"revolutionaries" poems
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
Revolution: Part one.
The first French King sentenced to death,
Must have a new execution invented;
So that this day shall be forever remembered.
The execution of your King, this invention of evil;
This is how he will finally meet his end and go to the Devil.
The man behind the mask, the executioner;
Will lead us to change to a new world order.
A declaration of civil war, to stop the oppression,
Has lead France to say, we must fight to stop the aggression.
We must be revolting and begin the revolution;
To put an end to the executions.
The fall of the guillotine, for a life time spent,
Writing the encyclopedia, which lead to his death.
There is no place for God, in an encyclopedia of Man;
This writing is illegal, you are blasphemous! God ****
So the time has come, to take your last breath.
Remember when you see the guillotine... don't lose your head.
Until it's chopped off and ends up in the basket;
Another case of basket case madness.
No fiction necessary, for us to live here on Earth;
But this execution, you surely don't deserve.
So the poets leave France, before the revolution;
All of them heading, back to England.
These prison bars to entrap the young.
Taken prisoner for writing a book.
Follow their rules; free thinking is wrong.
The encyclopedia is evidence enough.
Man is born free and grows to imprison himself;
Then he must follow the orders, of somebody else.
Frances revolutionaries, said let it be, let it be;
But the nation is ruled, by the monarchy.
Imprisoned for what they think, the poets and the artists;
But there are no walls, in the prison inside their heads.
Begin the revolution and make us all classless,
Because they’re chained by society,
For the thoughts that they think.
A fight for equality, a modern day philosophy.
Man is born to think for himself; a revolution is on the way.
Liberty! Liberation for one free state;
A jaded nation must make a change.
Revolution began, after the fall of the blade;
Now the guillotine of power will stop us being slaves.
Preaching revolution, we must free ourselves of these manacles.
Preaching liberation for the masses
And freedom for the individual.
This new guillotine, the machine of death,
Makes the severed head fall into the basket,
As they take your last breath;
But they can't take your words, from the books you have written.
So fight the power!
Revolution! Revolution!
We must have a revolution, that is televised.
Che Guevara, Malcolm X, me, myself and I.
All of us willing to join the fight;
All of knowing our view is right.
(C)2013 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 7:20 AM UTC
Silly, silly, silly me.
To think I'm free, and that I'll be somebody?
Silly, silly, silly me.
You can't be free, and that's just it,
All you are is 'somebody.'
Some-body.
"Some body."
But that's not true!
Look at Trostky and Lenin,
Michael Myers and Lennon,
The other Lennon.
It's hard to differentiate in name and legacy,
Because both Lennon's were revolutionaries,
Marching around like the freshman from heaven.
But neither believed they were the result of divine intervention in the affairs of man,
Because this convention would threaten their worldview and beckon away their sanity...
In the same way that the Pope or ****** let their divine vanity commit greater blasphemy and bring them future agony.
Now neither Lennon nor Lenin came anywhere close to being men from Galilee,
In fact they were more the men of the galaxy,
Or at least, John was, with his peach fuzz beard and his belief that love is greater than fear.
The other Lenin implemented the New Economic Policy, to starve the proletariat and start his revolution on an already hypocritical trend that would continue quite the same until the very end.
And it proves something, does it not?
Violence sends a message to no one but the instigator,
Changing them to justify, and claim is wasn't misbehavior;
But that's a lie, no idea of mine is worth the death of a human mind,
And to pretend otherwise makes one delude themselves that they aren't an instigator, but an illustrator,
Painting in the blood as if ****** makes an innovator.
And for ****** there is no vindicator,
Violence is an image breaker,
Indulged in by poor imitators who think they're right, and the world is wrong.
Unaware this makes them weak, not strong.
Now John Lennon was the true revolutionary;
Although he succumbed to violence, he veered away from it, even when it was necessary.
He fought the war, and yes, the war did win,
But at least he didn't cover his scars with artificial skin,
Or deny his implicit wrongs as a result of all original sin.
John Lennon used the word 'nigger' to the opposite effect.
He used the word to trigger something bigger and correct,
The wrong that seemed so propagated by the last colonial tide,
Of which the other Lenin defected and took colonialism's side.
John Lennon was Utopian and told us of a better world;
He interjected definition, and caused old thoughts to curl away in fright,
And bite the dust despite their might and past dominion of industrialism,
It was a schism, and it still plagues us to this day.
John Lennon understood we over-complicate way
To
Often.
Silly, silly, silly me.
To think I'm free, and that I'll be somebody?
Silly, silly, silly me.
You can't be free, and that's just it,
All you are is 'somebody.'
Some-body.
"Some body."
"Some body" is something,
And some body can change the world.
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 1:34 PM UTC
Made, Made, Made,
We are made into what we are.
We are made
Into monsters,
Into dreamers;
Believers.
We make ourselves;
Make each other.
We make our kingdoms
and our own personal Hells.
We are the queens of our realms
And the kings and princes
We are the villains
The rabble-rousers
The Revolutionaries.
We are the killers
Of our enemies
Of our own
Of the land.
We are made into what we are
And oftentimes,
It is not our fault.
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 1:17 PM UTC
Hypocracy Mandatory.
Gullibility Mandatory.
Insensitivity Mandatory.
Obesity Mandatory.
Immaturity Mandatory.
Childishness Mandatory.
Monarchy Mandatory.
Capitalism Mandatory.
Conservatism Mandatory.
Terrorism Mandatory.
Corruption Mandatory.
Incompetence Mandatory.
Socialism Mandatory.
Dictatorship Mandatory.
Militarism Mandatory.
Liberalism Mandatory.
Bhuddism Mandatory.
Islam Mandatory.
Christianity Mandatory.
Judaism Mandatory.
Hinduism Mandatory.
Vedism Mandatory.
Hatred Mandatory.
Anarchy Mandatory.
Jealousy Mandatory.
Nationalism Mandatory.
Fascism Mandatory.
Racism Mandatory.
Lies Mandatory.
Hypocracy Mandatory.
Obesity Mandatory.
Heart Disease Mandatory.
Cancer Mandatory.
Idiocy Mandatory.
Eco-Nazism Mandatory.
All of us Humans.
Of all Five Colours.
Wherever we be.
Whatever we do.
However we "see" ourselves.
What do we call ourselves now?.
How about shallow nitpickers?.
Or celebrity obsessed morons?.
Or religious hypocrits?.
Or Democrats?.
Or Socialists?.
Or Revolutionaries.
Or just plain "nice folks"?.
Or supporters of oligarchy policies?.
Or immature backpackers?.
Or government assassins of integrity?.
Or juicy ***********
Or swift tongued ******** ticklers?.
no matter how many lie dead or injured as a result
of our obfuscation and avoidance.
As if poets have the explanation to life
except in strings of meaningless associated
but fine sounding words.
When "poets" are the voluntary slaves of Mind
and Conditioned Identity..
As if poets had the ***** to go beyond all these things.
As if .
Scrape the Moons suface and you will find a delicate Castello Blue Cream Cheese.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 4:49 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
songs of freedom in Kenya are paradoxical of themselves
they have become the songs of oppressive tyranny
they are not songs that were sang by freedom fighters
in the tropical forests of aberdares and Mabanga
they are blissful carols of powers that be
mouthed by the state poets in the deadly feats
of political sycophancy fuelled by cult of betrayal
and espionage, a real substructure of state dictatorship
they are not the true songs of mau mau
that were sang by Kimathi wa miciuri
they are the songs of the top crust of the tribal
and political powers that be in oblivion of
the cultural revolutionaries that countermanded
cultural Darwinism of European imperial gamesters
they are not the songs sang by Elijah Masinde
of Dini Msambwa that spirited up cultural aura
of cultural dignity;which cautioned certainly
an African against the cultural call of the white culturalizer
the African to balk and turn his back
and **** and spit scornfully at cultural trickster in the colonial ploy
to dance for Dini ya Msambwa in the spirit of war and fires of war
that is to be fought in preservation of democracy and cultural freedom.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 7:19 AM UTC
revolutionaries under skull scarves
armed with consistent ideals
held between their teeth
just add water and stir
tear it all down please
except for the jokes
best news available
forgiveness is free
but smiles extract a high cost
chrome replaced by plastic
well of course the effort is there
some poor decision making
is in the forecast
but that remains the best way
to extract revenge from fate itself
the ancients forged great argument
around purpose and substance
they would invent dialogue
to present their thoughts
on basic reality
I cannot get over the gap in context
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 8:43 AM UTC
I come to learn and respect at the same time that old boyfriends are kind of like your bad habits your mom and dad always told you to stop doing. Like Angelina, don't bite your nails: or Angelina, take your feet off the table, except the old boyfriend is like the habits we keep going back to. Why? Im questioning the same thing. Wish mom would have said "angelina' get your boyfriend out of the bed. Like all the other enlarged habits that come to mind:
But mom or dad never spoke that way. Being old fashioned Mexicali revolutionaries. They just let the happening go on as it was. Wish they would have kicked him out! Though a beautiful daughter came from such a mistake. It's only my daughter, who makes life a daily effort to continue.I love my little ballerina.
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 11:27 AM UTC
I've abandoned a withered state, fumbling
Toward your ecstasy - opening windows to
A brave new world: What a scene to behold!
My heart has calmed consuming life’s tonic -
I'm filled with attraction, alike an alchemist
disposition to discover their personal legend
How far, do thoughts travel? Become aware,
we’ve covered only but a few hours of sleep
The vicissitudes of motion - by faith we move
At luminal speed, ’til visions dawn and we’re
Before a sky clearing moon
Shall we recline in that loft above?
While it be suspended in the fetal position?
Or tarry until morn’ when reflections are reborn
From spurts of spontaneity, to cycles of growth
Apprehending blessings so as to appreciate the
distance of our obstacles
For camaraderie's had since severed –
And authenticity perfidiously pilfered –
And liars became prosecutors of liars
Pregnant with delusions of grandeur
Freedom is the temporal prison for
Revolutionaries wails of conditions
Psalms of sentimentalism provoke
An emotional tug of war, conscripting
another soldier of love – wearing a fig
Leaf of inhibition and foul remains of
passed transgressions...
Where to turn to when you’re cold?
Intransigent echoes give no warmth
I’ve fallen into the (d)earth of sanity
Erstwhile
Fumbling
Toward
Ecstasy
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 2:27 PM UTC
I live in the land
Of the inbetweeners.
We are what
The French would call,
Bourgeoisie.
What the ghetto calls,
Bougie.
What the successful calls,
Day dreamers,
And what we call,
The future leaders.
I live in
The land of rebels.
The people who fought against their oppressors
Because they know the truth behind
Social Darwinism;
And the fact of the matter is
That no race
Is a superior race
Because "race"
Is a manmade idea
To justify the injust
Ideas of slavery.
The rebels who ran out of chains
Because they weren't
Supposed to be chained down.
The rebels who walked midnight railroads
To escape the clutches
Of the white man's burden.
The rebels who refused to stand
In one spot
When there were plenty of seats available.
The rebels who refused
to bite their tongues and
The rebels who refused to be spoken over
Because they had
A lot of important stuff to say.
The rebels who dreamt outrageous dreams,
So that the complexion
Of your pigment
Was never a deciding factor
In your life.
The rebels who refused
to follow unlawful laws
Because they were
Law abiding citizens
Only when laws were just.
The rebels who challenged what was superiority,
The rebels who changed the course of history forever.
I live in
The land of the outsiders
Who conform the
Preconceived ideas
To fit them
We roll small blunts
of white paper
Filled with the words
of novels and poetry
And blow through those books
Inhaling every letter
And letting it cling to our lungs
Flowing the grammar
Throughout our bodies.
We stand spittin
Absolute value bars
Rapping elongated equations
Of X equals
Y +/- root Z
Divided by root A
Times the quantity of
B - C.
We stick up
Banks filled with
Material and instruction.
Stealing all the information we can take
And try peicing it together
So that more than words
We have knowledge.
We **********
Our brains,
Pleasing its sapiosexual
******* with
Grammar and arithmetic.
I live in the land
Of the inbetweeners.
The people making history
In their everyday lives.
The revolutionaries
Who fight for even
The smallest of issues.
The individuals who stand out
Amongst a crowd of people
That look just like them.
The inbetweeners,
They who refuse
To subjugate themselves
To society,
But will subjugate society
To themselves.
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 4:08 PM UTC
With the magical banner held high
invoking the crocodile rain of oppression by elites
of greed by leeches and bacteria, amoebas and suckers
oh come all come one, join our revolution against dark powers
Oh.. who in rightful mind could refuse
off she went to hear hot propaganda of those high and mighty folks
who took food from baby's mouth and live likes kings in our homes
fed in Le Cordon Bleu a'la Rouge with lashings of aspic fabrications
Without hesitation she swallowed all up,
I'm in and I am an Activist show me the culprit, what can I do
all for one, one for all, that parasite deserves miseries and doom
Easy comrade sister, get to know him and help us do his head in
It's a sport for us that elitist blood sucker
just get under his skin for us, let's play his mind and infest his head
report back to us, inner knowledge is power and we're fighting a war
comrade sister, our hot Activist marched forth on with vim and vigor
comrade sister wholly followed her brief
though soon saw things weren't as the revolutionaries presented
conflicted and confused she felt pity for a rare icon held in gallows
but the majority carries the vote and all is fair in love and red war
At her cost and with a wretched heart she gave her all
did as she was told and played her part as a true comrade in line
Solidarity she give to the fight, was mean and nasty as demanded
It's them or us they say and see comrades I give my services to you
all
No medals for Comrade sister, no epaulette yet earned
rather at her cost her privacy invaded and smears throws at her
tales of dark deeds and loose morals hung on her in dark corners
yet that poor heroine fought and gave so much blood for the cause
where is the honour amongst thieves and knaves
she did all that was required of her
told the lies she was made to tell and played the game as taught
stood at the barricades and ****** her guilt and conscience
yet they still don't trust her for paranoia rules them all
Mar 4, 2019
Mar 4, 2019 at 3:31 PM UTC
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the George Washingtons
of my generation.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the Thomas Jeffersons
and the
Benjamin Franklins who
aren't afraid to dream of
words that haven't been
created
and things that have
yet to be
designed.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the
Revolutionaries who
have yet to be
born.
For the Paul Reveres
who have yet
to take their midnight
rides
one if by land,
two if by sea.
one if by land,
two if by sea.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the
modern day
Lewis and Clarks who
explored a land beyond
exploration's eye.
For the Sacagawea guides that
guide from a shining sea
to a sea of gold.
For the immigrants who
traversed waters of salty tears
made solely of their own fears.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the slaves held captive
not by their captors,
but by their own fears,
hopes,
desires
and dreams.
Afraid to pursue a land
just slightly beyond their own
R e a c h.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the conductors of the railroad
that was unseen.
The one that ran not on
coal and steam,
but the one that
ran on
Dreams.
I wanta write a poem for the ages,
for the Teddy Roosevelt
conservationists
and the Stravinsky
concert pianists
and the Maya Angelou
performers,
and the,
people.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the soldiers battling
for a cause they didn't
even start.
For the lives that gave their
lives for a cause,
because they believed in
The cause.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the Daddy who's still
looking for work,
For the Mommy who has
given up
Hope.
For the widow and
her orphan,
For the soup kitchens
that can't
stay open long enough.
For the failing
Economy.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the mustached
man in Germany
rising to a power
ever Grand.
For the nations willing to
ignore it if they can.
For the day that everything
changed.
December 7th, 1941
will forever live
in infamy.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the unconquered Jews who
fought back.
For Anne Frank and her
family.
I wanta write a poem for the ages
For the modern day
Martin Luther King
Jr.'s.
For the ones
who
Aren't afraid to challenge a
System designed to
fight against them.
For the
modern day
Claudette Colvins.
The ones who
aren't afraid to sit down
to make a stand.
I wanta write poem for the ages
For the modern day
Buzz Aldrins
who are
altogether underrated
Just
because they came in
Second.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
A poem that speaks louder
than words
and goes beyond
generations.
So I wrote a poem for the ages.
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 2:06 AM UTC
"O GOD ! only hand--- only leg
bleeding, hanging to the chopped body --o god !?!"
enough ! to discharge the debt of the soil.
"o god!
these little babies who are supposed to be the metaphor of passion,
are forced to be the product of flesh trade !
these tender hands , supposed to paint the alphabets
are made to clean the riffles !
o god !
they are eating mud--
they are drinking the ***** of animals...."
yes! the survival is important
to break the shackles of this soil.
"O GOD ! O GOD ! O GOD ! O G>>"
no !. no!. sympathy? charity ? i am not the beggar !
do not come on the wings of eagle holding the dove.
if you have a human soul..
demand those who are shedding crocodile tears.
i demand the answer , not the bread of consolation.
do the sons of my soil robbed these big-brothers at any time?
tell them not to declare the renegades as the protectors of my land.
**** **** ***** **** **** **** ****
tigris and euphrates, ganga and godavari
amazan, dandakaranya
somalia, rhodesia---- red with blood
santiyago, madrid, -- echoing
tahir square, beijing, brasilia... burning--
**** **** **** **** **** **** **** ****
i may be falling down-- but i will rise ...
o big brother... you are not god
you can declare yourself as jesus
i am the child of spartucus
"o god ! are you a terrorist? are you a revolutionary?"
ha ha ha--- let it be.
now , the deserts having oil in lap
the forests having minerals in heart
the voices demanding the natural justice
are these the shelters of terrorists.. revolutionaries ?
let it be!
i am a revolutionary........
to discharge the debt of my soil !!
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 10:15 AM UTC
She faked her own death
and is believed to be buried
beneath the fourth runway
by the new apartments
fire engine red doors
over there:
the sunset is dripping
on to chewing gum pavements
in the window
a silhouette of her ******* prove
that she's alive, amongst silly revolutionaries,
aviators
avatars
and questionable friendships.
Scandinavian diets are seen by the satellites.
Jan 1, 2013
Jan 1, 2013 at 5:32 PM UTC
it should bother you
that ive been alone in my room
all afternoon
with my homework and have only done
five problems
it should bother you that
i delete my internet history
day after day after day
but its only because
i dont want anyone to see
that ive been reading the works
of liars and ****** and thieves
it should bother you
that you didnt know this about me
but it doesnt
my inner communism
or socialism
or fascism
or racism
or feminism
or radicalism
should probably be something of your concern
but its not
you dont care that i sit here
and drown in the words of dead poets
or revolutionaries
or just people
no you dont care
you stopped caring when i said
no its my life not yours
and slammed that door in your face
and you took one too many
of those sweet little pills
it should bother you
that youre dead and gone
but it doesnt, it doesnt, it doesnt
and it wont
though you still hang about me
you miserable ghost
just sit there in the air
above my head
and just dont care
no matter what i do
i cant make you go away
cant make you see what i see
cant make you come back to me
Oct 16, 2011
Oct 16, 2011 at 11:18 PM UTC
Havana, I arrive
in the sweaty thickness of July
caliente y picante
steamy sidewalks, steamy women
chocolate brown, tan and
black against the lemon-yellow walls
strolling through La Plaza de Armas
slurping thick café through weathered lips
in La Plaza de Francisco de Asis
dancing on the pregnant gray stones in La Plaza Vieja
timba, rumba, salsa and son
Cristo, Maria, Yemaya and Obatalá
Havana, I arrive
in the intoxication of your breath
between the acrid fumes
of insecticides and 1957 Chevy's
stepping past the dark grime of your slums
streets plush with tight round bodies
beautiful and sensuously swaying
I arrive snaking past the converted palaces
con las turistas ricos
and the buy-me-a-dress-and-a-ring ******
with their enchanting full-tooth smiles
and undulating earthquake-tremor hips
I hear your beat
the machine-gun laughter of your feet
on the hot cobblestones
with the jinateros and street musicians
chants of Santería drifting from pane-less windows
Havana, I smell your heat
under salty faded sheets
smell the long, tobacco-stained nights
with your hips swaying
to the pale drops of ***
spilt from red lips
and the red drops of blood
spilt from your revolutionaries
spilt from the gorging of Machado and Baptista
and 500 years of foreign dominion
In Paseo de Marti
banners of Che Guevara
flapping in the moist tear-laden breeze
Fidel, cigar in hand
tirelessly raging in black and white
on a Russian 1960's TV
Cuba, I can see the green in your eyes
the peeling-paint bedroom dreams and
dirt-poor joy of your richness
laughing out the despair and desperation
dancing out the oppression and the paucity
the aching of your past
the battles of Castillo De Los Tres Santos
of the revolution
of living
and as I stand on the steps of El Capitolio
looking out at the decaying grandeur
I understand why
I will be back
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 3:30 PM UTC
The world changes around me but not as I sit perched,collecting memories and organizing them in my thoughts that sprout up through cracks as would a **** in concrete. A dandelion. Not you, a rose, like in Tupac's poem. And i digress because thats what I do more often than not. We speak of our impressionist dreams that are just alike, but not yet realized. Not a one. Well one or two but that's it. And that's only a tip of an iceberg. Which is us in danger of melting like the rest of the revolutionaries along with all the changes occuring around us. Will our love change right along with us and everything else? how will it be to be forty and married? Would we be content? would you go search for him? If you found god would you be done with me. Would you declare me a heretic if I didn't go to church and let jesus live inside me along with the rest of my collectibles. If you found god, would I pretend to have as well so as to not lose you. Hopefully, and isn't that all we are, a sack full of fast foods, hope and regrets. Nothing will go south or sour! We can't let it! Our love will survive all the ****** gods, alcohol, ****** alleys, concrete basketball courts, blacks in the ghetto, american presidents, economic revolutions, rapists, murderers, taxes, mortgages and regime changes. My tongue, along with my eyes, along with my lips, along with my fingers, along with my hair, along with my hair,along with my grey matter, along with my heart, does truly believe we will love longer, harder, deeper, truer and out last, out live, out happy, out joy, out defeat, out wit everyone. I told the elders we don't bother to pray. But we dream very well and not in the real world, not in their world, but in our world. The one we created for ourselves to fly in and out of rain clouds and swim in black water thats flooded on the inside of parking garages. I want to tell you things in a way that can convey myself and still be understood fully. I'm not sure if it is possible to get a ride, convey,write or paint my mind, my soul, my heart properly enough. but if anyone could ever understand my sore joints, and dances with death,it'd be you right? Because we are the same. we have been drinking from the same cup. and been dealt the same ****** hand but at different games. you are the lotus on your wrist and I am the owl in my throat and it means everything yet nothing to everyone else's big scheme. and still everything to ours. you are the only one here who understands why I think rain puddles with oil in them are beautiful.
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 9:58 AM UTC
Death's hand, wrong paths in my eyes, creates lies
Mind's blind illusion of awake dreams forgotten being written ancestors message letters when together most rhyme speech encoded image visions portrays
immortalized, Truth, why it represents kind souls alone
sing words that shape diamonds, gold
bodies cold buried though ignored still speak
Brings better days night
Suns light skies shed tears, never known real fear
whenever one says end here,
is near,
Why I fight, kid's cries, explain,
Moments without pain are holy any ways remembered only who's thoughts pray
show its presence, proof stands clear
Soldier vision wise protects youth
Mine lacks peace breathing slow maybe smoke
Daily around me controled fades raising dead
Rhythms bring natural flowing mystic air sacred heart's escense blessing all heavens described mother's crimes giving life artisticly seems hate's
left, spiritually these rhymes paint reality like
Rivers flow
Stars and moon carve stones
Shape oceans emotions form storms, destroy
Imaginations,
Falling nation witness, our creations
Walk hell populations lost brought well tought
People when modern slave's the cost
Last option weak hold mother lands for
building war watching flowers grow
Children laughing those missing homes fighting poverty replaces birds flying revolutionaries
bleeding sadness fisically, eternal family
single race worldwide
Stays immortal.....
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 1:22 AM UTC
I created a ray to save the world.
We had come too far,
had lost ourselves, it seemed to me
and we were taking the Earth along with us
into the abyss.
Too much knowledge: too much thought.
We needed to go back.
And so I created the Great Devolver Ray
and stood, trembling, by the trigger.
This would return us
to our basest animal selves.
Would tune us perfectly into Nature,
re-thread us into the fabric of Creation
destroy the wall between Natural and Unnatural.
Pure uncorrupted survival: nothing more.
And so I stood, on the brink,
unsure as all great revolutionaries must be,
put my hand in place,
and pushed.
And the ray burst forth
and we were transformed
into the pure ******* creatures that Life demanded.
And absolutely nothing changed
at all.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 8:31 AM UTC
Separated by progress
We live in isolation
Socially stagnated
Growing ever distant.
Focus further inward
Without hesitation,
Cutting off future conflicts
Before they even happen.
Perspective and reality
No longer separate
Echo chamber catalysts
Shattered-faction fragment.
Elitist tactics brainwash
Entire populations,
Localised abundance withers
With dying vegetation.
Doomsday clocks lurching
Our salvation diverges
Shouting to the twilight sun
We share but false elation.
Entire regions' designated
Means of production
No new doctrines allowed
All hail consumption.
Ever directionless, at a loss
Regressing into violence:
Revolutionaries' proudest
Of our failed revolutions.
Living out our dreams
Of solitary bliss,
Live alone in harmony
Or die in the abyss.
What piece of work is man
That chooses inhumanity
A species in a chasm
Led by mere savages.
May 10, 2022
May 10, 2022 at 6:26 PM UTC
We're social bandits because we will not be bought and sold
We might be tortured and we might die
But our ideas, our actions, our movement will not cease
We're growing restless, oppression pushing us to the edge
How much pain will we bare?
Will you sale out the masses to save your own soul?
Too afraid, so you obey your masters, till you're on the chopping block
Thinking you could become one of them
And you could become one of them...but not everyone
Revolution is knocking, blood-stained power structures are cracking
It's okay if I'm not individually happy, because we're not all free
We the revolutionaries, we're peacefully building the army
We'll sleep, at night, easily knowing we're challenging the powers that be
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 5:12 PM UTC
I’ve written enough small poetry
to start a nuclear war.
Do you want to die in traffic
behind the wheel of your car? Or in yr rodeer camp next fall.
Control eludes us. The hero
loses urinary control, the unified nation
loses missile control, lost my timepiece, lost my metronome,
now my music is ethereal as an archangel’s.
No owl hoots or duck quacks
or squirrels ********
or spiders spanning rampikes.
The floccinaucinihilipilification of nature.
No greater tragedy than a tipping
point that tests the hero’s gullibility, complicity,
self-control, comity, sense of humor
which is the only remedy not to hate those in authority.
Them guys with guns at the Michigan state house,
fat bearded tattooed ****** off white bros.
Norsemen, Crusaders, Vikings, Britons.
For despair there is no forgiveness. Peace out.
Nuclear mischief, mad Man’s most incandescent bloom
and the devil who exists to carry the load
when we misbehave and fight among ourselves.
I wake up to my skin boiling off my bones.
Humor is the only remedy, or is ardor the best way forward.
We’ll see how things work out in the next generation.
The same diverse, spoiled, unpatriotic revolutionaries as at the nation’s
beginning
trying to reverse the future, making phone calls to get out the vote in
Georgia, hating the desert for having no water.
Events keep piling up,
the future depends on ourselves.
Conflict is inevitable and in this conflict power must be challenged by
power
so err on the side of patience, perseverance and impermanence.
Dec 7, 2021
Dec 7, 2021 at 6:15 AM UTC
In June of 1989, 14 poets, all alumni of Columbia University, took a trip to Moscow. I was one of them. We flew from New York City to Moscow via Helsinki, Finland. We met with the editors of NOVY MIR (NEW WORLD), the most famous literary magazine in the Soviet Union, which broke up in 1991.We all gathered around a large oak table mixing Americans with Russians. We began reading only one poem each. When each Russian recited his poem, he stood up. I was impressed. Each Russian poet spoke perfect English. Eventually, it became my turn. I recited I WRITE WHEN THE RIVER'S DOWN. When I had finished reading, I went around the long oak table and handed each Russian poet a copy of my poem. I had made many copies of my poem in Topeka, KS, my hometown. Copy machines were illegal in the Soviet Union for fear that dissident, underground revolutionaries might wish to spread their fervent hopes of democratizing their nation to millions of their fellow citizens.
The next day, we 14 Americans were going to attend a meeting of the Moscow Chapter of the Soviet Writers Union. As I was getting out of our bus and stepping on the sidewalk, I heard a voice crying, "Mr. Hawks, Mr. Hawks! Please stop. I have something for you." As I looked to my left, I recognized a Russian gentleman from the day before. When he reached me, he said "I am Evgeny Chramov. You gave all of us a copy of your beautiful poem. I was so taken by it, I stayed up all night translating it into Russian. I had to type it again, so if I saw you today, I would be able to give you my translated copy." He put his briefcase on the sidewalk, opened it, and pulled out his Russian translation, and handed it to me. I was stunned. I said "Mr. Chramov, how thoughtful and generous of you to stay up all night translating my poem into Russian! Bless you, Mr. Chramov." As we were walking together into the building, I stopped and spoke to my new friend. "Mr. Chramov, I have a favor to ask of you. Would you be willing to read your translation of my poem in this meeting?
"Of course! I'd be honored to do that," said Mr. Chramov. When it came time for him to read, Mr. Chramov, standing up, read his translation of my poem. I was elated. The meeting soon came to a close. A woman who had chaired the meeting walked by me without stopping and said to me, again in perfect English, "You really are a poet, aren't you?"
Her comment, and Mr. Chramov's responses,, I have never forgotten.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Jun 19, 2025
Jun 19, 2025 at 9:55 PM UTC