"reportage" poems
The beloved country Africana can boast of is Ghana. The manana of Africana black star is Ghana A nation rich in culture and natural pasture.
Its nature reflects the creatures’ caricature
We are black reflecting our true beauty.
And we are packed with captivating ability. The typicality of our nationality brings unity. Who knows whether our safety lies in our variety?
This unity amidst our diversity is our reportage. About twenty-four million are surviving in our age. Over sixty ethnic groups and fifty-two major languages. There are hundreds of dialects which are to our advantages.
In W/A, Ghana records the highest percentage of Christianity… Yet the modernity of our sanity portrays minds of malignity. But the fraternity of our humanity builds our community. The variety of our morality and privity builds our society
Who said Ghana cannot be capaciously superfluous? We have the very illustrious and exuberant resources. The elites and the voracity are harnessing the recourses. The destitute remains poor and the gentry linger the forces
Our democratic government is an African paradigm. Our peaceful political regime is of no pantomime. Who of course would help us measure corruption? The whole nation would have tensed up to eruption.
If not the gargantuan wayomelogy of the wayometer. Who knows whether the next tool would be attameter? Who wouldn’t love to be a proud Ghanaian to enjoy our hilarious fila and jargons tongue can employ
Mar 22, 2012
Mar 22, 2012 at 7:52 PM UTC
I cannot recall the precise moment of my arrival at Anhedonia
memories blindsided by a phantasmagoric comorbid collage of cant
precipitated by some newspaper reportage or holocaust story
some creepy instance that breached the precipice between simple sorrow and permanent melancholia
some fatal blow that cinched the deal
some horrid event that could not heal
some dejected disappointment that could not be resolved
some moment of unguarded clarity when integrity dissolved
nevertheless I have arrived at this mangled juncture
élan a mania not even Edison's medicine can extirpate
I was quite lighthearted before the inferno
before my brain broke
ennui now a turgid companion
feeding on gaiety, never sated, seeking famine
esurient unrelenting usurper of happiness
go away, leave me alone, relish some other soul's madness
gone is any exuberance, glee or mirth
miseries are mine, many the days since birth
better I was carried from the womb straight to the grave
a fatuous existence, clamoring and grasping in vain
it's as if I was born into a well
but these waters they burn
the bludgeoning alcohol a liquid hell
Oh florid loquacity, you are an impostor
your verse is an adversary
a foray of jagged rhythm justifying a storm
a sordid verbosity assuring no norm
a plaintive scratching guild of recriminative collaboration
some alliance of fulminating disquietude
the cost for the fare on the adventure to:
the stunning moment you too will visit Anhedonia
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 9:39 PM UTC
the world is adorned with a million windows
the bleakest night has a thousand eyes
daylight shines into the globes darkest corners
truth will ultimately expose all lies
NASA’s satellites circle
Tropic of Cancer latitudes
cameras pinpoint the disease
metastasizing in the body of Homs
from stratospheric limits
sensitive lenses read the names
magic markers have scrawled
onto white sheets covering the dead
YouTube gets Oscar consideration
for grisly cinematography
a real-time visceral docudrama
of panting fascists gleefully tramping
through the desecrated streets
coolly administering a coup de gras
to a city on its knees, pleading release
from an **** of incessant bloodletting
twitter records desperate tweets
the batting wings of endangered flocks
furiously thumbing into the blogosphere
calls for UN intervention that falls on blind eyes
BBC reportage,
the global gold standard
for journalistic excellence
scoops the stories
of London based FSA partisans
awaiting repatriation to scatter
Bashar’s Kodachrome killers
Has the All Seeing Eye
who has graced us with sight
laughingly curse us with vision?
Does the
One Caring Eye of the Universe
bless us with perception
to haunt us with images?
Has
The One Thats Sees Everything
blinked closed the eye of compassion?
Has the horror of Homs
become too much even for
The Universal Eye of Love?
the opened eyes
of a dead child
reflects our
cold winter
of indifference
demoralizing
dehumanizing
a watching world
Music Selection
Grateful Dead Eyes of the World
Oakland
3/2/12
jbm
Mar 2, 2012
Mar 2, 2012 at 12:04 PM UTC
Narrative Reportage for 8/2/2018
Home is the word we love to hear:
The dreams are never over,
They are always a break through: after the tears:
An x is lodge in our heads was it the,
rock, a tree, or the hidden board,
Time welt serve: time to cash in
Time uproot the rocks
that tree and those loose boards
would this be a happy ending?
You had choose the life of crime
The crime didn’t nail itself
Every day a black man
Under the age of twenty
Pulls the trigger, they turned off the light
He longs to return to his mother womb:
I see the love of their mothers
While she holds their hands at age three
at age twenty three I see the replacement :
the chrome bracelets: the resentment
Neflex the new society wants us to believe that orange is the new black:
**“Our ancestors have invented, we can at least innovate.”
― Amit Kalantri**
**“Oh Child
Look within
Find your ForeMothers
Find them
Find them”
― Malebo Sephodi**
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 10:33 AM UTC
Blessedly, funerals,
don't have to go to too many,
though went to one
just this day,
for our next door country neighbor,
the nicest dour-looking,
rascally dearest man
The Catholic church full,
the hymns lovely,
the priest spoke
simple and beautiful,
about the paschal lamb
and the
Judeo-Christian Heritage
and
Life Everlasting,
an interesting concept,
that I had long forgot about
Must have conjured up
three minimum ideas
for poems,
not even including
this reportage
maybe I will write some,
tho the normative jelly of
Manhattan bus shaking
mine own recipe for inspiration,
when combined with
my peanut buttered
sheltered island by the Great Peconic Bay,
both, will be my swirled
inspiration everlasting
Can't write about
moon and June,
alabaster is a fine word,
but white suits me fine,
don't know the diff
tween dragon flys and lullabies,
the way I write is
just the way I think
writ out loud
so to the essay at hand,
funeral of a man,
mine all planned,
the invites ready,
awaiting the correct postage stamp
of a future time and place
the date, more or less sketched,
the poems, selected, notated
for whoever shows,
pick a read,
win a free trip to the cemetery
and maybe one back to his "parlor"
where food, drink and bon mots are
vous parlez'd and his spirit,
now a parolee, will be watching
smiling, for funerals are camaraderie,
so longs and fare-thee-wells,
and the hands of friends embracing,
celebrations in their own way,
and a time to tell stories of what
treasures they have left you,
silver linings of a life well writ,
and tho someday,
they'll be time-tarnished,
even half forgot,
the stories and the love poems
are the seeds of life everlasting
Passover/Easter
March 2014
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 10:04 AM UTC
My narrative Reportage
They said that I made a better storywriter than a poet
However, poets get their ideas from stories,
But my creativity comes from a glass of Moet Chardon (:)
Yesterday, I saw a homeless man got on the train during rush hour
He passed right through the crowd and went on his way to the front car
and leaned against the moving door
His sudden outburst of laughter made the passengers looked around
He was a sight for sore eyes this character,
but instead he became my instant story to tell
Or behold a Poet laureate mastered piece
Dark soiled clothes he wore, his dingy T-shirt he use for a hanky:
With empty pocket hanging low, toothless he smile and kept on smiling
Slurred speech and some missing toes he became my focus point
What’s the use of having lot of money and not sharing?
Within those moments, I saw a decade of homelessness within his character
An ex-mariner, a husband, a degraded broken hearted soldier,
America a failing superpower country:
and most of all New York City a FAILING disaster
So I began my journey, either to compose a poetry piece or tell my eyewitness story into sections of poetry and fiction:
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 9:37 AM UTC
Changes
As people we are always asking for changes;
Spiritual, politically or just spontaneously
During the election a number of folks asked
and some even vote for changes
We hate, we love, and we deplore acts of violence
then and now: Now it haunts most people:
Some even would still consider shaking his hand:
Some got what their asked for, and some still undecided:
Let Us Not Become the Evil We Deplore.” By Amy Goodman
He never goes under the covers: he just love to be exposed
A ***** is a ***** in his eyes: He might asked to see the
Birth certificate, but not the death certificate:
but never the **** kit, the yearbook inputs or the
country clubs initial membership lists:
Birth for him meant still in control: death gone from one’s sight:
I was chatting to a friend one day, I said to him imagine
that everybody on this earth woke up one day
To find zillion of dollars in their procession:
What would that meant to others: the loss of the power:
Money is the leveler that runs the world
The bad things that we done in our youngers years
Will one day comes back to haunts us
The statutes of limitation is just the statue
Time will not be forgotten: Memories lingers
The pain, the shame of being in a humiliated situation
we are living in a divided country
Because, of so much greed and bigotry:
A change is coming: and it's coming soon
who run the worlds Girls!!!
Sep 29, 2018
Sep 29, 2018 at 9:52 AM UTC
When there's a crisis, we'd like to think
The president would certainly know
How to unify the country--
To take the high road and NOT the low.
But, alas, Trump just can't
Seem to manage to set aside
His grievances and obtusely delivers
A message filled with cyanide.
An act of domestic terrorism--
Pipe bombs being sent through the mail
To Obama, the Clintons, Holder, and others--
A heinous act that's not small scale--
Is an attack on democratic
Values--a dangerous threat to peace.
But when Trump blames the victims, such
Acts of violence will not cease.
Yes, he said the deed was despicable,
But then he blamed CNN
For negative news reportage and lies.
And so here we go again!
Even though his words ring hollow
When he tries to stay on script,
We can see his true feelings
Come out whenever his mouth is unzipped.
Accepting no responsibility
For negative things he says or does,
He stirs up his crowds against other people.
Such behavior gives him a buzz.
Regarding the telling of lies, we know
That no politician ever
Has lied to the people as often as he.
But will he admit that he does it? Never!
Both fans and critics know that for him
The strategy is always the same:
Berate your critics, denounce the truth,
Incite your fans, and pass the blame.
Hopefully, the future will bring
A president we can respect again--
An honest one with integrity.
We have to put up with this one till then.
-by Bob B (10-25-18)
Oct 25, 2018
Oct 25, 2018 at 11:03 AM UTC
my nose now runs seasonallyfrom sigh droplets
every new season celebrated by the constant continuation
of its running from, running to ?, or as I joke,
from September to September inclusive
but something new, my eyes now watery, a permanente daily irregularity, the imaginary laundry lady whines consistently, as she cannot always locate, prior to machine insertion, for all my secret hiding places of the always everywhere ***** tissues!
“too many pockets, too many tissues,” she underbreath mumbles,
but secretly I observe her similarly daubing~dabbing of the eyes,
in this time of constant sorrow, no one immunized, the sigh droplets
pass through any mask and gown, and then become full time residents
wry thinking, “let he or she who is without stone, cast the first tissue”
but we are all ****** all the time, heavy heaving, eyes tearing and
noses running
it don’t take much, the continuous reportage batters me and turning
away from my electronics impossible, they now hard wired inside the maniac-brainiac, wifi’d, from every side, even a actual glance outside at the desert of our dehumanized streetscapes always amazes
we no longer worry that every sniffle or tear
is a warning sign of a more serious ailment;
no, we understand too well this is a sad spirit inside,
it’s symptoms unleashed but un-lethal, the antibody
to a weariness that has no name, only tissues that
cannot cure nor disinfect
Apr 20, 2020
Apr 20, 2020 at 11:55 AM UTC
There once was a Prime Minister named Winston Churchill
Who during the war years suffered with the black dog ill
The British people knew not of the personal cross he did bear
No reportage of his bouts of depression ever went to air
Churchill's ill was never allowed to publicly spill
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 9:20 AM UTC
Master bedroom
It would have been nice
If it could live up to its name
Knowingly, the master couldn’t
Even handle his business in any room
Why called it the master bedroom,
The master haven't mastered any role in any room
until his compassionate flower, the ladywith a heart of an angel,
Made a deal for the people, , as history was told
Her love for the oppressed citizens of Coventry would never be forgotten:
A Yellow Lily not to be reckon with:
Lady Godiva the people's choice
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 7:16 PM UTC
Falling as recalcitrance of movement – seeks completion – yet the ground
ballasts.
There is no path that leads forward as I live backwards.
There is poetry in the way
a woman carrying a bilao moves away from the vicinity.
Sound departs.
I took a deep drag and fell into a thick web
of smoke, recoiled to fetal nature, into the womb of my unbecoming.
What seems to contain endlessness: dark.
What punctuates this claim: moonlight.
In a house that continuously aches,
I am grateful for windows.
Night-erased repeatedly, the dance of blades of grass.
There is more stasis when words flay
themselves to pass as something more resolute than there is
the kinesis of life’s steady abbreviations. We shorten like this,
when we curse the destinations upon movement’s mindless
approval.
We collect ongoing afternoons
and cohere to trees. Say falling like you mean it,
the way we commit to breaking though unwanted, feared.
Feel the hands accumulate warmth when propped
into the sun’s permanent daze – face becomes glare,
a day becomes a scar.
This is where I do not know what moves to become fully stationary.
Days crumble like this.
In a poem that is not a poem.
In a sound that is only sound and not music.
In a dance that is not life, but stillbirth.
In notes that are purely rambling, not reportage.
A voice that champions a fiasco.
This is where the throbbing afternoon becomes a part
of me that falls into a chasm of a fateful night,
lassitude of debris in tow,
starting measures everywhere we left and returned –
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 8:51 PM UTC
1
What do mornings regard but
the night refusing to budge?
The Sun a progeny
there must be room for days in
this revenge
2
I fold I
in this exquisite manner
I dream of my fortune
as rash before this I slid
underneath the cleft
like an epistle
unopened, stamped by the dearth
of another
secured in this absence
black like a cummerbund
3
The bed shook.
enough to toss me out of
but not inherit me into a dull succession.
our places nominal.
we have a sum if syndicate
but still impotent
they have made this a reportage
of a miracle read from a gauche script:
This is
the morning that
was becoming no
less than a champion
over you | vacate your body
while you are still able |
the body confesses
I am constantly awakened
by this futility.
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 8:35 AM UTC
*I will not follow in the paths of day anymore
back when our thoughts were not entirely intact,
we must not make the same mistake we made last year.
The hours were long, our wages were small
Somehow, we need and wants were getting greater
Like mines, I wanted more boxes of lobster tails from Maine
But instead I purchase bags of rotten potatoes from the local grocery stores
Did the customers get the most nutrition out of Idaho Potatoes?
Hell no!
I had to make the connection with the dots to connect to the future
It wasn’t an overlooked of the payroll mistakes
It was the greed of the political investors,
But those classes of people, unions, lawyers, and businessmen
Those ************* laboring class of upper people rob us.
Time has passed and hearts were broken
So many innocent lives were taken away from us.
Either by drowning in the rough sea or they got hit by the city buses
They tear us down on every side till we were numb
They uproot our hope like a tree
Some of us fought with our body to rise,
But encounters dark passages on the rough seas
We shall not follow on the path of the day anymore
A new year, a new beginning, a fresh wipe, a clean slate**
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 6:42 AM UTC
My Reportage for 10/8/2018
When I was a child, my mother and the neighbors
would sit on the front stoop and gossip
about current events: ones would pretend
to be reading her book, but ones ears were like
cable vision indoor satellite: broadcasting
Christine Blasey Ford and Judge Brett Kavanaugh
Stirs up a lot in me this past week
About my childhood memories,
I felt unnerves, about topics that old folks chat about back then:
I remember the villains, child *** predators and ****** fathers
the child's entrapment and powerlessness era in our small village
Where the old folks buried the secrets under the rugs
And prayer about it on Sunday morn
Flashing back to those stories,
too often is nerve wrecking
I called them the gossiping sundown moments:
Shilling was a clone of Brett Kavanaugh: he drank and he forgets:
**How happy is the blameless vestal's lot! /
The world forgetting, by the world forgot. /
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind! /
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd
'Eloisa to Abelard', Alexander Pope**
Those gossiping sundown moments,
Never dies when it enters the ears of a heedful child:
I was always one of those children,
Who was so careful about stranger’s looks?
the friendlier the neighbors sweet talk tones
I would take off with speed like the swarm drone
Odd! but that was all it took:
**All emotions, even those that are suppressed and unexpressed, have physical effects. Unexpressed emotions tend to stay in the body like small ticking time bombs—they are illnesses in incubation.”
― Marilyn Van M. Derbur,**
:
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 11:00 AM UTC
TIME IS ON FIRE
the girls scream…
…the world is on fire…tomorrow is burning…
the bombs scream….the living now the dead…
mere reportage…footage…pixels…talking heads talking…
time is on fire…the world twitters and facebooks…
…only water offers a chance to see…the shore approaches…
the new day dawns….
upon eyes that can no longer… see
the gulls scream
the gulls scream
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 4:58 AM UTC
while figuratively hunting
and pecking around me noggin
force hum theme to write about
lo and behold, the solution
stared me right in front
of my little **** nub nose with gentle clout
cuz, as an avid bookworm, the dictionary,
I enjoy expending hours
to drink up etymological history
relating to the origin and
historical development of words
and their meanings.
with no shadow of a doubt
and most times, this animatronic,
the technique of making and operating
lifelike robots, typically for use
in film or other entertainment
dogmatic, enigmatic fugee dooby
brother beastie boy
(actually a mwm) dislikes to flout
his abilities, hobbies, interests,
as aches hike kant imagine being treated for gout
a disease in which defective metabolism
of uric acid causes arthritis, especially
in smaller bones of the feet, deposition
of chalkstones, and episodes of acute pain.
Boot lemme return full circle
to thematic core curriculum aye started to aim
and express gratitude
to the ghost of Noah Webster,
who gets credit yet also blame
if some snide haughty guttersnipe,
some slovenly individual feels snubbed,
and hence, living personage, said descendent(s)
of oblivion, whatever unknown
man or woman to living persons
stake a valid claim
that his/her many generations removed
heir (Harris), and or heiress ancestor (proven
with tangible researched reportage,
then cited with countless
prestigious explorers of English language),
that a daunting scrivener perhaps
even a courtesan or rich dame
rightfully ought to receive the fame,
thus such living relative might
upend the huck cult personality be game
to dare challenge secure historical niche
ambitiously held by Mark Roget (1779–1869),
British physician, natural theologian
and lexicographer. It was released
to the public on 29 April 1852.
The original edition had 15,000 words,
and each new matured edition
of the Thesaurus grew larger.
Dec 7, 2017
Dec 7, 2017 at 12:55 AM UTC
Lifeblood of democracy hemorrhaging
ousting the "FAKE" president only recourse
to staunch impending grim demise,
since forefathers drafted
United States Constitution
ratified more'n two centuries ago
hoi polloi must take to the streets
denouncing severe curtailment
impinging sacred freedom of speech
linkedin with paramount bedrock provision
accessing unvarnished flint ****** "truth,"
nonetheless commander in chief
he quakingly, staunchly, vociferously...
excoriates, lacerates, repudiates...
one damning hermetically sealed,
iniquitous airtight, vacuum packed
flagrant misuse of power,
(not to mention nepotism)
invidious, insidious, injurious... infractions
incontestable, incontrovertible, contemptible...
significant melange in führer
re: hating deplorably
crooked basely barren
factual exposé after another,
deft correspondents all not quiet
along western front
(I heard Maria - mull remark)
bring "to light" execrable,
lamentable reprehensible...
gross transgressions
commander in chief
significantly overstepped
Pulitzer prize winning
prestigious storied publications
scathingly trounced, pillaried,
lambasted, insulted, denounced,
butchered, critiqued, demonized,
fricassed, gored, humiliated,...
pummeled, quartered, reviled
courageously expounding fiend
ensconced within his Taj Mahal
impregnable donjon, whereat he trumpets
laurels asper, nonpareil administration
laying groundless accusations
baring his white fangs,
twittering, naysaying, mocking.. supreme
renown gifted by "honest Abe"
recalcitrant commander in chief,
who refutes objectionable
dogged investigative journalism
every step of the way,
where dedicated news gatherers
risk life and limb
firing line reportage troopers
ferreting (foxlike) *****
doth gopher precious nuggets
uncover alarming undisputable details
impossible to refute raw bits
agent provocateur freely colluding
immediately hashtashed poppycock
smarmy, snooty, snappy
beastly capital one ogre
blatantly castigating diligent endeavors
oblivious pie in sky
delusional egotistic haughtiness
bobblehead vilified by silent majority.
Jun 3, 2019
Jun 3, 2019 at 9:29 PM UTC
should have gone deleted. you went and liked it, commented.
now is done, we are as exposed.
we are responding to the prompts.
reportage. write again, tomorrow.
we are witness.
nothing is as it seems. there are enough disturbances in the world,
without another. stay under glass.
though it is a secret, we have none
sbm.
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 2:17 AM UTC
I was watching a reportage about the strong possibility of a war between Iraq and Kurdistani Kirkuk. I don't consider myself a political person, neither politically aware nor politically active. But sometimes, I'm moved on a deep level at the futility of and process leading up to war. This is one of those moments. I went directly to the computer.
You Can’t Have A War
You can’t have a war
Unless you have weapons;
You can’t have those weapons
Unless you have industries;
Can’t have an industry earning no money -
And money means profit,
For who runs an industry
That doesn’t profit -
Profit the carrot.
Weapons-to-profit:
The distance is multi- or many small instances
Building the one upon other,
Easy to disregard,
Turn a blind eye to.
Oil or real estate,
Access to coast,
Minerals, labor:
Possession and use.
Passions’ abuse
And war is the certainty.
It’s terribly sad,
This fighting for terra;
A sickening error
Pretending it’s doctrine or canon or righteousness.
Overruled, conscience.
You can’t have a war,
Restrain it,
Unless there’s this chain of re-action,
Everyone playing his part.
It’s breaking my heart.
Ain’t it yours?
You Can’t Have A War 10.14.2017
War Book II; Our Times, Our Culture II;
Arlene Corwin
Oct 14, 2017
Oct 14, 2017 at 2:57 PM UTC