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By David John Mowers

Oceanus, Acheron, Styx and Gyges, Phlegethon,

Phaeacians lament, mourn the loss, Scheria, dissolved in froths.

Virgil’s tale, found correct, a land too good, a nation wrecked,

Nausikaa, burn the ships; their minds released, cool airy nips,

Below the wave, watery grave, submerged to bottom, fathoms by stave,

Fathoms some more, until the whorl, descending to, another world.

Through Omphalos, to Land of Sleep, awaits a beast, where time has ceased,

Darkness here, underworld, cold and frigid, below the whirl,

In solemn grave, souls released, judged and counted, by the beast,

Deeper than, the deep itself, past drowning fairies and dying elves,

Who did mourn them? Those golden men, magic mariners, Mino's kin?

What wrong was seen? What vice not true? What awful sin? What did they do?

One thousand years, first black age, Two thousand more, to find the stage,

Cast off Aries and cast Orion, to find beginning, of Golden Lion.

Man of Heavens, Beast agrees, Bull of Sky, Ox of seas,

Land of Punt, Land of Éire, Ogyges blue, hearts on fire,

All the seashores, all the mines, Tribe of Dan, from ancient times,

Port of Sais, Port of Thera, Port of Lagash, bygone era,

Sailor’s horse, Minotaur, a lyre is crying, strummed guitar, nation dying, abattoir.

Ochre foams to sanguine depth, there they rested, where Kronos slept,

He’ll never answer, he doesn’t care, we’ll never know, if this was fair.

Our hearts in sadness, hands on the gates! I curse you Poseidon!

. . .and your Sea of Fates!
Every historical and mythological reference to the kingdom of Atlantis which was destroyed by it's founder; Poseidon. All of the characters including the archaeological agreement on the historical basis along with Geo-location as well as an approximate age of occurrence, extent of the kingdom set to metered rhyme.
Education Gives Luster to Motherland

Wise education, vital breath
Inspires an enchanting virtue;
She puts the Country in the lofty seat
Of endless glory, of dazzling glow,
And just as the gentle aura's puff
Do brighten the perfumed flower's hue:
So education with a wise, guiding hand,
A benefactress, exalts the human band.

Man's placid repose and earthly life
To education he dedicates
Because of her, art and science are born
Man; and as from the high mount above
The pure rivulet flows, undulates,
So education beyond measure
Gives the Country tranquility secure.

Where wise education raises a throne
Sprightly youth are invigorated,
Who with firm stand error they subdue
And with noble ideas are exalted;
It breaks immortality's neck,
Contemptible crime before it is halted:
It humbles barbarous nations
And it makes of savages champions.
And like the spring that nourishes
The plants, the bushes of the meads,
She goes on spilling her placid wealth,
And with kind eagerness she constantly feeds,
The river banks through which she slips,
And to beautiful nature all she concedes,
So whoever procures education wise
Until the height of honor may rise.

From her lips the waters crystalline
Gush forth without end, of divine virtue,
And prudent doctrines of her faith
The forces weak of evil subdue,
That break apart like the whitish waves
That lash upon the motionless shoreline:
And to climb the heavenly ways the people
Do learn with her noble example.

In the wretched human beings' breast
The living flame of good she lights
The hands of criminal fierce she ties,
And fill the faithful hearts with delights,
Which seeks her secrets beneficent
And in the love for the good her breast she incites,
And it's th' education noble and pure
Of human life the balsam sure.

And like a rock that rises with pride
In the middle of the turbulent waves
When hurricane and fierce Notus roar
She disregards their fury and raves,
That weary of the horror great
So frightened calmly off they stave;
Such is one by wise education steered
He holds the Country's reins unconquered.
His achievements on sapphires are engraved;
The Country pays him a thousand honors;
For in the noble ******* of her sons
Virtue transplanted luxuriant flow'rs;
And in the love of good e'er disposed
Will see the lords and governors
The noble people with loyal venture
Christian education always procure.

And like the golden sun of the morn
Whose rays resplendent shedding gold,
And like fair aurora of gold and red
She overspreads her colors bold;
Such true education proudly gives
The pleasure of virtue to young and old
And she enlightens out Motherland dear
As she offers endless glow and luster.
The Calm Oct 2016
400 years America ,
For 400 years America, we've been playing this game of cat and mouse, and for 400 years America, you refuse to give us the keys to the house.
For 400 years America , we've been asking to be free, and for 400 years America , you sat there and you promised me, all the freedom I could ask for , for just a small fee
For 400 years America , we've been paying that small fee in sweat, and a concenratred mixture of tears and blood
For over  400 years America , we've had to watch our people bleed , for over 400 years America , you've literally scorched and scathered and destroyed our seed.
For over 400 years America our sons, daughters, fathers , mothers have bled and for over 400 years tear after tear was shed
The flags that represent you, make you free . But the same flags that represent you, don't represent me. The flags that say "all men are created equal" considered me an animal and there seemed to never be a sequel.
400 years later and still "no refuge can save, the hireling and slave from the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave" I am not blind, don't need a stick or a stave, I am not foolish, I see the road that you page
Nigel Morgan Oct 2012
There was a moment when he knew he had to make a decision.

He had left London that February evening on the ****** Velo Train to the South West. As the two hour journey got underway darkness had descended quickly; it was soon only his reflected face he could see in the window. He’d been rehearsing most of the afternoon so it was only now he could take out the manuscript book, its pages full of working notes on the piece he was to play the following afternoon. His I-Mind implant could have stored these but he chose to circumvent this thought-transcribing technology; there was still the physical trace on the cream-coloured paper with his mother’s propelling pencil that forever conjured up his journey from the teenage composer to the jazz musician he now was. This thought surrounded him with a certain warmth on this Friday evening train full of those returning to their country homes and distant families.

It was a difficulty he had sensed from the moment he perceived a distant gap in the flow of information streaming onto the mind page

At the outset the Mind Notation project had seemed harmless, playful in fact. He allowed himself to enter into the early experiments because he knew and trusted the research team. He got paid handsomely for his time, and later for his performance work.  It was a valuable complement to his ill-paid day-to-day work as a jazz pianist constantly touring the clubs, making occasional festival appearances with is quintet, hawking his recordings around small labels, and always ‘being available’. Mind Notation was something quite outside that traditional scene. In short periods it would have a relentless intensity about it, but it was hard to dismiss because he soon realised he had been hard-wired to different persona. Over a period of several years he was now dealing with four separate I-Mind folders, four distinct musical identities.

Tomorrow he would pull out the latest manifestation of a composer whose creative mind he had known for 10 years, playing the experimental edge of his music whilst still at college. There had been others since, but J was different, and so consistent. J never interfered; there were never decisive interventions, only an explicit confidence in his ability to interpret J’s music. There had been occasional discussion, but always loose; over coffee, a walk to a restaurant; never in the lab or at rehearsals.

In performance (and particularly when J was present) J’s own mind-thought was so rich, so wide-ranging it could have been drug-induced. Every musical inference was surrounded by such intensity and power he had had to learn to ride on it as he imagined a surfer would ride on a powerful wave. She was always there - embedded in everything J seemed to think about, everything J projected. He wondered how J could live with what seemed to him to be an obsession. Perhaps this was love, and so what he played was love like a wilderness river flowing endlessly across the mind-page.

J seemed careful when he was with her. J tried hard not to let his attentiveness, this gaze of love, allow others to enter the public folders of his I-Mind space (so full of images of her and the sounds of her light, entrancing voice). But he knew, he knew when he glanced at them together in darkened concert halls, her hand on J’s left arm stroking, gently stroking, that J’s most brilliant and affecting music flowed from this source.

He could feel the pattern of his breathing change, he shifted himself in his chair, the keyboard swam under his gaze, he was playing fast and light, playing arpeggios like falling water, a waterfall of notes, cascades of extended tonalities falling into the darkness beyond his left hand, but there it was, in twenty seconds he would have to*

It had begun quite accidentally with a lab experiment. J had for some years been researching the telematics of composing and performing by encapsulating the physical musical score onto a computer screen. The ‘moist media’ of telematics offered the performer different views of a composition, and not just the end result but the journey taken to obtain that result. From there to an interest in neuroscience had been a small step. J persuaded him to visit the lab to experience playing a duet with his own brain waves.

Wearing a sensor cap he had allowed his brainwaves to be transmitted through a BCMI to a synthesiser – as he played the piano. After a few hours he realised he could control the resultant sounds. In fact, he could control them very well. He had played with computer interaction before, but there was always a preparatory stage, hours of designing and programming, then the inevitable critical feedback of the recording or glitch in performance. He soon realised he had no patience for it and so relied on a programmer, a sonic artist as assistant, as collaborator when circumstances required it.

When J’s colleagues developed an ‘app’ for the I-Mind it meant he could receive J’s instant thoughts, but thoughts translated into virtual ‘active’ music notation, a notation that flowed across the screen of his inner eye. It was astonishing; more astonishing because J didn’t have to be physically there for it to happen: he could record I-Mind files of his thought compositions.

The reference pre-score at the top of the mind page was gradually enlarging to a point where pitches were just visible and this gap, a gap with no stave, a gap of silence, a gap with no action, a gap with repeat signs was probably 30 seconds away

In the early days (was it really just 10 years ago?) the music was delivered to him embedded in a network of experiences, locations, spiritual and philosophical ideas. J had found ways to extend the idea of the notated score to allow the performer to explore the very thoughts and techniques that made each piece – usually complete hidden from the performer. He would assemble groups of miniatures lasting no more than a couple of minutes each, each miniature carrying, as J had once told him, ‘one thought and one thought only’.  But this description only referred to the musical material because each piece was loaded with a web of associations. From the outset the music employed scales and tonalities so far away from the conventions of jazz that when he played and then extended the pieces it seemed like he was visiting a different universe; though surprisingly he had little trouble working these new and different patterns of pitches into his fingers. It was uncanny the ‘fit’.

Along with the music there was always rich, often startling images she conjured up for J’s compositions. At the beginning of their association J initiated these. He had been long been seeking ways to integrate the visual image with musical discourse. After toying with the idea of devising his own images for music he conceived the notion of computer animation of textile layers. J had discovered and then encouraged the work and vision of a young woman on the brink of what was to become recognised as a major talent. When he could he supported her artistically, revelling in the keenness of her observation of the natural world and her ability to complement what J conceived. He became her lover and she his muse; he remodelled his life and his work around her, her life and her work.

When performing the most complex of music it always seemed to him that the relative time of music and the clock time of reality met in strange conjunctions of stasis. Quite suddenly clock time became suspended and musical time enveloped reality. He found he could be thinking something quite differently from what he was playing.

Further projects followed, and as they did he realised a change had begun to occur in J’s creative rationale. He seemed to adopt different personae. Outwardly he was J. Inside his musical thought he began to invent other composers, musical avatars, complete minds with different musical and personal histories that he imagined making new work.

J had manipulated him into working on a new project that had appeared to be by a composer completely unknown to him. L was Canadian, a composer who had conceived a score that adhered to the DOGME movie production manifesto, but translated into music. The composition, the visuals, the text, the technological environment and the performance had to be conceived in realtime and in one location. A live performance meant a live ‘making’, and this meant he became involved in all aspects of the production. It became a popular and celebrated festival event with each production captured in its entirety and presented in multi-dimensional strands on the web. The viewer / listener became an editor able to move between the simultaneous creative activity, weaving his or her own ‘cut’ like some art house computer game. L never appeared in person at these ‘remakings’, but via a computer link. It was only after half a dozen performances that the thought entered his mind that L was possibly not a 24-year-old woman from Toronto complete with a lively Facebook persona.

Then, with the I-Mind, he woke up to the fact that J had already prepared musical scenarios that could take immediate advantage of this technology. A BBC Promenade Concert commission for a work for piano and orchestra provided an opportunity. J somehow persuaded Tom Service the Proms supremo to programme this new work as a collaborative composition by a team created specially for the premiere. J hid inside this team and devised a fresh persona. He also hid his new I-Mind technology from public view. The orchestra was to be self-directed but featured section leaders who, as established colleagues of J’s had already experienced his work and, sworn to secrecy, agreed to the I-Mind implant.

After the premiere there were rumours about how the extraordinary synchronicities in the play of musical sections had been achieved and there was much critical debate. J immediately withdrew the score to the BBC’s consternation. A minion in the contracts department had a most uncomfortable meeting with Mr Service and the Controller of Radio 3.

With the end of this phrase he would hit the gap  . . . what was he to do? Simply lift his hands from the keyboard? Wait for some sign from the I-Mind system to intervene? His audience might applaud thinking the piece finished? Would the immersive visuals with its  18.1 Surround Sound continue on the five screens or simply disappear?

His hands left the keyboard. The screens went white except for the two repeats signs in red facing one another. Then in the blank bar letter-by-letter this short text appeared . . .

Here Silence gathers
thoughts of you

Letters shall never
spell your grace

No melody could
describe your face

No rhythm dance
the way you move

Only Silence can
express my love

ever yours ever
yours ever yours

He then realised what the date was . . . and slowly let his hands fall to his lap.
Anecandu Sep 2016
Sunrise on your face like a warm caressing hand
Your surrounded by friends, a tired but merry band.
No hooks or ropes needed just your backpack and your aching feet
Your taking longer drinks now to stave off the heat.

Its so contrasting, your hot when its frigid cold
This moment you'll remember, this memory is Gold
Its about achieving what you thought impossible at first
Something good for the soul, not just the hunger, but a thirst.

You fill your bottle from natures *****
eating your fill from among earths blossoms
Berries, nuts, roasting on ember lit nights.
the eyes consume the bounty of sights.

But the sunrise on the crimson dawn
while stretching your tired frame at being reborn,
So near so high you can touch the vanilla sky
You promise yourself to be back, but alas you lie......
Evan Stephens Nov 2017
The clock was set back,
and now night rots
away the afternoon.
Gray light spills,
slouches, sloughs
into my hair,
my hands, across
all these strangers.

Ovals of alcohol
keep the rain away.
My life is moving
stave by stave.
I used to go to school,
have a social circle,
idle through hobbies,
new days, new days.
What the hell happened?
The Calm Dec 2016
400 years America ,
For 400 years America, we've been playing this game of cat and mouse, and for 400 years America, you refuse to give us the keys to the house.
For 400 years America , we've been asking to be free, and for 400 years America , you sat there and you promised me, all the freedom I could ask for , for just a small fee

For 400 years America , we've been paying that small fee in sweat, tears and blood
For over 400 years America, we have witnessed the flood, from the storm clouds that burst in a black mother's eyes. The Storm that rages in her heart as she cries. The Lightening that strikes her heart as she watches her son bleed as he dies.
For over  400 years America , we've had to watch our people bleed , for over 400 years America , you've literally scorched and scathered and destroyed our seed.

For over 400 years America our sons, daughters, fathers , mothers have bled and for over 400 years tear after tear was shed
The flags that represent you, makes you free . But the same flags that represent you, doesn't represent me. The flag that represents words that say"all men are created equal" considered me an animal and there seemed to never be a sequel.

400 years later and still "no refuge can save, the hireling and slave from the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave" I am not blind, don't need a stick or a stave, I am not foolish, I see the road that you have paved America!

For over 400 years, America, My brothers and sisters have fought for your pride
We carried your rifles, we lifted your flag and still you were snide
For over 400 years America, for you battles we've won
400 year later you still point your gun

It's been 400 years America, Gotdammit I am not a slave
I want my rights and you will not tell me how to behave!
You've always had freedom white man, and you don't know how bad I crave! that my kids grow up in freedom and for that I'll be brave to the grave. Even if it kills me, I will not let the color of my skin decide whether or not I win. I will not you let, America, and your adulterous, heinous sin control me and the condition I am in

400 years later America, and you act like you still don't know their names
400 years later America and you still plea ignorance, you don't feel their pains
Emmit Till, Trayvon Martin, Freddie Gray
These are some of the lives from us you took away
400 years later and you still make us pay
and that's not okay....
To you slavery was yesterday and we should shout free at last?
To you the last police shooting was last week, we shouldn't riot,  it's in the past, You want us white washed but we can't shake the scars from centuries in a caste

Freedom isn't free, but I still believe, I still believe that someday my eyes will see, all nations, all skin colors under one tree, connected to one vine, to the divine
topaz oreilly Jun 2012
The stave, white and sharp
its jaggered edge prompts
a curious light is thrown
it deceives the stillness.
Denel Kessler Sep 2016
you will go your way
despite my protests
no use lamenting
what was never promised
the sun rides low the horizon
soon it will not clear the treetops
storms gather in the northern sea
needled wind to scattered seed
hoary frost on yellowed grass
dark leaves in mirrored puddles
a suspended death
crystalline and indeterminate
there is no fire hot enough
to stave off the first chill
of a careless winter
the numb hibernating sleep
soft gray melting days
the desperate wish
to regain summer
Hello my poet friends!  What a lovely surprise to wake up to this blustery morning.  Thank you for sticking with me through a crazy summer of sporadic posts - you are all wonderful.  Much love!
: )
Hear your voice in every note,
Feel your breath in every phrase,
As my fingers dance on the keys,
It's you I want to amaze.

But you are not here.

See your smile on every stave,
Sense your hands embracing mine,
An unresolved suspension,
Betrays what's on my mind:

You are not here

But then, in the reflection of that ebony grand,
I glimpse a moving figure,
I see your eyes looking back at me,
My music fades to a whisper.

You are here.

I turn to face you and you take my hands,
You place them gently back on the keys,
"Keep playing," You tell me,
"Let me hear more, please."

I take a breath,
"Now you are here, I could play you my soul."
Verily, Twin Hearts in Friendship conceived
Is the Right Way to have Interpreted
When Shows like these make Public and Perceived
To give a Selfless Like un-expected
These Humans like me have a lot to Learn
To Grow what such Loyalty requires
Arthur in his Regality gave Concern
For Guinevere to foot what she desires
That is how a Follower must behave
When the Squire works best under the Light
Though empty in notice still carries to stave
For his High Lord to shine with all his Might.
You are that Peaceful; Such I discover
The Heretic in me I must recover.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
Brian Oarr Feb 2012
The stars once more have lost their race
Through night-sky versus mercurial moon.
In this defeat no dishonor will debase
Futile efforts to intersect upon the lune.

Desert scents of juniper and Mormon Tea
Waft fragrant above the comfort fire smoke.
Banana yucca roasting at my knee,
Fleshy fruit consumption for us hungry folk.

Nevada nights nip raw this time of year;
Our lot is cast by glowing embers,
Whose reflector stones essential to survival,
Stave off cold that we need not fear
Frostbite to peripheral members,
Till sunlight returns with warmth's revival.
Third Eye Candy Oct 2011
pruning fingers from a cold dead hand to gain twenty index
to power point a disjoint nexus, amongst ill guests
to better frame the nameless tool,
thumb-less apes could truck with -
in bands of frantic lack-wits
hording alabaster thumb-tacks
to pin jokes, they don't get.
a lapse in queens, the hard Chess...
an hour glass
with a grain of sand left -
wearing a jet pack, to delay the turn next
that checks your king.
or telekinesis, ghost-grips the silicon
in free fall... on pause to stave off
a game lost.

pruning fingers from another world of empty reach,  i grasp -
at long last;
the short girl with the long red hair -
has two eyes, on task...scanning my true intent
with deep shy, heavy lids; a bright green
fixed on my nervous

smitten; then, a Pabst
Blue Ribbon

and sweet
Steele Dec 2014
There is a Frantic Masquerade, I've heard it said,
where masquers revel in moonlight in the dark city streets.
Their iron shoes burn a smouldering red
and compels them never end the song they sing with their feet.

There is a leather Curtain, made up of silence and shame.
They place upon each dancer's face as they waltz through the night.
They never share a longing gaze, never whisper a lover's name,
and as their souls lose their lustre, their iron shoes burn ever bright.

There is a lonely Ballroom of sad rain and cold concrete,
where masquers revel in terror at the symphony in their heads.
Their steps move ever faster, but their empty eyes never meet.
Hearts cold, they dance with hot feet, ere they're dead.

     There is a Frantic Masquerade, I've heard it said.
     Their icy hearts stave off passion's heat.
              They'll dance that way till the shoes burn through their head,
and only when the ice melts might their heart's dance be complete.
I was told about the goodness of men,
Their valour, fortitude and chivalry
Riding in on gleaming horseback.
They would lead poorer souls into battle,
Liberate distressed ladies from gilded cages
And stave away the beasts of sin.

When I heard these marvelous tales
A fierce hunger awoke within me.
I began to search for an ivory tower
To lock myself in
That a man so great might come to find me.

I thought that I had met such a man
His armour resplendent,
His smile easy and compliments quick.
He led me forth with promises of fortune.
He presented me with crimson roses,
And oft he sang to me in sweet voice.

I was satiated, my hunger quelled
With what I thought to be a golden hero.
But as the roses waned and his voice wilted,
I found that he had faults and secrets like any other-
That his bravery was bruised with cowardice.
In fact, he was absolutely ordinary,
And as God-fearing as the rest of us.
I was trying a different style in my writing class. Here's what came of it.
Song one
This is a song about tarzanic love
That subsisted some years ago,
As a love duel between an English girl and an African ogre,
There was an English girl hailing along the banks of river Thames
She had stubbornly refused all offers for marriage,
From all the local English boys, both rich and poor
tall and short, weak or strong, ugly and comely in the eye,
the girl had refused and sternly refused the treats for love,
She was disciplined to her callous pursuit of her dream
to marry a mysterious,fantastic,lively,original and extra-ordinary man,
That no other woman in history of human marriage ever married,
She came from London, near the banks of river Thames,
Her name was Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill, daughter of a peasant,
She came from a humble English family, which hustled often
For food, clothing, and other calls that make one an ordinary British,
She grew up without a local boy friend, anywhere in the English world,
She is the first English girl to knock the age of forty five while a ******,
She never got deflowered in her teens as other English girls usually do
She preserved her purse with maximal carefulness in her wait for a black man,
Her father, of course a peasant, his trade was human barber and horse shearer,
Often asked her what she wants in life before her marriage, which man she really wanted,
Her specification was an open eyesore to her father; no blinkers could stave the father’s pale
For she wanted a black tall man, strong and ruggedly dark in the skin, must own a kingdom,
Fables taken to her from Africa were that such an African man was only one but none else,
His glorious name was Akhatembete kho bwibo khakhalikha no bwoya,
When the English girl heard the chimerical name of her potential husband,
She felt a super bliss in her spine; she yearned for the day of her rendezvous,
She crashed into desperate burning for true English love
With a man with a wonderful name like Akhatembete kho bwibo khakhalikha no bwoya.

Song two

Rumours of this English despair and dilemma for love reached Africa, in the wrong ears,
Not the human ears, but unfortunately the ears of the ogres, seasoned in the evil art,
It was received and treated as classified information among the African ogress,
They prevented this news to leak to African humans at all at all
Lest humans enjoy their human status and enjoy most
The love in the offing from the English girl,
They thus swiftly plotted and ployed
To lure and win the ******
From royal land;

Song three

Firstly, the African ogres recruited one of their own
The most handsome middle aged male ogre, more handsome than all in humanity,
And of course African ogres are beautiful and handsome than African humans, no match,
The ogres are more gifted in stature, physique, eugenics and general overtures
They always outplay African humans on matters of intelligence, they are shrewder,
Ogres are aggressive and swashbuckling in manners; fear is none of their domain
Craft and slyness is their breakfast, super is the result; success, whether pyrrhic or Byronic,
Is their sweetest dish, they then schemed to get the English girl at whatever cost,
They made a move to name one of their fellow ogres the name of dream man;
Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha no bwoya,
Which an English girl wanted,
By viciously naming one of their handsome middle-aged man this name.

Song four

Then they set off 0n foot, from Congo moving to the north towards Europe abode England,
Where the beautiful girl of the times, Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill hail,
They were three of them, walking funnily in cyclopic steps of African ogres,
Keeping themselves humorously high by feigning how they will dupe the girl,
How they will slyly decoy the English village pumpkin of the girl in to their trap,
And effortlessly make her walk on foot from England to Africa, in pursuit of love
On this muse and sweet wistfulness they broke out into loud gewgaws of laughter,
In such emotional bliss they now jump up wildly forgetting about their tails
Which they initially stuffed inside white long trousers, tails now wag and flag crazily,
Feats of such wild emotions gave the ogres superhuman synergy to walk cyclopically,
A couple of their strides made them to cross Uganda, Kenya, Somali, Ethiopia and Egypt
Just but in few days, as sometimes they ran in violent stampedes
Singing in a cryptic language the funny ogres songs;

Dada wu ndolelee!
Dada wu ndolelee!
Kuyuni kwa mnja
Sa kwingile khundilila !

Ehe kuyuni Mulie!
Ehe kuyuni mulie!
Omukhana oyo
Kaloba khuja lilia !
They then laughed loudly, farted cacophonously and jumped wildly, as if possessed,
They used happiness and raucous joy as a strategy to walk miles and miles
Which you cover when moving on foot from Congo to England,
They finally crossed Morocco and walked into Europe,
They by-passed Italy and Spain walking piecemeal
into England, native land of the beautiful girl.

Song  five

When the three ogres reached England, they were all surprised
Every woman and man was white; people of England walked slowly and gently
They made minimum noise, no shouting publicly on the street,
a stark contrast to human behaviour and ogre culture in Africa, very rambunctious,
Before they acclimatized to disorderly life in England, an over-sighted upset befell them
Piling and piling menace of pressure to ****,
Gripped all the three ogre brothers the same time,
None of them had knowledge of municipal utilities,
They all wanted to micturated openly
Had it not been beautiful English girls
Ceaselessly thronging the streets.

Song six

They persevered and moved on in expectation of coming to the end,
Out-skirt of the strange English town so that they can get a woodlot,
From where they could hide behind to do open defecation
All was in vain; they never came to any end of the English town,
Neither did they come by a tumbled-down house
No cul de sac was in sight, only endless highway,
Sandwiched between tall skyscraping buildings,
One of the ogres came up with an idea, to drip the ****
Drop by drop in their *******, as they walk to their destiny,
They all laughed but not loudly, in controlled giggles
And executed the idea minus haste.

Song seven

They finally came down to the banks of river Thames,
Identified the home of Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill
The home had neither main gate nor metallic doors,
They entered the home walking in humble majesty,
Typical of racketeering ogre, in a swindling act,
The home was silent, no one in sight to talk to
The ogres nudged one another, repressing the mirth,
Hunchbacked English lass surfaced, suddenly materialized
Looking with a sparkle in the eye, talking pristine English,
Like that one written by Geoffrey Chaucer, her words were as piffling
As speech of a mad woman at the fish market, ogres looked at her in askance.

Song eight

An ogre with name Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya opened to talk,
Asked the girl where could be the latrine pits, for micturation only,
The hunchbacked lass gave them a direction to the toilets inside the house,
She did it in a full dint of English elegance and gentility,
But all the ogres were discombobulated to their peak
about the English latrine pit inside the house,
they all went into the toilet at the same time,
to the chagrin of the hunchbacked lass
she had never seen such in England
she struggled a lot
to repress her mirth
as the English
never get amused
at folly.

Song nine

It is a tradition among the ogres to ****,
Whenever they are ******* in the African bush,
But now the ogres are in a fix, a beautiful fix of their life
If at all they ****, the flatulent cacophony will be heard outside
By the curious eavesdroppers under the eaves of the house,
They murmured among themselves to tighten their **** muscles
So that they can micturated without usual African accomplice; the tweeee!
All succeeded to manage , other than Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya,
Who urinated but with a low tziiiiiiii sound from his ***, they didn’t laugh
Ogres walked out of privities relaxed like a catholic faithful swallowing a sacrament,
The hunchback girl ushered them to where they were to sit, in the common room
They all sat with air of calm on their face, Akhatembete Khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya,
led the conversation, by announcing to the girl that he is Victoria’s visitor from Africa,
To which the girl responded with caution that Victoria is at the barbershop,
Giving hand to her father in shearing the horses, and thus she is busy,
No one is allowed to meet her, at that particular hour of the day
But he pleaded to the hunchback girl only to pass tidings to Victoria,
That Akhatembete Khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya from Africa
Has arrived and he is yearning to meet her today and now,
The girl went bananas on hearing the name
The hunch on her back visibly shook,
Is like she had heard the name often,
She then became prudent in her senses,
And asked the visitor not to make anything—
Near a cat’s paw out of her person,
She implored the visitor to confirm
if at all he was what he was saying
to which he confirmed in affirmation,
then she went out swiftly
like a tail of the snake,
to pass tidings
to her sister

Song ten
She went out shouting her sister’s name,
A rare case to happen in England,
One to make noise in the broad day light,
With no permission from the local leadership,
She called and ululated Victoria’ name for Victoria to hear
From wherever she was, of which she heard and responded;
What is the matter my dear little sister? What ails you?
Akhatembete Khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya is around!
She responded back in voice disturbed by emotional uproar,
What! My sister why do you cheat me in such a day time?
Am not cheating you my sister, he is around sited in our father’s house,
Is he? Have you given him a drink, a sweet European brandy?
My sister I have not, I feared that I may mess up your visitors
With my hunched shoulders, I feared sister forbid,
Ok, I am coming, running there, tell him to be patient,
Let me tell him sister just right now,
And make sure you come before his patience is stretched.

Song eleven

Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill almost went berserk
On getting this good tidings about the watershed presence,
Of the long awaited suitor, her face exploded into vivacity,
Her heart palpitating on imagination of finally getting the husband,
She went out of the barber shop running and ululating,
Leaving her father behind, confounded and agape,
She came running towards her father’s main house
Where the suitor is sited, with the chaperons,
She came kicking her father’s animals to death,
Harvesting each and every fruit, for the suitor,
She did marvel before she reached where the suitor was;
Harvested ten bananas, mangoes and avocadoes,
Plums, pepper, watermelons, lemons and oranges,
She kicked dead five chicken, five goats, rams,
Swine, rabbits, rats, pigeons and hornbills,
When she reached the house, she inquired to know,
Who among them could be the one; Akhatembete Khobwibo
Khakhalikha no bwoya, But her English vocals were not guttural enough,
She instead asked, who among you is a key tempter go weevil car no lawyer?
The decoy ogre promptly responded; here I am the queen of my heart. He stood up,
Victoria took the ogre into her arms, whining; babie! Babie, babie, come!
Victoria carried the ogre swiftly in her arms, to her tidy bed room,
She placed the ogre on her bed, kissed one another at a rate of hundred,
Or more kisses per a minute, the kissing sent both of them crazy, but spiritual craft,
That gave the ogre a boon to maintain some sobriety, but libido of virginity held Victoria
In boonless state of ****** feat, defenseless and impaired in judgment
It extremely beclouded her judgment; she removed and pulled of their clothes,
Libidinous feat blurring her sight from seeing the scarlet tail projecting
From between the buttocks of the ogre, vestige of *******,
She forcefully took the ogre into her arms, putting the ogre between her legs,
The ogre’s uncircumcised ***** effectively penetrated Victoria’s ****** purse,
The ogre broke virginity of Victoria, making her to feel maximum warmth of pleasure
As it released its germinal seed into her body, ecstasy gripped her until she fainted,
The ogre erected more on its first *******; its ***** became more stiff and sharp,
It never pulled out its ***** from the purse of Victoria, instead it introduced further
Deeper and deeper into Victoria’s ******, reaching the ****** depth inside her with gusto,
Victoria screamed, wailed, farted, scratched, threw her neck, kissed crazily and ******,
On the rhythms of the ogre’s waist gyrations, it was maximum pleasure to Victoria,
She reached her second ****** before the ogre; it took further one hour before releasing,
Victoria was beaten; she thought she was not in England in her father’s house
She thought she was in Timbuktu riding on a mosquito to Eldorado,
Where she could not be found by her father whatsoever,
The ogre pulled Victoria up, helped her to dress up,
She begged that they go back to the common room,
Lest her father finds them here, he would quarrel,
They went back to the common room,
Found her father talking to other two ogres,
She shouted to her father before anyone else,
That ‘father I have been showing him around our house,’
‘He has fallen in love with our house; he is passionate about it,’
Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya was shy,
He greeted the father and resumed his chair, with wryly dignity.

Song twelve
An impromptu festival took place,
Fully funded by the father of Victoria,
There was meat of all type from pork to chicken,
Greens were also there in plenty, pepper and watermelons,
Victoria’s mother remembered to prepare tripe of a goat
For the key visitant who was the suitor; Akhatembete,
Food was laid before the ogres to enjoy themselves,
As all others went to the other house for a brainstorming session,
But the hunched backed girl hid herself behind the door,
To admire the food which visitors were devouring,
As she also spied on the table manners of the visitors, for stories to be shared,
Perhaps between herself and her mother, when visitors are gone,
Some sub-human manners unfolded to her as she spied,
One of the ogres swallowed a spoon and a table fork,
And Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya,
Uncontrollably unstuffed his scarlet tail from the trouser,
The chill crawled up the spine of hunchbacked girl,
She almost shouted from her hideout, but she restrained herself,
She swore to herself to tell her father that the visitors are not humans
They are superhuman, Tarzans or mermaids or the werewolves,
The ogre who swallowed the spoon remorsefully tried to puke it back,
Lest the hosts discover the missing spoon and cause brouhaha,
It was difficult to puke out the spoon; it had already flowed into the stomach,
Victoria, her father, her mother and her friend Anastasia,
Anastasia; another English girl from the neighborhood,
Whom Victoria had fished, to work for her as a best maid, as a chaperon,
Went back to the house where the ogres had already finished eating,
They found ogres sitting idle squirming and flitting in their chairs
As if no food had ever been presented to them in a short while ago,
One ogre even shamelessly yawned, blinking his eyes like a snake,
They all forgot to say thanks for the food, no thanks for lunch,
But instead Akhatembete announced on behalf of other ogres,
That they should be allowed to go as they are late for something,
A behaviour so sub-human, given they were suitors to an English family,
Victoria’s father was uneasy, was irritated but he had no otherwise,
For he was desperate to have her daughter Victoria get married,
He had nothing to say but only to ask his daughter, Victoria,
If she was going right-away with her suitor or not,
To which she violently answered yes I am going with him,
Victoria’s mother kept mum, she only shot miserable glances
From one corner of the house to another, to the ogres also,
She totally said nothing, as Victoria was predictably violent
To any gainsayer in relation to her occasion of the moment,
Victoria’s father wished them all well in their life,
And permitted Victoria to go and have good life,
With Akhatembete, her suitor she had yearned for with equanimity,
Victoria was so confused with joy; her day of marriage is beholden,
She hurriedly packed up as if being chased by a monster,
Harry J Baxter Mar 2013
These chattering fingers
are the only things which keep me sane
they stave off the tide of madness
which is never too far away

These pretty faced girls
are the only things keeping me nice
they stave off the loneliness
even if only for a night

These chemical pit stops
are the only things which keep me going
they stave off reality
and all of the ugliness that comes with it

These ****** poems
are the only things which keep me connected
shattering the isolation
an ocean of blank faces to vent at
No one knows the pain she feels
Dragging herself out of bed
The echoes of her silent cries
Still ringing in her head

His manly stench upon her now
Her hatred fueled with blood
The anger rising up inside
Much like a deadly flood

Gathering her broken pieces
Like confetti in the wind
The girl with the broken smile
Questioning if she’d sinned

Shattered dreams she only sees
Slicing through her life in vain
She cuts upon her tender skin
*To stave away the pain
Korey Miller Oct 2012
i'll always be there outside of the box
where you spill out your burdens to god
tell me everything you've done wrong-
just unpend your sins, you're cleansed, now you win

the convenient answer
to feeling remorseful about what you've done
made a mistake?  i'm here, don't you wait
i've got all the time you need

and on it goes; my shoulder
for you to lean on will always be there
but don't bother to ask me how i'm doing-
you're not supposed to care

i'm tired of being used like an old *****
you rip me to shreds, leave my tongue on the floor
i'm speechless, i'm hurting, held back by my pride
i'm letting my ego take over my mind
i'm playing callous like it's some sort of game
pretending i'm fine when i'm driven insane
you take the wheel from me, steer into a ditch
leaving me battered and broken, unimpressed, not spoken

i've got
my tongue tied in knots
from navigating the tangled webs you drag me through
but i
will never let myself lose

i need to destroy something, run it right through
to reflect my insides after speaking to you
and maybe i'm just a bitter young *****,
but i'll take a hit, and i won't let you miss  

so drive me into the ground
i won't be beaten down
you can't do much to me;
i can't get much lower now
how far can you bring me down?
yeah, i'll hold my ground

i'm tired of hearing each of your confessions
simply not being able is not a transgression
you're weighing me down with your innocent guilt
i won't feel your trauma if no souls were spilt

i'm so sick
of hearing your troubles; don't say what's amiss
take a hint
your drama won't make or break you
it's no calamity if she hates you

i'm tired of hearing about your petty fights
scuffling over my business won't help with your strife
you think being hateful will show me the light?
you're wrong, good riddance, get out of my life
something so intrinsic isn't abomination
no matter your creed or your denomination
your social life will never make you a saint
and confessing won't stave off my hate

i'm so sick
of hearing your troubles; don't say what's amiss
take a hint
get off of my shoulder, take your own ******* boulder
and live your own life for a bit
don't confess, i'm not impressed,
just live your life and leave me be.
Nigel Morgan Aug 2013
Today we shall have the naming of parts. How the opening of that poem by Henry Reed caught his present thoughts; that banal naming of parts of a soldier’s rifle set against the delicate colours and textures of the gardens outside the lecture room. *Japonica glistening like coral  . . . branches holding their silent eloquent gestures . . . bees fumbling the flowers. It was the wrong season for this so affecting poem – the spring was not being eased as here, in quite a different garden, summer was easing itself out towards autumn, but it caught him, as a poem sometimes would.

He had taken a detour through the gardens to the studio where in half an hour his students would gather. He intended to name the very parts of rhythm and help them become aware of their personal knowledge and relationship with this most fundamental of musical elements, the most connected with the body.

He had arranged to have a percussionist in on the class, a player he admired (he had to admit) for the way this musician had dealt with a once-witnessed on-stage accident that he’d brought it into his poem sequence Lemon on Pewter. They had been in Cambridge to celebrate her birthday and just off the train had hurried their way through the bicycled streets to the college where he had once taught, and to a lunchtime concert in a theatre where he had so often performed himself.

Smash! the percussionist wipes his hands and grabs another bottle before the music escapes checking his fingers for cuts and kicking the broken glass from his feet It was a brilliant though unplanned moment we all agreed and will remember this concert always for that particular accidental smile-inducing sharp intake of breath moment when with a Fanta bottle in each hand there was a joyful hit and scrape guiro-like on the serrated edges a no-holes barred full-on sounding out of glass on glass and you just loved it when he drank the juice and fluting blew across the bottle’s mouth

And having thought himself back to those twenty-four hours in Cambridge the delights of the morning garden aflame with colour and texture were as nothing beside his vivid memory of that so precious time with her. The images and the very physical moments of that interval away and together flooded over him, and he had to stop to close his eyes because the images and moments were so very real and he was trembling . . . what was it about their love that kept doing this to him? Just this morning he had sat on the edge of his bed, and in the still darkness his imagination seemed to bring her to him, the warmth and scent of her as she slept face down into a pillow, the touch of her hair in his face as he would bend over her to kiss her ear and move his hand across the contours of her body, but without touching, a kind of air-lovers movement, a kiss of no-touch. But today, he reminded himself, we have the naming of parts . . .

He was going to tackle not just rhythm but the role of percussion. There was a week’s work here. He had just one day. And the students had one day to create a short ‘poem for percussion’ to be performed and recorded at the end of the afternoon class. In his own music he considered the element of percussion as an ever-present challenge. He had only met it by adopting a very particular strategy. He regarded its presence in a score as a kind of continuo element and thus giving the player some freedom in the choice of instruments and execution. He wanted percussion to be ‘a part’ of equal stature with the rest of the musical texture and not a series of disparate accents, emphases and colours. In other words rhythm itself was his first consideration, and all the rest followed. He thought with amusement of his son playing Vaughan-Williams The Lark Ascending and the single stroke of a triangle that constituted his percussion part. For him, so few composers could ‘do it’ with percussion. He had assembled for today a booklet of extracts of those who could: Stravinsky’s Soldier’s Tale (inevitably), Berio’s Cummings songs, George Perle’s Sextet, Living Toys by Tom Ades, his own Flights for violin and percussionist. He felt diffident about the latter, but he had the video of those gliders and he’d play the second movement What is the Colour of the Wind?

In the studio the percussionist and a group of student helpers were assembling the ‘kits’ they’d agreed on. The loose-limbed movements of such players always fascinated him. It was as though whatever they might be doing they were still playing – driving a car? He suddenly thought he might not take a lift from a percussionist.

On the grand piano there was, thankfully, a large pile of the special manuscript paper he favoured when writing for percussion, an A3 sheet with wider stave lines. Standing at the piano he pulled a sheet from the pile and he got out his pen. He wrote on the shiny black lid with a fluency that surprised him: a toccata-like passage based on the binary rhythms he intended to introduce to his class. He’d thought about making this piece whilst lying in bed the previous night, before sleep had taken him into a series of comforting dreams. He knew he must be careful to avoid any awkward crossings of sticks.

The music was devoid of any accents or dynamics, indeed any performance instructions. It was solely rhythm. He then composed a passage that had no rhythm, only performance instructions, dynamics, articulations such as tremolo and trills and a play of accents, but no rhythmic symbols. He then went to the photocopier in the corridor and made a batch of copies of both scores. As the machine whirred away he thought he might call her before his class began, just to hear her soft voice say ‘hello’ in that dear way she so often said it, the way that seem to melt him, and had been his undoing . . .

When his class had assembled (and the percussionist and his students had disappeared pro tem) he began immediately, and without any formal introduction, to write the first four 4-bit binary rhythms on the chalkboard, and asked them to complete it. This mystified a few but most got the idea (and by now there was a generous sharing between members of the class), so soon each student had the sixteen rhythms in front of them.

‘Label these rhythms with symbols a to p’, he said, ‘and then write out the letters of your full name. If there’s a letter there that goes beyond p create another list from q to z. You can now generate a rhythmic sequence using what mathematicians call a function-machine. Nigel would be:

x x = x     x = = =      = x x =      = x x x      x = x x

Write your rhythm out and then score it for 4 drums – two congas, two bongos.’

His notion was always to keep his class relentlessly occupied. If a student finished a task ahead of others he or she would find further instructions had appeared on the flip chart board.  Audition –in your head - these rhythms at high speed, at a really quick tempo. Now slow them right down. Experiment with shifting tempos, download a metronome app on your smart phone, score the rhythms for three clapping performers, and so on.

And soon it was performance time and the difficulties and awkwardness of the following day were forgotten as nearly everyone made it out front to perform their binary rhythmic pieces, and perform them with much laughter, but with flair and élan also. The room rang with the clapping of hands.

The percussionist appeared and after a brief introduction – in which the Fanta bottle incident was mentioned - composer and performer played together *****’s Clapping Music before a welcome break was taken.
Amitav Radiance Aug 2014
The mind is comfortably numb
Unaware of the repercussions
Holding guard at the gates of Eris
Invoking the discord with intensity
Gazing endlessly at dull perceptions
Anarchy is just a breath away
Holding our breath just to stave away
But the cries of horror are unheard
The mind is comfortably numb
According to Greek Mythology 'Eris' is the Goddess of strife and discord and chaos.
Rowan S Jan 2019
Alliteration isn't cheesy
Not for me.
When I use words to stave off the clutching squeeze of
A panic attack
I can write:

"There is pressure on my chest and I feel anxious."
"Pain presses me into purgatorial prayers."

Alliteration becomes the stutter into which I
Skid to a stop
Today has been a rough day. Here is me, publicly coping.
ryn May 2016
The hours disappear instantly like blown out
flames off weary candles.
But time is no match for such raging hearts.

We would still hold up the receding
indigo ceiling above us.
We would prop up the sullen moon to stave
off the dawning day.
We will clutch the dwindling stars
and hug them close to our chests.

Because we know the words too well.
Words we simply couldn't cage except to say that...

We are not yet ready to leave
but we look forward to
diving headlong into
the inevitable restart.

Just so the day could grant us a
slate brand new.
Just so that come night,
we could begin all over again.
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;

Kenya; the begotten daughter of your poor mother
Whose children starve and stave hunger in their tummies
Wallowing in mire of food destitution and diverse others
Wondering where to get victuals from as you have none to tax
Kindly look at your state officers the tummies are bulging
Occupying space all over, suffocating neighbours to the fringe
Tax the commonaplace tummies of your state officers
For them are plenty enough to give you revenue
In combat against hunger unto your children
as she laid her head
upon her daughters tiny chest
she became acutely aware
of every fragile breath

her tender hand
stroking the golden hair 
from the angelic face
that was no longer smiling

silent tears rolling
falling freely upon her cheeks
her heart tearing apart 
like shredded confetti

a guttural scream
begging for release
the feverish praying
affording no comfort

the beating of her tiny heart

the early morning sun
peaking through the window

her mother still weeping

and praying

singing quietly
to her precious jewel
as she slips away

exactly five days later...

the dead leaves
dancing around her feet 
the chilly autumn wind
taking hold of her very soul
standing there
much like a granite statue
with closed eyes

unable to move
hearing her own heartbeat
the little girls laughter
still fresh in her memory
biting her lip
attempting to hold back the flood of tears 
that threaten to consume her

all concept of time fading
along with the late afternoon sun
tugging at her jacket zipper 
hoping to stave off the bitter wind 
shivering deep inside 
yet refusing to move

unable to leave her little girl

there had been so many people
that had come to see her
in her final resting place

sorrowful faces
just a blur to her now
their words and best wishes
escaped her

the words didn’t matter
nothing did anymore

kneeling in front of the tiny gravestone
clasping her hands tightly together 
trying to symbolically represent the bond 
between herself and her daughter

feeling the moistness
of the freshly laid dirt 
slowly seeping
through the knees of her pants

trying to pray...
but for what she wonders 

her precious angel gone 

no more giggles

no more late night secrets
and no more fishy kisses

there is nothing more than 
a gaping black hole 
where her heart used to be

she claws at the dirt and screams...
He often would ask us
That, when he died,
After playing so many
To their last rest,
If out of us any
Should here abide,
And it would not task us,
We would with our lutes
Play over him
By his grave-brim
The psalm he liked best—
The one whose sense suits
“Mount Ephraim”—
And perhaps we should seem
To him, in Death’s dream,
Like the seraphim.

As soon as I knew
That his spirit was gone
I thought this his due,
And spoke thereupon.
“I think”, said the vicar,
“A read service quicker
Than viols out-of-doors
In these frosts and hoars.
That old-fashioned way
Requires a fine day,
And it seems to me
It had better not be.”
Hence, that afternoon,
Though never knew he
That his wish could not be,
To get through it faster
They buried the master
Without any tune.

But ’twas said that, when
At the dead of next night
The vicar looked out,
There struck on his ken
Thronged roundabout,
Where the frost was graying
The headstoned grass,
A band all in white
Like the saints in church-glass,
Singing and playing
The ancient stave
By the choirmaster’s grave.

Such the tenor man told
When he had grown old.
The sun rises in your smile
I see the moon in your eyes
Awakens my thoughts for awhile
Shining through your saddening cries

The wind blows over the subtle contours of your face
Absconding with the salt from your dried up tears
Leaving no evidence of the fevered chase
That never had ceased after all these years

The feel of summer heats up my lonely heart
With the touch of your lovely innocence
The expanse of the ocean couldn't keep us apart
Seeing your glowing eyes is worth a million presents

But that would be all the season could bear to offer
Tides would elope to the flute tune played by the moon
I'd waylay this day to stave off the coming of another
I'd freeze this day eternal knowing tomorrow would come too soon
As always, I'm in awe of the talent this man possesses, truly astounds and honors me with every word.
I truly appreciate you as a dear friend and confidant.
Thank you for the pleasure of writing with you. ♥
Thomas EG Sep 2015
It usually goes a little like this:
Intro, body, bridge, body, body, outro

The body is the most important part
Or at least so we think at first hearing

But personality and words are equal

And your melody is lyrically smooth
As your tempo bounces along my stave

And my vocal chords strum into crescendo

You are my ****** note

Ascending to my neck
Descending to my heart

I yearn to be someone's hand to hold

Someone's ostinato
To transfer into a lower key

If I could be your vibrato

Shake me, shake me, shake me
I love you

I rise up out of my seat
Out of my body

As I make my way towards the outro
And scream:


But kiss you, anyway
Because honesty was never your forté

And I love the words that escape your lips
And I love your body

**I love you
Another intoxicated poem :-)
A raucous tone of an oldie worm gear
Sound's like a screech that torn ears
Toothed wheel and it revolving spiral, bear
The oodles of blood as the oil of fear.

The products are orderly transmitted diseases
Wrench is limited avast for every pigment of it
And to rely on its asylum, to ceases
are not enough, to cover the dirt or to omit.

Let's stave the stave of reddish fuels!
If life is a wheel and we are its axles,
Our will be done, drawn of our risksha
And let this machine covert chutzpah.

Working of two wheel with sloping square edge,
Is the next wheel with trickery on the ledge.
Our wheel has a will of its spare-part, none Midas touch
But still, this wheel will chase the chaste egg to hutch.

Be the egg of tomorrow, who's snob the chatterbox.
Uproots our machine's cheapskate who's blood are their tax.
Their waste turns to wax from the slave of fox.
It can take away everything outside of our flocks
Andrew Rueter Dec 2017
I venture outward
Past those devoured
Through endless hours
This adventure tower
Holds uncensored power
In higher spires
And liars' desires
Ending when I perspire
In a fire retire

I must live
When lust gives
A chance at love
I glance above
A dusty cloud
Through a crusty crowd
To see love must be found
In transcendence
And dependence
So I must trust
And ignore rust
To import thrusts
Of night's passion
Despite fashion

Time vortex
More or less
As time runs out
I must decide what it's about
Others help with that decision
They help by making incisions
And letting time bleed
My emotions they read
For their corporal greed
I tried to plant a seed
But their environment is frigid
Despite my attempts to bridge it
I become detached
From my potential catch
By days and years
And waves of tears
That stave off peers
Until I'm an old man
Feet buried in cold sand
I'll say that I tried
Once I'm used to the lies
Sarah Spang Jul 2015
If I could barter time itself
And make the past today,
I'd hand away the future
For parts of yesterday.

If I could trade my happiness
And pluck it from tomorrow,
I'd binge on what you brought to me
To stave off all this sorrow

If I could turn my back away
From my own form of nature
I'd hold the hallowed night away
To have the Sun forever.

*Once the day is done, it's gone;
No touching yesterday.
And only I can salvage smiles
From the wreck I've made.
Nigel Morgan Oct 2012
He had been living in a trance of indecision. All his adult life he had sought to be inventive, to imagine something made that could be sounded out, something that could be seen and touched as a score, heard and played as music. Composing was like map-making. It had boundaries. It was contained, always contained:  in the bar, in the bars on a stave, in the staves on a page. It was always a joy to see the page covered. More black than white, although the white space was important, and he realised was becoming more and more necessary as he grew older and more sensitive to music’s often relentless clutter and noise. He wanted to observe the space and spaces between notes, phrases, between trajectories of musical action. That was a good and right term. Musical action: symbols and words that ignited the fire of a musician’s movement, gesture sounded out. He could do that. His scores were full of distinct musical actions, gestures, imagined or observed physical movement: a child’s smile, her graceful movement across a room, an inclination of a head, a gentle stroke of the hand on the arm. That’s how a score often seemed to him: a map of actions. Do this and this follows. Do this and at the same time do this, and when this  finishes, pause, then do this again only in a different way, with a softer touch, a gentler mind, a fresh spirit, a brighter smile. You could build a piece of music on such descriptions – of actions. Such a piece made of musical actions could carry within it a rich poetry. Do this as you view the yellow vase on the window sill flickering with late afternoon shadows and when the distant laughter of children disturbs this scene this follows, whilst a door closes and a woman’s footsteps disappear slowly down a flight of stairs. Do this, as though remembering the reflections in the still water of a lake in early morning, and do this intermittently but simultaneously and with longing for a past memory, and when there is a right moment heralded by the sound of a single bird, pause. Recall your very last action before the bird heralded your pause and let it be repeated in a different way, a way which suggests, almost, indifference, something cast adrift from the flow of thought: to lighten, to unthicken, to reveal the hidden, open the closed, unmuted, towards a radiance.
Since early this year I have written a daily paragraph . . .
CataclysticEvent Feb 2019
I wish I could say
Life is easier with you here.
Depression doesn't work that way.
No amount of love i have,
Will change how I
See and feel the world.
But when the darkness clears,
And I can see and feel the world
With the clarity of normalicy.
You make that,
The most magical time
It could possibly be.
And for me,
That is enough to stave,
The darkness.
To get me through
Right back to you.
Brent Kincaid Jan 2016
I sleep in my cardboard cottage
That is my current job.
I keep it neat and clean as I can
I am not a slob.
I have my own place staked out
Everyone knows it’s mine.
It keeps the wind off as I doze.
It isn’t perfect but it’s fine.
Part of my job these days is easy;
I set out a cup and sing.
It doesn’t make me a million
But it is something.

When the weather warrants it
I sleep in the park
In the bright warm sunshine;
Stay awake in the dark.
It seems the citizens and cops
All leave me alone
Even though they still talk to me
With condescending tone,
Tsking at my laziness in general
Give the charity buck
Or maybe a quarter when they see
Since I’m down on my luck.

There’s this guy Hay Soose
But he spells it Jesus.
He could spell it that way
If he so pleases
But that don’t keep him dry
Whenever it rains
And it doesn’t stave most of the
Deep arthritic pains
From sleeping under cardboard
As his only roof.
Watch him shiver in winter if
You want some proof.

People have gotten to know me
As I’m here every day.
Some of the even come by with
Nice words to say.
And, I am used to the noise here;
The horns and the noise
Of the workaday world of these folks;
These grownup girls and boys.
Some tell me to go find some work,
I don’t get mad and shout.
I understand they have some hostilities
They have yet to work out.

Some of my neighbors here in cardboard
Dwell here because they
Can’t seem to work life out for themselves
In any other way.
People fire them from any employment
Because they act weird.
Some refuse to bathe or maybe it is
They refuse to cut their beard.
As for me I have had enough of it all;
The rattle and the hum.
I know society has a lot to offer but
I already had some.
PhiWrit Dec 2014
Whatever happened to that young starry-eyed anarchist in the black suit, with flowing brown curls, eagerly waiting for life to unfurl.

Through you he was replaced by a teary eyed fascist,
carrying a gnarled stave,
silently waiting for the grave.

You were the greatest catalyst, and the strongest of poisons. Now your name is on my list, of betrayers and blasphemers.
Just releasing the searing pains of betrayal by the only person I ever considered my best friend.
John F McCullagh Apr 2017
Convicted and condemned, I hang
Upon a cross of wood .
With me my co-conspirator
And a rabbi, one reputed good.
I hear the rabble mocking him;
This teacher crowned with thorns.
Like me, he struggles for each breath.
Like he, he’s suffering and alone.
We are naked to the wind
There is no dignity in this death
For one like me so steeped in sin.
I beg a blessing for my soul
Before eternity beckons Him
He looks at me with kindness then
and speaks to me of Paradise.
I sense He’s dying as we speak
Though I have sinned, he pays my price.
I hear him cry out to the sky
as he yields his spirit up.
The sky grows dark, Golgotha shakes
A solider with a stave draws near.
Lord I will follow soon enough.
The New Testament story of the good thief
I see my countryman still holding on to the pest          
we look to blame of the jar full of gold which fell out of our hand            
on the pest, on the men how came from the horizon                  
the men how opened our eyes                                        
but not without the down hills, deep valleys and the dark part of them

We hold on to the things which drive us into the ground'            
for we do not peck the from the shining ground but  we still look to blame          
whiles the wind of time blows which is more parlous than gold      
whiles the wind blows and carry’s away the gold  
A hunter enticing his whit bat have our country men enticed us whit sweet  words                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               and then stave us in the back  7x7x7 and  besieged us in poverty
Putting us in sinking  sand whit noting to hold on to.  
To the further we must look and loss the burden which we hold on to.  
Moving from the past is inevitable if we went to be on the other side where the sun is    
reaching for the thing which are in front and living the thing which are in behind .
LACS Apr 2011
I venerate and hold memories
That cover my hands like you did
Conforming to my flesh and warming me
A pair of gloves to stave off the cold of missing you

I taste what you left me
And I am reminded of your lips
That impressed upon me
What it means to wish

I am ardent for that seeping joy
The deep chords that your hands would play
Softly and sweetly entreating me
To desire and sing for you

I hear your voice transmitted
Missing inflections and a face
You are half realized
In this way- but

You still cover me with care
Your affection tailored to my tiny hands
Love is all encompassing
You are my definition.
The heat intensifies with my lonesome tendencies, and
I fear palpitation from innocently brushing arms with a stranger.
But when I find myself in a stranger’s bed
(or a wineshop,
a car,
a park)
the thrill is missing.
I am a stereotype, a masochistic statistic. I am becoming the 20-something-sleeping-around-to-stave-off-boredom.
I am an archetype that’s been romanticized to death.
Save the romance, it’s greed and it’s hunger and it’s pure boredom.
These men become gold. Thread after thread
of secret affairs solidify into a piece of treasure,
Like 14 karat chain necklaces that get tangled
into an unfixable knot of links and claw clasps.
I carry it in my strut and that is exciting.
My walk is confidently direct at 3 in the morning.
In the summer, when the heat is outside and not in my bed, I am unsatisfied.
Yet when the promise of romance approaches, I allow myself to make poor decisions out of fear.
So I make a different poor decision to get me through the next hour.
The land of God,
Where God stayed in person,
As he traversed desert sand dunes to Irag,
To have a look at rivers Euphrates and Tigris,
When Adam had just finished playing the first human ***,
With Eve, the non ****** companion he gave him,
He then meted out to them eternal nemesis
Out of his anger and selfish jealous,
Other-wise what was wrong,
For Adam to have a ****,
With the unclothed eve,
Any answer please,
Or no please,

Persia Now is Nuked,
A nuclearized oil exporter,
She has a Koran, oil-wells and Nuclear,
She also has no-nonsense masculine Arabic culture,
****** grounds in which mushrooms the messy Islamic soup,
Blessed and Glorified by my good ****** brother; Barrack Obama,
Who was once God and sent the inverse of angel Michael to Laden Osama,
To impregnant the ****** mother of death that sired laden’s demise,
Game in which Obama dwarfs Netanyahu a global dweeb,
Left on a wrong inglenook in a dwaal at Jerusalem fire,
Biasly blessing the Israeli Nuclear and Hydrogen bombs,
As security of the world, and condemning Iran,
Calling their Kosher Nuclears a threat,
To the israelized world security,
But his Gaza **** is not,
His refuge camps
Are not

Blessed are the Nuclear stuffs of Persia,
They are blessings of Allah to those that are guided,
Maunderings of the jackanapes like Netanyahu is not news,
For he has more nuclear in Jerusalem, hydrogen bombs too he has,
Then arming Persia must a usual game of violence not anything of his sort,
For  they are Koran, the nuclear, the oil wells, and the woman,
That will frame up the Islamic state to stable counterzionism,
To stave mania of European Jews for settlerism
To eat what they deserve un¬¬-rapaciously,
To at least breed homespun respect,
For those that differ with them
In faith and skin
Like afro-persians

Your nuclear stuffs,
Are blessed and glorified,
For they are counter-apartheid,
To the Zionist apartheid in Palestine,
They are acts that resemble the acts in the past,
By those that oppressed, colonize, imperialize for settlerism,
For a line in Shakespeare’s king Lear has some blessings for you;
The un-armed (Arabs) provokes (Israeli) enemy’s attack,
Thus reality of equal nuclear mighty and strength
Will nurse thought for de-imperialism
Sense of respect and discipline,
By those who belong to God,
To those who don’t,

Who Bombed Charlie Hebdo?
And what of the Yankee Twin Towers?
Was it Al Qaeda or the Israelis, can I blab or not?
O, there were also Nuclear stuffs in De Klerk’s White South Africa,
But when blackness came to corridors of power, the nukes followed color,
What of what I was dreaming yester night? About Netanyahu,
He ployed for the European hatred against Islamic statesmen,
He bombed Charlie Hebdo, masquerading as an Arab,
For European war on Islamic state to intensify,
Then it intensified, but God only knew,
The truth; Islamic statesman are only mouthy,
But foolish in war and offense,
They didn’t bomb
Charlie Hebdo,

Boris Nemetsov,
A Russian speaking Jew,
Was shot dead in Moscow,
(RIP) Boris, for the human soul must die,
Death and grave is the kismet for us the living,
But why were you weak as a post hatch cackling hen,
To make noise and preen around as a jade in the land of fox,
The African sisal fox that ate all the Crimean chicken,
Noise of a hen cannot fetter fox’s appetite,
Noise of a hen cannot shake culture,
Of Nuclear power in Iran and Korea N,
Why live in Russia, but you love Israeli?
I don’t need the answer dudes,
But always oppression
the oppressor always
it kills,

Alexander  Khamala Opicho
Lodwar ,  Kenya

— The End —