"region" poems
It was golden and splendid,
That City of light;
A vision suspended
In deeps of the night;
A region of wonder and glory, whose temples were marble and white.
I remember the season
It dawn'd on my gaze;
The mad time of unreason,
The brain-numbing days
When Winter, white-sheeted and ghastly, stalks onward to torture and craze.
More lovely than Zion
It shone in the sky
When the beams of Orion
Beclouded my eye,
Bringing sleep that was filled with dim mem'ries of moments obscure and gone by.
Its mansions were stately,
With carvings made fair,
Each rising sedately
On terraces rare,
And the gardens were fragrant and bright with strange miracles blossoming there.
The avenues lur'd me
With vistas sublime;
Tall arches assur'd me
That once on a time
I had wander'd in rapture beneath them, and bask'd in the Halcyon clime.
On the plazas were standing
A sculptur'd array;
Long bearded, commanding,
rave men in their day—
But one stood dismantled and broken, its bearded face battered away.
In that city effulgent
No mortal I saw,
But my fancy, indulgent
To memory's law,
Linger'd long on the forms in the plazas, and eyed their stone features with
awe.
I fann'd the faint ember
That glow'd in my mind,
And strove to remember
The aeons behind; &
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Capricorns, Capricorns are ruled and schooled by the planet Saturn, Saturn, Saturn. A bandit with a similar pattern, pattern, pattern. Capricorns, Capricorns are brethren from a legion; a legion of an atmosphere of the southern-hemisphere; in the equatorial region. At an
angle, angle, angle; Capricorns, Capricorns are angels of Aquarius and
Sagittarius. They’re boisterous, courageous, contagious, glamorous,
prestigious, rebellious, various and victorious-goats, goats, goats!
Capricorns, Capricorns cope, devote, note and quote, quote, quote.
They’re ambitions with superstitions and various missions, missions, missions! They’re novelties and poverties, revelations and
revolutionaries, revolutionaries, revolutionaries. Capricorns, Capricorns are theories and visionaries, visionaries, visionaries.
They’re objects, projects and rejects. They’re leaders and readers that are poetically, negatively or positively dictatorial and doctorial! Some are historical, optical, political and radical; authentic, eccentric,
neurotic, poetic, theoretic, theoretic, theoretic. Unicorns, Unicorns are biblical and mythical, mythical, mythical; they’re ****** exotic, iconic, ironic, magic, nostalgic creatures, creatures, creatures. Their features
resembling a horse of course, of course. Furthermore, they’re fierce and a force. They’re a breed and creed of desire, fire and perspire, perspire,
perspire, perspire! They’re viral, viral, viral! This partial, sworn steed;
born awesome, awesome, awesome and too blossom, blossom, blossom. Unicorn’s spiral, crescent horn usually projecting and protruding from their foreheads. Rough and tough enough too pierce,
pierce, pierce! Unicorns, Unicorns are defendants, independents and
pendants. Hark! Hark! Hark! They’re brilliant and resilient sparks, sparks, sparks! They’re told as bold, old art, from the heart, from the start. Unicorns, Unicorns are fillers and pillars of guide, pride and
stride, stride, stride. They’re along for the long, long, long ride...
Unicorns, Unicorns are strong, strong, strong! Some as a song, song,
song, some throng, throng, throng, some wrong, wrong, wrong. As a
child, child, child; wild, wild, wild! Unicorns, Unicorns overwhelm, overwhelm, overwhelm. Their domicile realm, apparently, inherently and originally belonging from India; alleluia, alleluia for India, India,
India! Capricorns and Unicorns; two different creations. Capricorns
and Unicorns; two different relations. Capricorns and Unicorns; two
different situations and superstitions. They’re rainbows that glow, know and show. They’re of borrow, of sorrow and of our tomorrow.
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 9:12 PM UTC
You were a different version of the religion,
you were a ****** of the region when we met.
I had the brownest eyes. You had the greenest eyes.
chin sits perfectly in shoulder,
hand fits in hand, molded.
I had hair like a little girl's. You had hair like a little boy's.
Both half ****** my arms were as thin as yours, and toned.
You didn't own a single curve, just edges and bone.
Only your lips were soft. Only my lips were soft.
The fading light bounced off the angles of my abdomen and visible ribcage,
made your mouth water. With a shy,
curling finger,
you called me over to you.
It drove me wilder.
We undressed each other under the covers.
You giggled and I crumbled when you saw
I needed help with the clasp of your bra.
I chuckled, returned the favor when you gave up on my belt buckle.
I had the body of a little girl. You had the body of a little boy.
The sheets wound around and pressed us together,
You had the hardest hips. I had the hardest hips.
You compromised what was inside your mind;
I felt those first few moans rattle your
visible ribcage and escape through lips pursed
like a porcelain doll.
Took it all in, held on to your fragile frame
and from the moment we were free,
two children in the wilderness.
Dec 27, 2010
Dec 27, 2010 at 8:00 AM UTC
When you touch me, I do not stand near the faint window, but I open all the bright doors, the doors of a very strong and very shapeless breeze. O Ramadan; the rain of touches that reach every story in my weak body and every region in my soul. Your touch is a soft candle, yes your touch is a new white flower. When you smile at me, I do not wait behind the absent window, but I see the true doors, the doors of endless time and unlimited place. Oh Ramadan, you can imagine my very intense and very shapeless happiness. When your soft whispers flow deep in me, I will never be near the salty window, but I will be immersed in warm doors , the doors of swimming in a stunning river, disappearing in a very strong and very shapeless sea. O Ramadan, let your lantern to touch my cheeks and draw a beautiful spring on my eyes. Let fasting immortalizes my body out of the water that will gone, and the food that will perish. Let my body know its true existence, and let me see my real body without food or drink. O Ramadan, allow your lantern to shine in my depth and to color my soul with unforgettable chants.
Jul 17, 2019
Jul 17, 2019 at 2:48 AM UTC
German is a harsh language
An opinion that prevails
A strong rolled “R”
Noises, making you think
Something is stuck down your throat
Talking, in everlasting anger
Let me tell you something
Let me introduce you
To the beauty of the German language
To the words of “Wanderlust”, “Weltschmerz” or “Geborgenheit”
Many words so unique
Their meaning poetic
Using them yet so difficult
Listen to us closely and you will find out
German is not German
It comes in many forms
It varies by the region, state, country
Every form has its own character
Every accent has its own thrill
Determinable in the way it’s spoken
And sometimes hard to understand
Differences so great,
Yet compromised in a single tongue
Reconsider,
German is not as harsh as you think
No anger lies in our tone
Nothing is stuck down our throat
And spoken by the right person
It can be quite melodic
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 2:35 PM UTC
i.
Beset next to me
Coadjuvant to mine need's;
I couldst not asketh for more
Mine Reyna's all do I believeth.
ii.
She compasses me in Dwarf Daylilies
Her suntanned dermis is momentous;
Wallowed in her oversea's memories
A throne surpassing, Hari and Reyna scented.
iii.
In Luzon, the older part of the firma
Betwixt the Cordillera Region, see through pneuma's;
Hand-poke tool's, for me and mine dynasty amour'
To get tattoos, of her ancestry upon her own shore's.
iv.
Covered head to toe
By these inked protection's;
Spelling out the word's
Brandon and Jane's resurrection.
©Brandon nagley
©Earl Jane dedication/Reyna of mine soul
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 1:28 PM UTC
Mirror
by Kajal Ahmad, a Kurdish poet
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My era’s obscuring mirror
shattered
because it magnified the small
and made the great seem insignificant.
Dictators and monsters filled its contours.
Now when I breathe
its jagged shards pierce my heart
and instead of sweat
I exude glass.
Keywords/Tags: Kajal Ahmad, Kurd, Kurdish, translation, mirror, shattered, magnified, dictators, monsters, jagged, shards, sweat, perspire, leak, bleed, extrude, protrude, glass
The Lonely Earth
by Kajal Ahmad
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
The pale celestial bodies
never bid her "Good morning! "
nor do the creative stars
kiss her.
Earth, where so many tender persuasions and roses lie interred,
might expire for the lack of a glance, or an odor.
She's a lonely dusty orb,
so very lonely! , as she observes the moon's patchwork attire
knowing the sun's an imposter
who sears with rays he has stolen for himself
and who looks down on the moon and earth like lodgers.
Kurds are Birds
by Kajal Ahmad
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Per the latest scientific classification, Kurds
now belong to a species of bird!
This is why,
traveling across the torn, fraying pages of history,
they are nomads recognized by their caravans.
Yes, Kurds are birds! And,
even worse, when
there's nowhere left to nest, no refuge from their pain,
they turn to the illusion of traveling again
between the warm and arctic sectors of their homeland.
So I don't think it strange Kurds can fly but not land.
They wander from region to region
never realizing their dreams
of settling,
of forming a colony, of nesting.
No, they never settle down long enough
to visit Rumi and inquire about his health,
or to bow down deeply in the gust-
stirred dust,
like Nali.
Bi Havre (“Together”)
possibly the oldest Kurdish poem
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I want us to be together:
we would eat together,
climb the mountain together,
sing songs together, songs of love,
songs from the heart, sung from above.
I want us to have one heart, together.
Many words in this ancient poem are in doubt, so I have excerpted what I grok to be the central meaning.
And because Kajal mentioned Rumi, here are my translations of Rumi:
Raise your words, not their volume.
Rain grows flowers, not thunder.
—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Birdsong
by Rumi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Birdsong relieves
my deepest griefs:
now I'm just as ecstatic as they,
but with nothing to say!
Please universe,
rehearse
your poetry
through me!
Apr 1, 2020
Apr 1, 2020 at 3:00 AM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
It is the 30th day of the months in Kenya
State and corporate capitalist have now paid their workers
Wages or salaries or stipends or emoluments all being remunerations
While the rural bourgeoisie and urban bourgeoisie have also paid ex-gratia
To relatives come over-aged workers who have declined retiring
For the fear of looming starvation if at all they go home, where they were born,
Nonetheless; proceed they receive will do nothing whatsoever
As it will be stifled by the monster of desperate consumerism;
So fat and gullible in this tiger of land in the region called Kenya;
The terror peddling rent, courtesy of ruthlessness of the landlord
Bills of electric power in their full monopolistic gear
Bills of water devoid of quality, indifferent dysentery monger
Wages for maid who keep on usurping the food of my child; milk
Bills for gas, all of it redolent of comprador bourgeoisie in fashion,
Hotel and bar bill - a surreptious one, as the bar girl only knows
Airtime and renewal, TV channels and other screen capitalistic ploys
Family trip to local resort in a feat of foolish consumerist venture,
Money to the old mother at home and, sometimes depraved but patient father
ARV’s money to my *** aids stricken sister at the village, my aunt also
Tuition fees for my son at the kindergarten, who goes to schools but learns nothing
fees balance which my wife has to pay at the tailor to ransom out her dress,
M-Pesa and M-Swari loan repayment, this only for Kenyan 30th dayers
They know the agony of dealing with Kenyan mega-capitalist safaricom ltd.
This consumerism and **** consumerism,
It is the menacing bane of the Kenyan poor
It is the avaricious tube which siphons back
The hard earned money from pockets of the poor
Back to despotic account of the pitiless world pigshotry.
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 9:35 AM UTC
I am a Province, a State, a Municipality, and a Region.
I am a Soldier, a Pilot, a Minister, and a Legion;
I am a black man, a white man, a brown man, a woman,
A French man, American, Canadian, and Roman.
I am a rap artist, a singer, a slam poet and guitarist;
I dabble in the dark arts accompanied by a Marxist.
I'm a barista, a gas man, a secretary, and Tsarina,
A King and a Queen and a janitorial cleaner.
I am a "lover," a "hater," a "here now" and "there later,"
I am Luke Skywalker, yet at the same time, Lord Vader.
I am a driver, a walker, a rider, a stalker,
A conservative liberal and a well-learned straight-talker.
I am a salesman and clerk,
A criminal and a serf,
The proud owner of a weapon that, while it kills, saves the Earth.
I am a drinker and smoker,
A consumer and broker,
A bomb-maker, con-artist, Priest, and interloper.
I am a Citizen.
Religious and secular,
Macrocosmic, molecular,
Suit wearing, uncaring, emphatic, irregular,
A "packie," a **** a Scrabble fan playing Yahtzee;
A Jihadist, sadistic, addicted to Herodotus,
History is repeated by the philosopher that thought of us.
The eroticist literature towards which we've all lusted;
It looks like the bullets machine-gun is busted.
Indifferent, ecstatic, illicett, erratic,
An infant, a senior, a young man with bad-lip,
A black man, a white man, a brown man, a woman,
A Jew and a Christian, a Muslim musician,
A monarch, elitist, pro-abortion defeatist,
An anarchist, Black Panther, and a rich plutocratic;
I am a citizen,
And as one,
I'm elastic.
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 1:35 PM UTC
First, let me start by Greeting you in Twi, "memawo akye" in Kumasi
And back to my home land, I say to you, "Yene"! in Ebira
"Habri za asubuhi"! from Swahill
Ina kwana in Hausa
Emesiere! in Ibibibo
ụtụtụ ọma! in Igbo
Africa, the home of one third of the world's languages
Here I am telling you Djam walli! in Fulfulde
Nigeria is a power house of over 500 languages
I say Kube lazhin! Nupe
U nder vee! in Tiv
Manao ahoana! in Malagasy language
Ojobe in Boki
Africa! My home continent, where some languages are foreign to most.
West Africa, my land region the Zone of the Giant of Africa.
Nigeria, my Father land! I say to you Good morning in different dialect.
May 26, 2023
May 26, 2023 at 11:43 AM UTC
I.
While raging tempests shake the shore,
While Ælus’ thunders round us roar,
And sweep impetuous o’er the plain
Be still, O tyrant of the main;
Nor let thy brow contracted frowns betray,
While my Susanna skims the wat’ry way.
II.
The Pow’r propitious hears the lay,
The blue-ey’d daughters of the sea
With sweeter cadence glide along,
And Thames responsive joins the song.
Pleas’d with their notes Sol sheds benign his ray,
And double radiance decks the face of day.
III.
To court thee to Britannia’s arms
Serene the climes and mild the sky,
Her region boasts unnumber’d charms,
Thy welcome smiles in ev’ry eye.
Thy promise, Neptune keep, record my pray’r,
Not give my wishes to the empty air.
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Isn’t it
Wonderful,
The suffocating love of a hundred people
They want you, what’s best for you
What’s best for you, what is best for you?
Rejecting them means rejecting love,
but you are in short supply of you
As demand increases, so does price
the price of you
the price is you.
Sanity sets in, escape’s let out
every night let it out,
beats staying in
Some are in short supply of love
********
Not you
The suffocating love of a hundred people let you know
Across the room, across the country
a hundred people can’t help
shedding ‘bout one sixty does
only, you have to shed it
anchors only work when attached
love
it pulls your judgment, mind from its foundation
wants to make your choices
wants to make your coffee
you start to save you,
in a container with a seal
the shiny latch makes a pop noise
You can see through the otherside
No one can get in,
Not with the pop noise
Its where you keep you
in the house, Close the door
pressure mounts
let it out in
drops,
thoughts and blood
watch it heal, know you’re better
lets you know,
you are better, you are better
You are Better,
better isn’t with help, it doesn’t come with age
it’s a choice you make
the suffocating love of a hundred people
they pile on blankets, keeps you warm
but at a hundred blankets deep you aren’t moving
move.
Don’t think about me, don’t think about him
Just move and keep moving,
roots and anchors
Learn which is which
Remember which is which
Act on which is which
you grow roots, anchors are placed upon you
usually around the neck region.
Box up all the memories, store them if you like
But don’t stay attached, burn if necessary
Anchors only work if they’re attached
You can’t ‘be ready’ for something that’s already happened
It’s the past in those boxes,
the fond death of past nothings,
Life only exists in the future,
Not to be too dramatic but we’re dying, right now
in the present
we breath out life out as we speak
Only the future has life, stored as potential
just take the steps
cut out the cancer
if you want to be ready for something, be ready for what’s next
May 16, 2010
May 16, 2010 at 9:46 AM UTC
"Too many things are occurring for even a big heart to hold." - From an essay by W. B. Yeats
Big heart,
wide as a watermelon,
but wise as birth,
there is so much abundance
in the people I have:
Max, Lois, Joe, Louise,
Joan, Marie, Dawn,
Arlene, Father Dunne,
and all in their short lives
give to me repeatedly,
in the way the sea
places its many fingers on the shore,
again and again
and they know me,
they help me unravel,
they listen with ears made of conch shells,
they speak back with the wine of the best region.
They are my staff.
They comfort me.
They hear how
the artery of my soul has been severed
and soul is spurting out upon them,
bleeding on them,
messing up their clothes,
dirtying their shoes.
And God is filling me,
though there are times of doubt
as hollow as the Grand Canyon,
still God is filling me.
He is giving me the thoughts of dogs,
the spider in its intricate web,
the sun
in all its amazement,
and a slain ram
that is the glory,
the mystery of great cost,
and my heart,
which is very big,
I promise it is very large,
a monster of sorts,
takes it all in--
all in comes the fury of love.
5.6k
Away with your fictions of flimsy romance,
Those tissues of falsehood which Folly has wove;
Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance,
Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love.
Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with fantasy glow,
Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove;
From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow,
Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love.
If Apollo should e’er his assistance refuse,
Or the Nine be dispos’d from your service to rove,
Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the Muse,
And try the effect, of the first kiss of love.
I hate you, ye cold compositions of art,
Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots reprove;
I court the effusions that spring from the heart,
Which throbs, with delight, to the first kiss of love.
Your shepherds, your flocks, those fantastical themes,
Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move:
Arcadia displays but a region of dreams;
What are visions like these, to the first kiss of love?
Oh! cease to affirm that man, since his birth,
From Adam, till now, has with wretchedness strove;
Some portion of Paradise still is on earth,
And Eden revives, in the first kiss of love.
When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past—
For years fleet away with the wings of the dove—
The dearest remembrance will still be the last,
Our sweetest memorial, the first kiss of love.
5.3k
.*England... no wolves... oh well... the next best "spirit animal"..? Bacardi! no wait... Whyte & Mackawy?! no... **** what could it be... and believe me, Maine **** cats share a disposition of curiosity with this feral creature... this Robin Hood... what animal is it? hmm...*
it was supposed to your generic,
bog-standard Saturday afternoon,
i was given the pleasure of
cooking dinner...
Xacuti chicken curry with
star anise & nutmeg
from the Goa region
of India and
a curry from Sri Lanka...
absolutely beauties...
evidently...
all that heating of the spices
on a pan and then blending
them in a coffee mill...
seriously spread like a forest fire...
not too long... well,
by the time i finished
all the prep for the second curry,
and was already letting it
simmer...
to my honest disbelief...
and this was mid afternoon,
about half six -
bright as ******* daylight...
who's this?
hello?
you like the smell i see?
god...
what a pristine healthy example
of the feral -
and the most beautiful eyes...
had to take a picture...
so i asked again?
does it really smell that good that
it has given you the kind
of cheek and audacity to risk
climbing out from your
safety prior to nightfall?
**** i heard before that
i am a good cook...
but you, dear fox -
have paid the biggest compliment,
ever.
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 6:01 PM UTC
By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have reached these lands but newly
From an ultimate dim Thule—
From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,
Out of SPACE—out of TIME.
Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,
With forms that no man can discover
For the dews that drip all over;
Mountains toppling evermore
Into seas without a shore;
Seas that restlessly aspire,
Surging, unto skies of fire;
Lakes that endlessly outspread
Their lone waters—lone and dead,
Their still waters—still and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily.
By the lakes that thus outspread
Their lone waters, lone and dead,—
Their sad waters, sad and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily,—
By the mountains—near the river
Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,—
By the gray woods,—by the swamp
Where the toad and the newt encamp,—
By the dismal tarns and pools
Where dwell the Ghouls,—
By each spot the most unholy—
In each nook most melancholy,—
There the traveller meets aghast
Sheeted Memories of the past—
Shrouded forms that start and sigh
As they pass the wanderer by—
White-robed forms of friends long given,
In agony, to the Earth—and Heaven.
For the heart whose woes are legion
’Tis a peaceful, soothing region—
For the spirit that walks in shadow
’Tis—oh, ’tis an Eldorado!
But the traveller, travelling through it,
May not—dare not openly view it;
Never its mysteries are exposed
To the weak human eye unclosed;
So wills its King, who hath forbid
The uplifting of the fringed lid;
And thus the sad Soul that here passes
Beholds it but through darkened glasses.
By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only.
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have wandered home but newly
From this ultimate dim Thule.
4.9k
*Love is universal
Irrespective of
Language
Region
Religion
Race
Boundaries
Culture
Creed
Love’s language
Needs no words
It’s the actions
The generosity
And feelings
From the
Most sacred
Soul
Makes Love
Universal
And
Eternal*
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 12:40 AM UTC
Gunboats ahoy there’s pirates about
Speeding from Somali’s shore,
A fast flimsy boat and some black skinny men
With grenade launchers, cannon and more.
They’re coming to capture the tankers
They’re coming to capture the crew
They’re coming to take you hostage
Because fat cats will pay cash for you.
It’s happening more every day now
Ships are held to ransom for gold,
This contagion is out of hand now
The Somalian pirates are becoming so bold.
Hard men in the west prepare crackdowns
Gunboats sail for the Gulf as we speak,
With instructions to shoot to **** now
And make eradication of pirates complete!
But you ask, why is this happening?
Why does a man, a pirate become?
What instigates this crazy morphosis
From fisherman to pirate with gun?
Somalia has no Government to speak of,
It collapsed and went long ago.
No law or army in place here,
Life is dangerous, chaotic and low.
Some fat cats made use of the vacuum
They ditched toxic waste in the sea
They irradiated the coastline region
Making this a poisoned place to be.
The coast folk were dying in thousands
Sick mothers lost babies and kids
Black illness spread madly in villages
Then blind panic and pain hit the skids.
Some fat cats made use of the vacuum
They trawled the coastline clean
Somalia’s fishermen were destitute
The catch went from vast to lean.
The villagers were starving and hopeless
And what was pain became death.
The leaders appealed for salvation
But those with the means, had turned deaf.
Who would take this problem on now?
Who would make these ******** pay?
Most turned around and shunned them,
The world had turned and looked away.
So hit transgressors where they’re vulnerable.
Strike in sea lanes where it’s free.
Hit them near the Horn of Africa.
Attack with blades of piracy.
Hooray for the small man’s justice.
Hooray for his skinny, black shanks,
Please God help their quest for deliverance
For the West has arrived with their tanks.
Now I ask you, in all fairness
To stand back and view the scene,
Where the richest and most powerful
are doing something that's obscene
For not only are they poisoning
The most vulnerable race on earth
But compounding it with genocide,
And I add, for what it's worth,
The West, in righteous arrogance,
are crushing poorest fellow man
In his struggle for survival
Against their mammoth, global hand.
Marshalg
@theGate
Mangere Bridge
25 April 2009
Jan 19, 2010
Jan 19, 2010 at 7:33 PM UTC
bespeckled, blotched & blokey
feminine in aspects
only little ****** hair patches
two chins,
or rather a sloped one
the front evenly declining to the middle of the throat
a gradual slope from the tip, for juices to run if his manner and situation allowed him to be as casual and sloppy as his laziness chose,
torso without form, so there was no curvature on the buttocks or the fly region.
a mass
a blob of bulges on spindly legs
he leans on the wall
stubby in hand he balks
(he means jovial but unintentionally he vocalises mockery)
at the suggestion that the Pies will do better
& that Eddie is a clever man due for thanks, who has done his club well (apparently a straight Aussie arrow tried and true!)
the man ***** his head back & cackles
(the trebly popping bubbles of a gala crackle outwards as the man cackles)
& decides his arms need a rest,
(a long day of up and down they have had indeed, they deserve respect, or rest (or a benching))
so he places his beer down
on a sloped surface,
& therefore it slips down….
he sees it plummeting, he stretches toward it's tragic trajectory,
…..but he is too slow
it smashes
on his foot (the shards) the beer bottle it transfigures,
and the shards they impart their misery on his toes.
The shards they intrude on his relaxed state of wellbeing, they intrude on the security sanctioned within the casual footwear of a man at a barbecue; taking it easy.
he swears and hops, reaching in indignation for his bleeding toes
he holds the wound cursing; resisting the impulse to begin convulsive throws
(an oscar worthy performance from a usually suburbaly urbane individual)
the moisture feels degrading
(as it would within a man's pants)
the pain from the cuts it is worsened
by the smirking gazes of others about
he hobbles, disregarding his thong in the wreckage of the scene
off to retrieve a band aid
to mend his ego
and his foot
simultaneously
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 10:18 AM UTC
My eyes a pure olive-green color
Aren't reflecting love or pleasure
Between this black pupil and iris
World of strength and mysteries
And you'll see that my eyes won't blink
From your camera flash and the sound of click
Because my strong features reflect my firmness
And the pain of the camps and its soreness
But deeply you can see a shocked young girl
Who ran away from a fierce war to another terrible region
So do not ask , show me your smile
My silent lips reflect the world silence
My eyes fascinate you? , yeah I know
Everyone bewitched, but no one ask how do you do?
However, the force which glitter in my eyes
You will not see it anywhere else
I do not know if my picture would be deployed
Or you would keep it after this year
All I know is the point of my life has changed
since 1984
Toka Kentar © all rights received
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 11:49 AM UTC
Delorean
I would want to travel with you
In a region of the universe
Where you and I
get lost in spacetime
than to arrive at a certain place
of infinite madness and beauty.
I'd like to imagine that stars flicker as we go by
creating paths
creating constellations
as stellar as we feel
Drift lightyears away towards the cosmos
to create an infinite you and I
We were the past.
We are the present.
We will be the future.
We are what we are as we make of ourselves.
I will travel the infinite worlds with you.
I will travel time just to be with you
To make a stretch into infinity
It's October 21st 2015
It is in the NOW
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 12:51 PM UTC
I dreamed that dead, and meditating,
I lay upon a grave, or bed,
(at least, some cold and close-built bower).
In the cold heart, its final thought
stood frozen, drawn immense and clear,
stiff and idle as I was there;
and we remained unchanged together
for a year, a minute, an hour.
Suddenly there was a motion,
as startling, there, to every sense
as an explosion. Then it dropped
to insistent, cautious creeping
in the region of the heart,
prodding me from desperate sleep.
I raised my head. A slight young ****
had pushed up through the heart and its
green head was nodding on the breast.
(All this was in the dark.)
It grew an inch like a blade of grass;
next, one leaf shot out of its side
a twisting, waving flag, and then
two leaves moved like a semaphore.
The stem grew thick. The nervous roots
reached to each side; the graceful head
changed its position mysteriously,
since there was neither sun nor moon
to catch its young attention.
The rooted heart began to change
(not beat) and then it split apart
and from it broke a flood of water.
Two rivers glanced off from the sides,
one to the right, one to the left,
two rushing, half-clear streams,
(the ribs made of them two cascades)
which assuredly, smooth as glass,
went off through the fine black grains of earth.
The **** was almost swept away;
it struggled with its leaves,
lifting them fringed with heavy drops.
A few drops fell upon my face
and in my eyes, so I could see
(or, in that black place, thought I saw)
that each drop contained a light,
a small, illuminated scene;
the weed-deflected stream was made
itself of racing images.
(As if a river should carry all
the scenes that it had once reflected
shut in its waters, and not floating
on momentary surfaces.)
The **** stood in the severed heart.
"What are you doing there?" I asked.
It lifted its head all dripping wet
(with my own thoughts?)
and answered then: "I grow," it said,
"but to divide your heart again."
3.8k
POLIO ERADICATION
The polio virus doesn't see any region
It doesn't know any religion
The virus attacks that innocent
Whose parents have just been ignorant
And missed those two drops of life
Do boond zindagi ki
No religion wants any child to be deprived of childhood joys
Who wants his child to have CRUTCHES
Yes crutches for toys?
Like ·
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 12:10 PM UTC
Oh cute little thing
I like your contour
you look pretty funny when you're cold
you get these lovely wrinkles
especially in the middle region
nearly dendritic
more like the cracks in the earth
and your satchel breathes on its own
like a brain if it had lungs for itself
but more like an amoebic celestial body squirming around in some primordial goop
I think that's pretty cool
you're a pink and brown mushroom emerging from a forest of black wiry moss
concentrated around you and
all growing in your direction
almost lifting you up and out
and then further away fading
the way the water gets clearer
above a sand bar
and then a great convergence
a crashing of two great waves
against each other
forming a wall of spindly tendrils
before the whirlpool
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 8:39 PM UTC