"sancho" poems
Speaking of how
these Ladies of the Night
must hate Daylight Savings Time
since the sun doesn’t set until nine, and
the cloying summer scent of honeysuckle
drowns the smell of their knock-off Gucci Guilty.
Except there’s that one A.M. Pro
who works the whole stretch in front of
The Towing and Recovery Museum
from 7 something till lunch.
She’s tried to keep a low profile, but
is hoping to meet that one lonesome soul
who needs to get blown
at ten o’clock in the ******* morning.
Sometimes I wave at her when I drive by,
wishing her the best,
whatever that may look like...
The fasten seatbelt warning light is flashing on my dashboard but
I’m buckled in, rest assured.
That’s probably important, but
it’s like what Don Q whispered to Sancho through the Spanish gloom:
“I need you.”
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 2:29 PM UTC
I'm the macho!
no one dares!
share your indultos,
body bares.
enter the club,
all eyes on me!
I have a new tattoo,
do come and see.
do you have something,
then speak, yes you may.
try your luck,
watch what you say!
give me a bottle,
twenty five years solero.
come my darling,
oh **** sombreros!
I am the macho,
Senior Sancho!
human toro,
ultimate pistolero!
Nov 2, 2010
Nov 2, 2010 at 7:17 AM UTC
Fighting demons
Bursting bubbles
He's in my head
Among the rubbles
Seeing that most things get done
He works at it from moon till sun
He tilts at windmills only he can see
Please meet.... Don Quixote
My affliction
or my soul
hearing voices
takes its toll
Fighting what may not be there
And if it's not, why should I care?
Before the windmills in my mind
Don Quixote....you will find
An empty veldt of muddled thoughts
On a crooked road to nowhere
A wasteland of x's and noughts
With no way to get there
A wilderness of abstract themes
And wishes that I need share
The guardian of what I write
Tilting windmills in my minds air
Hidden loves
Broken hearts
So much to do
just where to start
No Sancho Panza by his side
In my head he's stuck inside
Keeping madness at arms length
Don Quixote...my minds strength
Unfinished tales
Broken dreams
So little time
Or so it seems
A wayward soldier on his way
What windmills will he fight today?
The thoughts I write reveal what's me
Allowed outside by Quixote
An empty veldt of muddled thoughts
On a crooked road to nowhere
A wasteland of x's and noughts
With no way to get there
A wilderness of abstract themes
And wishes that I need share
The guardian of what I write
Tilting windmills in my minds air
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 1:00 PM UTC
Staring at the ceiling sky
Past lover's faces
Eyes
Dotting
The midnight moonless skies
Stars twinkling
Their light having been cast
Many light years ago
Each one for their time
Had in their eyes - for me -
The golden glow
Meteor showers of montage sequences
faces
scenes
times
fly by
Trailing ribbons in the ceiling skies
The dots when taken together
Tho eons passed and separated
Pieces and bits form constellations
Eros
Aphrodite
The Mother
Sancho Panza in drag disguise
A female Damocles and her sword
The Companion Star, still glowing here in the Western sky
Looking backwards in time
Their presence was once present
Now, all have vanished
Moved on to other places in space and time
Aware of all I have been given
All I've learned
Remembering I loved each one
And when the moon is right
and the ceiling is dark
and there is no sleep
for me tonight
Their light still shines
On my ceiling night sky.
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 11:25 AM UTC
I mean, it felt like I was a dead fish
Or something, left to rot out there in the sun,
Left there on purpose, you know, like it was
A threat—and Charles, it stinks—you know that?—
—the stench of all those old thoughts—
Yeah, thoughts…you know,
Like guppies maybe, sturgeon, or flounder.
You laugh? Why? Fish can think, can’t they? They flounder.
Suppose as we grow old the ancient thoughts
Appear as songs a child might sing—sotto voce.
Suppose they’re like the masks the actors wore
In some Commedia dell’Arte farce,
Or like the web a spider strings across
A road, hidden, dark, all subtle tension,
The strands still wet with the coagulate air…
Too wet to breath, Charles, way too wet.
There’s more. Suppose a face inside that mask
Looks back, looks out. Suppose the rings run circles round
The eyes, for fear. Suppose it’s an old face of yours,
Charles, smiling too, with all that sullen pride
You once were so capable of…so proud.
This is not the Lone Ranger, kimosabi.
Not Zorro either. Man is least himself
When he talks in his own person. So let’s
Try on that mask, shall we?
One for you and one for me.
Masks aplenty, masks abound,
Masks askance…
There, it fits. Welcome, Charles. Welcome back.
And welcome ghost.
…a ghost to prompt you in your mask, a ghost
off stage, and hoarse from shouting, diaphanous,
just like the real thing: for curiously,
at that moment while he is in you,
in situ, as it were, I will be left
au naturel—yeah, me—king for a day.
We were all meant to crawl away from the sea,
were we not?
…and I count the collective ghosts here too,
Charles…
… atavistic, frightened, unaneled,
and openly integumentary
(thus, open to the sea, but repellant
to air)
—owls, Orion, a star-scarred sky,
too cold to breath that night,
too cold not to, eh, Charles?
Like Don Quixote and Sancho Panza,
like Hamlet and Horatio,
out with the watch, in search
of ghosts and fathers…
ghosts and fathers, Charles.
You remember that?
Back then, when you used to listen to me
when I spoke. You did listen, then, Charles when
I said things, right?
All those old thoughts…
When I could sing…
Charles?
Feb 15, 2010
Feb 15, 2010 at 8:52 AM UTC
My body has begun its chorus
of holy fertile futures,
it was time to stop praying for the apocalypse,
we had begun to grow old.
This return to my oceanic blood
provokes ol' Sancho's proverbs.
I become a dreamer of goats all around
as I find our common nature
in the salty blood of the earth.
After so many years of gathering salt,
from youthful pupils
wild on becoming Oedipus,
I finally swallowed my heart,
-it had been leaping into other ribs
then panicking at the site of another cage,
and damaging the very thing that had become its home.
I decided I couldn't bear another ******
How did this need for love become butchery?
So, I recalled the ocean
the way the abyss gave life to my salty motion,
I've emptied my sorrow into the sea and became free.
Now, my heart swims in mortal infinity.
The apocalypse has come and gone.
My land has begun to sing with renewal.
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 11:22 AM UTC
Historia de mujeres en grupo que se matan cargándose de la risa porque saben que hay algo más especial.
Kumiko, era pelirroja ansiana de 76 años con ojos verdes, tenía elegancia al caminar en su casa de madera, y era extraordinaria al hacer te sencha traído de un horizonte. Kumiko tenía nueve hijos, una mama llamada Dera, que tenía 98 años y se relacionaban muy bien, más que amigas. Un día se enamoraron las dos de una niña caminando por el parque las hizo mal pensar que la historia no varía, se entrega y se apasiona. Que sería de la elegancia? Porque se murió la elegancia en los ciencuenta, que le paso a las actrizes cuando los ojos ya no lloran, cuando acaban de matar a los gatos en Haití y los amantes de Cortázar se mueven en su cuento. Si conocéis esa historia eres Sancho y el es más chistoso que el. El hombre de la Triste Figura es serio, como un árbol sin nombre o la Pampa sin lluvia.
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 4:01 PM UTC
My friends are dropping like flies,
and by dropping, I mean dying.
I mean no longer trying to
fly in a world that wanted
them grounded.
Perry drowned,
and Greg was
found on Highway 6 hit by a
minivan—vodka in hand.
They say the best laid
plans of mice and men oft go
astray—that’s an understatement.
My life plays out like
a scene from Dante’s Inferno.
Abandon all hope.
A month back, Kristin dies from
too much dope.
Tibbs goes out from a
stroke
or some kind of strange brain
malfunction.
I did C.P.R. at the
great wall,
the junction where
the drunks drink and the
dreamers scheme.
It doesn’t work—he goes into a coma.
No more roaming the streets with
my Sancho,
no more
beating the heat with
stolen wine in the
summer slick shade by
the river,
trying to save the
last sliver of our
humanity—only to walk head
long into a ****** up
destiny.
Providence can be a
punk *** ***** when it
wants to be.
See,
I’m not fooled by
life’s strong arm tactics,
one day my friends are fine;
the next,
they’re in caskets—and I’ll
be a basket case when it’s
all said and done.
****
standing still and
****
the sun.
**** the
moon and the stars
and the ******
and the bars.
****
This silly world
I’m done.
Feb 28, 2023
Feb 28, 2023 at 7:10 AM UTC
I remember walking miles with
our blackies (big garbage bags)
They were full of cans, a nickel a piece.
We were poor aluminum cowboys.
Kind of like Don Quixote and Sancho.
Chivalry wasn't our thing, but we
didn't shy away from it either.
We certainly had our share of
adventures, and misadventures too.
We headed East into the
glorious tangerine and lavender sky of
our La Mancha/Iowa City.
We should be chasing windmills, and
***** and cigarette butts;
except late one Summer day,
providence ended it all.
We sat behind our castle
(which closely resembled a grocery store.)
Your face went pallid and you fell on me.
I did C.P.R until the ambulance arrived.
You didn't make it.
I hope there are
adventures in Heaven,
my aluminum cowboy.
Jan 27, 2021
Jan 27, 2021 at 7:23 AM UTC
I golfed with Byron yesterday. And no, he didn't "kick my *** as promised. It's always an edifying round with Byron. On the links he looks more like Dorf than Frodo. Sometimes I glimpse the top of his head when he's in the rough, or see a cloud of sand, like the Roadrunner hitting the ground after the inevitable fall. Our conversation (his conversation) gamuts from his re-constructed porch to life on Mars. He'd like to build a porch on Mars. He is an Everyman almanac. His back swing is like a tilting windmill, and I, his Sancho, suggesting which club to use. In fairness, he makes some remarkable shots. Here are some I've heard:
"To pinch one off, inhale, then cough." This sums up Byron's intestinal fortitude. He takes heavy doses of codeine and morphine for his back.
"Don't swab your ears with asparagus spears." This is the extent of Byron's relationship with veggies. He's more a plant man.
"During *** if she wiggles her toes, she's still wearing ***** hose." Byron gives a full belly laugh at the double entendre.
"If you pick your nose choose the best plastic surgeon." Yeah, I know. Cute. Byron himself sports a double car garage.
"Men who manscape must **** or go ape." Pure irony for Byron. Nothing sharper than the bearded axe approaches his iron.
"Ladies, when you quin manicure, design it with a touch of ***** That's Byron. Discrete, gentle and quizzical.
"If you ********** get to the point. Don't hesitate." Byron would never admit to such self-indulgence.
It was a gorgeous golf day. Byron seems to make the sun shine a little brighter. He promises, next time, he'll kick my ***
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 9:34 AM UTC
After a tortuous hour of
math (algebra to be exact)
I start dinner; Middle Eastern stew:
Cardamom, Coriander, and turmeric.
Cooking is a little like math, but
much more like art. My mind begins
to ease as Bach pumps out
one of his symphonies from
the CD player. The stew boils, and
I want to go outside and play,
chase windmills. Where's Sancho?
Dulcinea's here, frustrated by my inept
ability in the equation game.
I ******* despise algebra.
Where's the Bluebird, the Sunflower,
Bukowski or Eugene O'Neil?
I want to smell a six-week-old puppy,
taste Van Gogh yellow, **** until
I can't walk, and ease my
way into old age.
Vivaldi plays his victorious song.
And I know I'll conquer the
numbers game, but probably not
before it drives me crazy;
actually, it's a short putt.
Jan 19, 2021
Jan 19, 2021 at 7:46 AM UTC
-¡Rey don Sancho, rey don Sancho!, no digas que no te aviso,
que de dentro de Zamora un alevoso ha salido;
llámase Vellido Dolfos, hijo de Dolfos Vellido,
cuatro traiciones ha hecho, y con esta serán cinco.
Si gran traidor fue el padre, mayor traidor es el hijo.
Gritos dan en el real: -¡A don Sancho han mal herido!
Muerto le ha Vellido Dolfos, ¡gran traición ha cometido!
Desque le tuviera muerto, metiose por un postigo,
por las calle de Zamora va dando voces y gritos:
-Tiempo era, doña Urraca, de cumplir lo prometido.
945
Rey de los hidalgos, señor de los tristes,
que de fuerza alientas y de ensueños vistes,
coronado de áureo yelmo de ilusión;
que nadie ha podido vencer todavía,
por la adarga al brazo, toda fantasía,
y la lanza en ristre, toda corazón.Noble peregrino de los peregrinos,
que santificaste todos los caminos
con el paso augusto de tu heroicidad,
contra las certezas, contra las conciencias
y contra las leyes y contra las ciencias,
contra la mentira, contra la verdad...¡Caballero errante de los caballeros,
varón de varones, príncipe de fieros,
par entre los pares, maestro, salud!
¡Salud, porque juzgo que hoy muy poca tienes,
entre los aplausos o entre los desdenes,
y entre las coronas y los parabienes
y las tonterías de la multitud!¡Tú, para quien pocas fueron las victorias
antiguas y para quien clásicas glorias
serían apenas de ley y razón,
soportas elogios, memorias, discursos,
resistes certámenes, tarjetas, concursos,
y, teniendo a Orfeo, tienes a orfeón!Escucha, divino Rolando del sueño,
a un enamorado de tu Clavileño,
y cuyo Pegaso relincha hacia ti;
escucha los versos de estas letanías,
hechas con las cosas de todos los días
y con otras que en lo misterioso vi.¡Ruega por nosotros, hambrientos de vida,
con el alma a tientas, con la fe perdida,
llenos de congojas y faltos de sol,
por advenedizas almas de manga ancha,
que ridiculizan el ser de la Mancha,
el ser generoso y el ser español!¡Ruega por nosotros, que necesitamos
las mágicas rosas, los sublimes ramos
de laurel Pro nobis ora, gran señor.
¡Tiembla la floresta de laurel del mundo,
y antes que tu hermano vago, Segismundo,
el pálido Hamlet te ofrece una flor!Ruega generoso, piadoso, orgulloso;
ruega casto, puro, celeste, animoso;
por nos intercede, suplica por nos,
pues casi ya estamos sin savia, sin brote,
sin alma, sin vida, sin luz, sin Quijote,
sin piel y sin alas, sin Sancho y sin Dios.De tantas tristezas, de dolores tantos
de los superhombres de Nietzsche, de cantos
áfonos, recetas que firma un doctor,
de las epidemias, de horribles blasfemias
de las Academias,
¡líbranos, Señor!De rudos malsines,
falsos paladines,
y espíritus finos y blandos y ruines,
del hampa que sacia
su canallocracia
con burlar la gloria, la vida, el honor,
del puñal con gracia,
¡líbranos, Señor!Noble peregrino de los peregrinos,
que santificaste todos los caminos,
con el paso augusto de tu heroicidad,
contra las certezas, contra las conciencias
y contra las leyes y contra las ciencias,
contra la mentira, contra la verdad...¡Ora por nosotros, señor de los tristes
que de fuerza alientas y de ensueños vistes,
coronado de áureo yelmo de ilusión!
¡que nadie ha podido vencer todavía,
por la adarga al brazo, toda fantasía,
y la lanza en ristre, toda corazón!
1k
Ser en la vida romero,
romero sólo que cruza siempre por caminos nuevos.
Ser en la vida romero,
sin más oficio, sin otro nombre y sin pueblo.
Ser en la vida romero, romero..., sólo romero.
Que no hagan callo las cosas ni en el alma ni en el cuerpo,
pasar por todo una vez, una vez sólo y ligero,
ligero, siempre ligero.
Que no se acostumbre el pie a pisar el mismo suelo,
ni el tablado de la farsa, ni la losa de los templos
para que nunca recemos
como el sacristán los rezos,
ni como el cómico viejo
digamos los versos.
La mano ociosa es quien tiene más fino el tacto en los dedos,
decía el príncipe Hamlet, viendo
cómo cavaba una fosa y cantaba al mismo tiempo
un sepulturero.
No sabiendo los oficios los haremos con respeto.
Para enterrar a los muertos
como debemos
cualquiera sirve, cualquiera... menos un sepulturero.
Un día todos sabemos
hacer justicia. Tan bien como el rey hebreo
la hizo Sancho el escudero
y el villano Pedro Crespo.
Que no hagan callo las cosas ni en el alma ni en el cuerpo.
Pasar por todo una vez, una vez sólo y ligero,
ligero, siempre ligero.
Sensibles a todo viento
y bajo todos los cielos,
poetas, nunca cantemos
la vida de un mismo pueblo
ni la flor de un solo huerto.
Que sean todos los pueblos
y todos los huertos nuestros.
939
I don't practice Santeria
I ain't got no crystal ball
Well, I had a million dollars but I, I'd spend it all.
If I could find that Heina, and that Sancho that she's found.
Well I'd pop a cap in Sancho & I'd slap her down.
What I really wanna know, mah baby, mmmm...
What I really wanna say I can't define.
Well it's love, that I need. Ohh...
My soul will have to, wait till I get back, find a Heina of my own.
Daddy's gonna love one and all.
I feel the break, feel the break, feel the break and I gotta live it up.
Oh, yeah, uh huh.
Well I swear that I.
What I really wanna know, ahh baby.
What I really wanna say I can't define, got love make it go.
My soul will have to...
[Instrumental Break]
Ooooo...
What I really wanna say, mah baby.
What I really wanna say is I've got mine, and I'll make it, oh yes I'm coming up.
Tell Sanchito that if he knows what is good for him he best go run and hide.
Daddy's got a new Forty-Five.
And I won't think twice to stick that barrel straight down Sancho's throat.
Believe me when I say that I got somethin' for his punk ***
What I really wanna know, mah baby.
Ooh What I really wanna say is there's just one, way back, and I'll make it, yeah.
My soul will have to wait, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 11:22 AM UTC
¡Rey don Sancho, rey don Sancho, ya que te apuntan las barbas,
quien te las vido nacer no te las verá logradas!
Don Fernando apenas muerto, Sancho a Zamora cercaba,
de un cabo la cerca el rey, del otro el Cid la apremiaba.
Del cabo que el rey la cerca Zamora no se da nada;
del cabo que el Cid la aqueja Zamora ya se tomaba;
corren las aguas del Duero tintas en sangre cristiana.
Habló el viejo Arias Gonzalo, el ayo de doña Urraca:
-Vámonos, hija, a los moros dejad a Zamora salva,
pues vuestro hermano y el Cid tan mal os desheredaban.
Doña Urraca en tanta cuita se asomaba a la muralla,
y desde una torre mocha el campo del Cid miraba.
786
-Morir vos queredes, padre, ¡San Miguel vos haya el alma!
Mandastes las vuestra tierras a quien se vos antojara:
diste a don Sancho a Castilla, Castilla la bien nombrada,
a don Alfonso a *** con Asturias y Sanabria,
a don García a Galicia con Portugal la preciada,
¡y a mí, porque soy mujer, dejáisme desheredada!
Irme he yo de tierra en tierra como una mujer errada;
mi lindo cuerpo daría a quien bien se me antojara,
a los moros por dinero y a los cristianos de gracia;
de lo que ganar pudiere, haré bien por vuestra alma.
Allí preguntara el rey: -¿Quién es esa que así habla?
Respondiera el arzobispo: -Vuestra hija doña Urraca.
-Calledes, hija, calledes, no digades tal palabra,
que mujer que tal decía merecía ser quemada.
Allá en tierra leonesa un rincón se me olvidaba,
Zamora tiene por nombre, Zamora la bien cercada,
de un lado la cerca el Duero, del otro peña tajada.
¡Quien vos la quitare, hija, la mi maldición le caiga!
Todos dicen: «Amen, amen», sino don Sancho que calla.
753
Sobre el muro de Zamora; vide un caballero erguido;
al real de los castellanos da con grande grito:
-¡Guarte, guarte, rey don Sancho, no digas que no te aviso,
que del cerco de Zamora un traidor había salido;
Vellido Dolfos se llama, hijo de Dolfos Vellido,
si gran traidor fue su padre, mayor traidor es el hijo;
cuatro traiciones ha hecho, y con ésta serán cinco!
Si te engaña, rey don Sancho, no digas que no te aviso.
Gritos dan en el real: ¡A don Sancho han mal herido!
¡Muerto le ha Vellido Dolfos; gran traición ha cometido!
Desque le tuviera muerto, metióse por un postigo,
por las calle de Zamora va dando voces y gritos:
-¡Tiempo era, doña Urraca, de cumplir lo prometido!
747
idealistic,I smile to be deluded
by realism as the windmill slaps my ***
again, romantic chivalry my duty
saving damsels righting wrongs
In La Mancha in the archives my story
resides , and i have not been sleeping much,
reading causing my brain to dry , as a result
excuse my being quick to anger,
whenever I feel Dulcinea is in danger.
and, it has been many an innkeeper
who has knighted me
and many a beating I have taken
left in the gutter
as the priest decides which of my
books to burn in an effort to dull
my ardor, ferocious giants loom
disparaging my squire
calling him unintelligent
and greedy, to them I shall draw
my sword, to the death
To my squire's defense, I ride!!
Sancho will be governor, and my
Dulcinea is crying.
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 11:42 PM UTC
You got through to her on Facebook.
In the real world she wouldn't have given you a second look.
She said she could talk to you about things she couldn't talk to anyone else about.
In the real world she wouldn't walk with you anywhere she could walk about with me.
Singing is something you had in common.
Children is what we have in common.
Your duet with her in church was mediocre on your part.
The wedding day she and I shared was wonderful and created something someone like you should never have been able to part.
You live a dream that will never come true.
So you destroy my dream that came true.
Someday I will forget that you exist.
Sorry Sancho but reality does exist and some day you will wish you were able to resist.
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 10:46 PM UTC
De aquí no se va nadie.
Mientras esta cabeza rota
del Niño de Vallecas exista,
de aquí no se va nadie. Nadie.
Ni el místico ni el suicida.
Antes hay que deshacer este entuerto,
antes hay que resolver este enigma.
Y hay que resolverlo entre todos,
y hay que resolverlo sin cobardía,
sin huir
con unas alas de percalina
o haciendo un agujero
en la tarima.
De aquí no se va nadie. Nadie.
Ni el místico ni el suicida.
Y es inútil,
inútil toda huida
(ni por abajo
ni por arriba).
Se vuelve siempre. Siempre.
Hasta que un día (¡un buen día!)
el yelmo de Mambrino
-halo ya, no yelmo ni bacía-
se acomode a las sienes de Sancho
y a las tuyas y a las mías
como pintiparado,
como hecho a la medida.
Entonces nos iremos todos
por las bambalinas.
Tú, y yo, y Sancho, y el Niño de Vallecas,
y el místico, y el suicida.
590
Asleep on your belly, or, alternately,
on your side, on me; the first night -
the first full night - with the promise of coffee
in the morning and not only allusions to it.
Your full weight on my thigh,
which I’d never tolerate in any night past,
but kept awake by the two scant hours
of partial sleep I had and admiration
of your neckline, the province of your back,
golden boughs embroidered under
thin hair
part umber, part gold itself, cast on the pillow
your left hand
and its short fingers partially unearthed, nested
in a hillock of brown coverlet and blue curlicues,
opening and closing.
Hushed, I sip a drink and read a poem
as you murmur in sleep “yes”
to whatever invitation the one in dreams extends.
The one in dreams; he may be me. Gold from a summer
that has not happened yet, surer with a barbecue,
ready to paint a white thigh emerging from a sheet,
a better rendering than mine
of the one spot you missed shaving.
He may be the husband of Scheherazade, prodding
one more story, one more night at a time.
You’ve a cobra in a willow basket.
It’s not a murmur. It isn’t “yes”.
It’s a gourd flute the land of dream gave you,
and I am not
the servant of the realm, or gold at all,
or worth my silk curtains. One thousand or
one thousand one; I can’t change,
not overnight.
I won’t know, nor ask, but
the snake isn’t transfixed.
It’s only waiting.
One day, I’ll appear in print.
The small merchant in Barataria
with whom Sancho Panza speaks.
You’ll describe those sheets
or some such other linens I have for sale -
an intimate detail of my home, returning the favor
of having appeared here. It will win a prize
you never knew you were competing for and
a dozen men in memory will whistle down “yes”.
Mar 27, 2018
Mar 27, 2018 at 10:25 AM UTC
Give me chariot with horses, bearing likeness of Pegasus,
I would soar on their wings, reaching top of mount Parnassus.
I would leave the Rocinante under care of Sancho Panza,
I'd forget of Dulcinea, drop romance unfinished stanza.
My poetic inspiration would uplift me over prose,
I would stretch my hands in trying to embrace the sinful Earth.
All the planet's mortal dwellers I would make cry, pray and curse.
May my art of playing lyre be Apollo's cheering worth.
As reward God gives to Poet magic gift of divine seer,
To foretell its own fortune to the readers and his peers.
But the poetry is powerless, can't protect the bard from death,
Will not shield from fateful ending, will not hide from cruel chase.
Pity is, but wings of glory can not change life's fatal bound.
Will not notice that dead rider dropped from saddle and fell down,
Horses will continue running with their cruel pace in keeping.
Only Muse, the Dulcinea, will shed tears in mournful weeping.
May 29, 2016
May 29, 2016 at 5:41 PM UTC
Lazima uchoose, dooh ama doze
Lazima uchoose, respect alarm ama uisnooze
Lazima uchoose, ujitume ama ulose
Lazima uchoose, ujibuild au *****
Izi ndo vitu hamtaki kuambiwa, izi ndo the truth
Mnataka niseme life ni smooth but Leo siwasooth
Sherehe Sheria ndio inamaliza mayouth
Ukilewa vuguru, Hadi hunaga matooth
Daily unadial pedi ukidai Mali
Jipende buda na for sure utafika mbali
Imagine ukiwa diani ukiorder wali
Si lazima buy iyo jumu expe ati ju ni Kali
Picha ya Kenyatta Kwa walanje ndo unafaa kusaka
Jipe goals Ka Sancho, salah au saka
Mulla mob, nine lives Ka paka
Usijitreat Ka trash we si takataka
But anyway maisha ni yako
Chaguo ni lako
Ntaachia apo ju naskia mtu Kwa mlango
Am sure ni peng Fulani utoka pango
Mar 4, 2023
Mar 4, 2023 at 3:52 PM UTC