"villager" poems
“I am a warrior, so that my son may be a merchant, so that his son may be a poet.”
John Quincy Adams, 6th President of the United States
<>
a bad weakness, mine, mess with the perfect of others,
unsure what to add that will addictive illuminate further,
but as homage, a tribute, a salute
got to
got too,
no middle class delayed gratification for me, none, whatsoever,
read the words and my own hands choke me
as if to pull out, to free
the upsurging words in my chest-forming,
to uplift me up, from the floor where I am roiling in
wonderful wonderment at a prophecy come true
my recent family history,
about 400 years worth, got it written down someplace,
escapees from a Spanish Inquisition,
a Roman one before that,
meandering Jews who found a respite, a small welcome
in a small village in Germany
(the irony does not go unnoticed)
from villager to merchant, from tiny town to big city folk,
we went, warriors if any, kept secret, best unheard,
attract no attention, but do what survival doesn’t
always politely request
here I am child of the proverbial wandering jew,
fancy me a poet with, at best, a very small p,
one of three children, historians, book writers, scholars and even
poet~traders,
and so a President’s words, hammer my cells
upon an anvil for human skins,
the future shape of me foreseen
and I think to myself,
alone and out loud:
This, This!
is what makes America great,
welcoming the stranger,
even predicting their
possible pathway to a peaceful existence,
giving their descendant’s generations liberty,
liberty to become poets,
free, who can stand upright*
Jun 25, 2019
Jun 25, 2019 at 1:47 PM UTC
A scuba diver, head first like a dolphin,
goes in to the ocean, 100 feet down
in semi-darkness finds this apparition
something beautiful to behold in motion,
really really big and mysterious it appears
gliding gracefully spewing wonderment,
inviting reverence from all kinds of marine life
Clearly apologetic, for being out of place,
though he has encroached, in to a world
though not far from the sea surface,
yet in a depth where human has no place
all his scientific temper got evaporated
a simple villager now, gripped by wonder.
All he could think of anyone
fitting in to such magnificence
was God Almighty,himself.
"How do you do God?" he stutters,
aware that in plankton filled darkness
the mighty man is at the mercy of
the behemoth, looming large above.
The phenomenon in question,
***** whale"as we know him,
smiles and burps happily "Fantastic"
then he dives 6000 feet down, looking
for a colossal squid, succulent to be sure
the whole reason for him to play God
at this depth for sea creatures that lose
bearing in the haze of challenging depths.
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 5:59 AM UTC
I am a Fiddler on the Roof.
Someone like me is rare.
Daring enough to put my life on the line,
Make my presence known and there.
But I am a villager.
A mama nonetheless.
I get my hair pulled out,
My heart pulled out.
Then I have to clean the mess.
The Russians!
They torture us with
Pogroms and demonstrations.
The Constable their leader
In conquering many nations.
My soul is the Fiddler.
A simple sound happy on its own.
My love is whats keeping me on the roof.
I wants to grow and grow.
A villager and a Russian.
That is what I want, why I was sent.
Arm in arm with the Constable.
Happy to life´s end.
I can change things.
I am a Fiddler on the Roof.
Ready to change tradition!!!!
Feb 22, 2018
Feb 22, 2018 at 10:14 AM UTC
[December 30, 2016]
A brilliant statue of golden illuminated scales dances effortlessly in the sky
Twisting and turning like a bird changing air currents as if it were alive
Enormous in it's stature it blocks out the sun with powerful wings of luminosity
Flames of a dozen colors lick the air, sizzling with a hint of animosity
An evil shadow shrouds the village as the gemstone serpent soars overhead
Roaring with a thousand echoing voices, the world turns silent with dread
With a sudden shift in posture, it dives like a freshly loosed flaming arrow
The people scatter like ants beneath its hungry gaze, calling for their hero
Like a meteor, the serpent crashes into the earth with an explosion of dirt
Tendrils of fire stream from the crater as the houses erupt in bursts
Unseen mangled screams of anguish fill the scene from covered smoke
With a flap, a gust and a roar of fury, it separates air from choking cloak
Villagers stare in awe at the legendary creature standing ominously before them
Scales of crimson ruby glisten behind a furious glare of murderous intent
One brave villager steps forward, adorned in polished silver mail
The hero draws a sword, raises his shield and prepares to fail
The dragon charges forward, lashing out with tooth and claw
The knight lunges back, narrowly missing a bite from its maw
It spits fire of molten lava, melting the armor to his skin
Burning alive inside his armor, his flesh sizzles beneath his grin
Defeated and broken, he places his sword into the earth
Stumbling and shaking, he limps to the burning church
He returns with a large ruby stone in his trembling arms
He places the egg at it's mother's feet, safely unharmed
The crimson dragon solidified into a glimmering golden statue
Caressing her ruby egg against her breast, love forever true
The legends tell not a tale of a ferocious and unstoppable creature
But of a gemstone serpent, who wanted to protect her piece of nature
Apr 9, 2017
Apr 9, 2017 at 6:34 PM UTC
we are going
this day in the gentle light
master and bullock
down the dusty path
an anonymous villager
and his sturdy bullock
far in a village in India
for there’s work to be done
like many a villager has done
and beast and master
out determined in the days
when the land must be worked
to nurture its people
across China, Egypt and Mesopotamia
and nameless lands
they have done this
and we do
now this day that is ours
through the winding ways
to the fields
to the end of the day
I the villager and you the bullock
Come, we shall work the fields
as countless have done
and as many more will come to do
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 6:54 PM UTC
Love was the fragrance of every flower
in this city, of celebrated gardens,
not long before,
Why i sit here, nursing my uneasiness
in this bus with out a destination board,
I don't really know,
all I hope is this:
my belief that it would take me to
it's last stop- love- would not fail,
Once there ,I know,
my redemption would be easier.
I don't see any one bound
to that destination,
not even one whose face i recognize,
night has no language, like a dumb man
i have to be contented with signs,
in this overly lit long, red bus, too sleek
for everyone here to feel happy about,
i feel the shock of change, from every side,
The city is busy shedding its old skins
and its soul, the villager and his words
that spoke of rain, crops of corn and harsh summer,
almost in a poetic vein, is alien now,
they aren't invited here anymore,
sulking, loitering around a bit, they have left, before sun down.
We are racing towards deadlines,
roads everywhere are blocked, broken, changed beyond
recognition, one's own street, needs introduction
work is in progress even at midnight,
new flyovers, elevated roads, sky scrappers
you easily lose count, and crawl through a maze,
all for a make over, to a global city of electronics,
from a sleepy town, embracing villages
to somewhere, the world feels flat, in an illusory grandeur.
Trees died horrible deaths,
a loveless and forlone look takes over, even on young faces
the sparrows, disappear, no one knows where
they have gone, bees and butterflies,
what would be their fate, studies are on.
A lady in the front seat
gets jittery, she is not sure where she goes,
the driver doesn't pay attention,
there is none to reassure,
we are on the move, fast too.
I was looking for Mahatma Gandhi Road, but the signs
are all gone, hope, those would be back pretty soon,
but would love come back?
OOO
Apr 11, 2012
Apr 11, 2012 at 8:03 AM UTC
My window has no seat, why would it? I wish it did.
There is just a glossy magnolia ledge, barely wide enough to
cater a slender bottom. Upon the ledge books and candles
rest, illuminating the murk outside. Directly opposite orchard
trees recede as I welcome autumn with a zealous smirk.
For now faintly visible between their visceral arms are the
all-seeing hillocks that in winter will dominate my view.
An impartial observer once stated they were mere freckles
on the landscapes recumbent spine, but to me their sight alone
is vertiginous. On balmy April days I would surmount them,
a personal expedition, up there where I’m the valleys curator, wearing
pristine white gloves I meticulously unravel the terrain: an ancient
manuscript, the vellum inked with meandering streams, occasional farms,
cursive hamlets and little else - a land of sobriety and dearth.
In November though there is a permanent mist and its source
inexplicable. Does it simply effervesce from the precipitous tors about?
Is it the villager’s enshrined collective sigh? No it is something
more. Sitting atop the villages head it’s the beloved satin bonnet you
wore religiously as a child. Wholly impractical for this season
its gossamer fabric offers little solace or insulation to those below
as its pleated extremities elope with the moss-brown hinterland.
Fervently stoking their hearths the villagers broaden the
ethereal cloth with a smoke not acrid but satisfying and nourishing:
with a terrifically edible, hardwood flavour. From my hillock
vantage, the sanguine stone of the manorial chimneys is all that
penetrates the film; casually they release torrents of smoke like
ivory doves that weft patterns instinctively into the sky’s pallid damask.
©Thomas Gabriel
Dec 9, 2011
Dec 9, 2011 at 6:00 PM UTC
on retirement
back to village
told them
he was a driver
not done
single accident
the whole village
praised…
they don't know
was a Road Engine driver..
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 11:01 PM UTC
I no longer wish to create.
I no longer wish to write.
I don't want song, or word.
I have no need for art.
I am sounding out my request to any God that will listen.
Give me a foreign beach.
Give me a sunset.
Give me a hand to hold on to.
I wish my life to be poetry.
Every action a song.
I want my days to be the paper I spread my ink upon.
I want 'lost' to mean 'home'.
I want the salt water on my cheeks to be the sea.
Give me mountain tops.
Give me blistered feet.
Give me a mouth that knows my own, like voice.
Make me a villager.
Make me a vagabond.
I no longer wish to be a warrior.
I am sounding my request out to the universe, like a lighthouse.
Come to me.
Make me forget.
Make me forgotten.
Make me to be overlooked.
Make my days count.
Make my days count.
Let this life be poetry.
Give me someone to read it.
Give me someone to understand.
Give me someone to add a verse.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 12:38 PM UTC
We love illumination.
The unknown is a scary enemy
And imagination only worsens the fright.
The dark is always out to get us
With the terrible monsters it holds.
We beware the bite,
The scratch
That might be the end of the story.
We also fear the empty continuing.
The possibility of the never-ending,
Empty void beyond our sight.
Will we run forever,
Only to see that dark space grow?
Are there no boundaries to this vast void?
We run into the dark with our lantern.
We try to light it all up.
We must know what is out there.
Like the child in the dark forest,
We’re scared and we just want to see.
But it merely grows.
We’ll never see it all.
However, let’s not take the stance of the angry villager
Running towards a monster,
Torch and pitchfork in hand.
Let us be curious instead,
With the demeanor of the small child chasing a butterfly,
Full of wonder.
After all, we are put the children of this vast Universe.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 7:51 PM UTC
forbear to throw more weight upon the ***
since longer journey we must soon begin
the copper coin that the lone guide shall spin
no better guide through the hardest impasse
since at the end there may be but rough grass
and all our commons could turn out most thin
still none of that our better hope's to win
leaving our enemies in the morass
the hardest victory is still the first
when no experience is on our side
but suffering so all we know is pain
so we must say this has to be the worst
in largest part just to protect our pride
but also to account for your huge gain
Feb 24, 2010
Feb 24, 2010 at 3:45 AM UTC
He wore a stripped shirt
that resembled the twist of serpants
though he smiled warmly his eyes were
steady on the dollars
placing labels and badges on all
the soldiers fighting to pay rent
and live in times so far from purpose
I kick back and watch him scribble
false notice
prescribing a pill to every effect from
this life
its left me purging
I hate the institutions
the corrupt unjust
sick ***** sedating my
passions and
numbing me up
smart went to another place
outside your local village where
the villians mix the chemical
perserves in your children's fillings
I cant help the way I percieve what
I have seen
I cant help that my fall from innocents
was rougher and obscene
I cant stop thinking of the misuse
of power and money mongers
I want to burn the kingdom
hoping it'd grow back to something better
misguided we walk off cliffs and to the slaughter
or we come back as our fathers paper back novel
excellence for me has fallen to resistence
because I simply cant stand this kind of exsistence
go ahead and direct me to another perscription
corrupt everything in my mind that makes me human
I'm ODD to the extreme !
I reject most of you and the latest thing
and now this man sits here
telling me I'm sick and spiraling
as he shakes hands with satan
defiling minds from eyes that only see green
and I pay my way to see this jackal conspiring?!
You can keep your advice your diagnoses and the dice
I'll leave you now to gamble with the rest of the villager's lives
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 9:13 PM UTC
I walk old and gaunt
Floating ghostlike down old haunts
Martinelli
And Washington
And East Lake
I return
Far flung from a prodigal son.
Empty streets reflected in empty eyes
Power lines buzz in futile rebellion
To the silent black night.
I pull my jacket tight.
Stop at the Villager
In search of an old friend.
Security shakes me down
“Do you have a pocketknife?”
I laugh.
Look in at the eager faces.
They hail the old demon
I ran down in futile chases.
See Charlie and Sarge.
They’ve forgotten who I am
And shouldn’t remember
Anyway.
Turn back to the dark,
To the dim streetlights
Glowing exhausted and pale
Like me.
Light up,
And fill my lungs
With deathly relief.
Traffic lights mist
In cold colors
Where shadowed roads meet.
Something here died.
Something close,
Something warm.
I walk on,
Old and gaunt,
Floating ghostlike down old haunts.
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 10:02 PM UTC
The Spongecrab was white as snow,
and covered in nubs soft like terrycloth.
"Don't ******* touch it!" they said, but I,
full of wondering anticipation at the sweetness
of the Spongecrab's entrails, and entranced
by the thought of running my hand over his
back, my palm pleasantly tickled by
the cute little Spongecrab... well,
I could not resist.
[This tale is not Snow White.
Happy endings, in all actuality,
happen rather rarely.]
I gaily chased my quarry as he
grapevined across the pale sand,
and just as I brushed his enticing shell,
I fell to my sudden death, heart stopped.
"Heed well the wisdom of Elders," they said,
the villagers; and that night, every villager
fed well on the succulent flesh of the Spongecrab.
A Spongecrab can always be opened if
one uses rubber gloves to open his pretty,
squishy shell, soft as terrycloth.
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 5:35 PM UTC
they all in jail
they all somewhere
filling my need
such satisfaction
at a demise
today, i read, village
stones gang member
you take the gun
and pretend
you're a gang member
I'll be a villager
you've preyed upon
and I'll hit you
with stones
Apr 25, 2023
Apr 25, 2023 at 1:41 AM UTC
A black man struggling to breathe,
A Yemeni child searching for a safe place,
A Palestinian man struggling to be free,
An African villager dreaming of clean drinking water!
A lonely man longing for company,
A homeless person dreaming of shelter,
A hungry child craving a home cooked meal,
An orphan yearning for a mother’s touch!
A disabled person dreaming about walking,
An elderly man wishing to visit his loved ones,
A sick patient praying to be free from the pain,
A COVID 19 patient wanting to get off the ventilator!
Sending love and a prayer to those who have such beautiful dreams.
Hussein Dekmak
Jun 20, 2020
Jun 20, 2020 at 10:08 AM UTC
They Did Not give Their Lives:
Their Lives Were taken From Them.
The boy soldiers formed up in line:
the Sergeant inspected each in turn.
Colonel Forde (retired)
took the salute; the cadet’s
drilled colour party moved off.
Towards the village Cross
the troop marched on,
and as the band struck
up the tune “Blaze Away”
flocks of pigeons rose
from misted fields
exploding into flight
spreading like shrapnel
to enfilade the distant trees.
Crackling gunfire
echoed in the woods
and pheasants beat
from cover plunged
to earth, killed
in fern and bracken
by weekend shooting
party’s fusillade.
On the war memorial wreathes rested
where villager’s names inscribed on stone
are listed Unforgotten. The church bell
chimed an end to silent minute. A bugle
call died away as birds sang out an anthem.
Tony Brady
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 3:51 AM UTC
Have you ever felt so distant
You just couldn't connect
Lethargic and emotionally inept
In Financial and moral debt
So to me to welcome death
Would be like I over slept
Theyre called nightmares when asleep but awake it's called regrets
So it's hard not to be depressed
stressed wonderin if my birth today
Made a difference or am I just a spec of dust under trumps toupee
left with nothing deep to say
No courage found to encourage me
to the world im just a villager a 3rd
Worlder, cuz life Honduras'd me
humbled me, it's humbling,
but still I fail to be artistic
Being a human full of temptation
Still erroneously narcissistic
Convoluting what's simplistic
And wanting, to want, so filled
Of **** As the void shifts to over flow the emptiness til unfulfilled
Am I, a contradiction, like I con with diction, as my description
Paints poetic, how pathetic, like **** smelling cologne my depiction
Will still smell like a pool of stool
Can't justify bein my flaws, victim,
When really the fault of addiction
Is self inflicted a decision
Welcoming, compulsory prison
But I rather insult your intelligence
By making *** ups sound elegant
But the truth is there less Eloquent
So every room I enter the elephant
Is an element like it's on salary
That I feed with **** talk like I lead
As the Head of the peanut gallery
Who feeds religiously, hourly
Like bush wit twin towers I grieve it
In pain by its tragedy, but in secret
I Caused but sadly they believe it
When I lie to myself and others and do it Much, I forget what's true
And hoping you'll be less like me
... Is why I confess this to you ....
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 2:11 AM UTC
I cut myself on shattered glass,
And cried out for help,
But instead of tending to my wounds,
You told me to be more careful.
For the shards were not merely broken glass,
But part of a beautiful mosaic
You have crafted,
From fragments of the truth.
The blue of my tears,
The red of my blood,
The dark rainbow of my bruised body,
Lifted,
Shaped into a work of art,
Glued together with a thousand promises,
And the strength of your love.
And as I gaze at the masterpiece you have created,
You recite a familiar fable:
You are the worried villager;
I am the boy who cried wolf.
You are the giving tree;
I am the ungrateful child.
But then you turn out the light,
And I can no longer see the pattern.
Once again you close the door,
And I am left bleeding in the dark.
And so I recite to myself a new lullaby:
You are the pied piper leading me away;
I am the child following blindly.
You are the big bad wolf;
I am the little girl,
Learning not to trust.
May 10, 2020
May 10, 2020 at 7:00 PM UTC
Thane of the Glamis Arena
Doyen of constitutionalism
Chikara che Zanu
The villager who dared to challenge,
Hope-monger, democrat,
Courageous fighter,
Patriot to the core,
Always leading from the front.
With intolerance on the rise you stood up
When incompetence grew you spoke up
When inflation turned to hyper you jumped in,
and tamed it.
When fear became the air,
you eyeballed it.
Yours is the courage of legions,
they will sing of your name for generations,
To your remembrance, they will build monuments.
I send a humble request to the heavens,
a whisper on the wings of the winds,
may the gods grant you more,
More health! More years! and More strength.
Get well soon Captain Courageous.
Jan 29, 2018
Jan 29, 2018 at 8:29 AM UTC
saturdays smell like
bleach under my nails
sleep in my eyes
scratches on hands
gluey stuck fingers
glare off an empty parking lot
and other people’s
uncomplicated lives
give me enough time
and i can get rid of
any kind of stain
in your coffee cup
but i don’t take the time
to wash out my own
and i can’t get rid of
how i sometimes feel
like less than a person
a second class citizen
or some kind of
preprogrammed robot
just here to assist with
strangers personal quests
i’m not the
swashbuckling hero
out on an adventure
i’m the placid villager who
never moves from behind
the counter night or
day and only ever repeats
the same half dozen lines
wears the same outfit every
time you see them
i don’t want
to be the hero
anymore
all i want is
to live comfortably
in this town
and let my life
unfold
all i want is
to get the dirt out
from my fingernails
and get enough sleep
to love
and be loved
to drink coffee
in the morning
wine at night
and water all day
but i never
want to be the
chosen one
i just want to be
the one who points
you in the right direction
Sep 18, 2019
Sep 18, 2019 at 3:02 PM UTC