
lots of it to be sure.
Then the sun came out somewhere
and now all is melted and demure
in nature and touch,
as everything is covered in bleak colors,
rainy feel and such
displaying too many grays and shadows.
I use to spend hours
watching the witchy Borealis
shifting and shimmering
on black velvet nights.
It was enough to set your heart a fire
running playfully
in those Canadian lights.
Now, some may look for
that “slow Southern style”
and a come on sway, oh my.
But I look northward
to the songs in the sky
with legs that make a skirt wild.
Give me
Borealis on painted
black velvet skies,
“if you please”.
Aztec Warrior / redzone 7.3.16
(Note: quote from the song “Black Velvet”
by Alannah Myles)*
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 2:39 PM UTC
*Steel
In the morning,
even before the sun got up,
you could smell it.
Thick fog
covered everything with dust.
The dust from
tall chimneys
spewing out
the mornings breakfast of ****
It was like this
every minute,
every day,
every year
since the foundry was born.
It was fog-stench;
you breathed it,
you ate it,
you drank it;
it defined you
then spit you out
as lung cancer,
breast cancer,
the Big "C".
And then you were no more.
~~~
I lasted 10 years
til they kicked me out.
10 years,
and then they modernized
until the foundry disappeared
one day in its fog.
Today it covers another city,
in another country
carrying its dusty fog
to identify another people
with its cancer.
Another people who once
had beauty and lives.
~~~
10 years
carrying hand held red lava,
pushing it into molds
fast - sparks flying -
burning skin;
and above this din, words -
"hurry boy,
don't let it freeze."
~~~
There are many of us now,
roaming dust covered streets,
spewed out
like last nights trash,
wondering who we are.
( written under this pen name ~~redzone 2/12/14)
Aztec Warrior
Note: I worked in a steel foundry
for 10 years carrying 100 pound ladles
of molten steel; pouring into sand molds.
It was heavy, hot ad ***** work.
I have many leg burn scars to prove it.
© 2014 redzone*
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 11:24 AM UTC
*“Beds Are Burning”
“how can we dance
when our Earth is turning,
how do we sleep
while our beds are burning..”
~~ Midnight Oil, 1987
~~~
no matter where you look,
no matter where you go;
spin the globe
and point anywhere,
our Earth is burning,
humanity is hurting...
Sleeping beds burn
in human atrocities’ dancing
on the misery and bones,
the living poverty,
all the while,
******* on illusions and allusions
of “freedom;
while thinking everyone,
everywhere
must live as we,
in blue pill ignorance
and selective amnesia
arrogance.
Let’s get real-
we live in the
“Land of the Thief,
Home of the Slave!”
When will we put all this
in long ago past museum history?
Or do we really think
it is fun to dance
while our beds are burning
and humanities hurting!?
Aztec Warrior / redzone 7.5.16*
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 2:30 PM UTC
*UDO
(means 'peace' in Nigeria)
What is in a name?
Sometimes it is a story.
Sometimes it is just a dream.
~~~~~
Your story began,
as many stories do these days,
"The men came and they...
burned my village-
***** my girls-
killed my husband-
cut off my *******
I ran away-
through the bush-
found a ship-
crossed the sea-
and then they put me in here..."
~~~~~
I read your story,
then had to put the book down-
especially when I could see
the woman with no name,
a woman who had no papers
to prove she was real,
dangling from the rafters,
chain gripping her neck
in a breathless embrace;
her feet swaying
showing her nakedness,
her paperless demise.
You told how she peed herself at the end.
Her once life a liquid puddle on the floor.
And I couldn't read anymore,
her image burned too brightly.
Even tears could not ease the realization
the cold-chained grip
was more loving
than living her life,
than being forced to return home,
facing the way every story began-
"the men came and they..."
~~~~~
Your story didn't stop there,
it refused to be quiet
and held me close,
as page after page
revealed more of your life;
made me question my humanity.
~~~~~
You gave me your secret,
whispered it in my ear
and asked,
"would you cut off your finger
for the likes of me"?
"Would you dowse the flames of oppression
with the redness of your blood?"
"Would you fall on the enemies sword,
let it rip out your beating heart"?
"Would you give your all to change the world"?
"Would you, would you?"
~~~~~
You gave me your secret,
whispered it in my ear...
You gave me your name.
You gave me your story
and more, you gave me
a dream, a reason to live.
~~redzone (Aztec Warrior)1.18.2011
(as you can see, wrote this poem a few years ago
using a different pen name)*
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 5:49 PM UTC
*Basho On The Night Stand
I.
I found Basho sitting on my night stand;
he was measuring the distance
plum blossoms flew
when blown by Autumn wind.
It was an exercise
a mental confrontation
of spirit and nature
that is oft mystified
into confusion.
II.
Why is it
that the resonance
from the meeting of frog and pond,
leads most to a mythical,
non-existent god
or karma
or zen?
When it is pleasing enough
and real, to listen
and appreciate
the dynamics of tingling synapses
and neurons leaping
in a conscious mind.
To be in awe of the beauty of the leap.
To sing the notes that ripple
out in waves.
III.
Found Basho’s ancient pond
saw his huge frog leaping with
resonance and splash.
And I was awed by the Ker-plunk!
redzone /Aztec Warrior 8.17.12*
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 10:25 AM UTC
Into You
oh, you can go
or you can stay
and I’ll walk with you
until you fade
into that strange place you go
where oblivion eats you so
you are known only to shadow
and a crying
midnight blue;
where I long to follow
and fade along with you.
“fade into you.”
Aztec Warrior / redzone 7.16.16
Note: quoted words at the end is
the Title of the song embedded below*
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 10:51 PM UTC
*Coffee??
it was EMINENT to me
the RAIN made her look SCRAWNY
in that NONCHALANT colored sweater.
though a left over PINCH of her PERFUME
made for a TASTY, if RECKLESS,
desire to stare at her endlessly.
and while only a MINOR affection,
I was still puzzled
when she stopped, turned and
asked, “care to join me for coffee”?
redzone 5.20.16
For a 10 word challenge, words: eminent, rain,
scrawny, nonchalant, pinch, reckless, tasty, minor,
puzzled, perfume.*
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 7:16 PM UTC
*BLEEDING LIGHT
(I wrote this poem some years ago while
looking at an oil painting done by Dale Hilard)
a rainbow floats within the blue
hope rides inspite the pain
a world hovers to capture our dreams
as we sit and ponder life from the fartherest shores
only a brush stroked with heart’s heat
can make these shades of blues and greys
desirable
can make the light bleeding between the hues
irresistable.
~~(Aztec Warrior) redzone 7.23.04~~*
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 4:04 PM UTC
*HUMAN NATURE
Many come from lands
that seem light years away.
Speaking tongues that tickles,
as neurons flow in an open mind.
Strange, yet like the sounds of Jade,
makes you giggle as you realize
all that is being said is,
“Hey Red, how are you doing man?”
~~~
Many come looking for HOPE;
work, a way to feed their young ones.
Many come simply to survive
the destruction
that once was home.
They come to escape being disappeared;
come because of disappeared loved ones;
sons, husbands, daughters
found some day, maybe, in mass graves.
Disappeared by:
Ton Ton Macoutes,
Death Squads, Dincote,
Special forces conquistadors,
or any number of SOA trained
armies/soldiers stamped with:
“Made In The U.S.A.”
~~~
They come to ‘live free’ or
find ‘democracy’, ironically
to the very place
that is responsible for this disgrace-
fullness committed against humanity.
~~~
They come to live
and yet, their dreams are of
HOME!
Home where there is peace.
Home, where jobs are meaningful,
not enslaving.
Home, where the land is yours
and crops plentiful,
allowing you to live as human beings.
~~~
These are proud,
brave and daring men
with names like:
Thanh, Aftab, Simon, Mukesh
and Donovan.
These are determined, dignified women
with heads held high
and names that seek the skies:
Ekta, Mai, Kenya, Nazma
and Sing.
~~~
Looking out at their varied shades of skin,
wistful eyes, reflecting like
fall leaves in a vast rain forest,
it is easy to get lost
in these cold waters of diversity.
Looking
Lost
Wishing
Dreaming of a dripping wet world
as seen from outer space;
AS ONE.
No borders,
No boundaries,
flying thru a blue, cloudless sky.
Breaking ALL traditions chains.
(written using the pen name)
~~redzone 4.2.01~~
Posted 10.31.15 Aztec Warrior*
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 11:13 PM UTC
*SEDUCTION
(for a friend who asked if I were "Caucasian". My answer: no one determines the nationality of their skin when born. But all of us can determine who we are and who we stand with and what our lives mean. I chose long ago to stand against oppression and to stand along side those fighting their oppression. Not as a white man, but as a human being)
You beat your ‘tana’ drum
with ancient, calloused hands
making it speak relentlessly,
as if you were rain soaked wind
announcing moonless death.
As it echoes down brown, barren rivers,
its crescendo can be heard
crashing through tangled undergrowth
until it reaches the
timeless and continuous sea.
~~~
The ocean has swallowed
millennia of hardships,
where, on this very spot,
blood flowed freely, soaking
these sands with slavery’s misery.
It was here
the Great Rock at Toubab Dialaw
was born.
Born and grew.
Grew from endless
emptiness, borne as the
beating of human flesh.
It was hacked, torn from limb
and shackled, then
dispersed to distant shores.
Blood, red with resistance,
soaked the sands,
colored the tides,
and choked the air with its
beat, beat, beat,
beatings and death.
Blood ran thick with sated flies
and when you looked into their eyes,
all you saw was bottomless ocean.
Empty
Yet pulling,
like seduction.
~~~
You beat your ‘tana’ drum
with hardened, calloused hands,
and your rage.
You make it speak seduction,
enticing us to dance on
Toubab Dialaw’s ****** shores,
staring into the bottomless eyes of death.
It is pulling
pulling,
pulling us
into its seduction.
Filling us with your anger,
with your rage;
filling us with your drumming tongue
and the unquenchable thirst for revolution;
for all these wrongs to be undone.
written as redzone 3.21.07
posted by Aztec Warrior*
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 8:33 PM UTC
*Odyssey
There’s a message riding on the sky
I heard it playing on the radio
and just wanted you to know
it’s a wild song with ebbs and flows
like rock and roll
with lots of boogie and soul.
The message said, come read me slow,
my heart is beating and I want to show
you how to see me in this light,
come and sparkle with me this very night.
Let us walk in a jivvy fantasy,
a hazy cosmic odyssey
where we become, then fade
on time’s wave.
Two children, laughing as we go.
Aztec Warrior / redzone 6.10.16*
Jul 24, 2016
Jul 24, 2016 at 4:06 PM UTC