"rus" poems
Rus wa na ** tum hamse, meri jaan
Murjha na jaye kahin dil ka ye gulistaan
Juda hai sabse andaaz ye hamara
Saason se humney cheda hai
dil ka saaz ye tumhara
Khwahish hai tum mein; ** jaye hum fanaa
Karte hai tumse toh
hum muhabbat bepannah
Mil bhi lo aake hamse is tarah
Noor mil jaaye
Jahaalat se jis tarah
Khuda Ko paane ka; yeh hai raasta nirala
Muhabbat bhi hai bas
kudrat ka hi toh karishma
Rus wa na ** tum hamse, meri jaan
Murjha na jaye kahi dil ka ye gulistan
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 7:10 AM UTC
Halfway between Malta and Saco,
Highway 2 stops a minute
To look back...
Beside the road
A little shrine waits
The traveler:
A stone, naturally shaped
To form a sleeping buffalo,
But etched with lines to emphasize
The dozing buff's back and sides
And drowsing head.
Nearby, a 1920s entrepreneur
Saw money to be made...
Set up a happenstance hotel
Beside the hot and sulf'rus spring,
And "Sleeping Buffalo" was born
To "heal" and to amuse
Odd tourists in their wandering.
Not much has changed...
The old buff sleeps,
But now inside a little pen
To keep the tourist vandals
Safely from his way.
The old resort is open still...
Same rusty pipes and yellowed walls
And rusty water
Warm enough to stain
Unlucky bathing suits.
(The smell's enough to force
The bather to the bath as medicine....)
On my way to other places
I have stopped along the road
To meditate beside the old stone bull...
I understand, a little,
Now that I am growing old,
Tobacco offerings left
Beside the sleeping stone.
Though not a Pagan,
I can feel the distant Ways
Before our Western ways
Made tourists of us all.
Dec 18, 2011
Dec 18, 2011 at 10:43 AM UTC
My kinderjare was
Soetsappige drome
En ek het weggesluimer
Agter suiwer onskuld,
Met ń krag van geloof
Wat my oortuig het dat
My God ook jou God is...
Dat elke pad ń onnodige
Veiligheidsgordel verg
Dat elke beursie ń oneindigheid van R20
Note besit het en dat
Elke graf leeg was na die derde dag
Dit was deur die verskillende stadia van bogenoemde
Uiltjies knip wat my
Tot die meerderheids
Besef van addolosensie gebring het.
Selfs al het ek teen ń
Eksponensiële spoed
Ń volwasse begrip ontwikkel
,Was my redenasie oor die
Hiernamaals nog vaag
Met slaap in die oog
Eers toe daar een
langs my Val
En tien aan my sy
Het die drakoniese deun
Van die doodswek my
Uit my snoesige slaap geruk.
Met elke groef wat nuwe
Paaie teer vir my trane,
Elke silwer randjie wat
Lostrek van die donker wolke
En op my hoof kom rus
Soos die koue staal
Van ń koningin se swaard
Wat my inlyf in die
Sidderende realiteit van grootword en lewe
Nou is die droom verby
Nou staan ek op
En vrees om plat te val...
Ek oes en saai
Met ń bekommernis of my ploeg iets sal maai...
Nou word paaie ń lang gebed
Ter beskerming van my hart
Wat ek so maklik uitdeel
En beursies ń kommoditeit
Wat skree van die honger
Soos die mense van ń land
Wat al sy geloof verloor het...
Nou brand die sand my voete
En die seesout droog my vel...
Nou word wraak ń amp
En liefde ń kombinasie
Van gifte en giwwe
, maar ek sal nooit weet
Wanneer is dit wat nie...
Nou word lewe ń gebed.
Ek het ophou my
Kinder rympies sê,
Nou bid ek pynlik swaar
En hoop dat God
Nog genade vir my en
vir jou Sal hê
Amen
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 5:44 PM UTC
'n lewe in konstruksie...
dis tog die mees logiese manier om dit te beskryf...
ons bou en bou en bou,
en toets dan die produk.
Maar aan die einde, as ons klaar gebou het...
wat is dan daarvan te kom.
'n Lee huis...
'n stil pad...
en wat het ons van onself geleer?
En wat leer ons van die wereld en mense om ons
, vasgevang in die stryd teen tyd...
niks nie.
Ons het net voor onself uitgekyk
na die vaal stene
en die slukkerige sement.
Watter vreugde het dit vir ons gebring.
Niks nie.
Nee,
ek weier.
Ons is tog hier geplaas met vrye wil.
En iewers langs die pad,
raak almal die pad duister...
en word dan deur die samelewing verdoem.
Die mensdom besluit dan wat van hulle sal word...
In daardie oomblikke is God meer vergete
deur die skares wat saamdrom op die rand van die pad...
die wat lag en vinger wys...
die wat klippe gooi,
as deur die wat die prentjie aanskou.
Soms kort ons 'n perspektief van uit die donker,
om die lig rerig te verstaan...
Soms moet ons eers die genadelose aanraking van die koue voel,
voordat ons die sagte streel van die son oor ons gesigte kan waardeur.
Daar le wysheid in die donker,
want dit is in die donker waar jy aleen is,
met niemand om in jou oor te fluister wat reg of verkeerd is nie.
Net die wind om jou siel te sus,
die stilte om jou uit te rus...
en niemand wat jou god kan wees
of sy woorde
en planne
vir jou kan uitmessel nie.
Die pad het die gevaar geraak.
Dis koud en korrupt.
En ons is dankbaar,
dat ons die kans gekry het om dit te sien,
terwyl ons stadig verswelg word deur die skadu's
en wegsmelt in die donker...
want nou weet ons dat ons pyn maar net 'n gedeelte van die werklike hartseer was...
ons is die gelukkiges...
en hulle loop op die pad na verdoemtenis
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 7:12 PM UTC
I entered my poem "last night I dreamed" in the Tallenge poetry competition for May 2014, which it won, it's now in the annual competition so I'd really appreciate your support by voting for it at - bit.ly/1pJ0N3z
You can find the poem down the line in my list of poems, but I'll paste it here again so you can check it out to see if it's worth a vote.
Last Night I dreamt
Of the Hagia Sophia.
Looking across
mighty Bosphorous.
In Istanbul, in Byzantium,
in Constantinople.
A prize of ages...........
In all her many's
real and imagined glory.
Man's desire,
God's gift.
Stone's testament
To my species' faith,
In eternity.
Though this Hagia,
My Sophia,
was one of my dreams
In a dream-city/state.
In a dream Macedon/Thrace,
Modern and ancient
Asian/Europe, European-Asia,
Turk and Greek
Jew and Russian
Balkan stars fall upon her'
Coloured light's
and bright vid-screens.
Amid stone and earth
Glass and concrete,
Granite and amythst
Huge, jewel-covered,
ancient beyond measure....
Not just Constantine's church,
though mighty church it was..
Or Mehmet's prize;
though great Mosque it became
Nor Theodosius's rock
Though he still fights for her
Somewhere in the past.
And no dry museum either,
Though museum she is..........
In reality.
Just an ancient place,
Euxine harbour
Cross-road of man and water,
Land and Gods
Magic and reality
Chozen by Hellas
Built and owned
by Christ's children
Subjects of St. Paul's
Holy empire.
Orthodox and sacred
To Greek and Rus.
No Latin hymns
We're sung in her walls.
Then won by Turk
In wars fierce and long -
So now Muhammed's shrine
Ottoman and Pasha
Jewel of a new kingdom
Built upon built
Myriad upon myriad
Pagan, Muslim, Jew, and Christian
And the Gods of Hellas
who dwell there still
Watch and wonder
at it all
But in my dream
She was made -
in the shape of a grassy mound
Many faceted, growing still
Amid structures, attached to her
spans and arches
Ancient wonder
Modern glory
Flowing and rising
Worshipped by all who
dwelt near her.
Grassed covered
Monument strewn
Stretching up to the dark -
Starry Sky
Arches
Domes
Butress'
Spires
Crosses
Cresents
Heart's desire
White rocks paved
And eternal grasses
Dewed by Hellene Gods
Whose light it saved
Last night I dreamed
Of the Hagia Sophia.......
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 6:21 PM UTC
ek is moeg
en ek will alles
uitspoeg
al die omkraplikheid
al die stres
al die frustrasie
ek wil rus
op eilande
van verwonder
sade saai
met vrede
i am tired
and i want to spit
everything out
all the discomfort
all the stress
all the frustration
i want to rest
on islands
of wonder
sow seeds
with peace
Nov 4, 2011
Nov 4, 2011 at 8:55 PM UTC
A drab drop drips
Downed casualty
Down casually.
A sulfuric gust cycles
In three fly-by nights.
A gust hoping,
A breeze yearning to dab a wet tear off a moistened spring cheek.
Floating by on a wisp of breath,
Breathed once by the blessed. Now irreparably tainted, then incomprehensible anew:
Treated by the respirations of the perspiring, expending breath on czarist ears, aspiring;
Cured by the tongues of the insatiably dying
And by those primary soothe-ers, invisibly crying.
Alveoli gripping that sine qua non of civilization
Until they must release the once-oxygen into the hills of Kyivan Rus.
A first breath and second
As much as a penultimate and final.
And witness to the chronology that led to such a
Bloodbath-blessed blast
As this.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 11:44 PM UTC
Last Night I dreamt
Of the Hagia Sophia.
Looking across
mighty Bosphorous.
In Istanbul, in Byzantium,
in Constantinople.
A prize of ages...........
In all her many's
real and imagined glory.
Man's desire,
God's gift.
Stone's testament
To my species' faith,
In eternity.
Though this Hagia,
My Sophia,
was one of my dreams
In a dream-city/state.
In a dream Macedon/Thrace,
Modern and ancient
Asian/Europe, European-Asia,
Turk and Greek
Jew and Russian
Balkan stars fall upon her'
Coloured light's
and bright vid-screens.
Amid stone and earth
Glass and concrete,
Granite and amythst
Huge, jewel-covered,
ancient beyond measure....
Not just Constantine's church,
though mighty church it was..
Or Mehmet's prize;
though great Mosque it became
Nor Theodosius's rock
Though he still fights for her
Somewhere in the past.
And no dry museum either,
Though museum she is..........
In reality.
Just an ancient place,
Euxine harbour
Cross-road of man and water,
Land and Gods
Magic and reality
Chozen by Hellas
Built and owned
by Christ's children
Subjects of St. Paul's
Holy empire.
Orthodox and sacred
To Greek and Rus.
No Latin hymns
We're sung in her walls.
Then won by Turk
In wars fierce and long -
So now Muhammed's shrine
Ottoman and Pasha
Jewel of a new kingdom
Built upon built
Myriad upon myriad
Pagan, Muslim, Jew, and Christian
And the Gods of Hellas
who dwell there still
Watch and wonder
at it all
But in my dream
She was made -
in the shape of a grassy mound
Many faceted, growing still
Amid structures, attached to her
spans and arches
Ancient wonder
Modern glory
Flowing and rising
Worshipped by all who
dwelt near her.
Grassed covered
Monument strewn
Stretching up to the dark -
Starry Sky
Arches
Domes
Butress'
Spires
Crosses
Cresents
Heart's desire
White rocks paved
And eternal grasses
Dewed by Hellene Gods
Whose light it saved
Last night I dreamed
Of the Hagia Sophia.......
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 3:07 AM UTC
Jy ry op die hanekraai
en kom le in my oor.
Jou tree 'n bekende geluid.
Jou teer drafstap deur my drome
maak my seerste monsters stil.
En sus my in 'n doodsluiterse rus.
Jou oe laat my handsaamslaan
op die lumier van meer as een.
Jou aansig maak van my gelowig.
Jou luim is 'n seestroom wat stoot en trek
en ek sit vasgekeer in jou rooi getui
en ek mik dieper , ek mik dood!
My liefste jou aanraak stuur gode
deur my dooie are en ruk my terug
vanaf die donker sluiers.
Jy is die maan, die sterre- nee
die nag! wat om my toevou
en my wieg wanneer my arms na niks gryp.
Jy is die openbaring waarna lewelose streef
en die anker waarna vryes verlang.
Bring my terug, na die gelykstreep,
voor die tyd ons invang.
Ek wil jou prys met woorde
wat God se toorn op my sal bring
maar dit hang aan my lippe
soos ek wag vir more se son om jou te besing.
Dit is my vroegoggend gedagtes,
van my lieflike laatslaper,
wie ek nooit akkuraat sal kan prys nie
, want ek is maar net 'n versotte ou dinkgaper.
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 7:21 PM UTC
My bed verlang na ewewig
En kantel as ek lê, My arm kweek ń
onwrikbare
Verlange na ń glimlag wat
Daarteen druk en Selfs nou en dan
Speels byt.
Die ysere
Koue wat
Dwing om
In my oop
Arms te
Kom rus.
My kat spin hard op my bors,
Duidelik in haar skik met die
Wete dat sy,
vir nou
Op jou geresserveerde kussing
Kan lê
En met
Daardie
Wete
Verlekker
Sy haarself
In my
Ellende
Die leemte hier is groter as net die Dubbelbed oop spasie op my
Queensize bed en die lieflike geeste wat deur my arms gly
En giggel
Want ek
Wag vir
Iets wat
Dalk nie
Kom nie
Dalk is dit beter so, want as jy my innerlike konflik ook soos ń kakofonie
Van dromme
Teen die mure van jou koglea kon voel dans, was hierdie leemte nog
Meer leeg
As ooit
Tevore
En sou
My contact
List net
Soos my bed
Geraak het...
Die wind wat deur my hartskrake seifer,
Fluister jou naam
En flankeer met
My gevoelens....
Hiers ń spasie oop
Spesiaal vir jou...
Mnr _.
-ń tipofrafiese voorbeeld
Van digterlike vryheid
Verwar vir menslike
Eensaamheid...
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 2:40 AM UTC
Du har glemt dine drømmes vægt
slettet dit navn og dræbt din slægt
du kan intet miste
for du kan ikke huske
mit navn
i en flydende rus
ramler vi sammen i et sus
hvis du virkelig vil ha' mig
så kan du bare ta' mig
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 9:17 AM UTC
Vrees,
vir die geordende paar letters wat jou naam uitspel.
Vrees,
want jy bedreig my geluk soos 'n dors parasiet.
Vrees,
vir die monster wat jy in staat is om te wees.
Angs,
jy maak my bang, jou kaarte is onvoorspelbaar
en jy speel satireis sonder reels, grense of stippellyne vervaag
tussen wat joune is en wat bly eintlik myne.
Angs,
jy vat en gee dinge wat moes bly,
jy kom en gaan en verwoes
ons bly agter, 'n stukkie gronderosie
hou op,
want ek is nou moeg.
Angs,
want jou griewelike vure brand helder warm,
ek is bedek met die paraffien wat jy oor my uitgestort het.
Leuens,
jy wat gevul id met ongesonde nyd
raak jy nooit moeg,
om so vieslik te verwoes?
'n Onverdiende tug
beloon my met somber wanhoop
Ons almal nodig nou 'n bietjie rus,
die leemte wat jy vul sal ons nie maklik mis.
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 5:53 PM UTC
Daar's 'n droogte in Namakwaland
Daar's 'n droogte by die see
Droogte skeil in Weste-winde
Wat oor ons mense vee
En as ons in ons diepstes
met ons gewete oorleg pleeg
merk ons ook die droogte
wat deur ons jeug beweeg
Geen meer: "jammer oom"; dis als net jy en jou
Weg -die dae van asseblief; dis "gee dit vir my nou"
Vergeet die ring, dis uit my ding, niks gewag totdat jy trou
dis oopmondkou , dis sharrap nou, 'n treurspel om te aanskou
en ek as buitestander, van die leuens en van die leed
ek kan rus met die wete, daar is 'n tent vir my gereed
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 11:36 AM UTC
Die verwoesting van die velede loop uit in die hede.
Hier waar als tot rus kom met die lug wat soos 'n skarlakenrooi duin al *** stywer smeul, met die spanning klop in harmonie met die donker kol in my hart wat die toekoms verniel. Die bloedsaar le rooi op die horison soos 'n verlore asempie van 'n kind en die gefluister van die wind begin praat in die dieptes.
Die verwoesting le in die rooi lug soos 'n sluier...
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 5:36 AM UTC
Sy vra: "Hoekom is jy nou so n non"?
Ek sê: **** is mos eintlik net vir die lewendes".
Ek is my eie memento mori.
Jy is die oorsaak van dood.
Laat dit so op my graf geskrywe staan:
-Hier lê die skerwe van iets amper heel-
,want nou sit ek weer aan jou tafel
en my laaste maaltyd is n herkouing
van spoegsels vergete tye saam met jou
En ek kou en ek kou en ek onthou:
*** warm jou hande was teenoor jou hartskou
, *** gretig jy was om my vas te hou
en na die tyd toe te snou.
"Ek sit nou waar jy gesit het"
, grinnik jou wellus oor die porselein rand
en ek wil vir jou sê staan op en gee vet
want almal wat daardie stoel beset
wals met die noodlot en wink vir seer.
"Kom ons probeer , nog n keer"
Sê jou hand langs jou ritsluiter
, maar ek voel n veer
, want kadawers ken nie lustigheid nie
en ek is oorgebalsem met n gelofte.
Los die dooies dat ons rus,
Los daardie "ons" begrawe in die kis.
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 12:51 PM UTC
i tyle, reszta na coin flip
twoich ambicji;
mam, po, prostu (nie mazowieckie czy kieleckie)
kichaniem dosyć!
syty jam i z prostatą oddany w mgle pychy;
ja serw memu mieniu i ozora
(tej trzeciej krwi krowy)
poeta!
do końca wasz iglak wczorajszej wigilii
(zmień to a zmienisz czasowność):
rada memu panie... więcej narodu czy tem
racji czy tem dumy czy tem innego stanowiska
na głąbie poza polską ja racze;
ja racze! wilka gniew nad lud!
z resztą, okiem morsa fabryk na tle miganiu
to tylko nic! a mój brat kim?! obcy mocar?!
nie! nie, nie ja ludwig rus czy pruss, niet ich!
oj naród a ja jako atlas, wraz z izraelem,
a ty jako kompas, a warszawa jako kamień tonie
w wodzie hystorji wraz z napoleonem,
a więć kraków raz jeszcze wstanie wraz z mongołem;
tylko anglia może oddalać dume swego rodu
sama mniej dumna swego początku w niemczech.
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 9:28 PM UTC
Si de tus dones y, de tus destrucciones, Océano, a mis manos
pudiera destinar una medida, una fruta, un fermento,
escogería tu reposo distante, las líneas de tu acero,
tu extensión vigilada por el aire y la noche,
y la energía de tu idioma blanco
que destroza y derriba sus columnas
en su propia pureza demolida.
No es la última ola con su salado peso
la que tritura costas y produce
la paz de arena que rodea el mundo:
es el central volumen de la fuerza,
la potencia extendida de las aguas,
la inmóvil soledad llena de vidas.
Tiempo, tal vez, o copa acumulada
de todo movimiento, unidad pura
que no selló la muerte, verde víscera
de la totalidad abrasadora.
Del brazo sumergido que levanta una gota
no queda sino un beso de la sal. De los cuerpos
del hombre en tus orillas una húmeda fragancia
de flor mojada permanece. Tu energía
parece resbalar sin ser gastada,
parece regresar a su reposo.
La ola que desprendes,
arco de identidad, pluma estrellada,
cuando se despeñó fue sólo espuma,
y regresó a nacer sin consumirse.
Toda tu fuerza vuelve a ser origen.
Sólo entregas despojos triturados,
cascaras que apartó tu cargamento,
lo que expulsó la acción de tu abundancia,
todo lo que dejó de ser racimo.
Tu estatua está extendida más allá de las olas.
Viviente y ordenada como el pecho y el manto
de un solo ser y sus respiraciones,
en la materia de la luz izadas,
llanuras levantadas por las olas,
forman la piel desnuda del planeta.
Llenas tu propio ser con tu substancia.
Colmas la curvatura del silencio.
Con tu sal y tu miel tiembla la copa,
la cavidad universal del agua,
y nada falta en ti como en el cráter
desollado, en el vaso cerril:
cumbres vacías, cicatrices, señales
que vigilan el aire mutilado.
Tus pétalos palpitan contra el mundo,
tiemblan tus cereales submarinos,
las suaves ovas cuelgan su amenaza,
navegan y pululan las escuelas,
y sólo sube al hilo de las redes
el relámpago muerto de la escama,
un milímetro herido en la distancia
de rus totalidades cristalinas.
1.1k
I fantasiens hjul omkring livet
løb vi rundt.
Cirkelforvirrede.
Vi søgte efter freden præcis som en natsværmer
ville søge efter lyset.
Lyset har aldrig fanget os.
Freden var øredøvende tavs og først da vi faldt,
mærkede vi glastårerne i græsset.
Som i en rus gav vores hjerter ekko.
Med et nu så skrøbeligt og taktløse **** måtte vi holde fast
for ikke at dø i nattens kolde ånde.
Stranguleret af horisontens loft og selv opspundende forventninger
Eksisterer vi kun, når vi vil.
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 7:24 AM UTC
*Palms cup
Mother-of-pearl
To the ***** laugh
Of a clean-limbed girl
Whose teeth are white
And whose lips are as fresh
As lemon squeezed
On living flesh,
Beneath a salmon sky
As the tide slides out
And as we wash them down
With velvet stout.
Then she carves a heart
That reads "Chips for 'rus"
On the backseat of
The East Kent bus.
A choir boy
And his girl guide
Whose shell is rough
But who's soft inside.
Mar 29, 2021
Mar 29, 2021 at 9:35 PM UTC
du var som den tåge der blødt omfavner mig
i den efterhånden kølige efterårs morgen
ligeså svær var du at se igennem og du slørrede
mit syn for omverden
og da det blev sommer og du forlod mig
kunne jeg pludselig se mere klart end nogensinde
men nu er tågen tilbage og dit nærværs fravær
puster mig koldt i nakken, så mine hår rejser sig
alle dine løgne var spundet åh så nøje i det
smukkeste spindelvæv og du havde fanget mig i det
i takt med at sollyset forsvinder og dagene bliver kortere
mister jeg også mine fjollede tanker om at
kærlighed er mere end bare en myte
så mine tanker flyver langt væk
til dage hvor du holdt mig tæt og vi kiggede hinanden
dybt i øjnene, med blikke der talte klarer end
vi kunne med vores ord
jeg mindes sønvløse nætter og langsomme morgner
der næsten føltes uvirkelige
som om vi var med i en spillefilm der kørte på replay
de aftner hvor vi skålede i rødvin
og lod os synke ind i en dyb rus
som dig og mig gjorde det aller bedst
du var den misforståede, flabede dreng der havde røget
for mange cigaretter og ikke tænkte så store tanker om
sig selv, men gik for meget op i hvad andre tænkte
jeg så dig for så meget mere end hvad de andre så
alle dine gode sider og alle dine slemme
jeg så det hele, jeg følte det hele
og jeg stod der alligevel - jeg står her endnu
du vil altid have mig og det ved du
min evige efterårsforelskelse hvor er du
jeg ved du har en anden nu
og du fortjener også kun det bedste der findes
så må jeg jo erkende at det ikke var mig
for jeg var den misforståede, naive pige der havde
røget for mange cigaretter og ikke tænkte så store
tanker om sig selv, men lærte at elske en misforstået dreng
på trods af at *** endnu ikke havde lært at elske sig selv
jeg er tom for ord
for jeg ved at jeg allerede har sagt det hele
du ændrede mig og du rørte mig som ingen anden har gjort
og jeg savner dig, jeg mangler dig
og dette efterår, drømmer jeg endnu engang kun om dig
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 6:01 PM UTC
https://youtu.be/fZSiBj4vCiY
My Carona,
Don't u know we've come a long long way
I've been fearin' that you'd come
When u're around u take our breath away
Bad Carona,
The symptoms surely hurts bud-gets
I'm a part-time worker at a ho-tel here in town
Ca-ro-na!
Oh Ca-ro-na go a-way,
Oh bad Ca-ro-na!
Ca-ro-na!
Oh Ca-ro-na go a-way,
Ca-ro-na go a-way!
Bad Ca-ro-na
u've caused some sad
& scary times
Just the thoughts about u brings back an-xi-e-ty
Gyp-sy vi-rus
You're a my-ster-y for doc-tors
U got har-bors locked down so ships can't sail out to sea
U cover sun-light when the times r good!
U treat us so bad-ly we want u gone now!
Bad Ca-ro-na!
Oh Ca-ro-na go a-way,
Oh bad Ca-ro-na
Ca-ro-na!
Oh Ca-ro-na go a-way,
Ca-ro-na go a-way!
Bad Ca-ro-na!
Oh Ca-ro-na go a-way,
Oh bad Ca-ro-na
Ca-ro-na!
Oh Ca-ro-na go a-way,
Ca-ro-na go a-way!
Bad Ca-ro-na!
Oh Ca-ro-na go a-way,
Oh bad Ca-ro-na
Ca-ro-na!
Oh Ca-ro-na go a-way,
Ca-ro-na go a-way!
Bad Ca-ro-na!
Oh Ca-ro-na go a-way,
Oh bad Ca-ro-na
Ca-ro-na!
Oh Ca-ro-na go a-way,
Ca-ro-na go a-way!
Bad Ca-ro-na!
Oh Ca-ro-na go a-way,
Oh bad Ca-ro-na
Ca-ro-na!
Oh Ca-ro-na go a-way,
Ca-ro-na go a-way!
© From A Poet's ♥️
3/17/20
Viruses r
Minuses
Bacteria causes
Dilerium
Even a cold
Can wipe out the old
U came down w/ the flu?!
We should quarantine u!
© From A Poet's ♥️
3/17/20
Pray more
Stress less
And my life won't
B such a mess
© From A Poet's ♥️
3/18/20
Homeschooling?!
Who r u fooling?!
I know u!
And that won't do!
That's y u work!
And and chose public school!
So they deal w/
Kids who act like fools!
I'm not stupid!
And you're not Cupid!
An arrow to their heart
Won't make things restart!
© From A Quarantined Poet's ♥️
4/29/20
May 23, 2020
May 23, 2020 at 9:02 PM UTC
dawn breaks like fine c h
i n a. opens with hinges **rus
t**y as age/old cracks.
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 1:47 PM UTC
ja
ze sfobodą holokaustu
rogiem bodziec...
atak!
R jak niby to pierogiem
Hosanna tyczy glut i smarkań!
bo to Rus i ryj anty Franc
a niby Syb kiwaniem -iria!
i głaz w zaziąb raptem szachy!
goszka ta sympatia narodu
w kwicie krucjat, kwitnienia jego Igor jego
Urrrrrrrrrr' 'ban! inicjał Urkaina!
lelum polelum... oh naj na Lacha...
Urban drugi a krucjata pierw...
bogiem tyczy nas co raptem...
co raptem to nie tyczy 'kogo... rzecz
raptem daje duszy sfobode!
i tak ten umysł zbyt jak rumcajs w cyrku...
między ciałem a duszą to ten umysł...
ta abstrakcja muzgu hartem w nic
by znaleść się i nie!
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 9:26 PM UTC
if you're asking me to be subhuman
give me a plot-line, i'd find one among the Zimbabweans
a minute later, but give me a plot-line,
i just want to know the hierarchy from now on...
a Dutch spat in a Polish girl's face...
give me the ******* plot-line! or is this one of those moments
where you say: ja zapomnieć mówienia po polsku.
oh, you're one of those hybrids?!
should have told me sooner!
how's the Sunday roast treating you?
it's a bit dry, i admit, typical Pole-lack...
fights for independence from the Rus and the Prus
and then gets **** with the **** that pays him...
like some Chilean **** of a fake shaman,
or some Afro, gets ****** on all fours
for posterity being the reasonable standard...
has no pride, no ulterior motive, just sits there
expecting relief without working for it,
what a lucky bunch of beetroots, chequers in cheek,
rosy, the next flush of hope in casual conversation
estimating the standards of non-racial involvement
inside post-Saxony is Ulster -
they really want retards and are anti-bilingual,
the same plague that met the Normans, the Cnut
brigadiers, they want inbreeding, but as the ladies
say: better Paki-pickup-grooming than a white
boy fanciful of romance... ain't that a pretty sight...
had to revolve upon the thick-skinned ones...
the ones who would't sue...
but with us Russia... ***** whipped by Jews and
cinnamon skinned ones are we? ***** - you said it,
i'm reaffirming;
you could have been colonial with them -
i won't let your colonial subjects turn colonial on me!
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 10:16 PM UTC