"terrazzo" poems - Hello Poetry

They are silent and beautiful, gorgeous in in the white halo, cemented in a beautiful terrazzo, baring the names of fallen soldiers, the European soldiers that fell in Wars; second and first and the heinous silent wars, i hope this is why they have a proverb; white sepulchre, only baring the white dead, only chiefs but no dead Indian. Common wealth graveyards are all over in Africa, in India , panama , Latin America and europe, the active fronts in which the allies fought ****** they are beautifully placed in silently posh areas, in langata when in Nairobi, in Mbaraki when in Mombasa, in Matisi when in Kenya, In Namusungui when in Lodwar, They bear horizontal silence with white names engraved on their beautiful face shouting the glory of European empires, which provoked the evil sense in the heart of the king's horseman in Kenya, in the city of Nairobi, to steal the graveyard lands, he made them his urban home with an uppish courtyard, for him the dead white neighbours are better than in-corruption. I walk around the commonwealth graveyards, in the all quarters of erstwhile British empire, looking for the names of African soldiers , who died in thousands fighting for the queen the royal bloodied woman of England;Elizabeth, Looking for the sons of Ethiopia who stood with the second duce Benito son of Mussolini, fighting for Hitler,for Shintos in the European war, i have seen no name of any African, I have not seen Wandabwa wa masibo, who was conscripted into the first world war, Along with his father Biket wa Khayongo, Biket back after seven years in 1918, carrying Wandabwa's Belt, Wandabwa died in the field, Where was he buried, he is nowhere Not anywhere among the soldiers in cemeteries, I have not seen Nasong'o wa Khayongo, who was conscripted in 1940, to fight against ****** he was conscripted on his nuptial evening, even before he had had the first *** with his new wife, he went away crying, he never came back, his name is nowhere in the graves the commonwealth graves that bare names of the fallen, Fallen soldiers, but they all bare white names in the black world. you come to Africa, Kenya, Nigeria, Malagasy,Egypt, whatever the geographies of Africa, and you keep keen, you hear someone is called Mr. Keya, or Madam Keya, or you come to Bungoma county of Kenya, you meet a man that is of the circumcision age group, Known as Bakikwameti Keya, Bakinyikewi Musolini, Keya is subverted sound for Kings african rivals; KAR the African sound for KAR is Keya, in reference to mass conscription of Africans into the KAR, to fight ****** A child born during that time is Keya, A man circumcised during the time is in the age group of Keya, A simple lesson in regard to our people, taken away to fight the colonial power and left to died and rot away in the bush with a simple courtesy for ceremonial burial, that come along with the death of soldiers, who passed away in the battle field.

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Sep 1, 2014

Sep 1, 2014 at 4:13 AM UTC

alexander-k-opicho

Commonwealth War Graveyards

They are silent and beautiful, gorgeous in in the white halo, cemented in a beautiful terrazzo, baring the names of fallen soldiers, the European soldiers that fell in Wars; second and first and the heinous silent wars, i hope this is why they have a proverb; white sepulchre, only baring the white dead, only chiefs but no dead Indian. Common wealth graveyards are all over in Africa, in India , panama , Latin America and europe, the active fronts in which the allies fought ****** they are beautifully placed in silently posh areas, in langata when in Nairobi, in Mbaraki when in Mombasa, in Matisi when in Kenya, In Namusungui when in Lodwar, They bear horizontal silence with white names engraved on their beautiful face shouting the glory of European empires, which provoked the evil sense in the heart of the king's horseman in Kenya, in the city of Nairobi, to steal the graveyard lands, he made them his urban home with an uppish courtyard, for him the dead white neighbours are better than in-corruption. I walk around the commonwealth graveyards, in the all quarters of erstwhile British empire, looking for the names of African soldiers , who died in thousands fighting for the queen the royal bloodied woman of England;Elizabeth, Looking for the sons of Ethiopia who stood with the second duce Benito son of Mussolini, fighting for Hitler,for Shintos in the European war, i have seen no name of any African, I have not seen Wandabwa wa masibo, who was conscripted into the first world war, Along with his father Biket wa Khayongo, Biket back after seven years in 1918, carrying Wandabwa's Belt, Wandabwa died in the field, Where was he buried, he is nowhere Not anywhere among the soldiers in cemeteries, I have not seen Nasong'o wa Khayongo, who was conscripted in 1940, to fight against ****** he was conscripted on his nuptial evening, even before he had had the first *** with his new wife, he went away crying, he never came back, his name is nowhere in the graves the commonwealth graves that bare names of the fallen, Fallen soldiers, but they all bare white names in the black world. you come to Africa, Kenya, Nigeria, Malagasy,Egypt, whatever the geographies of Africa, and you keep keen, you hear someone is called Mr. Keya, or Madam Keya, or you come to Bungoma county of Kenya, you meet a man that is of the circumcision age group, Known as Bakikwameti Keya, Bakinyikewi Musolini, Keya is subverted sound for Kings african rivals; KAR the African sound for KAR is Keya, in reference to mass conscription of Africans into the KAR, to fight ****** A child born during that time is Keya, A man circumcised during the time is in the age group of Keya, A simple lesson in regard to our people, taken away to fight the colonial power and left to died and rot away in the bush with a simple courtesy for ceremonial burial, that come along with the death of soldiers, who passed away in the battle field.

65

Hold my hand dear Benjamin don't let Professor Edwards catch me in a dreamscape challenging me off guard as we sit in math class hands clasped together for when you knowingly squeeze my hand tighter scribbling with your right hand the answer which is required to be erased so as not caught out but today as I look out onto drifting clouded skies I see the changes and I lose myself in shapes and smoke forging out homes, characters stories into my past, present and what could be in the future nothing is taken from me, distracted in an instant I'm Vivian Ward racing around Hollywood with my best friend Kit De Luca who eats cold pizza for breakfast and crawls the streets with me hop scotching across the Hollywood Walk of Fame, five star terrazzo and brass stars, names of Hollywood greats blonde, brunette elegance Manolo's, mink coats, jewelled necklines of emerald stones we'd both dreamt as kids Los Angeles; the City of Angels we are the winged, we are the free inhabiting the land of opportunity the ladies of the night, grappling onto souls of kids, shared flat with bunk beds and a closet filled with 80's short tight spandex leg warmers, faux gold earrings bright coloured lingerie, leather bomber jackets, tutus... oh and those perms and scrunchies fake eye lashes, an 80's kid high as hell being courted by an older wealthier man living fast, dying young, a fugitive of the land broken The silence I succumbed to bruised by a cacophony of bells ringing "never change Lou lou!" he winked and smiled packing his rucksack leaving for the day. © Sia Jane “She was the amoureuse of all the novels, the heroine of all the plays, the vague “she” of all the poetry books.” Gustave Flaubert, “Madame Bovary”

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Jan 17, 2014

Jan 17, 2014 at 12:00 PM UTC

sia-jane

City dreamer

Hold my hand dear Benjamin don't let Professor Edwards catch me in a dreamscape challenging me off guard as we sit in math class hands clasped together for when you knowingly squeeze my hand tighter scribbling with your right hand the answer which is required to be erased so as not caught out but today as I look out onto drifting clouded skies I see the changes and I lose myself in shapes and smoke forging out homes, characters stories into my past, present and what could be in the future nothing is taken from me, distracted in an instant I'm Vivian Ward racing around Hollywood with my best friend Kit De Luca who eats cold pizza for breakfast and crawls the streets with me hop scotching across the Hollywood Walk of Fame, five star terrazzo and brass stars, names of Hollywood greats blonde, brunette elegance Manolo's, mink coats, jewelled necklines of emerald stones we'd both dreamt as kids Los Angeles; the City of Angels we are the winged, we are the free inhabiting the land of opportunity the ladies of the night, grappling onto souls of kids, shared flat with bunk beds and a closet filled with 80's short tight spandex leg warmers, faux gold earrings bright coloured lingerie, leather bomber jackets, tutus... oh and those perms and scrunchies fake eye lashes, an 80's kid high as hell being courted by an older wealthier man living fast, dying young, a fugitive of the land broken The silence I succumbed to bruised by a cacophony of bells ringing "never change Lou lou!" he winked and smiled packing his rucksack leaving for the day. © Sia Jane “She was the amoureuse of all the novels, the heroine of all the plays, the vague “she” of all the poetry books.” Gustave Flaubert, “Madame Bovary”

54

We live gas station to gas station. Motel to motel. Roleplaying different stories. Living out the bohemian fantasies of a teenage reverie. So when we check out the next morning all these little lives are left behind to exist in the folds where reality meets lazy Sunny D daydreams. And when we are old and grey and return one day to these places in holy reminiscence, our nerves will be pricked with a kaleidoscope of memory jolting sensations. I’ll turn to you and say, “Don’t you remember, my dear?” The honeydew perfume on my wrist as you kissed me up and down like a cartoon in the kitchen of the Sandman Motel? Or the feel of the unpolished, terrazzo floor in the Sunny Moon dining room with my right hand in yours and the other clutching a stolen bottle of my Father’s Aberlour? I’ll remember the times when I didn’t mind the 7/11 taquitos and you didn’t mind getting up early to watch the “Hot Donut’s” sign light in the the Krispy Kreme’s front window. Fresh baked pastries and gasoline and turquoise curtains from the seventies blowing in the hot summer seabreeze. Getting lost in milky sheets. We were a sitcom. We were romance. We were tragedy a la mode with guitar strings built out of rawhide and teeth made of ***** pearls tangled in conspiracy. These are the things I’ll smell, I’ll see, and I will remember when it was just you and me, pretty baby. Just you and me and the ******* Dream, traveling from sea to shining sea, living cheap and easy and utterly free.

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May 7, 2019

May 7, 2019 at 7:07 PM UTC

restrayer

Gas Station Queens

We live gas station to gas station. Motel to motel. Roleplaying different stories. Living out the bohemian fantasies of a teenage reverie. So when we check out the next morning all these little lives are left behind to exist in the folds where reality meets lazy Sunny D daydreams. And when we are old and grey and return one day to these places in holy reminiscence, our nerves will be pricked with a kaleidoscope of memory jolting sensations. I’ll turn to you and say, “Don’t you remember, my dear?” The honeydew perfume on my wrist as you kissed me up and down like a cartoon in the kitchen of the Sandman Motel? Or the feel of the unpolished, terrazzo floor in the Sunny Moon dining room with my right hand in yours and the other clutching a stolen bottle of my Father’s Aberlour? I’ll remember the times when I didn’t mind the 7/11 taquitos and you didn’t mind getting up early to watch the “Hot Donut’s” sign light in the the Krispy Kreme’s front window. Fresh baked pastries and gasoline and turquoise curtains from the seventies blowing in the hot summer seabreeze. Getting lost in milky sheets. We were a sitcom. We were romance. We were tragedy a la mode with guitar strings built out of rawhide and teeth made of ***** pearls tangled in conspiracy. These are the things I’ll smell, I’ll see, and I will remember when it was just you and me, pretty baby. Just you and me and the ******* Dream, traveling from sea to shining sea, living cheap and easy and utterly free.

1

when you are waiting as passive as the glass you drink from calcined, corralled into your adequate shape stand, skin of your temples limned by fluorescent, until your legs ache and while you are waiting biding your time until they lift their heads every disparate form you've taken sends off their own light a wild sunbeam toward each coast broad, bolder-boned your spine the rock entrenched here, there, wherever those loafers become one with the floor melt into it, you the offshoot of spit from a rallying cry; the last good drop of Pentecost pooling into the terrazzo

0

Oct 8, 2019

Oct 8, 2019 at 8:23 PM UTC

touka-kouka

archipelago

when you are waiting as passive as the glass you drink from calcined, corralled into your adequate shape stand, skin of your temples limned by fluorescent, until your legs ache and while you are waiting biding your time until they lift their heads every disparate form you've taken sends off their own light a wild sunbeam toward each coast broad, bolder-boned your spine the rock entrenched here, there, wherever those loafers become one with the floor melt into it, you the offshoot of spit from a rallying cry; the last good drop of Pentecost pooling into the terrazzo

21

i paint the kitchen just so i can see it again. i wonder if the lemons on her branches still grow. and what happened to the dust from the rooms below, they used to be so empty. they only held the beds and dressers and i can't help but wonder if those were even real, and what did they once hold of the sisters and daughters, and son. i know the bed frame was hollow and you'd hide jewels in there, of all the stories i've been told. i know how the kitchen wore herself how pretty she sat against the white stuccoed wall. how the window framed itself so that the kitchen shone, through the branches of the lemon tree, at dusk. black shutters, an eggshell blue enamel sink, a terrace with cast iron railings, the terrazzo floors. in our summers there we'd lay out a mattress and sleep outside with the mosquitos in the mornings, we’d rise just in time to watch the sun creep over the church on the horizon. its the saddest magic i've ever known.

0

Nov 22, 2018

Nov 22, 2018 at 12:59 AM UTC

iphigeniabythesea

after the war

i paint the kitchen just so i can see it again. i wonder if the lemons on her branches still grow. and what happened to the dust from the rooms below, they used to be so empty. they only held the beds and dressers and i can't help but wonder if those were even real, and what did they once hold of the sisters and daughters, and son. i know the bed frame was hollow and you'd hide jewels in there, of all the stories i've been told. i know how the kitchen wore herself how pretty she sat against the white stuccoed wall. how the window framed itself so that the kitchen shone, through the branches of the lemon tree, at dusk. black shutters, an eggshell blue enamel sink, a terrace with cast iron railings, the terrazzo floors. in our summers there we'd lay out a mattress and sleep outside with the mosquitos in the mornings, we’d rise just in time to watch the sun creep over the church on the horizon. its the saddest magic i've ever known.

24