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Big Virge Sep 2016
"Order, Order !
We will have ORDER !!!
Order in the court !
or, the doors to this court
will be closed to cohorts !"

" Order "... is the call
within... our courts of law

Well here's...
Big Virges'... view...
of how these laws
will... Surely... be used...
and what... these laws...
will finally... Do... !!!

You see...

" Order's "...
being... " Summoned "...
in the... " Lords "...
and in... " The Commons "...

and... " The Cure "... to...
Current Problems ...
is seen as ... " Martial Law "... !!!

Police will now ... ENFORCE ...
without ... " Probable "... cause ... !!!

" Stops "... and ...
" Searches "...

upPED on ... Corners ...

What's their purpose ... ?
... " Public Order "...

But .....
Cameras on streets ... ?

CCTV ...... !?!

Isn't that meant to ...
" Keep The Peace "... ?!?

" OKAY, they're there
to make movies !
So, what's the deal ?
Can you paint the scene ? "

"Sir, move along please
your act's been seen,
our decision, you'll receive,
once you've been screened,
at the end of the week,
with your, Charge Sheet !
When it comes, answer truthfully,
because any deceit, may well
result in penalties, with no release,
especially if, we have to cheat
by using, yes, our editing team !"

You see ...
That's the ... " Trick "... !!!

So ... take these words ... " IN "...
and ... Read them ... CLOSELY ...
cos' these words ... Run DEEP ... !!!

Our lives ... BELIEVE ME ... !!!
are now on ... " Floppys' " ...
... Micro-Chips ...

and Drives named ... (C:)

So ...
What is humanity's ... destiny ... ???

Technology ....
Patrolling ... our streets ...

Armies ... of police ... !!!

Freedoms. .................................................... obsolete .... !!!!
for those ... wanting ... Peace ...

Sounds like a movie ...
I've seen of ... Armies' ... ???

" OH NO ... it's T3 !!! "

" ORDER is "... The Key ...

Restriction of ... Rights ...
to simply be ... FREE ... ?!?

NOT TO TAKE ...
Violence ... from our streets ... !!!!!

I'm YES ... A Supporter
of ... " Public Order "...

Let partying tribes ...
INDULGE in ... " Good Vibes "...

But .....
What kind of party ... ?
sees people ... Pull Knives ... !?!
or call for ... " Gunfights "... ?!?!?!?

But let's ...
NOT TELL ... " Lies "... !!!

Crime is ... on the rISE ... !!!

Crimes of ... ALL TYPES ... !!!
from ... Corporate Crimes ...
to young ... " Homicides "... !!!!

But .....
Ask yourself ... " WHY "... ?

Is it because ... ?
The young are now ..................................... Lost ....... ?!?

or ....
Could it be ... THIS ... ???

Highlighting ... Young Fights ...
as if .... EVERY NIGHT ...
Another kid ... DIES ... !!!

May simply ... "FIT IN"...
with Agendas ... Contrived ...
to simply ... Keep Minds ...
AFRAID ... and ... " DENIED "...
of living ... their lives ...
just like the ... " Rich Guys "...

" Directors "... who Earn ... ?
from ... " Fraudulent "... work ...

How many of them ?
will face ... " Stop and Search "... ?!?

Those in ... Governments ...
and ... " Corporate "... Hybrids ...
whose parties are ... "PRIVATE"... !!!!

with much ... " Nicer Climates "...

ENJOYING ... themselves... !!!
because of ... " Their Wealth "...
with women who ... " Sell "...
Their bodies like ... " SHELL "... !!!!
have done with ... " Oil Wells "... !!!!!

" Take Time ".....................................
Think it ... through..................................

But ....
Here's some more clues ....
as to why ... I Now Choose ...
to ... " Today "... take this view ...

Youth have died ... " Early "...
For YEARS ... on streets ...

But back then ... WEREN'T Worthy... ?!?
of ... PRIMETIME TV ...

But Now ... THEY ARE ... !?!

Terrorists .... are at Large ... !!!
is now the ... BENCHMARK ...

That's what's being ... " Used "...
to fill .... TV News ....

and ... " Sadly "... ABUSE ...
our LOST ..... WaYwArd ... youth ... !!!

Will .... " Eton "...
and ... " Harrow "...
REALLY SEE ... " Stop and Search "... ?!?!?

It seems ...
kind of ... " shallow :"...
to think ... They'll ... " Concur "...

Do ... " The Rich ...
have a ... THIRST ... ?
to walk with ... What HURTS ... !?!

Guns and Knives .....
amongst the ... " Rich Types "... ???

Why would they ... do that ... !?!
in ... " Daddy's New Pad "... !!!!!!

I guess what i'm saying ...
is ... " Stop and Search "... BLATANT ... !!!!!

is MOSTLY ... for blacks ... !!!!!!

"Well, blacks do the killing !
Which is shown now, to millions !
Everyday, all over the place !
So, answer that Virge !"

is what ...
" They "... will say ... !!!

Those who feed ... LIES ...
into minds and ... " Numb Brains "...

Those who ... DON'T THINK ...
BEYOND Links ... in the ... " Chain ".... !!!

The ... " New Order "... Preys ...
on ... Ignorant Strays ... !!!...

NOT those ... on streets ... !!!
but those who ... Compete ...
for a piece of ... " Their Cake "...

that has a ... FOUL TASTE ... !!!!!!

"ORDER ORDER !!!
We will have ORDER !!!"

" Must have ORDER ?
Man, just hold your corner ! "

Who exactly are ... " They "... ???
to treat people like ... " Game "... !?!

What makes you think ... ?
that they can train ...
the brain of a ... " Pig "...
to actually ... THINK...
and NOT behave ...
like some ... " Supremacist "... !!!
who's just ... Too **** ... QUICK ...
to suspect a kid ...
because of his ... Colour ... !!! ? !!!

" RACIST Mother F..... !!!!! "

"Order ... ORDER ...
You're out of order !!!"

" OUT OF Order ?!?
Are you a Coc' Snorter ?
I'm not a Big Baller,
or Gangsta' shot caller !
I'm just a straight talker
who's CRISP, just like Walkers',
when airing my views, about
Real Issues, that clearly confuse
and are used to abuse, our right to,
yes, choose, when and with whom,
we choose to make moves !

How would you like ?
to have THAT, done to you ?

My name AIN'T, Jack Horner !
Why should I be cornered ?
Searched and questioned
in the name of nonsense ! "

It's all a pretence,
to turn people against,
those they ... Don't Hate ... !!!

but ... each day ...
have to face,

from ... Council Estates ...
within the ... UK ...
to Projects ... They Blame ...
in the ... United States ...

These issues relate ...
and yes ... Correlate ... !!!

So .....
DON'T MAKE ... Mistakes ... !!!
and ... Mis-Read ... " The Game "...

What's happening ... There ...
is coming ... BEWARE ... !!! ...

Just think of it ... " This Way "...
George ... and ... Tony Blair ...........

They told you ... A WAR ...
was coming ... For SURE ... !!!!!

So ...
What'd you think ... NOW ... ?!?

Has ... THE WAR ...
Reached ... " Your Door "... ?!?

Or ...
Do you feel ... " Clowned "... ?

Or ...
Are you ... like me ... ?

A ... " Public "... ENEMY ... !!!

Who'll face men in ... " Gowns "...
because ... when I speak ...
I do so ... FREELY ... !!!! ...

and ... NO ...
WILL NOT ... Stand down ... !!!

" Order "...
is the call ...
as I said ... Before ... !!!

But ....
What is it ... for ... ???

for the ... " Weak "...
and the ... " Poor "...

NOT TO ... Fight anymore ... ?!?

or simply for ... " Borders "...
to keep them from ... " Hoarders "...
and ... " Midnight Marauders "... !!!!!!!

and TRUE LIFE ... Reporters ...
whose views they want ... "cornered"... !?!

because of ...
Their call ... to ... ENFORCE ...

.... " Public Order ".....

Listen Here :

https://soundcloud.com/user-16569179/public-order
My vision from some 8 years ago, of where we were headed, and sadly, much that I thought, has and sadly, continues to come to pass ..... These words are not those suitable for weak hearts, or those who like to play the well .... Y'all
know.

Listen Here : https://soundcloud.com/user-16569179/public-order
Cedric McClester Jan 2017
By: Cedric McClester

Women swarmed the streets
Of Washington and the USA
Putting the President on notice
That they don’t intend to play
And he can’t take away
Everything that they’ve gained
To make America great again
Had better be explained

Women swarmed the streets
Some called it ***** power
Their numbers were increasing
Each and every hour
Even over seas
Their voices could be heard
So trying to keep them down
At that point was absurd

Women swarmed the streets
They came from everywhere
And every ethnic group
Was represented there
In all stripes and colors
Of the rainbow see
Expressing their desire
To have him let them be

Women swarmed the streets
It’s not to be believed
How their numbers kept increasing
Who in the world conceived
That two women from Hawaii
Would have been the trigger
For a demonstration and march
That just got bigger and bigger










Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2017.  All rights reserved.
1397

It sounded as if the Streets were running
And then—the Streets stood still—
Eclipse—was all we could see at the Window
And Awe—was all we could feel.

By and by—the boldest stole out of his Covert
To see if Time was there—
Nature was in an Opal Apron,
Mixing fresher Air.
jeffrey robin Sep 2010
tell me now true words
show me now true form

be the poet write your life

in blood

on these ****** streets

tell me soft love bodies
ride the endless wave

can the silly maudlin
sentimentalities

we are dyin
dyin

on these ****** streets

tell me now true bodies
show me now images of

the poet who writes with love

write

your life in blood  

on these ****** streets

before we die

on these ****** streets
KKM May 2014
We are born free people, yet there are always restrictions.
We choose if we want to break them, whether with facts or through fiction.
Whether on walls using diction,
Or any crawl through confliction.
And no amount of chains and barriers
Will restrain us, no contradiction.
We understand we’re not on ice,
That there’s always going to be friction.
As expressers, fighters, artists, world changers
It comes from an Italian word, meaning scratch.
Look at it again and a whole new world
Has hatched.
The term graffiti, referred to the inscriptions, figure drawings, and such, found on the walls of ancient graves or ruins, as in the Catacombs of Rome or at Pompeii. Use of the word has evolved to include any graphics applied to surfaces in a manner that constitutes vandalism.
75% of people think its vandalism.
Toronto spends one million a year on graffiti removal.
When artists get back in the game, they haven’t given their approval.
Why don’t you use that money to feed the thousands of poor in society?
Instead of worrying about the art that the citizens need to see.

I never got A’s in elementary school art.
Getting marked on art still sounds like you need to be smart.
But graffiti doesn’t have to mean anything,
Not every letter is a symbol.
There are complications too but it can also be simple.
Almost every kind that I saw on the streets
Took a soft place in my heart, eventually turned concrete.
Let me reel back to grade 10 when I actually took art courses
In the media arts classroom I was taught people as my sources
Banksy, JR, Sofles, Katsu, Kidult, Shepard Fairey.
After my first graffiti assignment I understood clearly
What would happen if you brought a spray paint can near me.
The reason for graffiti is a simple one,
Not always about rebelling, or having fun.
Every artist craves to paint in his or her own way.
And all of us have messages that need to be portrayed.
Like, I was here, I’m alive, let me leave my mark.
This city is mine too, and I want to give it my spark
I belong, I have a voice, and I crave to make a change
These walls are too voiceless when it comes to the speaking range
My love for social justice brings in political ties
Through graffiti one can tell what country thrives with lies
It gives any surface a story, makes it come alive.
Change the system if you strive, until justice is revived.
To try to help the oppressed,
The shapes and lines were mine,
But they’re the ones on the line,
And to sit and do nothing would be an even bigger crime.
I even changed my initials to KKB
The B is for Banksy, its everywhere you see me.
My email has a Banksy, my Twitter did too.
Graffiti is my life, though you already knew.
Humanity is lost within the walls that we made
Graffiti brought it back to me,
And like the ocean did I wade.
Inside the political aspect that structures our brains
And the society that gives us money to drain
All the false information and the things we don’t need
Gives me hope to find these messages written on the streets
Sometimes freedom of speech isn’t so free at all.
But if Facebook deletes posts, documentaries have biased calls,
There’s another way of speaking, even if we fall,
I love how it’s not typical; no tag is the same.
Its breathing life on the walls, not stuck in a frame.
It stands out.
Stands outside of a museum where you always have to pay.
To see something that may or may not catch your attention right away.
That makes your head sway,
Give you some kind of reaction, moves you to action.
Not something you have to think hard about,
There’s little analysis needed, a splash merrily seeded.
Its urgent, its in the moment, for realization.
Once the message has been received, it’s an artist’s confirmation.
I integrated graffiti as a part of my every day life, including school
Drew it in math projects, French presentations, writer’s craft essays, it was my arts night welcome sign tool.
I will carry this with me through university
And it’ll take me further in the arts industry.
When you walk by graffiti in the street, do you ever take the time to notice it? Like, really notice it? Do you ever think about the person behind the spray paint can? Writers are not only being underappreciated for their talents, but they’re being harassed, looked down on, all for no reason. Do you know any of their stories? Do you know what thoughts and feelings sprayed out of the can when the paint hit the wall? Do you ever think about the history behind the art? To breakdown the styles of graffiti, here’s a simple introduction. There are tags, the simplest forms of graffiti. A signature. There are stencils. There are stickers, also known as slaps. Wildstyles are also used, and they’re more intricate, more colourful, and harder to read. It’s a particular style of writing developed in New York City. A piece is one that takes time an effort, and requires more than three colours. A blockbuster is used to cover the most space in the least amount of time. And a heaven is a piece that’s put in a hard to reach area, like the tops of tall buildings or on freeway signs. There’s the style bubble, old school, brush, abstract, bombings, whole car, ignorant, landscape, realistic, billboard, cartoon and sharp as well.
A sense of tranquility seeps into my veins every time my marker hits the paper, full of energy, full of hope. Starting graffiti was a way to combine my passion for speaking out against oppression and my love for the arts. Even though my work is not displayed on the streets, it has the same style, and it may not have the same effect but it counts as an escape for me. It doesn’t make me a graffiti artist, and some would even argue that doing canvas work kills the purpose of graffiti but I always want my work to make an impact on people no matter which way I do it. It’s something I love to do, and anyone can take that any way they desire. There are stereotypes that I’ve had to battle, but in the end, I know my true intentions. I don’t need to make a name for myself. I don’t need to create a reputation for myself either. True, this is not real graffiti, but that’s as far as I choose to take my fascination. I do it because of the escape it provides for me, the sense of freedom, and the sense of power in my markers.
These are the little movements of writers, all of us trying to get at revolution. Art is not supposed to be limited in frames. That’s why to me, the streets are some of the biggest forms of freedom – do as much as you like, however you like, all free. The poor and rich all have to see it. No one can avoid the message. It is not only artistic expression; it’s a protest. A scream of anger and emotion aimed towards public spaces. Graffiti artists did not start the war, they just respond to defend our vision of what graffiti and society should be: free. A battle against commercialism and a way of saying ‘no’ to materialism and society’s over consumption.  To the government, you are not the only ones who own these cities. What about the rest of us that do not exist until we leave a mark of our own? This is a game of action and reaction, if you will.
Taking care of our society is our obligation. That means changing anything harmful to us with every mean possible. Graffiti seems to offend a majority of society but if we took the time to appreciate and understand, a lot of good can be done if we turned the negatives into positives. So if we aimed for change and acted on it, especially with art, we’d be much less stressed. More often, we’d just remember, to stay blessed.
an assignment for a writers class. i made a video, but this is the word version (:
Sean Rosgen May 2014
"Her Name Is ******"
The first time I met Her, I knew right away, She'd be in my life forever. The first time I met Her, She introduced Herself and I couldn't breathe. The first time I met Her...never had I slept so deeply in my life.
The second time I was with Her, it was a dream of bliss and happiness come true. The second time I was with Her, my eyes lit up with excitement and my heart simultaneously sped up and slowed down. The second time I met Her, I knew I would love Her forever.
By the time our relationship became something I craved and lusted for, I realized that I hated Her. I didn't want Her in my life but I couldn't tell Her because I needed Her. And I would do whatever I could for Her. I would steal from anyone I could for Her. I could lie to anyone I knew or loved for Her. I refused to be without Her and nobody would stop me from being with Her.
By the time a year and a half had passed by, and Her and i had now had too many dates for me to count, i awoke one day to stop and look down to where i held her in my arms, held Her in my hands. I stopped and realized i had forgotten Her name. It was something that had been happening lately, my memory just wasn't as sharp as it was before i met her. I looked down at Her and said, "um i seem to have forgotten your name, could you please tell me it". She looked at me and said to me with a twisted, evil smile and a voice like someone who had been smoking their whole life. She said "why Sean, how could you forget my name? Baby my name...is ******. And you love me very much don't you?" I looked down at her, the square piece of foil in my left hand and the pen with which i had de-constructed and now used to catch Her breath in my right, was the woman of my dreams. The black, oily, rolling demon to whom i spoke to, was the one who i had given my soul to.
But she was right, i did love Her and would do anything for Her. I loved her more than the job i lost for Her. I loved Her more than, realizing and knowing that i hadn't showered in days and didn't care. I loved her more than my guitars i used to speak what my soul sings, which i pawned, with no hope of regaining, for Her. I loved Her more...than the woman with whom i was in a 3-year relationship with and who i loved very much with everything i was. But, because of ******, i was nothing, but what She wanted me to be. I did all of these things just so i didn't have to feel the pain in my bones when i didn't have Her. I did all of these thigns, so i didn't have to feel the aches in my muscles when i couldn't get Her. I did all of these things, so day in and day out i wouldn't have to deal with my reality that was crumbling around me. I did these things to numb the pain of catching my girlfriend cheating on me with my best friend. Numb me from the hurt of her kicking me out to move him in and marry him. I did this to hide from the reality of moving back in with my parents and feeling like i was a child again. I needed her in my life to eventually **** all my feelings when, my parents kicked me out of their house because I wouldn’t do what they wanted and later kicked me out of their home and didn't care where i went or what happened to me.
My reality, had become my parents telling me, as i was walking away, tears in my eyes, curses in my mouth, and a ******* machete jammed through my heart, them telling me that i was nothing but a lowlife piece of trash and i deserved to be out on the streets, living behind dumpsters, and that i was a thief and now, since I had come back in to their house with her, it felt tainted and evil. My reality was, my parents telling me that the next time they saw me, would be at my funeral.
My reality was so consumed by darkness, and so consumed by pain, and just so consumed by the reality that i couldn't actually FEEL anymore and all i had in my life was Her. She was always there for me. To take away my pain as i slept behind a grocery store and was jumped and beaten by three other homeless men. She took away the pain of being utterly consumed by the lack of not being able to feel anything except for the overwhelming urge to just die. That after 3 weeks on the streets, and an almost 3 year relationship with my sweetheart, ******, i was so incapable of feeling anything, that i just wanted it all to end. Because everything inside of me that made me human and alive, had already died long ago, and She was just my life support, but i was ready to pull the plug.

When you are nothing but a hollow shell, and doing the same routine of: wake up, smoke H, go beg for change so i don't have to be without my darling, ******, but haven't eaten in two days, so i go to the dumpster where i have a buffet of half eaten sandwiches and old rotten fruits, just so i don't have to FEEL the pain of not having at least Her in my life. I had gotten to the point where i asked my self 'what's the point of living anymore? Why go on?"

And, my friend, it is these things. Life is worth living because after being clean i have a new found sense of purpose and self-value and self-love. Life is worth living, simply, for the sun setting behind the mountains and, for a few minutes the mountains are just a silhouette against the rainbow of colors that is the sky, and it looks like the most beautiful painting that nobody ever did, and i weep. Life is worth living, to sit in a park while you're going through the worst part of your withdrawl from Her and all you want to do is get high or end your life because, that would be so much easier than having to put up with this suffering. When suddenly, you notice the wind move across the grass and bushes, up into the trees and then hear a choir of birds singing, and for a moment, just a moment, you forget about your pain, you forget about your suffering, and focus on something amazing and beautiful and. Life is worth living, for all of the people who suddenly, came into your life and help you and support you, even though they didn't know you before, but don't care because, they see the potential in you and remind you to see it within yourself. Life is worth living....because you're a beautiful human being. And yes, you've made mistakes in the past, but I’m here to tell you, when-ever you feel like you're all alone. When you're sleeping on the streets, or roaming them to try and figure out a way to get a hold of that ***** ******, when you feel like you have zero support. Know this...Know that you at least have me in some way. Know that i support you as a human being, and that i would help and will help you if i can because I’ve been there, roaming the streets, eating out of dumpsters, wishing I would just die, I’ve been there. Know that, even though i don't know you, or that I may have never met you. I love you and have hope for you.
Because, you're more than ******, and you’re more than any kind of drug/ vice. You're a living, breathing, human being with feelings and hopes, desires, fears and dreams. YOU are a human being and you deserve to be treated like one.
This is the second revised version, i am still working on the final product.
Ashley Centers Aug 2010
Life comes in increments of sixteen weeks where each week she composes list after list.
Wastes away inside with textbooks and tests instead of spending the day in the sunshine.
Her mind wanders, up and away, into her dreams where she lives a different sort of life.
As others are falling into soft slumber in the night’s silence she is kept awake by thoughts
that make her weary of war and weather both. She prays nightly for dear Mother Earth
to take her people and bring them alive with singing in the streets in the dead of night

and to rock them to sleep with sweet lullabies as stars step away and day breaks night.
The girl looks at this life of hers and after some time in deep thought composes another list
to keep organized and to help her find a steady place to plant her feet on this big, big earth.
As she struggles each day with textbooks and tests and longs for the warmth of sunshine
work, school and a sad excuse for a social circle overwhelm her mind, spirit and thoughts.
Each day her mind grows heavier and she continues to wish for a different kind of life.

Somewhere where the sunset lasts a little bit longer. A sort of sweeter, simple life
where the streets are filled with the sound of music all day and through into the night
and where children can be children longer so that when they come upon the thoughts
that fill the heads of adults they won’t do as the woman living in a child’s world has and list
ways to escape to a place where she can do the dreamer’s dance and live in the sunshine
on the streets where music fills the air and smiling faces take up all the space on earth.

She desires to recycle her trash and plant trees in the salty spring air that occupies her earth
and to better herself, the lists say so, because there has to more than what’s seen in this life
that comes in sixteen week intervals filled with textbooks and tests. It seems the sunshine
would do all of us some good. Maybe the moon will allow her time to dance away the night
but it isn’t meant to be tonight. The halfway point shows eight weeks crossed off using lists
and eight more until she can run into the sunshine and not be consumed by her thoughts

because she’s no great philosopher. She would rather spend time in play than in thought.
Nobody wants to be lost in thought when they’ve yet to explore this mighty, mighty earth
with her blasted basalts, blue skies, and bubblegum scented paper on which she makes lists
after which the businessmen will be able to continue on with their polished, plush lives
in this white world where all that matters is green. But she, she’d rather dance the night
away where there’s music in the air and people walk the streets with pockets of sunshine.

In a land where there are no bad days and everyone carries a pocket full of sunshine
Is where she wants to exist. Trapped in a world where she escapes into her thoughts
Because nobody knows how silent and still the streets become when day turns to night
How many children go hungry and how many people don’t know their place on this earth
They want another chance at redemptions, a new beginning in a place to start a new life
And yet when everything else is over, she finds herself with nothing but crossed off lists

Here she stands at a crossroads left with nothing, only her beloved lists
She’ll have to tear a new path and find herself in this life
So she can make it to where they sing in the streets and dance away the night
This is my very first attempt at a sestina
Copyright 2010 Ashley Centers
Mona Mohamed Jan 2017
Two streets away
I imagine myself walking
Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes

Waking up with the world
As its beauty is still pale
Not yet mixed with the car exhausts

Two streets away
Is the silver wavy water
As it tries to imitate the sky

Bike wheels floating above the roads
Runners racing the sun
Music spilling from that one headphone.

Two streets away
I imagine my blouse fighting the morning breeze
The benches filled with the flowers' happy tears

The streets hinting of awakening,
As the shy face of the peeking sun
Warms the hidden chilliness 

Simplicity is the key
Without man's rough hands
Everything is just being itself

***** feet,
Asleep on yesterday's damage
Not yet awake to indulge in more*

● ● ●
September 2014
One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound
except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember
whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve
nights when I was six.

All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky
that was our street; and they stop at the rim of the ice-edged fish-freezing waves, and I plunge my hands in
the snow and bring out whatever I can find. In goes my hand into that wool-white bell-tongued ball of holidays
resting at the rim of the carol-singing sea, and out come Mrs. Prothero and the firemen.

It was on the afternoon of the Christmas Eve, and I was in Mrs. Prothero's garden, waiting for cats, with her
son Jim. It was snowing. It was always snowing at Christmas. December, in my memory, is white as Lapland,
though there were no reindeers. But there were cats. Patient, cold and callous, our hands wrapped in socks, we
waited to snowball the cats. Sleek and long as jaguars and horrible-whiskered, spitting and snarling, they
would slink and sidle over the white back-garden walls, and the lynx-eyed hunters, Jim and I, fur-capped and
moccasined trappers from Hudson Bay, off Mumbles Road, would hurl our deadly snowballs at the green of their
eyes. The wise cats never appeared.

We were so still, Eskimo-footed arctic marksmen in the muffling silence of the eternal snows - eternal, ever
since Wednesday - that we never heard Mrs. Prothero's first cry from her igloo at the bottom of the garden. Or,
if we heard it at all, it was, to us, like the far-off challenge of our enemy and prey, the neighbor's polar
cat. But soon the voice grew louder.
"Fire!" cried Mrs. Prothero, and she beat the dinner-gong.

And we ran down the garden, with the snowballs in our arms, toward the house; and smoke, indeed, was pouring
out of the dining-room, and the gong was bombilating, and Mrs. Prothero was announcing ruin like a town crier
in Pompeii. This was better than all the cats in Wales standing on the wall in a row. We bounded into the
house, laden with snowballs, and stopped at the open door of the smoke-filled room.

Something was burning all right; perhaps it was Mr. Prothero, who always slept there after midday dinner with a
newspaper over his face. But he was standing in the middle of the room, saying, "A fine Christmas!" and
smacking at the smoke with a slipper.

"Call the fire brigade," cried Mrs. Prothero as she beat the gong.
"There won't be there," said Mr. Prothero, "it's Christmas."
There was no fire to be seen, only clouds of smoke and Mr. Prothero standing in the middle of them, waving his
slipper as though he were conducting.
"Do something," he said. And we threw all our snowballs into the smoke - I think we missed Mr. Prothero - and
ran out of the house to the telephone box.
"Let's call the police as well," Jim said. "And the ambulance." "And Ernie Jenkins, he likes fires."

But we only called the fire brigade, and soon the fire engine came and three tall men in helmets brought a hose
into the house and Mr. Prothero got out just in time before they turned it on. Nobody could have had a noisier
Christmas Eve. And when the firemen turned off the hose and were standing in the wet, smoky room, Jim's Aunt,
Miss. Prothero, came downstairs and peered in at them. Jim and I waited, very quietly, to hear what she would
say to them. She said the right thing, always. She looked at the three tall firemen in their shining helmets,
standing among the smoke and cinders and dissolving snowballs, and she said, "Would you like anything to read?"

Years and years ago, when I was a boy, when there were wolves in Wales, and birds the color of red-flannel
petticoats whisked past the harp-shaped hills, when we sang and wallowed all night and day in caves that smelt
like Sunday afternoons in damp front farmhouse parlors, and we chased, with the jawbones of deacons, the
English and the bears, before the motor car, before the wheel, before the duchess-faced horse, when we rode the
daft and happy hills *******, it snowed and it snowed. But here a small boy says: "It snowed last year, too. I
made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea."

"But that was not the same snow," I say. "Our snow was not only shaken from white wash buckets down the sky, it
came shawling out of the ground and swam and drifted out of the arms and hands and bodies of the trees; snow
grew overnight on the roofs of the houses like a pure and grandfather moss, minutely -ivied the walls and
settled on the postman, opening the gate, like a dumb, numb thunder-storm of white, torn Christmas cards."

"Were there postmen then, too?"
"With sprinkling eyes and wind-cherried noses, on spread, frozen feet they crunched up to the doors and
mittened on them manfully. But all that the children could hear was a ringing of bells."
"You mean that the postman went rat-a-tat-tat and the doors rang?"
"I mean that the bells the children could hear were inside them."
"I only hear thunder sometimes, never bells."
"There were church bells, too."
"Inside them?"
"No, no, no, in the bat-black, snow-white belfries, tugged by bishops and storks. And they rang their tidings
over the bandaged town, over the frozen foam of the powder and ice-cream hills, over the crackling sea. It
seemed that all the churches boomed for joy under my window; and the weathercocks crew for Christmas, on our
fence."

"Get back to the postmen"
"They were just ordinary postmen, found of walking and dogs and Christmas and the snow. They knocked on the
doors with blue knuckles ...."
"Ours has got a black knocker...."
"And then they stood on the white Welcome mat in the little, drifted porches and huffed and puffed, making
ghosts with their breath, and jogged from foot to foot like small boys wanting to go out."
"And then the presents?"
"And then the Presents, after the Christmas box. And the cold postman, with a rose on his button-nose, tingled
down the tea-tray-slithered run of the chilly glinting hill. He went in his ice-bound boots like a man on
fishmonger's slabs.
"He wagged his bag like a frozen camel's ****, dizzily turned the corner on one foot, and, by God, he was
gone."

"Get back to the Presents."
"There were the Useful Presents: engulfing mufflers of the old coach days, and mittens made for giant sloths;
zebra scarfs of a substance like silky gum that could be tug-o'-warred down to the galoshes; blinding tam-o'-
shanters like patchwork tea cozies and bunny-suited busbies and balaclavas for victims of head-shrinking
tribes; from aunts who always wore wool next to the skin there were mustached and rasping vests that made you
wonder why the aunts had any skin left at all; and once I had a little crocheted nose bag from an aunt now,
alas, no longer whinnying with us. And pictureless books in which small boys, though warned with quotations not
to, would skate on Farmer Giles' pond and did and drowned; and books that told me everything about the wasp,
except why."

"Go on the Useless Presents."
"Bags of moist and many-colored jelly babies and a folded flag and a false nose and a tram-conductor's cap and
a machine that punched tickets and rang a bell; never a catapult; once, by mistake that no one could explain, a
little hatchet; and a celluloid duck that made, when you pressed it, a most unducklike sound, a mewing moo that
an ambitious cat might make who wished to be a cow; and a painting book in which I could make the grass, the
trees, the sea and the animals any colour I pleased, and still the dazzling sky-blue sheep are grazing in the
red field under the rainbow-billed and pea-green birds. Hardboileds, toffee, fudge and allsorts, crunches,
cracknels, humbugs, glaciers, marzipan, and butterwelsh for the Welsh. And troops of bright tin soldiers who,
if they could not fight, could always run. And Snakes-and-Families and Happy Ladders. And Easy Hobbi-Games for
Little Engineers, complete with instructions. Oh, easy for Leonardo! And a whistle to make the dogs bark to
wake up the old man next door to make him beat on the wall with his stick to shake our picture off the wall.
And a packet of cigarettes: you put one in your mouth and you stood at the corner of the street and you waited
for hours, in vain, for an old lady to scold you for smoking a cigarette, and then with a smirk you ate it. And
then it was breakfast under the balloons."

"Were there Uncles like in our house?"
"There are always Uncles at Christmas. The same Uncles. And on Christmas morning, with dog-disturbing whistle
and sugar ****, I would scour the swatched town for the news of the little world, and find always a dead bird
by the Post Office or by the white deserted swings; perhaps a robin, all but one of his fires out. Men and
women wading or scooping back from chapel, with taproom noses and wind-bussed cheeks, all albinos, huddles
their stiff black jarring feathers against the irreligious snow. Mistletoe hung from the gas brackets in all
the front parlors; there was sherry and walnuts and bottled beer and crackers by the dessertspoons; and cats in
their fur-abouts watched the fires; and the high-heaped fire spat, all ready for the chestnuts and the mulling
pokers. Some few large men sat in the front parlors, without their collars, Uncles almost certainly, trying
their new cigars, holding them out judiciously at arms' length, returning them to their mouths, coughing, then
holding them out again as though waiting for the explosion; and some few small aunts, not wanted in the
kitchen, nor anywhere else for that matter, sat on the very edge of their chairs, poised and brittle, afraid to
break, like faded cups and saucers."

Not many those mornings trod the piling streets: an old man always, fawn-bowlered, yellow-gloved and, at this
time of year, with spats of snow, would take his constitutional to the white bowling green and back, as he
would take it wet or fire on Christmas Day or Doomsday; sometimes two hale young men, with big pipes blazing,
no overcoats and wind blown scarfs, would trudge, unspeaking, down to the forlorn sea, to work up an appetite,
to blow away the fumes, who knows, to walk into the waves until nothing of them was left but the two furling
smoke clouds of their inextinguishable briars. Then I would be slap-dashing home, the gravy smell of the
dinners of others, the bird smell, the brandy, the pudding and mince, coiling up to my nostrils, when out of a
snow-clogged side lane would come a boy the spit of myself, with a pink-tipped cigarette and the violet past of
a black eye, cocky as a bullfinch, leering all to himself.

I hated him on sight and sound, and would be about to put my dog whistle to my lips and blow him off the face
of Christmas when suddenly he, with a violet wink, put his whistle to his lips and blew so stridently, so high,
so exquisitely loud, that gobbling faces, their cheeks bulged with goose, would press against their tinsled
windows, the whole length of the white echoing street. For dinner we had turkey and blazing pudding, and after
dinner the Uncles sat in front of the fire, loosened all buttons, put their large moist hands over their watch
chains, groaned a little and slept. Mothers, aunts and sisters scuttled to and fro, bearing tureens. Auntie
Bessie, who had already been frightened, twice, by a clock-work mouse, whimpered at the sideboard and had some
elderberry wine. The dog was sick. Auntie Dosie had to have three aspirins, but Auntie Hannah, who liked port,
stood in the middle of the snowbound back yard, singing like a big-bosomed thrush. I would blow up balloons to
see how big they would blow up to; and, when they burst, which they all did, the Uncles jumped and rumbled. In
the rich and heavy afternoon, the Uncles breathing like dolphins and the snow descending, I would sit among
festoons and Chinese lanterns and nibble dates and try to make a model man-o'-war, following the Instructions
for Little Engineers, and produce what might be mistaken for a sea-going tramcar.

Or I would go out, my bright new boots squeaking, into the white world, on to the seaward hill, to call on Jim
and Dan and Jack and to pad through the still streets, leaving huge footprints on the hidden pavements.
"I bet people will think there's been hippos."
"What would you do if you saw a hippo coming down our street?"
"I'd go like this, bang! I'd throw him over the railings and roll him down the hill and then I'd tickle him
under the ear and he'd wag his tail."
"What would you do if you saw two hippos?"

Iron-flanked and bellowing he-hippos clanked and battered through the scudding snow toward us as we passed Mr.
Daniel's house.
"Let's post Mr. Daniel a snow-ball through his letter box."
"Let's write things in the snow."
"Let's write, 'Mr. Daniel looks like a spaniel' all over his lawn."
Or we walked on the white shore. "Can the fishes see it's snowing?"

The silent one-clouded heavens drifted on to the sea. Now we were snow-blind travelers lost on the north hills,
and vast dewlapped dogs, with flasks round their necks, ambled and shambled up to us, baying "Excelsior." We
returned home through the poor streets where only a few children fumbled with bare red fingers in the wheel-
rutted snow and cat-called after us, their voices fading away, as we trudged uphill, into the cries of the dock
birds and the hooting of ships out in the whirling bay. And then, at tea the recovered Uncles would be jolly;
and the ice cake loomed in the center of the table like a marble grave. Auntie Hannah laced her tea with ***,
because it was only once a year.

Bring out the tall tales now that we told by the fire as the gaslight bubbled like a diver. Ghosts whooed like
owls in the long nights when I dared not look over my shoulder; animals lurked in the cubbyhole under the
stairs and the gas meter ticked. And I remember that we went singing carols once, when there wasn't the shaving
of a moon to light the flying streets. At the end of a long road was a drive that led to a large house, and we
stumbled up the darkness of the drive that night, each one of us afraid, each one holding a stone in his hand
in case, and all of us too brave to say a word. The wind through the trees made noises as of old and unpleasant
and maybe webfooted men wheezing in caves. We reached the black bulk of the house. "What shall we give them?
Hark the Herald?"
"No," Jack said, "Good King Wencelas. I'll count three." One, two three, and we began to sing, our voices high
and seemingly distant in the snow-felted darkness round the house that was occupied by nobody we knew. We stood
close together, near the dark door. Good King Wencelas looked out On the Feast of Stephen ... And then a small,
dry voice, like the voice of someone who has not spoken for a long time, joined our singing: a small, dry,
eggshell voice from the other side of the door: a small dry voice through the keyhole. And when we stopped
running we were outside our house; the front room was lovely; balloons floated under the hot-water-bottle-
gulping gas; everything was good again and shone over the town.
"Perhaps it was a ghost," Jim said.
"Perhaps it was trolls," Dan said, who was always reading.
"Let's go in and see if there's any jelly left," Jack said. And we did that.

Always on Christmas night there was music. An uncle played the fiddle, a cousin sang "Cherry Ripe," and another
uncle sang "Drake's Drum." It was very warm in the little house. Auntie Hannah, who had got on to the parsnip
wine, sang a song about Bleeding Hearts and Death, and then another in which she said her heart was like a
Bird's Nest; and then everybody laughed again; and then I went to bed. Looking through my bedroom window, out
into the moonlight and the unending smoke-colored snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other
houses on our hill and hear the music rising from them up the long, steady falling night. I turned the gas
down, I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.
Aa Harvey Apr 2018
Different streets


The world is full of angry people;
Why can’t we all just live in peace?
Everywhere you go, you see the same old behaviour;
Different faces on different streets.


But still the same old negative creeps,
Creeping up on me.
Just leave me be and you will hear nothing of me;
Different people on different streets.


Still they want to fight, so they stomp their feet,
They wave their fist, they scream and yell.  Where is the empathy?
Think only of yourself!  Who raised these kids?
No-one it seems, for they cause nothing but grief.


They want to fight, because they are never right;
They are a war on polite society; the follower at night.
All I offer is peace, love and empathy;
All they give in return is misery.


So pity me as I walk along the same old streets,
Seeing the same angry faces, hearing the same old voice of defeat.
I wish these horrible people were seeking peace, just like me;
But they are different people on different streets.


(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
They stumble and fall on the streets of despair
on the curbs unwanted babies cry for milk
yet no one wants these *******
so slowly they die of hunger
only preachers do well here
on the streets of despair

Oh look at that puppy crawling with no hind legs
see that sighted person plunge out his eye
these streets this whole city
wow it's full of many god dammed lies
there in the middle of all this pity
I make myself sick and cry

Oh ******* city full of woe
i will pack my bags and then I go
I do get away from this evil tyranny
so there is something left good in me
who would really want to be here
on these streets of despair


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Akshat Agarwal Mar 2018
Dumb Streets stroll along with brains of blitz
to an evening ritual of bathing with blood
where young smiles melt away and tears dry out,
guilty die and so do the ones who dare to doubt,
audience calls it the crowned fool’s supper
but our fool names it ‘Blooming of the Juniper’.

Dumb Streets poke their pride with ***** knives,
scoop their brains out for the queen of beehives
and surrender their soul for a single penny
which leads them to a war-zone surrounded by jinni.
The poor souls mustn’t retreat to the fool,
who’d treat them as his supper or a war-tool.

Dumb Streets fed-up, riot with sullen spirits,
they burn bridges and **** the fool’s puppets.
The supper gets heavy as the days go by,
our fool feasts on rioters who’ve sworn to die.
Soon the puppets disappear into thin air
and leave the palace for rioters to spare.

Dumb streets have our fool as their supper,
sink their shelters with wine and clutter,
but fail to notice uprising of another fool
who’d played leader of fish in the pool.
Shower mercy O! wise Fool upon your streets,
preach the dumb, who wonder what he eats.
Amitav Radiance Sep 2014
The walk along the streets of fame
Streetlights illuminating the night
Dazzles are but fleeting moments
Adulation of the crowds will wane
Looking through the dark glasses
To fend off the bright camera flashes
Offered the spotlight by bright lights
They will switch off during the day
Temporary embellishments will disappear
With ease walk the streets
Where fame is just not a stereotype
Jasmine Luna Apr 2014
who knew that in about
4 years time,
or maybe
10,000 years lost in
10,000 multi hued tears,
id be on the same trip-
dancing to the same
shimmering inner grove as before-
braiding fresh cut
flowers-
delicate genital-hands, unfolding in prayer
into my subconscious mind
or perhaps into my hair-
saving colored prism fragments
of knowledge or nonsense-
digesting intoxicating
incense smoke into the
deep throated green streaked
laughter chasms
that are my lungs-
spinning vinyl, spun mind
unwinding, undulating
through string music-
contemplating the sunset's sweet
immaculate form, reoccuring
and balancing itself right outside my window-
dressing in shells, bones,
and beads; kaleidoscope fabric dripping from
the ******* like mother Kali in a Fellini
flick-
peeping out at heads slinking down
the ****** pavement streets-
my hairy angelic form grooving
intensely, spastic-
body flung, strung out in
hot patterns of
mirrored arms and legs-
brain brew bubbling; wicked, fantastic-
limbs waving and grabbing at
tangible tasty morsels,
smelling strongly of indigo
and patchouli-
the East smiling on me and
my intrepid journey to the ocean city-
head thrown back in
tranquil madness-
pipe smoke curling like
ancient hound howls from the corners
of my lips-
smiles spread like insanity, a wicked disease
lost in the forgotten finger painted
confounds of creamy
****** milk consciousness-
basking in lamplight
of the golden glistening
                                  Now.
ignore all possible concepts and possibilities ---
ignore Beethoven, the spider, the damnation of Faust ---
just make it, babe, make it:
a house  a car   a belly full of beans
pay your taxes
****
and if you can't ****
copulate.
make money but don't work too
hard --- make somebody else pay to
make it --- and
don't smoke too much but drink enough to
relax, and
stay off the streets
wipe your *** real good
use a lot of toilet paper
it's bad manners to let people know you **** or
could smell like it
if you weren't
careful
Summertime is wonderful for many things, not the least of which is the delightful sound of children playing all throughout the neighborhood.

Children laughing and giggling as they're racing along the sidewalk. And then suddenly, almost without warning, the wind turns cold, and the streets become empty.

The echoes of joy and laughter have gone from the neighborhood streets, replaced by the clanging chains hitting the road as the buses roll on by.

You can almost hear the pied piper of schooldom prancing through the streets, enchanting the young ones away, far away, far from their parents and homes.

The streets are quiet and empty.
Homeathome Aug 2019
Strange that I think of you when I peer into my typewriter, I'd love you to the end of time on the stretches of Brooklyn bridge, well I've remembered two years in her reaction where's the two hours now, faraway and cries on the Sun in false yet true splendor in Ontario suffering from prima-donna stage fright and sickness
Go into the gentle madness, shadows are rising on the silver lining, never knowing who showed them the point of life

You don't even exist in my mind, only when I drink beer behind my darkness, in what's and what's wild?
I ask for the meaning of the light, shines on us all with the same shine, tamed by the consciousness finding itself with a will to remember your mirrored faucet, the tumescent towers
And your body is mine, and so are the pulsating melons boughs filled with the heights of the soul
Spontaneous overflowing with poetry, have ye heard
Asked what does it mean, tatterdemalion women with Utah that can put wheat blankets on New York streets, hanging by the city lights
The limelight is the best fall under, under the material Sun
Go into the madness with a gaily gentle touch, feel like my soulless eyes that turn into tender footed steel

I can still remember those Amish legs, it's common knowledge
I'm in the river hell, comparatively too late to think of some compelling excuse to remember this, too distressed to say the rife brought out the Agamemnon wishing for the book in his loveless eyes
From his dead-end streets, often I'm marching on dawned said Sun


For some music from the speaking silent Zephyr poet handing you the cheap attractions, now diamonds straddling on the starry sky
Have you caught them yet in the pools of joy, and Marxist radio adulation

With its peace and understanding, feeding the hungry souls with foolish eyes, fear death by water
Dealing with slaves with hands that wave the ether
Murmurs, rushes, travel is life, and the road makes the honest difference if taken with a naked mind
Forgetting his drawings in his lunchbox, absent-mindedly abseiling in the speaker's of Parliamentarian cops

Looking for milder weather, when the time stops ticking alive
With conviction in his sails, ready to find his body within the conscious nation
Elysian isles dreamt up beautiful ceilings with smells ready for his father to flee from Troy, smelling the freedom

In the afterlife, concocting darling buds of May in the rarest happiness
We are in awe of your silence unseen
Thee heaven, in deathless glances in thine light, let's stretch out the strollin' midnight in a sheet of the smokestack darkness with the cusp of cutting lives amenable
Short and alone in the lonely places without souls of desolate traces in the days of darkness, not light or darkness, in the heart cannot grow fonder of the bliss, ignorant of the ramifications of woe and the strains of purple haze, Moroccan hashish on the locked heaven for wrathful souls staying in Rabat, waiting for the train to Tangiers
I'm on the shore with my drugs, with my friendly sidekick telling us not to do 'em

He looks the other way and says you have a soul that remembers the ashcans on madness, counting the times you lost your breath writing about a genius with a touch of madness that blesses us with hope

With a touch of dignity and common sense, they call me Mr. Common, drinking his juices up and passionate thoroughly intense
With the pusherman's gaze on Virgil's vigilante asylum in Spiritus Mundi, Looking for sadness realizing there were kind memories analyzing the studied smile often ignoring the crime of what was the bloodied-dimmed by the mascara, make-up
No razors allowed in the hairy meager, merger agreed that they shouldn't cut their dreadlocks with ****** eyes, and dimmed pace

You've mimicked life and found that you couldn't reject the sadness
Now, then and what?
Are we gonna change our faces for your confused state of mind that slow when we talk about Buddhism?
In Hell's Kitchens, what's going on in starry Heaven's dynamo nature, intermixed by the same idea of fairness, all that jealousy as is

Cannibal dynamo, adding to the interest of the Zen, really ******
Some people never go crazy, I wonder lives follow what kind of blue, so sheltered from the Watt's storm
Going into the gentle madness, the storm was left when we were reserved, resolved to set the desolating emptiness ploughing on the secret garden
If we recognize each other, I wonder kind lives do the secret lotuses of the squall of mud, on the run from the solid road

If we are kind to each other, are we friends first, recognizing our love in the latter, the pensive ones solitarily reaping
Nothingness in the new honor of chaotic houses on cheerful streets keeping the men happy with cats on train tracks leading us
Through the depths of kindness, where we find the invisible love forgiving us from the ****** in Narcissus, toiling in the invincible summer
With a dedication, immense and immeasurable as the lost souls in the free outsiders, keeping the outsider with us in good spirits, dreaming of Sisyphus happy, on the stormy
Watching on the watchtower for the island of the gentle darkness, shining the light towards your way back home, changing the weather for sailors

Nowadays, speeches keep us here with the difficult women before the speechless enter underworld lines, kissing them before we leave behind the journeys
We define ourselves, in questions we ask
To be behind, slightly away, maybe slightly to the right, ascending heaven with hats of invoking spirits in the dawn that meets the light of the home, likewise dark is completely tramped
You're writing like a rolling stone rocking the cradle, vamped on pumped highways around yesterday
Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart, tied through the worn-out years torn by second-dimension souls
In a third-dimension soul, now in the afterlife

Just like the flowers you left her in some tomorrow around midnight
With weeds and broken stems, in a-getting napes of silken sunset kisses, scrummaging through back pages

Looking for milder weather, under the drapes winning it for the dazed closeted people

Should we order, should we dream of better minds losing themselves to the best of souls behind the Iron hand, curtain clasp
Saying I don't drug, some drugs with chains that turn with wide-eyed gyre opened the women, like a flat tire
A ***** went loose while traveling road under the stars
Gyroscope takes you home, recovering your rocking trains from the platform of D-day, hanging at the mirror or what holds behind
Some cheap things aren't that an expensive dream or you just want the remaining man in the shock of psychotherapy and hydrotherapy
Go into the gentle madness, flying on battery acid and ambition now

Consumerism of socialist wind, and obscene love, in the looks of noble regrets respecting every part of her closed eyes, with the platform train waiting for D-Day
Stealing looks from the bare cup, the cup has always been full of mercy
Suffused with the glances in the silhouetted distances drowning in summer's sadness, finding happiness in a warm gun

Ruminations on the contemplated clouds of highest mountains with a year, the seconds of the blind ash, and I'm selling eternal gazes in black Utah, being spent nonetheless worse for being away from Kansas or being here with the wild hanging over wayward tombs
Looking for self-portraits in white, gray areas shine brighter in the darkness like worthy saviors
Freed in thy name, going into the madness gently, waiting for the song
The song danced once, and there's no way
The dance sang like it were the skirmishes of our youthful daydream nation, ultrasonic cars on sonic and crooked pavements
The worthless machine is the worst, and the world I'm flying on, pools of despair and joy, holding myself in savage stillness
Whispering familiar sounds across the universe, summers lack all conviction, things fall apart
The passion intensity was once there, to be better to the best minds who have an option but sit and stare in the dead of winter
Go into the gentle madness of the midnight blue bloom, coldest distance with the tea for the warmest wordsmiths talking of the apparition of faces
We look into the life of things, through the ups and downs
Although, the saving gentle madness, stares in the long black cold

Looking for milder weather, in tempestuous strong men in declasse purgatory, churning out handlooms out never ran out on Normandy's blue beach wailed, but, the flowers in the grave grew in the impasse of gentle madness of the grave
That doesn't feel like the Eastern silence, hear the rolling thunderous noise, liberalism in the good night of ones in scorn
Contemporary critics resound in working-class galloping horse-rides, do not go into that gentle goodnight,
To the shore washed by noisy waves, chariots of fire
Wired woodwind instruments, for working ire of winnowing maize and corn, to be earnest I'm on a corn cob looking like a starry-eyed soul, marrying the riches with my egalitarian erogenous works, turning and turning
Having no limitation, as a limitation on a dead-eyed love maker
If you call my father, the straw hat pirate that left before I was born in adolescence, a dreamer

Looking avariciously for titillating tides in the mantra that washed over
Sleeping with words that never come out, and the handles the midnight spoon with gentle madness from scorn
Horns blowing on benzedrine, Eli Eli sabachtani cry from those living in the past, foreign to the timeline, crying for better love
Accepting, nothing at all, except my own confusion, better born of

Indignant of a falcon that flies for hatred of callow words
Second Coming! Epiphanies Shining dynamo! shards of childhood recovered by the genius behind the windowpane
He said, "The ocean looks the same."
I realized this with some silent vanity and silent pain, what does it mean, though?
Adonais or vacillating minds focused on the cheap attraction of phantom operas of Russia in Kaddish bowing to others in the other poems, sketches of Spain lay like acts, bowling the drunk-alley to the ******* before the cowards

Vultures in the ceiling of hunting obliterated cows in granite megalithic
Mummified in the tampering tapes of washing sins of our brother
I've got it bad tonight, can you hear me knocking?
I've come with a gentle madness and starry midriff, strengthened by the turning and turning

I'm tightening like a winding clock on winding road, speedometer, odometer baptized, I'm running on the tabula rasa
Mars is a soundless instrument if you play the music of D-day on the heart that knows the days of the adage, dramatically Dr. Manhattan now
Going into the gentle madness, common sense is common sense
Even in the sibilant rocketships, honesty hasn't lost its meaning in the thoughts of the common man

Walt Whitman and Allen Ginsberg met in Berkley Halls, in abeyance, nature with a check and original energetic frenetic ecstasy dreaming up Aeneas and Satryrichon, surely
About my life in my mind, not a soul looking for honesty, mind on my life wrote high on science fiction touting history at school surely positivity dreams for you a surging death
In sudden compare, death can do life and fleeing mother, the divorcee goes round and round, sometimes in the top of 4th Street
Still dreaming of yesterday, let it be I let you down

Parents the same, and from parents that remain the same in that song of fooling us, I might survive if I'm a mirror-clad, tad wise in this robot apartment where the soul stares at the natural affinity, you must get lonely in your reflection, or where it remains are behind, seeing me paralyzed
Where's your head at, in the heartaches and embrace, on the road of health clinics, looking for an angry stream of fixes
If I was buried
Yet, I am deep in this summer and sadness, nothingness or stealing glances from the light that dances
I'll steal your position, and put you in your place
Inner moonlight in ungodly attire, hide the madness around your fleeing prophet, the ceiling of madness dreams of debates
Debates aren't the tool of fool looking for the slander, looking to be outlandish
Going into the gentle madness, the generation of beatniks immolating on funeral pyres, and finding their Bolshevik pamphlet, and getting ***** with the bloodlust with the lustrous
The soul doesn't want, I bet it doesn't see the golden compass
Going into the midnight spoon, I've given up on the gentle madness of somber scalding souls balding it all
She stills walks into the bars, and my hairs turn into wires keep her away
Beyond the false compare, of time going by in the bar, looking for trustees in the flickering hallways

Mad generation in the taped scandalous laughter, of the running streams and stock, thus thinned like Macron's talk of the dull bits of drama cut out
Dramatic clicking of the typewriter, where are we gonna take these memories of suspicion unencumbered
In the name of milder weather for angel-hipsters, my mind cries silver saxophones undulating
Going into the gentle madness, will we have zero summers this year, no winters for seconds, winter waits unperturbed

I want you're to light to turn into heat, you can ask for the money instead of mewling about the life cycle in Pub-side buses with a steadfast old man who is fixed on the highway riders rambling on on composed sordid meets to their fathers, volitional emetics
On the hilts of iron balustrades, behind the curtained ceiling

The lizard can do anything, although he never leaves the highway summers for the search of eternal darkness
Moloch, he is lost in the road, beginning and end, trading paths and treading walks of life from trenches, carrying on the show misconstrued, tarrying it out

Dreaming up Arkansas and carrying out Dadaism in Greenwich village walking past the love in his mind
Dancing on the starry murders, we have to sit and stare at its jazz to talk of it, served by you
Living, undead, unbeing and is telling it me what I liked to be
Or changing us and telling us to like it is, with bated breath that understands
We cry tears in the  cottage stopping leaks with wattles, vines, and forlorn rags to stuff the gazebos, chained to the boat leading the blind
In the darkest lives, the brilliance of justice slips away from hands, then the hand that fed hit me with rulers and lessons
The didact stopped knocking on your door, going into the gentle madness of incredible seductive Seraphim
At what roundabout hour as this rough beast come to last, not taking no for an answer

In frugal free-prose that reads itself, balanced and splendid confusing us all, we could consult with our inner tumult as the life get's colder, warming to the last falconer crying on the Big Sur, in the desolate darkness
She saved sensitive ******* dreams, but, it's you that fortifies my solitude, why am I in this robotic apartment running on oil and simplicity
Electic shock, addiction to water-boarding, I have a wet towel around my waist
There is no was

When I could create man after man in this hospital clock, and the sorrows will never end
****** Suicides! Virgil cries! You now belong on the radio!

Aeneas reign in darkness and remember the time when we were stabbed in a time beyond false compare games of funeral rituals, burying

Anchises later wilts about losing fame in the flames of Troy, loser shows fool's glory and sows seeds and seeks gold in Empyrean isles built on Phyrgian scales writing light in the scaled heights of souls, working for self-made princesses of virginity so fair, that hath my honesty behest, dreaming up soup for *** in the breakfast mornings near yet so far from the golf clubs
The good walk is spoiled, with your few aphorisms
We will goodbye today, and speak of tomorrow later

A night in your head, and I'll find your daughter and write a whole culture, storming at the surfeited sea
To contradict ourselves is the constant chill of the given right of tragedy or it's a beautiful thing of corsets and eyes in the look for spectral rides in the rabble-rousing backends, gold heads in bookends is the tragedy of the righteous and hopeless
Nothingness, free-prose of peaches, in thy emperor is it the gift of tragedy often nectarines with skinned shapes and pear-shaped eyes on the valley
Closing on the style of Joan of Arc, John The Baptist, doing it dangerously
I'm burning in the recesses of my mind, tolling out to sea

Knowing power, character demands respect! And work demands fruition
We want our world, back without the words dreaming up the invisible humor with the eternal image of the circadian cry
Where you laugh at this Moloch madcap, cries under stairways of the fifth floor stocked by the barrels, lost and out of touch with their olfactory sensations lose their scent of success
They  have become bad, and the losers have evil
The good, bad, and the search for pyrite in suicides and painless

Locked out of heaven, until they can design the freedom of the people losing marbles in their sojourning each desireable day, sensed the
Guiding thine light in the darkest sound of silent screams from the duets in the sky

Asking what they do, sunflower of integrity
Surely some revelation is at hand
Asking what they doth speak, lasso in the muddied waters
Surely some invention is for the factotum instead
Asking what and I cannot relate and interpret industrialization, with pigs in animal cries from preventing utopia from getting a bad name looking over the live wire
All we need is prayers for the valley, I believe true love waits beyond the hysterical happiness below the herons, one-footed avian following the Roman city of Thugga
Hear the hair of your head, as the time goes by I grow balder
But, she still walks in the moonlight, taller with her head touching us with her free life following the gray cloud
Another year, I left N.Y., on West Coast in Berkeley halls caught up in gazebos and lacunae, selling us education by saddest dollars, under the quiet summers' hands

Dreamed of her electric soul, that, thriving with life, in what form it stood in that body, ashen or manic, gone beyond compunction in convivial jovial East Coast vials keep the invisible humor that tells us the heart understands the gestures of good books and good friends, open books and broken hearts
Unsere Stadt meer und der Liebe Hirsch
The day he reckons and the day of sordid affairs, in morbid decayed despair

She tells him to ready this stony ******* on a granite ****?
We look for the earth, laying in the obscura haggis on the star-spangled banner of twelfth notes and two years from now
The summer from the Dubrovnik, Slovak in their tongue
Hungary was amid the sadness of sorrowful seeds of Tangiersmen

There is no looking for blue eyes in the hallucinations of dreaming up Kansas and Losing Denver, sending their kisses to ecstasy
Lost in thoughts in a dream as the sun beats me to wit, shining on our pleasures in America's songs of the Harlem ghettos following the pact with suffering

Changing the minds of the mad generation
Never found in magic in Greenwich Village
The walks of life, are spoiled under the cloudless migrant sky, bebop doesn't stop and rock the patient under the magical esters of aestivated imagination

Ain't it dull streets, lying on our stabbed backs and the night's right
When you are so quiet?
Isn't that wrong, I think it's cold that you are so warm with something I love
Beyond a summer's night compare thee falsely, to thy will
Why, how now, Hecate! You look angerly. Snow-white and angel-headed looking for heaven in nameless streets

She lies in the saucy bedlam of the questions that affect all of the parasites in his legs without velleity
Preparing him for his chair, rising with the morning, May is the month living in the secrets of the stars
Living or undead, preparing for his chair
You can't stare at much, can you?
Staring at the ceiling with a sight for distant shell-shock
Staring here, I do live in the heart of darkness

Pushing it away, all from my wheelchair in the life of defeat
Defeat is a state of mind; no one is defeated until they left the might out to dry, clothing themselves in sin
Talk of light, do we have no supreme love for the losers
Greatness must be caught by the moon and left for the star-crossed lovers gathering for the intertwinein thine light
Go into the gentle madness, before your flesh goes before the bone

There are people who cannot tarry or aren't getting the attraction of madcap, he had stopped singing with forked lighting
Household objects which ones he didn't say, listing out the neon streets on Groundhog Day, Moloch horridus, you have taken my days now you have my ****** fluids too
I'm you or a promiscuous friend, without the madness, going into the gentle night smoking up marijuana war rooms
Smoking in the cino-smoking zones, carrying barrels for the handlooms, I see no smokestack wind carrying us on barren thoughts aft' wry comments

Rising with the dull roots that fight the gravity or whatever is down there with a raft, we're unfurling winds at last impatient
Waiting for the sun, in the constant chill of the sea
An old man in the honest idea of expressing himself, might not see
Ambitious wings and conviction in his sails too lost for the lively road and lost in them
Going into the gentle madness, America out of my mind
Changed my mind, I can either hate it or learn from the love and let it grow
Second coming talking of indignation in a brass cottage of tears, where fears are exchanged for the company of cold night
Some the fear the water, and hear the hydrogen jukebox in raging drunkardly in cannibal elder's delightful dance
Dancing on the yesterdays, swirling Saturdays, reasonable the shops will be closed on the Sundays waiting for Mr. Common woven

Birdie stickin' out of the sorrel shrub, and I'm in the burning tree poking the pinenuts too
The talk of weather in a wise man in cultivated in cultured and controlled by the plans of talk of intelligent heros in Dog day afternoon
Hymn of the lost summer, war makes maladies or a bad cold, nevertheless, there remains no need to sleep after dinner
With a song that remains the same, with the someone that he loves
Accepting the gentle hand, that touched his wax wings watered by lilies
Greedy flame blazing in my head, the knowledge speaks when wisdom silences others in innocent cognizance
Going into the gentle madness, reaching us in scarred Burroughs stares, becoming a fool in the books of many faceless contents
We keep them in a lunchbox, hurling the bells where the rock tolls for us
Going into the gentle madness, unfurling the epiphanies
Epiphanies! Do not be gay and blind, like a meteorite in the morning
Twenty years of solitude, in once an upon time dreamed dinner sleep

Going ahead without conviction is looking for doubt and not forgiveness
Asking for milder weather in lonesome drugs and forgiveness in breathless protagonists mulling over ancient time
Asking for forgiveness, from a friend on the harbored sky in the old and new bougainvillea of booked streets by stores and they're welcoming empty breezes in redemption, seeking where her hair endeth
Ages in likeness to the guilds of Eastern sages, whites of their eyes sharing the light of the ones guiding us through the bibulous black
In the barren wind of desolate angels blessing their wounds with bleeding howls, souped-up bowls, strapped ancestors to rocketmen searching beyond the jazzmen who once played the blues instead of forsaking their meaning, asking thy will

Her hand wasn't fair anymore, in thine light searching for a dalliance in radiance, while handling the teapot
Had a bad cold, nevertheless, but, a king of my heart dealing wicked cards like a friend knowing of true freedom and open stores of pop-culture creating open looks

Nonetheless, her nosegay was rife with two people looking for faults in the frozen wallflower, on his wheelchair
One-eyed merchant keeping his on the grass of life, making peace with wants he owns, kitsch photos of the Visions of the Lord

With a patch of wrath and a touch of madness, go into the gentle madness with the children playing with their swings, in the heat of the night
Nonetheless, these passionflowers call to me over, motionless center pop, when love whistles strangely in whispering song
Where music listens, and knowledge speaks of guiding the listeners look for love on the radio
Environmental collectivism in the laissez-faire fire that started the burning communist captain harboring the blocs, and they never found Lenin until March dawned on, shining! Government! ****** suicides! Virgil cries! Love! Mercy! Robot apartment! Where you drink the tea of the ******* of the spinsters of Utica! Blessed be she who brings death to us all, in the name of thy father
Rob Urban Jun 2012
Lost in the dim
streets of the
Marunouchi district
I describe
this wounded city in an
  unending internal
monologue as I follow
the signs to Tokyo Station and
descend into the
underground passages
  of the metro,
seeking life and anything bright
in this half-lit, humid midnight.

I find the train finally
to Shibuya, the Piccadilly
and Times Square of Japan,
and even there the lights
are dimmer and the neon
  that does remain
  is all the more garish by
contrast.
I cross the street
near a sign that says
  "Baby Dolls" in English
over a business that turns
out to be a pet
  shop, of all things.

Like
the Japanese, I sometimes feel I live
in reduced circumstances, forced to proceed with caution:
A poorly chosen
adjective, a
mangled metaphor
could so easily trigger the
tsunami that
    sweeps away the containment
             facilities that
                   protect us
                        from ourselves
                                                            and others.
  
The next night at dinner, the sweltering room
     suddenly rocks and
        conversation stops
                  as the building sways and the
candles flicker.

'Felt like a 4, maybe a 5,'
says one of my tablemates,
a friend from years ago
in the States.

'At least a five-and-a-half,'
says another, gesturing
at the still-moving shadows
on the wall. And I think
     of other sweaty, dimly lit rooms,
      bodies in slow, restrained motion,       all
          in a moment that falls
                         between
                                     tremors.

         Then the swaying stops and we return
to our dinner. The shock, or aftershock,
isn't mentioned again,
though we do return, repeatedly, to the
big one,
         and the tidal wave that
                           swept so much away.

En route to the monsoon
I go east to come west,
   clouds gathering slowly
     in the vicinity of my chest.

Next day in Shanghai, the sun's glare reflects
  off skyscrapers,
and the streets teem
with determined shoppers
and sightseers
wielding credit cards and iPhone cameras, clad
in T-shirts with English words and phrases.
I fall
          in step
             beside a young woman on
                 the outdoor escalator whose
shirt, white on black,
reads, 'I am very, very happy.' I smile
and then notice, coming
down the other side,
another woman
wearing
        exactly the same
       message, only
                        in neon pink. So many
                                  very,
                                          very
                                                 happy people!
Yet the ATMs sometimes dispense
counterfeit 100 yuan notes and
elsewhere in the realm
      police fire on
      protestors seeking
                more than consumer goods,
while officials fret
about American credit
and the security of their investments, and
     the government executes mayors for taking
                       bribes from real estate developers.
    
    A drizzle greets me in Hong Kong,
a tablecloth of fog draped over the peaks
   that turns into a rain shower.
I find my way to work after many twists and turns
through shopping malls and building lobbies and endless
turning halls of luxury retail.
               At dinner I have a century egg and think
of Chinese mothers
urging their children,
'Eat! Eat your green, gooey treat.
On the street afterwards, a
near-naked girl grabs my arm,
pulls me toward a doorway marked by a 'Live Girls’
sign. 'No kidding,’ I think as I pull myself carefully
free, and cross the street.

On the flight to Bombay, I doze
   under a sweaty airline blanket, and
       dream that I am already there and the rains
         have come in earnest as I sit with the presumably
           semi-fictional Didier of Shantaram in the real but as-yet-unseen
            Leopold's Café, drinking Kingfishers,
              and he is telling me,  confidentially,
                     exactly where to find what I’ve lost as I wake
with the screech and grip of wheels on runway.
            

     Next day on the street outside the real Leopold's,
bullet holes preserved in the walls from the last terrorist attack,
I am trailed through the Colaba district
by a mother and children,  'Please sir, buy us milk, sir, buy us some rice,
I will show you the store.'
    A man approaches, offering a drum,
                        another a large balloon (What would I do with that?)
A shoeshine guy offers
                                           to shine my sneakers, then shares
the story of his arrival and struggle in Bombay.
     And I buy
             the milk and the rice and some
                      small cakes and in a second
                          the crowd of children swells
                               into the street
               and I sense
                     the danger of the crazy traffic to the crowd
                         that I have created, and I
think, what do I do?
           I flee, get into a taxi and head
                             to the Gateway of India, feeling
                                                                                  that I have failed a test.

                                       My last night in Mumbai, the rains come, flooding
     streets and drenching pavement dwellers and washing
the humid filth from the air. When it ends
           after two hours, the air is cool and fresh
                                  and I take a stroll at midnight
          in the street outside my hotel and enter the slum
   from which each morning I have watched
the residents emerge,  perfectly coiffed. I buy
some trinkets at a tiny stand and talk briefly
      with a boy who approaches, curious about a foreigner out for a walk.

A couple of days after that, in
the foothills of the Himalayas,  monks' robes flutter
on a clothesline like scarlet prayer flags behind the
Dalai Lama's temple.
I trek to 11,000 feet along a
narrow rocky path through thick
monsoon mist,
   stopping every 10 steps
to
   catch
        my  breath,
              testing each rock before placing my weight.
Sometimes
    the surface is slick and I nearly fall,
sometimes
    the stones
        themselves shift. I learn slowly, like some
             newborn foal, or just another
                clumsy city boy,
                   that in certain terrains the
       smallest misstep
                            can end with a slide
                                             into the abyss.
                  At the peak there's a chai shop that sells drinks and cigarettes
                                of all things and I order a coffee and noodles for lunch.
While I eat,
      perched on a rock in a silence that is both ex- and
      in-ternal,
the clouds in front of me slowly part to reveal
a glacier that takes up three-quarters of the sky, craggy and white and
beautiful. I snap a few shots,
quickly,
before the cloud curtain closes
again,
obscuring the mountain.
                                                
                                     --Rob Urban: Tokyo, Shanghai, Mumbai, Delhi, Dharamshala
                                        7/13/11-7/30/11
Maxim Keyfman Jul 2018
today I walked through the february streets
gazed into the sky staring into the distance
in the distance of his soul and his world
in the distance of all this incredible beauty

today I walked through the february streets
and felt incredible love
she completely filled my heart
I became much happier and brighter

today I walked through the february streets
and recalled the past and future
remembered how the moments and inspirations went
remembered the sand and the sea

today I walked through the february streets
and was finally at peace
after so much suffering and trials
finally I finally found love and freedom

10.02.18
We ambled the streets of Harare
Meandering aimlessly
Fleeting past wide-eyes scanning us enviously
Hand in hand we walked into the restaurant
Leisurely on Second Street
Our hunger awakened
Our appetites heightened
At almost closing time
With no one in overtime mode
A signal that here we could only dine on another day


Joina City was our next stop
Up the lift right to the top
'Closed' it read at the coffee shop
Into the nearest chair I went flop!
Though hungry, we gabbed non-stop
By and by we regarded the clock
It chimed 8 o'clock
And sadly, it was time to go home

Busy and noisy
Were the streets of Harare
Jabbering crowds, kombis hooting
Hawkers, vendors or is it hustlers now -
Calling for buyers or just huddled to pass time
No chill in Harare
Picturesque like a dream
Surreal…
Hand in hand we dawdled
In despair for a hot meal

In the shimmering distance
Like a mirage in the desert
The neon lights read
'Creamy Inn'
Something to calm our rambling bellies
At last…
Nippy evening air hit our souls
'Ice-cream tastes better at night'
I said
'I can't believe I'm having ice-cream'
He said
We frolicked
Hand in hand we danced past faces painted with adoration
'What a handsome lover!'
They probably thought:
My delectable younger brother
Wrote this after one of my visits to Harare, Zimbabwe in 2017.
r May 2014
Her onyx eyes
burn in my mind.
Black alibis
hide hidden heat.
Forbidden nights
in darkened rooms
on darkened streets.

She stills my screams
with silken thighs
in wanton dreams
on twisted sheets.
She leaves me spent
in unknown rooms
on unknown streets.

Her hunger fills.
our emptiness.
Stiletto thrills,
crescendo beat.
Two bodies move.
In hungry rooms.
On hungry streets.

r ~ 5/11/14
\•/\
   |
  / \
I will ignore all concepts of adherence and maybe, just this once,
be blunt about my fear;

I’m a stuck oriole in a window.
I’m a pedestrian somewhere in VV Soliven underneath the pouring rain
with my parasol jammed, won’t spread out.
The petrichor from the ground rises and like dust,
I settle and cave in, like an unsuspecting dagger making its slow crawl
towards the back of the next face I see in this deadlock.

They say when you stick it to the man,
stick it good, and whatever beating or punishment may follow,
face it like a man.

but what is a man to do to the higher man
when he has his guts spread on the floor like an inkblot
from a shattered glass?
this working classman status isn’t for the weak,
and it sure isn’t for the brave either – what will become of the fools
sitting atop our heads when we have learned to outgrow them?

Sooner than it is later, I will go back to the pit like some soldier
cleaning his Lee-Enfield in the endless snow.
I will be faced by inbreds, imbeciles, rebels,
dilettantes, proletariats who have their necks leashed, their arms
puppeteered and their voices mellowed down by some defunct ventriloquism.
I will crank open the mailbox of my home and see that there
are notices: some from the bank, the loans, and the bills – all of them screaming
pecuniary, all of them bludgeoning soul.

If this is what a man has to deal with when he comes to
learn that life’s no downtown street promenade, then I’m willing
to slit the throat of the next child that’s giddy enough and filled with life
to search meaning through the bleared image in front of him.
I see high-stake rollers and proletariats, bigshots, and darling boys
roll down their car windows and flick the smoke out in the **** freeway

while I am here, watching myself slowly rot in the cubicle mirror next door
wary of my somber entrails. I think of a pub somewhere in Magallanes, and I dream
heavily when I am awake. The beaded body of the Hefeweizen is waiting for me
like a paramour, but I have to clock-punch my way out first before I can reach
some sort of truce: as long as I have myself sign these contracts, as far as my freedom is
concerned, what keeps the ball rolling for me might be something I would
despise as long as I breathe in this disgustingly thick air of deceit and consummation.
There is no life in here. All of us are dead.
Buying things we do not need, doing things we don’t want, fooling ourselves
in the complete process, marry wives and husbands and breed children
who will do the same in this cyclically deadening circus. My god is filled with
cotton and the streets scream ****** ****** against the spring.
There are enough violence in the thoroughfares to cast me back to my
home and coil, fraught with unrelenting demand.

There’s no other way to look at it rather than simplifying the equation.
Some do it for worth, that’s your tonic.
Some do it for fun, that’s your senseless beating.
Some do it because they have no other choice: they are not looking far enough.
As long as you have yourself beaten to slave-bone and driven mad with
downtime, then you have yourself laid down on a silver-platter catching
the swill of such riotous rigor: to be shaken out of sleep and shove
meat down your throat and thank the Gods for a wonderful day when all I see
outside are streets blackened to the teeth with distortion and the automobiles
like limbless children leaving no trace.

Some take the easiest way out, but I am not crazy enough to bring
myself to sanity. I have other caprices to go with.
This is enough a suicide than it is on the other side.
Whenever I look at my superior, I see nothing,
and whenever I gaze at the surrounding scenes I see people
sticking knives at each other when backs are turned.
I see people swallow everything that is given to them without
the slightest inch of askance: to complain is the inability to withstand
the current situation – but I am no fool to close my eyes.
I have still the guts to face everyday like some old friend, death, in my arms,
singing blues from the 1980s. When this is done,
I will go back to where it usually does not hurt: in the silence.

where no faces bid me hello – they do well in their own discomfiture,
and I do not wish to see them any longer.
where no automobiles tear the streets and cleave the moon farewell.
where there are no sparrows outside, where there are no laughing children,
where there are no hollow men and women greeting each other tenderly
and blighting each other safe in the resignation of some dull home.

if I am mad, then what does this make you? better? privileged?
I’ve had other people look deep into me like some deepwell without
water and they tell me, “there’s something about you, something about you.”
and when I turn my back to search for some sameness,
I figure there is nothing else to find but the same trapping fate in this
burning cylinder of a home.

Waking up and filling in shoes and dressing up for nothing,
earning money and throwing it all at our own expense,
buying thrills and wasting away as time lounges like a cat
at the foot of the Victorian. If there’s better enough a fall than this,
I will sign myself to have my bones broken, my ribs opened

to let go of my famished soul while all the others
keep themselves clean, putrefying themselves viscerally.
******* *******.
Sitting here in class I am today, minding my business as they would say. I’m listening to the teacher teach but hearing only things left beyond my reach. Another whole day in this **** school so I can come out each night 'more-of-a-fool,' and would it behoove them all to know, I ain’t no dummy, no 'coffee-Joe'?

  …but then I’d have to get the chance, the opportunity provided to advance and the equal treatment they all receive that somehow has been lost on me. Why do I even come here? Why does my Mom insist on this? They don’t call on me, care about me, acknowledge me, it’s ridiculous. At lunch each day I gotta use my fists and even my own kind acts wicked, cause for the rest of them fighting is all that exists.

  Exists; having objective reality or being.

  I exist alright; exist if you call this a life, defined by ******, **** and monkey, or related to some stupid-actin’ ****** or some dumb brawler or that dude good at running but never ever seen as intelligent and cunning. The girls ignore me, teachers too, white guys hate me, what did I do? What did I ever do to them? I’m just like you, I just want some friends, want the chance in life to succeed, man shut up about being freed that **** happened a hundred and fifty ******* years ago, I’m just as sick of hearing about it as you are 'Bro.'

  They say I have rights, they say that it’s fair, they say there’s a chance for me everywhere, but everywhere I look that’s not what I see, I’m put-down and degraded cons-tant-ly, told that I should join the team, or passed over in conversations about some thing. Forced to be friends with thugs that hate but to them at least I can relate, for just like me they was excluded or marginalized when told that they are deluded; they’ll never make it anyway, never achieve their dreams, never have their say so why even bother when no one cares how you feel, when your dreams in life won’t ever be real, when you end up in the streets and all you got left is to steal, when its still,

“Go back to Africa ******!”

...they say with zeal and the vitriol an violence comport surreal, Helen didn’t hold this secret to reveal nor does rap, truthfully, with these problems deal? Cocooned by stares and ****-sure glares, because your own sports brothers hate your *** and make you just wanna ditch that class, so here I ended up on the streets, hangin' round on my crew’s beats, acting tough, street-cred and clout and there your 'momma-an-sister' out n’ about, while here I am a fresh drop-out and can you guess what?

Here we come to take her purse, I clock your mom’s mouth and shove down your sister but ***** you boy I could’ve done much worse, she could’ve lost her life and come home in a hearse!

  Is this the ****** ya’ll wanted to see? All filled up inside with hatred, cause I was told that I would never make it, from day one got no attention, spent half of high school in afternoon detention, training me for my future as a prison convict yet another sign our society is depraved and sick. Given no chance or help or just some praise, no moments to shine and no Happy Days, he’s just a gang-banger, a **** they say? My actions may be worse than your words assail, and well, that may be me and I may be in jail but here’s something from my Grand Momma, a little encouragement goes a long way to change this drama...

You see me on the street you better ******* run cause you already know what’s in my jacket son and my hoodie will be up so you can’t see my face since I already know what you think of my race.
I guess these are rhyming stories really. I grew up poor in rough neighborhoods and majority-minority schools. This piece is a tribute to tribulations of poor African Americans which I know all too well having grown up in their neighborhoods.
Silence Screamz Dec 2014
I walked down fascination streets
There were no signs to follow
Only the cobble stones led my way

The alley set in the dark by the madness
Echoes bounced off the city walls
Stinging rain pierced my veil of reason

One street light flickered in the distance
Turned back by my own desires
Every step was the same as the last

Insatiable appetites were peeking at me
Ripping at my inner soul
My steps were heavy by time itself

Deepening sorrow contains no happiness
Insects were marching through my veins
Patterned like ******'s Third *****

These streets left me with no desire
Killing off every ounce of my existence
Blood drips down my arm and washes away

Laying down peacefully on the park bench
Wondering where my life had gone
Silently I fall asleep forever on these fascination streets
jeffrey robin Feb 2014
/////

OH DONT FORSAKE ME UNCLE MILTY-- !!!!

Till we meet again some day -- !

OH DONT FORSAKE ME UNCLE MILTY -- !!!

••
?
(A song heard around 1955 sung in honor of MILTON BEARLE-- the first great
TV personality)
?
••

•••
••


Dream streets
(How ancient the scorn )



Who will Save You child
If
Only I
Am here?



Rainy day the momentary interlude

(We hide here
Safely hidden?

----Who cares?)



To die or to live seem bout the same but we know they are not

But what the hell

UNCLE MILTY IS DEAD AND THAT CREEPY DEATH POET AINT SHOWED HIS UGLY MUG
ROUND HERE!

••
(Who cares?)
••

Who really cares about Anything?

••

Who knows?

Who really says what they mean ?
?

••

DONT FORSAKE THE DAY

JUST CAUSE UNCLE MILTY IS GONE !!





she wanders the lovely streets

The lovely streets

Of our scorn

The lovely streets

The streets on which
We were born

The streets on which
The poems form
Tommy Randell Oct 2018
I grew up in the loneliness of one hundred streets
The more poems I wrote the more I'd get beat
The rare times were few but I wrote them down
Poetry as confession in a lonely town

I'm no Leonard Cohen, I am no Rod McKuen
And so far any talent remains unproven
But from those streets I have lived my Rhyme
A Journeyman Poet stride by stride

In the World streets have doubled now, in number and size
But I hope Poetry is no stranger in our lives
It's the 21st Century, let's put our Art on the breeze
Giving voice to the vow in our words there is Unity
My Town is about 240 streets now (2018) but back in the 1950's it was only just 100 (give or take a few). A small-minded small town on the North East Coast of England where being 'different' wasn't always a good thing to be... especially for a young lad who wrote poetry.
CK Baker Apr 2017
Sunday sermons are spilling on the inner city streets
through the green heaps and brown bags
through the downtown whisperers
and sage solitude souls

Army bands prepare for march
(their trench members filling packs with canister and cane)
the high command and tricked militia head pinned
quick on the look for splinter, lorry and skuttle

Traffic patterns change at the COP connect
camouflage bearers break formal stride
battle men slip between colorful floats
unsuspecting slumlords (vein pricked and weary)
grin in their second suite dying rooms

Twitching men and rubbernecks
sit discreetly on the corner wall
JJ and the chief revere a 21 gun salute
holy rollers raise cheer (in a moment of silence)
chess men hold steady
with ivory cues

Flames belt from the distant foundry
streets come alive with crackle and dust
members of the attic group glance down from their perch
an elderly man in a straight jacket (happy in the now)
sits solemnly with a cold reflective stare

It’s not far from the steely mud holes
from the flying fragments and sharp broken dreams
from the arsenal digs and madmen (who quietly turned the *****)
the ivy trellis
and flowing white gown
are a nocturne fit
for this elevated rolling highland
Irate Watcher Sep 2014
The router's a strobe light;
I can't connect.
The microwave fritzed,
I can't heat.
The circuit shut;
guess no electricity.
Ayo no technology.
Let's talk ancient
philosophy,
NOT whether
Beyonce is a feminist.
Let's have a bonfire
and roast meat
cause none of us
were vegan
before this.
Let's light candles
in the streets.
Pray batteries die
on LCD screens.
Cause we were alchemists
before technology,
the versed probing
the multiverse,
thrilled,
lighting our golden
embroidery on life.
Now were just bored.
Coy toys to tied strings,
webs that touch
everything,
but the space between.
Declaring Sunday a sabbatical from LCD screens.
Xan Abyss Nov 2014
No Justice, No Peace
If we can't get it from the Court
then we'll take it from the Streets
No Justice, No Peace
**** the Police
and what you believe!

Whatever happened to Revolution
Being the American way?
When your voice remains unheard
For which you suffer every day,
Your life is constantly stepped on,
Your rights keep getting taken away,
And in spite of the lies they spin to protect your oppressors,
You still keep the rage at bay
Because you are not
Above the Law
and neither is anyone else.
So taking matters into your own hands
Isn't going to help.
You entrust the justice system
to do what it's supposed to
Even though you know it never has
and is probably never going to.
But if you haven't done anything wrong and the Law doesn't serve you,
and only seems to defend the people who've already hurt you,
then honestly I think it's insane and completely absurd to
not only expect the People not to react,
but to honor a *curfew
.

*******
Do you hear us yet?
*******
Oh, it's inappropriate?
You don't wanna talk about it?
You don't wanna think about it?
You don't wanna deal with it?
Well guess what?
Nobody ******* does, nobody ******* would, nobody ever ******* could.
But for the people who don't look like you -
Aryan Beauty Standards
Hair of Gold, Eyes of Blue
Fair-skinned, light-skinned
European skeleton,
It was never a choice they had.

Oppression doesn't pick you
Based on qualifications
Any more than Privilege does,
If you think this case
Is not about race
You better check your Privilege, cuz.

I love my home, America
But I hate what it's become
Land of the greedy, home of the afraid
Kingdom of the Loud and Dumb
****-shaming, victim-blaming, race-hating, race-baiting
Sensationalization of the worst crimes in the nation
Religious intolerance, homophobic misogyny, blatant racial discrimination
Can't get with it, can't hang
At least not in the lynch mob sense
I am blown the **** away
at the grievous absence of common sense.

So when they lit those flags on fire
in the center of the town
I understand, and I can't blame them
the flag is truer up in flames now
And if they so decide to burn
the city to the ground,
I understand, and I can't blame them
I would wanna burn it down

*No Justice, No Peace
If we can't get it from the Court
then we'll take it from the Streets
No Justice, No Peace
**** the Police
and **** your Beliefs!
This is about what you think.
Nigel Beckett Jun 2014
Drinking is a problem, for some it’s worse than others.
Within each family everyone is affected, parents, sisters and brothers.

That doesn’t mean you turn your back and disown them from their home,
And make them wander dark cold streets, they are out there all alone.

The choices that they made may not have been the best,
But now they face the wind and rain, just wanting a place to rest.

A place where they can get a meal, some shelter and a chat.
They are human after all; they deserve at least all that.

The basic needs of society we sometimes don’t address,
And see these people on the streets and treat them as something less.

Have we suddenly forgotten the values that we teach?
It’s to these people that we should care and to them our hands outreach.

To help them back upon their journey, a second chance to give,
Instil in them the hope they need for a better to live.
I wrote this while volunteering with the homeless services of DePaul Ireland
elaine Jul 2018
empty houses and car-less streets,
this town holds beauty without residence.

people move into this town of beauty and run up and down the streets damaging little by little slowly.

the people take away the beauty and throw it all away for their selfish needs,
they build tall tall buildings and put gas into the lovely clean air.

leaving this town a horrible disease.
Terry Collett Jan 2014
Sonya likes
Paris streets
dark cafés

black coffees
cigarettes
those French ones

she likes nights
with wet streets
like oil slicks

those artists
selling cheap
second hand

Picassos
or such like
but mostly

she likes ***
between sheets
in back street

hotel rooms
with windows
with shutters

listening
to a cheap
transistor

radio
some French dame
singing of

a lost love
as she feels
Benedict

kiss each inch
of her flesh
his warm lips

and wet tongue
slide along
her soft groove

the outline
shadowy
of his ****

rise and fall
as they ride
the wild waves

of hot ***
between sheets
Sonya loves

Paris streets.
haley Oct 2017
when she was eight years old
she
asked her mother
have you seen the girl with
lashes  like butterflies against sharp cheekbone branches
a dandelion sprouting from sludge covered gutters and streets
streets, where you feel that bitter bland nothingness in your stomach

it feels buttery to stare at her:
see how snow outstretches arms and twirls tippy toes, envies her grace
see how balloon sized raindrops pop, target the freckles on her arm
see how her forehead crinkles when she concentrates, nothing more than a beacon
(self proclaiming)
for she trickles with stars

when she was eight years old
her parent's violent protests slipped bruises under her skin like pennies in a coin slot.
but they could not contain the celestial girl tucked under her ribcage
she would still look at her like she was the breakfast sun on a saturday
whistling by the creak, catching glimpses of dresses from behind the legs of trees.
see how this is special love, sweet as strawberry fields under soft sun
they would never feel on their forked, sour tongues
Bo Burnham Oct 2016
Mid-October,
with leaves spilled
like colored pencil shavings ---

the streets dicing our town
into neat, unfair portions ---
and me, eatin' that *****.
Edward Coles Jun 2013
The world is fast and reckless
Like a stampede of beasts and
Teenage ***.

We traded smog
For the roar of the city and
I am then reminded of my mobile life
Before atrophy set like plaster
In my bones.

Similarly, I lived above a bar,
And the roar of the crowds
Was compensated for
By the free drinks I would receive
To placate me,
To deafen me.

I remember heading out to the office
Already half-cut
Even before the banks had opened.

I remember everybody walking,
Not because the roads were too crammed,
But because it was so.

It was so, it was so,
And now that excuse is just not good enough
Anymore.

Neither am I.

I still walk the streets
And stop by outside windows.
It takes me a little longer these days
To read the signs and labels,
The mating rituals of the merchants;
Buy me, buy me, buy me!

They remind me of the girls I see these days,
The ones who live in semi-agony,
Lactic acid in their muscles and
A lack of sugar in their blood.

The way they walk so consciously nonchalant,
Impostered hair dragging in the wind,
Just living for the double takes
As they pass the men in the streets.

Nobody courts anymore.
Hands are held far too easily
And intimacy seems to me to have become
Just another commodity.

I remember my sweetheart.
The years we lived in absences,
Sleeping between lies and compromises
And lying awake at night,
Our bodies spent as our cheeks sunk into our pillows.
Our eyes staring past the darkness of the room
And beyond to something, somewhere,
Far from where we found our lives had laid.

I remember her so well, my dear coffee bean.
How desperate the years were
When we were apart,
Living out our lives and
Exchanging platitudes for company
In our loveless marriages.

I remember how bitterly disappointed I was,
To be bounded to the forever decreasing circles
I had to move within each day.
And I remember, so exquisitely remember,
The day I broke from them.

And we met.
We met over letters,
Recited by our eyes and written by the hands
Of our desires. Oh, the saliva of the stamp
Bringing us to a closeness
That was unbounded by geography.

These days,
Nobody understands the thrill of the postbox
And the dependent trust
You had to invest into the postman.

Nobody.

The welcome mat is now nothing
But a place to wipe the **** from your shoes
And to kick the bills away
From your footfalls.

It was once a pigeon hole,
An inbox and a faceless meeting point
For all of your dearest allies.

How I recall the excitement of the morning,
My sleep thinned to prepare for the slap of papers
And the return of my silent darling’s words.

Yes, today that has all gone
And so has she.

How I miss you, my dear
And the snort of your laughter.
How I miss counting out your imperfections;
Each another reason to love you
And to love you more.

Now that you are gone my darling,
My life is little more than an emptied school
In the endless weeks of summer.

I lie in wait, coffee bean,
For each time you appear, a phantasm
In my day. I wait for those special moments
Where I assume you will be sitting there,
Ageing with irrefutable brilliance
In the chair you so stubbornly frequented
Every day of our retirement.

I’ll take the hit that comes with it.
I’ll accept the come-down
When I enter the room
And realise
That you are even less than a ghost,

A passing thought
That decays instantly in the air.

And the air darling,
The air is filled with noise in these streets.
Do you remember when you and I would stop
And listen to the busker by the bridge?

I do.

I think he is gone too now,
Though sometimes I still hear his music
As I pass above the river.

Now, I live on in near-silence.
It has been weeks since I last spoke to somebody
Who did not rush me through my sentences.
And so I’m learning the patterns of today
And instead bow my sad head
And just pay up for my goods.

I avoid home mostly.
It is okay once I am inside it,
But it is the returning that I am afraid of.

So I mostly walk the streets,
The same route each day,
Until darkness or hunger delivers me,
Confused at my door.

I stumble lethargically to the television set,
The one we bought together for our first apartment,
Do you remember?

I turn it on quickly to **** the breathless silence.

Now, whenever I do get to talk to somebody,
I feel my eyes blur to tears
For some inexplicable reason.
Oh! The ache in my guts

How often I must swallow panic
And all of those pills that do not work.
Instead they just fog my mind
And distort all of the anchors
And features in my life.

Even the television will shout at me.
Everything I watch is an advert,
And the news is getting uglier with each day.
Sometimes I will turn on the radio,
But music isn’t music anymore.

And so I’ve learnt to read above
The din of gameshows and the gunshots
From dramas full of anger and devoid
Of love.

I’ve learnt to read again,
As we did together in the warmth
Of the crackles that interceded
The crooners that used to play through the grooves
That my life is once again set between.

At times I feel I am the only reader left in the world.
That all authors write for myself,
Vying for my attentions.

Nobody reads anymore.

Though the depravity between us
Made our love all the more sublime,
I must admit I regret those absent, wasted years.

How wonderful it would be now,
To see your features mixed with mine
And hidden behind the faces of our children.

I would give all that I am,
Which admittedly is not much anymore,
To be able to see the pigments in your eyes
Again, in whichever form they took.

How I would kiss our daughter’s hands
If they resembled your’s.

How I would weep into the shoulders of our son,
If he resembled your heart.

And so now my darling,
I wander these thoughtless paths like a machine.
And though I look out at the opulence
Of the city streets, I am instead
Just walking through a memory,
Or some old doctored flicker show,
Where I cut out all of the ugliness
And leave just us.
Thou and I                            

Joyful the moment when we sat in the bower, Thou and I;
In two forms and with two faces - with one soul, Thou and I.                      
The colour of the garden and the song of the birds give the elixir of immortality
The instant we come into the orchard, Thou and I.
The stars of Heaven come out to look upon us -
We shall show the moon herself to them, Thou and I.
Thou and I, with no 'Thou' or 'I', shall become one through our tasting;
Happy, safe from idle talking, Thou and I.
The spirited parrots of heaven will envy us -
When we shall laugh in such a way, Thou and I.
This is stranger, that Thou and I, in this corner here...
Are both in one breath here and there - Thou and I.

Jelaluddin Rumi*

                                              

By the waters
of Babylon the
beloved weep;
mourning the
loss of our
brother
Rumi.

We have
forgotten
Rumi’s
example,
we no longer
speak his
language
of love.

The beloved
have discarded
his virtuous
entreaties
as useless
historical
relics.

His compassion
is mocked
as a sign
of weakness.

His empathy
is considered
a seditious act.

The
beauteous
poems
bespeaking
ecstatic graces
found in the
resplendent
embrace of
unity in the
holy spirit
are shattered,
like a worthless
vase, its
shards
scattered into
a million
splinters that
****** our feet.

We no
longer
sing the
blithe
words of
his love
songs.

The
rapturous
melodies have
evaporated
along with
our joys.

We have
destringed
our harps.

Our songs
of joy have
become
dirges of
lamentations
moaned in
the streets
of our
desecrated
cities.

Our people are
in shambles.  

We are
refugees
fleeing our
besieged
homelands.

We are
prisoners
in the
basements
of our homes.

We perpetrate
crimes against
humanity by
willfully defiling
ourselves.

We dash
the heads of
our children
against
blasted
rocks.

We are
desperate
to find you
dearest
Rumi.

We hope
your sweet
reminders
of love will
bind the
broken
people;
leading us
to forsake
the diet of
acrimony
that has
become
our daily
bread.

I wander,
the streets
with open
ears
listening
for a hint
of your voice;
hoping to
follow it to a
rendezvous
with the
Divine One.

I open
my heart
to discern
a tiny note of
your songs,
winging on the air,
the sweet chords
of agape love
is our hope
to salve our
deep running
wounds.

Only
deafening
silence
returns
to my
saddened
ear.

The elegant
magic of your
voice are
angelic fingers
plucking strings,
evoking  a
heavenly
chorus
of love
and divine
reconciliation.

Your voice
rolls through
the ages
beckoning us  
to transcendent
peace; your
whispers
dance
upon the
face of hatred.

The marching epochs
have dissipated
our memory of you,
beloved Rumi.

Your verses
are ancient
dialects we
can no longer
decipher.

The urgency
grows for us
to speak in your
tongue once
again.

Our besieged
cities are
filled with
the cacophony
of distress.

The beloved
tend lamps
to light the paths
of reconciliation
but few
step forward
to sojourn
the pathways
of peace.

Some ecstatically
turn willing cheeks
to the nasty slaps
of adversaries;
daring to let
flesh absorb
the totality
humanity’s
pain.

Hostility
spills over the
lips of stormy
volcanoes
like gushing
lava flows
of destruction
covering
all corners
of the globe.

Can the
forgiveness
offered by the
aggrieved
blunt the
world’s
acrimony?

Oh Rumi
where are you?

I offer prayers
that your spirit
still moves
among us,
with balm
in hand
you anoint
misspent
love
wandering
amidst the
desolate cities;
daring to spark
life back
to the dead
stones,
your
miraculous
palms
warming
the cold
rocks
with extreme
humanity.

Your love
rises to answer
the intractability
of indifference;
defeating the
crucifix
of empathy.

Your love
rolls away
the bloated
stones covering
compassion's
cold dead tomb.

Your love
breaks the
omnipotent
cycle of
unrequited
vendettas;
laying it
to rest in
the solitary  
oneness
of spirit;
freeing
the beloved
to live in the
liberty of
unconditional
love once again.

We evoke
the presence
of your spirit,
imagining you
levitated
by Allah’s
slightest
whisper,
floating
among us
in aromas of
spring violets.

We hope
to detect
your soft
footprints
on the
open hearts
of the
compassionate.

We invite
your tears
of joy to water
flowers that
bloom into
luscious
groves
offering
the bread of life
to all.

Rumi, return
to teach us the
lost language,
remind us
of the songs
we have
forgotten,
unite all hearts
with dervish spins,
turning the world
in circles of love,
conjure an
avenging
tornado to
route the
despoilers.

We are
battered
exiles
seeking
refuge
in the nape of
your scented
neck.

We wish
to hide in the
embrace
of your
warm *****
and become
medicated by
the perfume of
life’s gardens
chasing away
the stench
of graveyards
alive in our
memories.

Has the music of Rumi’s words fallen on deaf ears?
Has the rhyme and reason of Rumi’s poetry been misunderstood?
Has Rumi’s example been forgotten?
Has Rumi’s revelations of love evaporated into nothingness?

Rumi, I look for you in the market.
I hope to see you saunter down the street biting into a fresh apple.
I crane my ears to hear your voice incant poetic prayers.

As the sun
sets on
another
violent day
I cannot detect
the gentle taps of
your joyful dance.

I remain starved
to join you at
the Lord's table,
to fill myself with
Eden’s Feast.

Rumi
as you once
came to seek me,
I now come
to seek you.

Panting,
I run through
the streets
in desperation.

I become
a callous
****** spying
through every
window, hoping
to catch a
fleeting image
of your shadow.

I throw open
every last door
leading from the
barren streets
in vain attempts
to track your
footprints in
the dusty
courtyards.

My search
only reveals
bare rooms.

Not a single
trace of you
is discovered.

The empty
corners
once lit with
the resonance
of your spirit
are dark, blinded
by the midnight
worries of the
refugees that
have escaped
these black rooms.

I scavenge
the piles
of concrete,
rummaging
through the
the skeletons
of fractured
buildings leveled
by war.

I am covered
with the dust
of destruction.

I scatter the
bones of the dead
frantically looking
to find a single
footprint as
evidence of your
presence.

I find nothing.

I prophesy
to the bones.

I prophesy to
the disconnected
sinews.

I cleave my sinews.
I bleed my veins.

I drape the sinews,
I drain the blood
onto these decrepit
dry bones.

I scream prayers
to breathe new life
into them.

They do not reassemble.
They do not move.
They do not stand.

Where’s Rumi?

Music selection:
Zikr Call of the Sufi
The Divine Union

Suffern
3/28/12
jbm
Cooper Jul 2014
In the streets I am not wanted
In this nation I am not wanted
In the streets terror takes over
In the nation arguments are heard
Separating colored from white
Separating imperfects from perfects
Segregation is a way of life
Racism is a daily routine
Equal rights isn’t in our vocabulary
Freedom for colored isn’t thought of
Stereotyping, judging, terrorizing
Where is my freedom I’ve longed for?
Where is my holy land?
Where is my safe place?
The north is helping,
But is it enough?
I feel a change coming
The change in the nation
Speaks of freedom and
Ends segregation
It will make me
Feel wanted in the streets
Feel wanted in the nation
But for now I feel as if I’m
Not wanted here
My skin may be different,
But I have a heart and
I am still a human being
Created by our Holy Father
So where is my freedom?
I wrote this poem for a school project about the segregation issues in American history. I had to write the poem in the point of view of a child or victim during this time.
Geovanni Alfaro Dec 2013
When I hear FEMINISM, RACISM, SEXISM, IMMIGRATION
or the TORTURE OF A NATION,
my mind cries
and my eyes go blank.

Children ****** waving to their teacher
Their teacher waving back
A grenade is launched
and chunks of her pained memory soar through the windows of the bus.
War just won't stop.

In the Internet,
White-washed Latinos diss their mother's birth
throw stones at their father's graves.
Praise Uncle Sam
Although Caucasians are abusing them because of their skin pigmentation
Oh great U.S.A.
Who incarcerated Madiba and murdered MLK.
Killed more humans than Adolf and now want to buy them.
With a small piece of useless land in New Mexico and Kentucky Fried Chicken.

You PATHETIC CHICKEN
who wants to own the world even though you haven't been here one stinkin millennium.
A decade of power and now you patrol the streets.
please

You can't even patrol your own streets

please

— The End —