"sacked" poems
Why the hell ... do they do it … ???
They run blacks like ... " Fluid " ... !!!
Well ... THE TRUTH is ...
Most Coppers ... Keep Proving ...
... They're ... STUPID ... !!!!!
Harassment ... INDEED ... !!!!
is why ... some of them ... BLEED ... !!!!!
But ... Let me ... Proceed ...
cos' ... I will ... NOT Concede ... !!!!!
that ... ANY ... Police Force ...
is .... " RACISM FREE " ... !!!!!!!!!
" This Morn' " ...
It was ... ME ...
who they wanted ... " To be " ...
ANOTHER ... Young Black ...
in .... " Police Custody " ....
“Excuse me sir,
your car is registered,
to a national bank ?”
“THAT’S BECAUSE THE CAR’S LEASED,
I’M PAYING A FEE,
SO THE CAR IS THE BANKS ….
IT DON’T, BELONG TO ME … !!!…”
“Okay Okay !!!
but, can we have,
your name please ?”
“LET’S GO TO MY WORKPLACE,
IT’S OVER THERE, SEE !”
See .....
That's when ... their faces ...
Disguised their ... TRUE HATRED ... !!!!!
of ... seeing a black ...
Who Ain't ... " Selling Crack " ... !!!!!
The car that I drive ...
is ... " LEGIT " ...
That's a .... FACT .... !!!!!
While ... RACIST OLD BILL ...
NEVER SEEM ... to get ... " SACKED " … !?! …
When ...
" Their Nature's " ... EXPOSED ... !!!!!
They Quickly ... ” DECOMPOSE ” ... !!!
and then ... just .... RESORT ...
to ... ******* ... Up Their Nose ... !!!
Which ...
Just goes to ... SHOW ...
It's NOT ... " Only Blacks " ...
who take drugs ... when they're low ...
It's ... White People ... TOO ... !!!!!
who shove ... Coc' ... Up Their Nose ...
But whose ... " Cashing In " ... ???
is what ... I want to ... KNOW ... !!!!!!!
because i'm ... Getting Sick ...
of ...... " ALL TELL " ......
and ... " NO SHOW " ... !!!!!
They ... KEEP ON HARASSING ... !!!
Then ... KEEP ON SUGGESTING ...
"Blacks being mis-treated,
is NOT a Race Thing !"
But …. ???? ….
These ... "hidden-cam" ... shows
Now Show ... how things' go ...
It's ... NOT JUST ... undercovers' ...
Who ... " Sniff Out " ... THE TRUTH ... !!!
Now ... Journalists too ...
have ... " Suddenly Learned " ... !?!
That .....
" White Men " ... under cover ...
Show Racism's ... TRUE ... !!!!!!!!!!
NOT ...
A figment in ... Black peoples' ...
****** …. Brain Tool ... !!!?!!! …
Now ...
Those are not words ...
I believe to be ... True ... !!!
I’m just ... " THE BLACK ” ...
.... Sherlock Holmes .... !!!! ....
Giving people ... " Some Clues " ...
as to ... WHY ... " Some " ... Black Men ...
feel the way that ... I DO ... !!!
Harassment ... is ... REAL ... !!!
But ...
Here is ... THE DEAL ... !!!
" Some " ... Black people STEAL ...
and DO ... move in ... "The Dark' ...
Like ... "Covert" ... Navy Seals ... !!!!!
But ......
THIS ... Does Not mean ...
that ... EVERY ... Black Person ...
is into ... " THAT SCENE " ... !!!!!!!!
and that ... Money they've made ...
Really NEEDS ... A Good Clean ...
in a .... " Laundry Machine " .... ?!?
It's Policemen ... to me ...
who work in ... " ***** TEAMS " ...
and then in ... " Their Dreams " ...
Make ... Black People ... SCREAM ... !!!!!!
Just check through ... THE NEWS ...
You'll SEE ... what I mean ...
Well .....
My day's getting ... better ....
now i've ... " Typed " ...
These few ... " Letters " ...
But it's .....
Time to ... STOP TAPPING ...
cos' this poem i've written ...
has allowed me to ... VENT ... !!!
My View ...
On These ... PIGS ... !!!!!
Who ...... THRIVE ON ......
……… ” HARASSMENT ” ………. !!! ? !!!
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 5:49 PM UTC
There once was a man
Whose livelihood was rubber.
He worked long and hard; and wore a tan,
He was a plantation tapper.
One night he packed,
In haste after a long day of toil.
Quickly had his belongings all sacked
Under light from a lantern that reeked of kerosene oil.
He was ready, flame from the lantern he did ****
Overhead, the midnight moon brightly shone.
Bound his sack to the rack above the rear wheel,
Mounted his bicycle and soon he was gone.
The dirt trail leading back,
Undulating with gravel all strewn.
Almost treacherous this forgotten track
He only relied on light from the moon.
The air was cool just like any other,
But something was different about this night.
Squinting ahead he spotted a figure.
Flagging him down was a lady in white...
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 10:38 PM UTC
I
Through vines indeterminate
Red cherry eyes peeped,
And spied two forms,
Fleshy pink and brown
Trees, tangled at the roots,
kissing in the canopy.
II
The garden was our
Discotheque, the sullen
Moonlight reflected
On the Black Beauties,
Twisted black mirrors,
in the garden of joy.
III
O, to again be mov'd
By your heirloom lips,
I'd give it all, the earth,
the sun, and the water.
A sacrifice: my Homesteads,
for a home.
IV
Soil runs dry.
The sun scorches.
Plagues run rampant.
We burn, we are sacked
and pillaged, and destroyed.
Roma, Roma, Roma.
V.
Maybe the rain,
Or sweet shade,
Or gentle sun,
Or simply the need
To be so defiantly
alive, will bring us again,
And I will drink you up again,
Brandywine.
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 11:18 AM UTC
I've never been to Paris in the spring summer or fall
Nor seen the Champs-Élysées blanketed in winters fresh snow
I've never seen it, Why? As I could never go alone
I seemed to miss the part where two lovers met and kissed or stood for 20 minuites in a passionate embrace
Then slowley walk together hand in hand in the rain, along the banks of the river of romance, the Siene
I'm not in the lovers photographs, beneath the Eiffel tower or the playful Quasimodo pose outside of Notre Dame
You won't see me in any of them, for I was never there, because while my lover travelled I stayed and built a home, a place we could call our own.
But bigger and better was never enough your greed for things was just to much then one day off you went as you didn't hear a word I'd said
To you by now I was simply staff and just like them I was sacked
But now alone I look at things and know what I can do
Change the way I look at life and why I never went with you
For Paris is for lovers and not just those who share the rent
So one day I'll go to Paris, even if I am alone
I shall walk the streets and see the sights that lovers call their own
Who knows If I'm the only one who needs to make that trip
Do others think of it the same in reverence and wish?
One day i'll go to gay Paris and a blank post card I shall send
"From Paris" with a smiley face
"I learnt to love myself".....
A picture of the tower or a snap outside the Louvre
Unsigned
No senders address
From Paris
With Love
Aug 13, 2012
Aug 13, 2012 at 8:22 PM UTC
Can I be considered a good leader if those that follow ultimately fail in my absence?
Is the artist only as good as the canvas upon which she brings her creations to life?
I suspect not.
Therefore I am a failure as my legacy is covered in the blemishes of the fallen. Viaducts down, Rome sacked as what once was great is now nothing more than tales told by those who choose to live in the past.
But I am young.
Thus I return to the scene of my crime, hastily departed, left reeling, a drunk short a drink and a sympathetic ear, and I begin anew.
Perhaps this time I will impart some wisdom to allow those that can to light their own path, so that this time when I depart they will stand resolute and face the coming dark with the certainty of knowledge, of awakened minds.
Wish me luck.
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 2:34 AM UTC
When I put her out, once, by the garbage pail,
She looked so limp and bedraggled,
So foolish and trusting, like a sick poodle,
Or a wizened aster in late September,
I brought her back in again
For a new routine--
Vitamins, water, and whatever
Sustenance seemed sensible
At the time: she'd lived
So long on gin, bobbie pins, half-smoked cigars, dead beer,
Her shriveled petals falling
On the faded carpet, the stale
Steak grease stuck to her fuzzy leaves.
(Dried-out, she creaked like a tulip.)
The things she endured!--
The dumb dames shrieking half the night
Or the two of us, alone, both seedy,
Me breathing ***** at her,
She leaning out of her *** toward the window.
Near the end, she seemed almost to hear me--
And that was scary--
So when that snuffling ****** of a maid
Threw her, *** and all, into the trash-can,
I said nothing.
But I sacked the presumptuous hag the next week,
I was that lonely.
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We plyed our oars as we sweeped across the surf,
our ships skimming the water with ease,
we seized towns, plundered fishing ports, sacked cities,
we worshipped the great Odin, in his hall in Asgard,
All for what?
We did this, so we might go to Valhalla, the last revelry.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 10:25 PM UTC
My fantasies turned blonde in ‘seventy-six.
Bjorn, Benny, flickas, sailed from East to West.
Santa Lucia never shone so blessed
as she did in my private Euro-mix.
Perfect pop longs for that feminine fix.
Cassette wheels whirred – branding, then impressing
grooves upon the brain; my thrall confessing
love for Nordic light (in Disco metrics).
The names still strike flames, kindling bright renown:
Frida, Agnetha – your longships linger
Your Viking faces sacked my harbor town.
portaging hope to this shipwrecked singer,
enwreathing smiles to reach our further shore.
I Do… (times five – and will forevermore).
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 5:53 PM UTC
Then there are these moments
When your constant addition and subtractions,
Not finalized,
But put aside,
For the smallest of tokens become the
Largesse of life.
I am writing a long poem that is yet unfinished,
Of Richard II, Bach, and the death of a king,
King Ego, the battle infernal of vanity, insecurity,
And the constancy, the sense that one is never good enough.
Then sacked, for a loss, behind the goal line,
By the few, the kind, the genteel.
From nowhere, sought not, comes quiet thanks,
Appreciation that makes my angst seem
Petty and childish, smaller than small.
One draws a deep breath,
In no rush to exhale.
Then as luck would have it,
Pachelbel's Canon In D Major arrives,
An uninvited, most lovely, most timely guest,
and I am on the floor
Weeping unashamedly that the kindness of the
Few, the kind, the genteel lift me up and tissue my tears.
Unclear and unknown what I have done to deserve
Such affection, for all I have proffered are a few words,
An insight or two garnered from reading between the lines.
I understand less, emote more, and head spun,
I, poet, defenseless, for I am inadequate to the task.
I feel your hands upon my elbows,
Your arms around my shoulders,
I, am poet risen,
Words not insufficient, for
Words deemed unnecessary.
For I am poet risen,
Up, up, up by the
Uncompromising embrace of the
Few, the kind, the genteel.
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 4:48 PM UTC
Spirit and Breath of Life, whate'er Thy name!
Bear with Thy creature, Man,
That makes his dwelling-place a blot of shame
Upon the Ordered Plan.
Not Thy hand, O Divine Designer, hurled
Athwart the starlit skies
One blood-stained, greed-diseased, hate-eaten world,
To shock celestial eyes.
Not Thy default, O Beautiful, this crust
Of fratricidal crime,
These maggot-breeds of hunger and of lust
That Thy fair work begrime.
But ours, who mock Thee from the highest place,
And in the light of day;
Who claim to lead an upward-struggling race,
And will not seek the way.
Guards of the human birthright, at Thy call -
A city sacked and burned;
Guards of the house that is the home of all,
But whence the weak are spurned.
Brothers, to whom the outcast brothers cry
As with a voice unknown;
Stewards of Nature's bounty, that deny
The lawful heirs their own.
Thou that hast made us men, and earth so fair,
To be so vilely used,
Give space for late repentance and repair
Of sacred trust abused.
Give time, Eternal, that we stanch these tears,
Give time to heal this sore,
That our brief speck amid the shining spheres
Disgrace its birth no more.
But sail ethereal seas, an orb of light,
To bear Thy purpose on
Until it fades into the cosmic night
Where the dead worlds have gone.
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Black bombs fly
religious people lie
sky scrapers cleric capers
THOSE!!!! archaic papers rise
here human dwelling must crumble
and masses must die.
WHERE ARE THEY GOING TO???????
in this barren space of Arabic land
feet aimlessly plod
the elderly pray
widows wail
orphans weep
and babies cry
on the order 1947
sacked from a place called heaven
waves in a sandstorm
40 nights and 40 more....
THOSE!!!! ghouls are rotten to the core
killing innocence
and much, much more....
Oct 17, 2023
Oct 17, 2023 at 3:15 PM UTC
♪♥♫♥♫♥♪♥♫♥♫
My fantasies turned blonde in ‘seventy-six.
Bjorn, and the flickas sailed from East to West.
Santa Lucia never shone so blessed
as she did in my private Euro-mix.
Perfect pop longs for that feminine fix.
Cassette wheels whirred – branding, then impressing
grooves upon the brain; my thrall confessing
love for Nordic light (in Disco metrics).
The names still strike flames, kindling bright renown:
Frida, Agnetha – your longships linger
Your Viking faces sacked my harbor town.
portaging hope to this shipwrecked singer,
enwreathing smiles to reach our further shore.
I Do… (times five – and will forevermore).
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 10:49 PM UTC
The snow set in the barn,
Where the horses once laid
On a cold night, ice spiraled
We tossed,turned, all packed
The troops tamed to acquiesce
Rifles silenced, bullets sacked
Stocks in deficit, awaiting ambush
Sores overturned and edged in holes
Our nerves dead in the silent night
Risking an aching machine, a body
Pushing to extremities, thrill seeking
My mind numb, body ignited in dumb
Left, right… series audibly recurred
Halting to reflect the extreme valour
A salute to quench and honor a reality
For I once sacrificed my "liberties" for "others"
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 1:00 PM UTC
This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling,
Like a huge ***** rise the burnished arms;
But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing
Startles the villages with strange alarms.
Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary,
When the death-angel touches those swift keys!
What loud lament and dismal Miserere
Will mingle with their awful symphonies!
I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus,
The cries of agony, the endless groan,
Which, through the ages that have gone before us,
In long reverberations reach our own.
On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer,
Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman’s song,
And loud, amid the universal clamor,
O’er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong.
I hear the Florentine, who from his palace
Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din,
And Aztec priests upon their teocallis
Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent’s skin;
The tumult of each sacked and burning village;
The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns;
The soldiers’ revels in the midst of pillage;
The wail of famine in beleaguered towns;
The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder,
The rattling musketry, the clashing blade;
And ever and anon, in tones of thunder
The diapason of the cannonade.
Is it, O man, with such discordant noises,
With such accursed instruments as these,
Thou drownest Nature’s sweet and kindly voices,
And jarrest the celestial harmonies?
Were half the power, that fills the world with terror,
Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts,
Given to redeem the human mind from error,
There were no need of arsenals or forts:
The warrior’s name would be a name abhorred!
And every nation, that should lift again
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead
Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain!
Down the dark future, through long generations,
The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease;
And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations,
I hear once more the voice of Christ say, “Peace!”
Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals
The blast of War’s great ***** shakes the skies!
But beautiful as songs of the immortals,
The holy melodies of love arise.
1.9k
For Ricky*
Ricky Williams, Miami Running Back (2002-2003, 2005)
When the news broke and the camera pointed at a torn tent
on the outskirts of Miami where you sat knees-up-to-chest
professing enlightenment, the football world sacked itself
wondering how good your *** really was. Must have been
growing straight from Buddha’s back yard because to give
up 16 million like that, to go from bachelor pad demigod
to hippy hero of the pimply *** smokers, requires some
kind of unfathomable spirituality. I wonder if the Sadhu
could even find a desk big enough for your frame. All 230 pounds
lurching forward with brittle bones towards some kind
of endzone sanctity not represented by a smiling porpoise
but a transcendent 1st and ten where maybe you’d be happy.
After your final game I imagined you’d do what so many
washed up athletes do: find meaning in the parking lot
of a used car palace or open up a Dairy Queen, maybe
join your kids PTA and tell fourth graders stories that
you now half-believe. I didn’t think it be like this: you smoking
****** under a mauled tarpaulin, brushing fly’s away from
dingy dredlocks, running forward, exasperatedly free,
while a nation wonders why you’ve failed us.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 10:03 AM UTC
I'm a hung dumpster! Alcohol flask bucket
Sacked into the trash can of grocery store monopoly the end of all produce and of production
Collapse
Coronary killer vegetables
Rotting in the stomach
Begotten sons of Aspergers eating asparagus
the symptoms of collectivism and social surplus. colliding and,
The end of evolve.
The cities you see are the collecting cells pooling to cesspit trudging on tracheing breath.
Collapsing lungs with no space left
The cornucopia is over. It fell down with its mortar and grout lain to crust into soil. Traipsed through toil torture and insolence.
The Crimea fell next comes bombs next comes Obamba. Capitulation with motor skills
Feigning docility and anti-hostility mortar round bills.
Mountains from Jerusalem cricket ant hills
I am your friend though we owe the same blood
I am no different yet I give nothing up
I claim all the land just as you do
You take and you take and I lose and lose
Corruption and solitude
Killing people only gets you less friends
We are mirror yet very mad at it
.
My time will be up only but once.
This is the one time I'm not scared of death
But the glimmer in her eyes laughs me through it.
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 12:09 AM UTC
I am a feminist.
Does that mean I'm the
radical relentless woman determined
to ruin the rule of the man?
Or am I the sweet, soft lass
striving to impress my sweetheart,
because we all know that ‘confidence is ****
I am a feminist.
Even though my friends have told me
“I’ve never felt unequal to men”
And the raging facebook comments
on the history of how women are inferior
and men cannot be *****
Because their opinions cannot be right.
I am a feminist.
When I was 15 I thought I was wrong
for liking menswear, and still wearing skirts.
I was told that if you were assaulted
the culprit could never be caught
because their word speaks louder than yours.
I am a feminist.
When the UK statistics say
that nearly a quarter of men do not think consent is important
and thousands are sacked for just being pregnant.
We are bombarded
by the expectations of looking good
because now your eyebrows your greatest trait.
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 3:53 PM UTC
In the swirling zephyr,
The grass dances weakly
I heard an escort,– Awaits my way to the Wolf Hall.
A triumphant sinister;—
My broken pleasure,— How lovely to see thy scraps again..
Such a bounty hunter
What the gods want now?
Doth not turn me around!—
Doth not hang me!
If thou loose my ties,—
Thou wilt be a murderer of all vines!
Spare me!— I am not thy prey;
I am not one of Greek's peccant,
Please, off loathing my purity!
This predator devoured me..
The ****** of his dark matter, stabbed me..
The mob held me captive,— by net traps
The culprit lies next to me—
Acted one alike raw; then I was sacked,
I felt the bethel was mocked,—
But my Lord won't despise me.
A paralyzed arrest screeched me
I was stroke— by a vermin quenched for meat..
Thou art the most cherished
It is still me..
Scattered with mud,
Dressed in a blanket;
Hoping to kiss thee
Bend for belief,— and not forgiveness
Wherefor thy body shivers?
Thy cup is condensing,
Lips ill-looking;
Red flames changing blue—
Am I still the hue?
I sensed—
Thou fell into the pit
My shreds, thy lust
The roots art on the tip of thy nails!
An ancestral plague poisoning whoever sits,—
And bridesmaking is a promiscuous habit—
To grasp a braided hair,— for an accessory
Behold, the lineage of romantic paintings,
Whence the bonds turn to heist
Looting innocence and staying in history...
May 8, 2020
May 8, 2020 at 4:13 AM UTC
When I was a child, I was told the story of my Grandfathers mother she was a refugee from mother Russia.
He told me that we were no longer considered white that is a luxury.
And we have become subhuman in most places.
We were either locked behind iron walls to be kept in or out.
He told me how they sacked and burned our villages.
Then they proceeded to chase us on horseback, with swords pointed too the distant future.
She was led to the nearest boat, headed towards The Land Of Opportunity.
At the island she was locked away for Tuberculose and possibly Lice
When leaving she refused to put an X for her name for obvious reasons.
So she signed ****
Years later I found out, she had opened a pawn shop down south.
In what now is the forth most segregated area in the states.
She sat outside with a shotgun in a rocking chair and windows barred.
when there King died.
Sadly, the last thing remembered by my Papa's mother including my family is a fist fight.
In Santa Barbra.
I saw the look of panic and pain on her despondent face.
At this point that look was a common occurrence in my day to day life.
Hence, the reason I wasn't allowed at the funeral.
I was locked away at another rehabilitation center.
For crimes I had of course never committed
Since then I have not laid any tulips or morning prayers.
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 4:22 AM UTC
Geometric Considerations and Nomenclature for Reflectance, U. A march section in B flat minor follows.
Cordelia is nervous about her father's tax position but does not tell the others. Japan's Olympic judo team.
Rehberg married his high school sweetheart, Jan, a water attorney who represents farmers and ranchers. In four games, he had been sacked 23 times and had a pass intercepted 12 times.
Eastern Europe, and conspired to spread communism throughout the world. There are 55 schools in Kortrijk, on 72 different locations throughout the city, with an estimated 21,000 students. Go through all tools, materials, and so forth in the plant and work area.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 7:25 AM UTC
To become aware of the single moment that needs interpreting
To be jolted from sleep between sheets creased in the tribulations of dreamscapes
Clammy hand pressed to neck you remember yourself
And before it slips and crumbles spiraling up to the cosmos it is captured
Pinch your eyes together and draw the cool water from the well
A friend’s arm around your shoulder; a sweaty smile, meandering through
The crowds of faces, each one drab and still, motionless for you
Tendrils of tenderness wandering o’er a body consumed in secret greed and corrosion
And the cheeky faced attached returning curiosity masked in love
Flitting up and down the stem of the one you knew to be yours
Yearning for her to open her petals and reward arduous labor
The repose of correcting ages of missteps and the satisfaction of
Correctly placing lost experience
Enjoying the rhythm pounded out by drums of progress, and then pacing
To one all your own
Reasserting brutal individuality in spite of legions upon legions of conformity
Then ironically setting the trend
Once seized, every vague trapping melts down weary head, past hunched back
Beyond knees bend to reach toe tip
Revitalized by the comfortable shade of your whole self, the parts unwanted, unseen
Usurped, intangible, inconceivable, and most illustrated purely glow
A self if surely sacked, a reanimated soul now softly speaks, and sexuality is assured in
Each slow step
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 2:45 PM UTC
///
*Nature was so mature to bring the rain
She was still muddy after that pain
He took that sad song
And knew how to love her too long
The rain was falling on the very dry land
And he was holding her on a hard stand
The heavy rain,
Very rain was falling and
Flowing through the vein and vale
And the mud was gathering on the feet of the dale
The wet heavy mud,
Soft elastic after the long flood
He had a pair of keen eyes to see the pore spaces,
And had seen her in so many pale faces
When the new fresh dawn came
God sacked her from all the blame
He collected all the mud from the dale
And made her mural on the vale
///
@ Musfiq us shaleheen*
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 2:21 PM UTC
I CAN WITHSTAND ANYTHING THAT COMES,
I'VE HAD MY RATION, IF GOD'S DONE HIS SUMS,
ANY KIND OF STORM, POWER CUT OR BLACK,
SOMETIME'S YOU WONDER IF YOU'RE EVER COMING BACK;
I'VE BEEN SNOWBOUND AND WITHOUT ANY KIND OF SOUND,
WHAT'S IT LIKE WHEN YOU'RE DOWN TO YOUR LAST POUND,
SACKED, RETRENCHED, HUMILIATED AND IGNORED,
YOU THINK YOU'VE BEEN FORSAKEN BY MY SWEET LORD,
ONCE I COULDN'T EVEN SEE WHAT WAS IN FRONT OF ME,
HOW STRONG ARE YOU IF YOU LOSE YOUR HOUSE AND FAMILY,
I'M TIRED, CAN'T GO ON ANY MORE IT WOULD SEEM,
YOU LOSE FAITH, RESILIENCE - YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN;
BUT THERE'S ONE THING LEFT - COUNT A BLESSING AS YOU DO,
HOW LUCKY I AM TO HAVE SOMEONE WITH YOUR POINT OF VIEW.
Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 3:01 PM UTC
In the hot noon, in an old and savage garden,
The peach-tree grows. Its cruel and ugly roots
Rend and rifle the silent earth for moisture.
Above, in the blue, hang warm and golden fruits.
Look, how the cancerous roots crack mould and stone!
Earth, if she had a voice, would wail her pain.
Is she the victim, or is the tree the victim?
Delicate blossoms opened in the rain,
Black bees flew among them in the sunlight,
And sacked them ruthlessly; and no a bird
Hangs, sharp-eyed, in the leaves, and pecks the fruit;
And the peach-tree dreams, and does not say a word.
. . . Senlin, tapping his trowel against a stone,
Observes this tree he planted: it is his own.
'You will think it strange,' says Senlin, 'but this tree
Utters profound things in this garden;
And in its silence speaks to me.
I have sensations, when I stand beneath it,
As if its leaves looked at me, and could see;
And those thin leaves, even in windless air,
Seem to be whispering me a choral music,
Insubstantial but debonair.
"Regard," they seem to say,
"Our idiot root, which going its brutal way
Has cracked your garden wall!
Ugly, is it not?
A desecration of this place . . .
And yet, without it, could we exist at all?"
Thus, rustling with importance, they seem to me
To make their apology;
Yet, while they apologize,
Ask me a wary question with their eyes.
Yes, it is true their origin is low--
Brutish and dull and cruel . . . and it is true
Their roots have cracked the wall. But do we know
The leaves less cruel--the root less beautiful?
Sometimes it seems as if there grew
In the dull garden of my mind
A tree like this, which, singing with delicate leaves,
Yet cracks the wall with cruel roots and blind.
Sometimes, indeed, it appears to me
That I myself am such a tree . . .'
. . . And as we hear from Senlin these strange words
So, slowly, in the sunlight, he becomes this tree:
And among the pleasant leaves hang sharp-eyed birds
While cruel roots dig downward secretly.
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all these things led you here
the oversized headlines
of your father’s newspaper
and his father's before him
the pakistani shopkeeper
who accused you of stealing
whose bark roasted your pimpled face
the boy at college you flirted with
the tall boy with the sleek curtained hair
whose family had fled iraq
who made you laugh
and nudged your knees
who went to study medicine
and never texted you back
your dad’s boss
the fat Jamaican
who sacked him at easter
just a handful of years before his retirement
the girl at work
beautiful girl
in the headscarf
who married a man she’d never seen
and when you asked her
if he was a good man
she replied joyously ‘yes!
the best man!’
the many taxi drivers
who ferry you home
and overcharge you
watching you in the dark mirror
beetle eyes glistening
caressing the face you prepared so neatly
now blotchy and wet
ketchup clown
bloated in the window
the face of second generation ivory
all these things led you here
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 6:46 AM UTC