"ululating" poems
Are you a tourist or
A volcanologist my dear?
With a painful joy
To a live volcano getting near,
Do you want to pay homage
To earth's nadir
Conscious that beneath a sea level
A sweltering heat you can bear?
Then to Erta Ale come you not why
Found under Ethiopia's sky?
With a style jumping high,
Hitting the ground
Beating drums, on their waists,
Sabres tied around
Afro men along with braided women,
With butter greased hair,
The latter ululating and clapping
In a row facing each other
Chant a love song
“My feeling for you is strong!”
The male herd camel,
While women babysit,prepare food
And make short huts
With tiny malleable wood.
Also dot the mirage-forming sand
Huts grand.
Are you a tourist my dear
Eager to see about
Out of the ordinary you heard
Say about multicolored magma
Volcano's dust,
Disgorged out of earth's crust?
Do you want to see a scenery
You have not seen
Since you were born,
How in a motley garment
Mother nature itself
Likes to adorn
Come then to Ethiopia,
Located in Africa's horn?
Visit Erta Ale ,
On earth
To run away from earth
Enjoying its hearth.
You will witness
The extraction of salt
In a volcano-formed fault.///
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 3:30 AM UTC
Resonate haiku
Creating sounds flowing through
Baby, please don't stop
Dripping melodic
Fantasy unravels me
Ululating, hmmm
Caressing notes float
My skin tingles with pleasure
Give me more haiku
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 10:54 AM UTC
Her steaming kettle
window into wetness of what was
whistling jets conjuring self-precipitation
There, go memories
dewy laden long gone
Vexing saturation making tea time’s solitude
weep childhood, weep marriage, weep motherhood
ululating swirls in her cup
No amount of saccharin can sweeten
sipping whimper’s brew
Her hour of orange pekoe empties
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 9:14 PM UTC
From the 4 corners of Addis
Sunday school students
At a Meskel Square make a throng
All the procession beating a drum
Ululating and singing a song
With a passion strong.
"Queen Helena (Elene)
Mother of Constantine the Great
Found the true cross
Buried under
A dump-mountain long
By those who read Jesus
The incarnated word wrong."
"Advised by a monk
Led by an incense smoke
The whereabouts of the place
As she saw in her dream/revelation
(326AD)
Queen Helena managed to unlock."
The n-curve of the smoke
As a pointer
Allowed her a go ahead
To dig the mountain
Beneath its bed.
That is what Ethiopia
Has been zealous
To commemorate
To date
(For over1600 years).
At sundown
When by the patriarch
And the mayor
The bonfire is lit
Priests and deacons
Sing and dance circling it.
An electrifying vibe
Overwhelms
Spectators' spirit
Proving the event
A hit.
"Fail not to note
The cross is power,
Perseverance
And soul's medicine
To our sin an antidote !"
An ocean of vigil light
Accentuated by the darkness
Of the night
Allows souls' flight
To the extreme height.
At last if the bonfire
Falls towards the right
It will be
Celebrants delight
Specially if a rain
Puts the fire out.
Celebrants return
To their home
To attend petty
Similar events
That ripples across
The nation
In the same fashion.
On the morrow
Returning back
To the ashes' bed
They draw a cross
On their forehead.
On 27 Sep
Tourists in droves
Come
To Ethiopia
For a first hand knowledge
" Ethiopia raises
Its hand to God
Demonstrated many fold."
Here reflecting is a wise thing
In the division of the cross
To avoid a similar thing
Ethiopia(During the Era of
its emperor Dawit/Middle age)
has received
The right wing.
At a cross-like
Mountainous road,
It is placed
At Geishen Mary's church
Which the laity takes
As Saint Mary's abode.
Sep 20, 2019
Sep 20, 2019 at 12:02 PM UTC
Evening's soul rests on dark, light, shades
even as shadows fall on streets
even as the drunk starts ululating.
Evening has a soul, and in it impinges
past.
In Evenings I just want thoughts to saunter.
Nascent. And in evening the ghoul starts talking
and the owl serenading. Dogs and ******* give moaning
catcalls, to signify their presence, that they are living
like me and you.
Evenings do a turn around as darkness spreads
into my body. I weave unbecoming fantasies.
Taking a blank paper for my mind to write.
Evening stares at philosophy, monotony
and rush of vehicles stampede thoughts.
Evenings go berserk with street lights
and quiet bonhomie.
Oct 10, 2015
Oct 10, 2015 at 1:18 AM UTC
arise vehement sea
and hammer
with your suffering fists
all the crags
and lonely stones
upon the shores of
the naked coast
where crouches
at edge of bluff
the foundations raw
cantilevered walls
and the arcing buttresses
that shelter dreams
held secret
hurl your agonized and
eager waters
at stone and mortar
shake the bedrock
on which rest
the touchstones
in the deepest cellars
let your echoing tremors
buffet and rebound
within the resonant chambers
hidden below
your ululating winds
calling to memories
in their veiled towers
peering from windows
narrow and high
their fluttering lamps
clinging to the light
they search the tumult
with eyes fearful and uncertain
cloaking forsaken desires
that thirst without end
May 10, 2022
May 10, 2022 at 5:14 PM UTC
I am soul ****** What matters this skin bag we wear? Deep down, within.....I rely on my ability to pick up scents. The scent of another can send a roiling sensation through my belly thus filling my being. Is it the musky odor of predator or prey I detect? Getting down to basics. Stripped bare physically and psychologically. Whatever shred of humanity we once had are peeled away during our time together. Will it be I that is deliciously devoured slowly inch by painful inch or shall it be my lips that lick the wounds of my prey as I toy with it...Close your eyes and let the long ululating howl escape us.....~M
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 8:32 PM UTC
Trace your thoughts slowly
Across the moon’s lit Primrose,
And ponder not on how she belongs to the
Twilight.
Linger not on the notions of Beauty’s
Contrast…
Of utter radiance amongst the Eventide—
Lest you crave her
Shadows.
The unworthy swoon on false intoxications of allure,
Betraying pheromones that lead only to
Ruin.
Breathe not in her presence and still your thoughts, which race ill-intended towards
Premature release of longings—
Unrequited.
Dark Goddess of the Abyss
Siren of Shadows
Seeker of none, yet yearned by
All.
Accursed Aphrodite
Preternatural Persephone
Devourer of Darkfall,
Merciless Maven of moon-drunk men
Who quake with trepidation
Under the pressure of your
Wrath.
Know that your fleeting fury fuels
Fiery passions.
Fulfills my need to know you
If only briefly.
Shall I caress legendary layered labyrinths
Of thou’s lucid lithe mind?
Soothe seared sacred chambers
Of thine frostbitten
Heart?
Beautiful forlorn creature you are
To only be seen for Carnality’s
Delight.
Know that I perceive you.
Past Ethereal Elegance
Beyond the bonds of
Crescent Shackles.
Embodiment of Evanescent Evenings
Impermanence intertwined in
Insufferable aching…
Understand that your
Acrimony is
Admired.
This altruism
All-encompassing.
Allow me to detect deformities
Deep within
Defenses Deterred—
Hollow conclaves concealing
Corrugated corrupted
Compliance.
Humor my heartfelt hubris…
Humble yourself before this
Haunted man.
Entreat, Embrace, Entrust
This harrowed human husk
With an ounce of your Obsidian
Opulence.
I proclaim to pronounce you as my
Pessimistic Paramour.
To never underestimate
Our most unholy
Union.
To know that you belong to the
Night Sky
And must be unbound…
Understand my ululating plea,
To adore your admonishing
Yet never resign to its
False
Adherence.
Jun 4, 2022
Jun 4, 2022 at 3:43 AM UTC
lady jane uses ashes to blacken her brows.
she does this while yelling,
just yelling,
and ululating into the courtyard below.
bellow.
saul bellow.
and martian heavy medgar evers.
close me in myself.
ready for a road trip.
manipulate your eigengrau,
be more uneasy with each passing millisecond spent in complete solitude with you yourself,
because nothing should scare you more than your mind alone with no hand clasped and anchoring you to the edge of the pool.
you realize that you wake,
only to create beautiful lucid dreams for yourself and no one else.
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 1:09 AM UTC
I can't swim, but I am keen to watch
your ululating rhythm in the pool.
Your head cuts smartly through the water's skin
like scissors through a plastic film.
You inscribe that well-drawn path of constance;
the recurring graph of a heart's green screen.
That's how authentic, automatic, you swim:
by a hidden sense so palpable, so
devastating, and your deadleaf hair so
Autumnal and out of place in the new Spring,
That the wind has hidden - ashamed, outdone.
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 12:55 PM UTC
Caress me, melt in me
let me see the love in your eyes,
Brimming, ululating passion
radiating in delight.
These lips craving for the touch of mine
Like the falling star
waiting to touch the ground,
But in vain, our hopes are
Vanishing before our eyes
with the rising sun.
Once again we have to part;
Once again we have to die,
Till night comes
And breathe in us life
again.
Alas! Why this sun, why the morning?
Why this rein fall on innocent lovers?
Who want nothing but to lay in each others arm
Today, tomorrow, after morrow.
Go and love first!
then only then you’ll fathom
how sharp your rays are that slice
one soul in two, every dawn.
Still, your rays are not
Half as strong as our love
Stays fervid with every partition.
You, my love, the smile of my life,
Immure these tears inside eyes
Cheeks are mine not them to kiss.
Come in my arms, clasp me so tight,
Canoodle, smooch, implant equal kisses
a clock runs in a day; my sole sustenance.
If I do not return with the return of twilight
Then let loose tears, with them, me too.
And grant this fascist sun victory
over transient us,
But not our love,
We’ll kindle our love
by making dreams our home.
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 4:26 AM UTC
O mother,
Ye the sea who hast crashed upon the shores,
And shapest the precipitous cliffs of my childhood
Thy lull hast eternally calmed me to slumber
In truth the ululating howl of thy grief
For the moon.
The jaundiced glow of the distant orb
Beckoned upon thy aching soul and
As the world turned each night
Thy waves slammed harder against the cliffs
Not as easily hewn as the rocks of my youth
Thy insidious carving would taketh aeons to break them.
Farther and farther from me
I stood steadfast and watched
The waters yearning for the lunar glory
So distant yet magnetic,
Uncovering the depths of thy being
Something a stationary monolith
Can only ever dream of
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 8:25 AM UTC
*** & RED BULL
Out of our skull
on *** & Red Bull
we play football
with a grinning
plastic skull
(retrieved from a skip)
using the Momento Mori
for a drunken kickabout.
You dribble
& drool it.
You shoot
I save it
tipping it over
an imaginary crossbar.
Spectacular!
I bathe
in an imaginary roar.
I clutch
the skull
to my chest
begin to spout:
'Toby
(or not)
Toby
... that is the jug! '
'Oi...! ' you shout
'Me Lord Hamlet
...over here
on de head! '
I dropp kick
the skull
(grinning still)
in your general
direction.
I can see
two of you
& don't know who
to pass it too.
You rise
beautifully to
the occasion
losing a stiletto
in the process
your body arched
like a sublime salmon
jumping
upstream
you head the skull home
past my groping outstretched fingertips
'GOALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLGOALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL! '
you scream
your blouse
over your head
in exultant
celebration.
A 'Now then...now then' police man
confiscates our skull.
Tells us
to ****** off.
'Awwww Ref! '
we argue but
he ain't
having any of it.
Hanging on
to each other
you ululating.
We stagger
down the street
look back
to see
P.C. Plod
mis-kick the skull
through someone's sleeping
window
crashtinkletinkle.
We wonder if
he'll have to
arrest
himself.
We scarper
in case he tries
to blame it
on innocent us.
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 7:45 PM UTC
*** & RED BULL
Out of our skull
on *** & Red Bull
we play football
with a grinning
plastic skull
(retrieved from a skip)
using the Momento Mori
for a drunken kickabout.
You dribble
& drool it.
You shoot
I save it
tipping it over
an imaginary crossbar.
Spectacular!
I bathe
in an imaginary roar.
I clutch
the skull
to my chest
begin to spout:
'Toby
(or not)
Toby
... that is the jug! '
'Oi...! ' you shout
'Me Lord Hamlet
...over here
on de head! '
I drop kick
the skull
(grinning still)
in your general
direction.
I can see
two of you
& don't know who
to pass it too.
You rise
beautifully to
the occasion
losing a stiletto
in the process
your body arched
like a sublime salmon
jumping
upstream
you head the skull home
past my groping outstretched fingertips
'GOALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLGOALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL! '
you scream
your blouse
over your head
in exultant
celebration.
A 'Now then...now then' police man
confiscates our skull.
Tells us
to ****** off.
'Awwww Ref! '
we argue but
he ain't
having any of it.
Hanging on
to each other
you ululating.
We stagger
down the street
look back
to see
P.C. Plod
mis-kick the skull
through someone's sleeping
window
crashtinkletinkle.
We wonder if
he'll have to
arrest
himself.
We scarper
in case he tries
to blame it
on innocent us.
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 7:53 PM UTC
A rhetorical question finds me asking
(to no one in particular) why I recall
the names of grade school teachers
approximately fifty years ago (whose
names listed below), when the need
to retrieve necessary information due
ring examinations (less time ago)
often found me seized with sudden
inability to remember any vital ants
sirs (even including my name), thus
grudgingly handing over blank test paper
analogously surrendering a vital
document gracing terms of defeat
into the scaly claws (zen nay), sans
first to sixth grade Precambrian relic
(Missus Batson, Missus Rittenhouse,
Missus Wells, Mister Stout,
Missus Shaner, or Miss Rinderle).
Invariably majority of first thru
sixth grade accorded accredited
ancient authenticated creatures.
They freely exercised diabolical
churlish ******** animalistic zeal
us yakking, wickedly unprintable
upon (unprincipled urchin) at
receiving end of fiendishly grue
some hellish instructions. Assign
ments buttressed with ultimatums
harkening back to Jurassic period
earlier in dawning primate con
sciousness. Lesson material kindled
with justifiable license in league
with garnered insignia. Heft
to bring pupils to heal predicated
via warp and weft woven wonder
fully. Wrought writs welcomed
whips with warranty whenever
recalcitrant ruffian refused
respecting reptilian rubric repre
sentative rattling (The Idler Wheel
Is Wiser Than the Driver of
the ***** and Whipping Cords
Will Serve You More Than Ropes
Will Ever Do), which loosely
rendered regularly warbled
wishy washy verse curmudgeons
freedom granted to interpret
as one decrepit, hawkish insignia
certified one beaming Eve and/
or stud deed brute soffit. Education
often relied on the weekly reader,
and letters to and/or from Aunt
Emma. Nefarious mean linkedin
kickstarter jawboning torturous
treatment tolerated, asper imps
of the pervert, mutant Ninja
Turtles duty bound antsy
youthful yokel yodelers
weathering ululating sing-song
and quintessential precepts.
Feb 1, 2018
Feb 1, 2018 at 4:28 PM UTC
you only said you loved me
when you were lonely;
you were scared of
feeling even a tinge of loneliness circulating inside your body
so you impulsively go out
during late nights
to search for love
in befuddled men.
you only said you hated me
when you were inebriated;
you were scared of
feeling even an ounce of happiness
surging through your veins
so you look at yourself
in front of the shattered mirror,
who pitied you
for ululating constantly.
your flagrant atrophy
shouts your
malapropos name
across the hearts
worn on every sleeve.
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 7:11 AM UTC
A life of serpentine-driven fate,
a flow of undulating winds,
is a life left in desuetude
ululating for a course more driven.
May 4, 2020
May 4, 2020 at 7:34 AM UTC
1.
A delicate beauty creeps
Along the summer horizon.
Clouds refracting the setting
Sun in a bounty of pinks,
Oranges and purples.
The sky is no longer blue,
Except from a bird’s-eye view.
Birds sing a paean to
The rainbow hues;
Their scattered voices
Blending into one.
Theirs is Apollo’s song
In declension.
Theirs a wavering praise
Of all that is brilliant
And warm.
2.
Cool colors mark
The horizon now,
And still they sing.
Is it instinct or
Emotional response?
Who has studied
The emotions of birds?
Who the motions of their
Ululating throats?
3.
All is serene as the sun
Plunges past the horizon,
Indifferent to the Earth.
Who can measure beauty,
Or even say what it is?
The sun shines in spite
Of itself.
Solar flares flicking the
Radiant atmosphere.
Tongues of fire — from
Hell or Pentecost?
Helios can answer;
Apollo remains mute.
Why must the gods be
Invoked at all?
Is this nature or
Supernature at work?
4.
Colors fade; clouds
Disperse; beauty sleeps,
Blanketed in dark.
Let us be wary:
Heat grows cold.
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 7:08 PM UTC