"willie" poems - Hello Poetry

"willie" poems

Whosever room this is should be ashamed! His underwear is hanging on the lamp. His raincoat is there in the overstuffed chair, And the chair is becoming quite mucky and damp. His workbook is wedged in the window, His sweater's been thrown on the floor. His scarf and one ski are beneath the TV, And his pants have been carelessly hung on the door. His books are all jammed in the closet, His vest has been left in the hall. A lizard named Ed is asleep in his bed, And his smelly old sock has been stuck to the wall. Whosever room this is should be ashamed! Donald or Robert or Willie or-- Huh? You say it's mine? Oh, dear, I knew it looked familiar!

0

17.9k

Shel Silverstein

Whosever room this is should be ashamed! His underwear is hanging on the lamp. His raincoat is there in the overstuffed chair, And the chair is becoming quite mucky and damp. His workbook is wedged in the window, His sweater's been thrown on the floor. His scarf and one ski are beneath the TV, And his pants have been carelessly hung on the door. His books are all jammed in the closet, His vest has been left in the hall. A lizard named Ed is asleep in his bed, And his smelly old sock has been stuck to the wall. Whosever room this is should be ashamed! Donald or Robert or Willie or-- Huh? You say it's mine? Oh, dear, I knew it looked familiar!

Continue reading...

Blind Willie Johnson strums six strings a day He drinks with the woman who taught him to play He spells out his secrets in the songs that he sings And breathes his life onto six rusty strings Blind Willie Johnson brings home the blues Blind Willie Johnson will wail the blues to you The brothel he grew up in is tearing down the walls He's got so many memories of those smokey halls His mama could be there or she could be dead He's got no pictures, just anecdotes instead Blind Willie Johnson said he don't know a thing Except for the truth in the blues that he sings Blind Willie Johnson ain't really blind at all He's just got those gray eyes from years of alcohol He stares into the smoke of a Friday night crowd Who stare back at him as his stories ring out Blind Willie Johnson doesn't cover up a thing Listen to his pain in the blues that he sings "Blind Willie Johnson" reads the graveyard stone Under the blanket of the sky, Willie rests alone Though his voice is lost underneath the ground The world will never forget Blind Willie's sound Blind Willie Johnson sang the way he felt He never complained about the hand he was dealt

0

Dec 6, 2015

Dec 6, 2015 at 12:59 AM UTC

Blind Willie Johnson

Blind Willie Johnson strums six strings a day He drinks with the woman who taught him to play He spells out his secrets in the songs that he sings And breathes his life onto six rusty strings Blind Willie Johnson brings home the blues Blind Willie Johnson will wail the blues to you The brothel he grew up in is tearing down the walls He's got so many memories of those smokey halls His mama could be there or she could be dead He's got no pictures, just anecdotes instead Blind Willie Johnson said he don't know a thing Except for the truth in the blues that he sings Blind Willie Johnson ain't really blind at all He's just got those gray eyes from years of alcohol He stares into the smoke of a Friday night crowd Who stare back at him as his stories ring out Blind Willie Johnson doesn't cover up a thing Listen to his pain in the blues that he sings "Blind Willie Johnson" reads the graveyard stone Under the blanket of the sky, Willie rests alone Though his voice is lost underneath the ground The world will never forget Blind Willie's sound Blind Willie Johnson sang the way he felt He never complained about the hand he was dealt

Continue reading...

I had Joe Willie from jump. The Jets were off the chain Baltimore benched Johnny U cause he knew the game. And played it too. The AFL was full of bells and whistles.Speed kills Three yards and a cloud of dust. Get real coach. We shootin rockets to da moon. High tops . Cmon pops. Change the guard. Them people ain't done nothing to me said Ali. Da Nang ain't my thang. He was the greatest. Still is. The Haight was great. Oh yeah Kent STATE. 1968. Open the gate to the house of the rising sun. Joplin. And Jimmy. Marvin and Tammy. The Doors and Hair. ****** in the air What rhymes with Agent Orange...... Nothing.

0

Oct 4, 2012

Oct 4, 2012 at 1:16 AM UTC

geno-cattouse-1

Age of Aquarius

I had Joe Willie from jump. The Jets were off the chain Baltimore benched Johnny U cause he knew the game. And played it too. The AFL was full of bells and whistles.Speed kills Three yards and a cloud of dust. Get real coach. We shootin rockets to da moon. High tops . Cmon pops. Change the guard. Them people ain't done nothing to me said Ali. Da Nang ain't my thang. He was the greatest. Still is. The Haight was great. Oh yeah Kent STATE. 1968. Open the gate to the house of the rising sun. Joplin. And Jimmy. Marvin and Tammy. The Doors and Hair. ****** in the air What rhymes with Agent Orange...... Nothing.

Continue reading...

I Grew Up on Country Music When Rock and Roll was king My friends all liked the Beatles But, that was not my thing I liked to hear the fiddle To hear the joy burst from the strings I Grew Up on Country Music When Rock and Roll was king I remember me and Grandad Listening to the radio We would listen to the Opry While my friends went to the show Johnny Cash, The Gatlins, Grandpa Jones, and Old Hank Snow I was raised on country music I just wanted you to know I loved the feeling I would get when I heard a country tune Singing about trucks and girls And a golden Tennessee Moon Charlie Daniels, Jimmy Dean The Judds, and Roger Miller Willie, Waylon, Tom T. Hall and Jerry Lee...the Killer I Grew Up on Country Music When Rock and Roll was king My friends all liked the Beatles But, that was not my thing I liked to hear the fiddle To hear the joy burst from the strings I Grew Up on Country Music When Rock and Roll was king Country lost it's western and Rock it lost it's roll But, still old country music Those tunes just made me whole I learned all of the lyrics And I love to hear them sing I grew up on Country Music When Rock and Roll was King I Grew Up on Country Music When Rock and Roll was king My friends all liked the Beatles But, that was not my thing I liked to hear the fiddle To hear the joy burst from the strings I Grew Up on Country Music When Rock and Roll was king

0

Sep 17, 2013

Sep 17, 2013 at 1:34 PM UTC

I Grew Up On Country Music

I Grew Up on Country Music When Rock and Roll was king My friends all liked the Beatles But, that was not my thing I liked to hear the fiddle To hear the joy burst from the strings I Grew Up on Country Music When Rock and Roll was king I remember me and Grandad Listening to the radio We would listen to the Opry While my friends went to the show Johnny Cash, The Gatlins, Grandpa Jones, and Old Hank Snow I was raised on country music I just wanted you to know I loved the feeling I would get when I heard a country tune Singing about trucks and girls And a golden Tennessee Moon Charlie Daniels, Jimmy Dean The Judds, and Roger Miller Willie, Waylon, Tom T. Hall and Jerry Lee...the Killer I Grew Up on Country Music When Rock and Roll was king My friends all liked the Beatles But, that was not my thing I liked to hear the fiddle To hear the joy burst from the strings I Grew Up on Country Music When Rock and Roll was king Country lost it's western and Rock it lost it's roll But, still old country music Those tunes just made me whole I learned all of the lyrics And I love to hear them sing I grew up on Country Music When Rock and Roll was King I Grew Up on Country Music When Rock and Roll was king My friends all liked the Beatles But, that was not my thing I liked to hear the fiddle To hear the joy burst from the strings I Grew Up on Country Music When Rock and Roll was king

Continue reading...

The farthest man made object in space, Voyager 1, is over 20 billion km away from Earth. On board is a phonograph record, brilliant gold, containing sounds and images of what life is like on earth, A message to whoever is able to listen, a literal shot in the dark. On it is an inscription that is perhaps the most beautiful sentence I have ever read TO THE MAKERS OF MUSIC ALL TIMES ALL WORLDS a time capsule, a gift, from us To anywhere and everywhere A hundred years from now or a thousand Our belief that no matter what time Or world you belong to, melody and harmony and rhythm, can bring us together, can communicate. On the cover Are figures, explaining how to operate this record Hieroglyphics from what by then Would be ancient history Messages in binary, the 1s and 0s Our position in the universe marked by our distances from gigantic pulsars, the star map to our home, the creators of this message There's beauty in this marriage of math and art Code and music As a way to communicate with the universe. Some of the images on the record are the most beautifully simple ones, Of us, humans, drinking and eating, laughing, of animals, nature, food and architecture. Then there are images of our scientific observations, mathematical calculations, our discoveries, Like a child showing off Look, look what I can do! Black and white and in colour, Pictures, proof that we, indeed have lived and achieved. The music, classical, our very best from Bach and Mozart to Blind Willie Johnson's Dark was the Night. But all of this can only matter, can come to fruition if someone exists to receive it, and is evolved enough to comprehend what it means. But that's the thing, everybody knows, That's there's a slim chance of this record ever being heard, and it's much more possible that the Voyager will simply end up as floating debris in the cosmos, but it doesn't matter! We just want someone to know that there was a species of bipedal, intelligent animals on this blue planet, no different than finding graffiti in alleys that read I WAS HERE. WE WERE HERE, WE EXISTED. And it's all about that hope, the hope that someone will see us, our pictures, listen to our languages, our greetings, our music, and remember us, even after we're long gone. Or perhaps we will one day be interstellar space faring people as well, following the path of the Voyager, doing what we do best, Explore.

0

Jan 2, 2016

Jan 2, 2016 at 9:32 AM UTC

The farthest man made object in space, Voyager 1, is over 20 billion km away from Earth. On board is a phonograph record, brilliant gold, containing sounds and images of what life is like on earth, A message to whoever is able to listen, a literal shot in the dark. On it is an inscription that is perhaps the most beautiful sentence I have ever read TO THE MAKERS OF MUSIC ALL TIMES ALL WORLDS a time capsule, a gift, from us To anywhere and everywhere A hundred years from now or a thousand Our belief that no matter what time Or world you belong to, melody and harmony and rhythm, can bring us together, can communicate. On the cover Are figures, explaining how to operate this record Hieroglyphics from what by then Would be ancient history Messages in binary, the 1s and 0s Our position in the universe marked by our distances from gigantic pulsars, the star map to our home, the creators of this message There's beauty in this marriage of math and art Code and music As a way to communicate with the universe. Some of the images on the record are the most beautifully simple ones, Of us, humans, drinking and eating, laughing, of animals, nature, food and architecture. Then there are images of our scientific observations, mathematical calculations, our discoveries, Like a child showing off Look, look what I can do! Black and white and in colour, Pictures, proof that we, indeed have lived and achieved. The music, classical, our very best from Bach and Mozart to Blind Willie Johnson's Dark was the Night. But all of this can only matter, can come to fruition if someone exists to receive it, and is evolved enough to comprehend what it means. But that's the thing, everybody knows, That's there's a slim chance of this record ever being heard, and it's much more possible that the Voyager will simply end up as floating debris in the cosmos, but it doesn't matter! We just want someone to know that there was a species of bipedal, intelligent animals on this blue planet, no different than finding graffiti in alleys that read I WAS HERE. WE WERE HERE, WE EXISTED. And it's all about that hope, the hope that someone will see us, our pictures, listen to our languages, our greetings, our music, and remember us, even after we're long gone. Or perhaps we will one day be interstellar space faring people as well, following the path of the Voyager, doing what we do best, Explore.

Continue reading...

palace of lights caved blooms through the body like reality pitted against a comic book not knowing where life came from not knowing how it will end food tubes or road **** is creation substance-less? 24 carat nonsense, or pure wisdom? perhaps bad therapy for lab animals and store front dummies monkeys shudder at needles unless candied with a heroine syringe chemistry a science of belligerence and euphoria pleasure before despair and than a sea of pain and a **** impaling her the lushly contoured female a frictionless exchange of power for ******* ecstatic death as her eyes bob and flutter like cascading echo's my birth tarot card **** of swords her favorite when I push through her like blood bubble gum b l o o d b u b b a b u b b le g u m a **** cathedral of lights flicker spit guttural diphthong like a vipers castanets uterine fire bursts like an appendix bomb her **** a zoo c u n t z o o i am peanuts worms and hay her face a mask to hide behind breath play sibilant **** specter or nightmares shadows and villains aphrodiac gagged and drugged hot ***** bound a big eyed **** s l u t l o v e *** cannibals turn me on her ****** a goddess a Russian roulette for shtttty kisses sploosh she shot me cuckoo spit k o cuck k o k o o twizzles willie milk in a drowning moss draped moon orifice under a shattered zodiac wrapped in tentacles of night she turns me on

0

Feb 9, 2019

Feb 9, 2019 at 1:44 PM UTC

She Turns Me On...Cunt Zoo Manga

palace of lights caved blooms through the body like reality pitted against a comic book not knowing where life came from not knowing how it will end food tubes or road **** is creation substance-less? 24 carat nonsense, or pure wisdom? perhaps bad therapy for lab animals and store front dummies monkeys shudder at needles unless candied with a heroine syringe chemistry a science of belligerence and euphoria pleasure before despair and than a sea of pain and a **** impaling her the lushly contoured female a frictionless exchange of power for ******* ecstatic death as her eyes bob and flutter like cascading echo's my birth tarot card **** of swords her favorite when I push through her like blood bubble gum b l o o d b u b b a b u b b le g u m a **** cathedral of lights flicker spit guttural diphthong like a vipers castanets uterine fire bursts like an appendix bomb her **** a zoo c u n t z o o i am peanuts worms and hay her face a mask to hide behind breath play sibilant **** specter or nightmares shadows and villains aphrodiac gagged and drugged hot ***** bound a big eyed **** s l u t l o v e *** cannibals turn me on her ****** a goddess a Russian roulette for shtttty kisses sploosh she shot me cuckoo spit k o cuck k o k o o twizzles willie milk in a drowning moss draped moon orifice under a shattered zodiac wrapped in tentacles of night she turns me on

Continue reading...

A jogging man from Bude was most incredibly rude being greatly endowed but imprudenly proud he did something silly he trod on his willie now he's never about in the **** TOBIAS

0

Apr 5, 2018

Apr 5, 2018 at 11:18 AM UTC

CORNISH CALAMITY

A jogging man from Bude was most incredibly rude being greatly endowed but imprudenly proud he did something silly he trod on his willie now he's never about in the **** TOBIAS

Continue reading...

Holy Monday walking with my dog in the burbs I spied a palm frond laying by the curb still moist and pliant fresh to touch what blasphemer discarded this icon beloved so much? one day removed from Palm Sunday glory does the heathen who disposed of it know this precious leaf’s story? it was then I recalled its reason for being its a carpet for a King’s footsteps its not for keeping so there it lay where it should be as my dog and I resumed our closer walk with Thee Music Selection: Willie Nelson Just a Closer Walk With Thee Oakland 4/2/12 jbm

0

Mar 21, 2013

Mar 21, 2013 at 9:21 PM UTC

james-bradley-mccallum

Holy Monday walking with my dog in the burbs I spied a palm frond laying by the curb still moist and pliant fresh to touch what blasphemer discarded this icon beloved so much? one day removed from Palm Sunday glory does the heathen who disposed of it know this precious leaf’s story? it was then I recalled its reason for being its a carpet for a King’s footsteps its not for keeping so there it lay where it should be as my dog and I resumed our closer walk with Thee Music Selection: Willie Nelson Just a Closer Walk With Thee Oakland 4/2/12 jbm

Continue reading...

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And auld lang syne? For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet, For auld lang syne. And surely ye’ll be your pint-stowp, And surely I’ll be mine! And we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet, For auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet, For auld lang syne. We twa hae run about the braes, And pu’d the gowans fine; But we’ve wandered mony a weary fit Sin’ auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet, For auld lang syne. We twa hae paidled i’ the burn, Frae morning sun till dine; But seas between us braid hae roared Sin’ auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet, For auld lang syne. And there’s a hand, my trusty fiere, And gie’s a hand o’ thine! And we’ll tak a right guid-willie waught For auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet, For auld lang syne.

0

4k

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And auld lang syne? For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet, For auld lang syne. And surely ye’ll be your pint-stowp, And surely I’ll be mine! And we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet, For auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet, For auld lang syne. We twa hae run about the braes, And pu’d the gowans fine; But we’ve wandered mony a weary fit Sin’ auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet, For auld lang syne. We twa hae paidled i’ the burn, Frae morning sun till dine; But seas between us braid hae roared Sin’ auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet, For auld lang syne. And there’s a hand, my trusty fiere, And gie’s a hand o’ thine! And we’ll tak a right guid-willie waught For auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet, For auld lang syne.

Continue reading...

…These men are worth your tears: You are not worth their merriment. -Wilfred Owen, “Apologia Pro Poemate Meo” When that loudmouth on the wireless machine Alludes to Western Civilization What does he mean? Paradise Lost? Probably not Nor Saint Paul speaking on the Field of Mars The Kalevala, Hagia Sophia With its pendentives lifting up our prayers Horatius fighting to defend his bridge And Wilfred Owen dying bravely on his Lord Tennyson and Idylls of the King Chapultepec, Henry V, Becket The paratroops at Arnhem, Saint Thomas More, His King’s loyal servant, but God’s first The Stray Dog poets of Saint Petersburg The brave last stand of Roland at Roncesvalles Lewis and Tolkien and glasses of beer Montcalm and Wolfe on the Plains of Abraham Hildegard von Bingen, Siegfried and the Rhine Magna Carta, HMS Hood, the Thames The Grove of Daphne, “The Old Rugged Cross” Beatrix Potter and her little pet rabbit El Cid, Anne Frank, John Keats, Saint Benedict “I Have a Dream,” Dostoyevsky, and Greene Viktor Frankl, Dag Hammarkskjold, and Proust Good Chaucer’s naughty pilgrims telling tales The Gettysburg Address, Willie and Joe Stern Saint Augustine of North Africa Wodehouse writing a jolly bit of fun Saint Corbinian and Bavaria The ancient glories of Byzantium Pius XII contra the bombs and lies The 602nd TD Battalion Saint Joan, the Prado, and Robert Frost And far, far more. When that loudmouth on the wireless machine Alludes to Western Civilization What does he mean?

0

Nov 4, 2018

Nov 4, 2018 at 4:06 PM UTC

Western Civilization and Radio Static

…These men are worth your tears: You are not worth their merriment. -Wilfred Owen, “Apologia Pro Poemate Meo” When that loudmouth on the wireless machine Alludes to Western Civilization What does he mean? Paradise Lost? Probably not Nor Saint Paul speaking on the Field of Mars The Kalevala, Hagia Sophia With its pendentives lifting up our prayers Horatius fighting to defend his bridge And Wilfred Owen dying bravely on his Lord Tennyson and Idylls of the King Chapultepec, Henry V, Becket The paratroops at Arnhem, Saint Thomas More, His King’s loyal servant, but God’s first The Stray Dog poets of Saint Petersburg The brave last stand of Roland at Roncesvalles Lewis and Tolkien and glasses of beer Montcalm and Wolfe on the Plains of Abraham Hildegard von Bingen, Siegfried and the Rhine Magna Carta, HMS Hood, the Thames The Grove of Daphne, “The Old Rugged Cross” Beatrix Potter and her little pet rabbit El Cid, Anne Frank, John Keats, Saint Benedict “I Have a Dream,” Dostoyevsky, and Greene Viktor Frankl, Dag Hammarkskjold, and Proust Good Chaucer’s naughty pilgrims telling tales The Gettysburg Address, Willie and Joe Stern Saint Augustine of North Africa Wodehouse writing a jolly bit of fun Saint Corbinian and Bavaria The ancient glories of Byzantium Pius XII contra the bombs and lies The 602nd TD Battalion Saint Joan, the Prado, and Robert Frost And far, far more. When that loudmouth on the wireless machine Alludes to Western Civilization What does he mean?

Continue reading...

Beat the rhythm empty hand, Iron cast chains rattles command. Ol' Boss Hogg, baton raised Self righteous fool has need of praise. In order that he gain acclaim, thinks with hate, acts with shame. Human beings, commodity, ships hold stacked with those once free. Bodies piled upon high you will not see the strong ones die. Scars embedded on their backs chained and shackled to the racks. We deal in branded breathing stock, Unload black vassal from our docks. Beat the rhythm empty hands. Iron cast chains in far off lands. We keep our skivvy, wired hair blacks. We work them hard, we score their backs. They do for us, they work the field. Grow the cotton, pick the yield. Keep the body, take the mind. Labour whatever's left behind. And if demeanour does ever flinch. We'll introduce you Willie Lynch. Beat the rhythm. Empty hands Iron cast chains. Unfair demands. Beat the rhythm, shackled feet. We take their worst but can't be beat.

0

Jul 19, 2015

Jul 19, 2015 at 6:20 PM UTC

christopher-k-bayliss

Dixieland Chant

Beat the rhythm empty hand, Iron cast chains rattles command. Ol' Boss Hogg, baton raised Self righteous fool has need of praise. In order that he gain acclaim, thinks with hate, acts with shame. Human beings, commodity, ships hold stacked with those once free. Bodies piled upon high you will not see the strong ones die. Scars embedded on their backs chained and shackled to the racks. We deal in branded breathing stock, Unload black vassal from our docks. Beat the rhythm empty hands. Iron cast chains in far off lands. We keep our skivvy, wired hair blacks. We work them hard, we score their backs. They do for us, they work the field. Grow the cotton, pick the yield. Keep the body, take the mind. Labour whatever's left behind. And if demeanour does ever flinch. We'll introduce you Willie Lynch. Beat the rhythm. Empty hands Iron cast chains. Unfair demands. Beat the rhythm, shackled feet. We take their worst but can't be beat.

Continue reading...

Turkey hunting with his pappy The dogs let loose into the marsh Birds flew out, and guns went off The end result was rather harsh Willie Joe jumped first at nothing Shot at turkeys in the air First shot missed, but hit a target He'd shot Jim Joseph in the ear Time to call the Country Preacher A service needed to be done The end result was up to Jesus At the wrong end of a country gun Jolene was all set for college Had a baby on the way One quick fling in the hay with Joseph There was nothing left for her to say Joseph stood and did deny it Said that Jolene told a lie Jolene's daddy got his shotgun And with no wedding, Joseph'd die Time to call the Country Preacher A service needed to be done The end result was up to Jesus At the wrong end of a country gun The wedding went off without trouble Both families were there in force Jolene's dad had brought his shotgun The best man was old Joseph's horse The moonshine flowed like holy water There was no jar that wasn't filled And through it all, poor pregnant Jolene Wondered who would end up killed Time to call the Country Preacher A service needed to be done The end result was up to Jesus At the wrong end of a country gun The preacher preached and people listened Amened here and there throughout A few well placed hallelujahs Praise the lord was heard no doubt All dressed in black with eyes just shining He couldn't have done smiled more For who in town knew that the preacher Owned the gun and ammo store? Time to call the Country Preacher A service needed to be done The end result was up to Jesus And the preacher would refill the gun.

0

Oct 27, 2012

Oct 27, 2012 at 10:22 PM UTC

country preacher

Turkey hunting with his pappy The dogs let loose into the marsh Birds flew out, and guns went off The end result was rather harsh Willie Joe jumped first at nothing Shot at turkeys in the air First shot missed, but hit a target He'd shot Jim Joseph in the ear Time to call the Country Preacher A service needed to be done The end result was up to Jesus At the wrong end of a country gun Jolene was all set for college Had a baby on the way One quick fling in the hay with Joseph There was nothing left for her to say Joseph stood and did deny it Said that Jolene told a lie Jolene's daddy got his shotgun And with no wedding, Joseph'd die Time to call the Country Preacher A service needed to be done The end result was up to Jesus At the wrong end of a country gun The wedding went off without trouble Both families were there in force Jolene's dad had brought his shotgun The best man was old Joseph's horse The moonshine flowed like holy water There was no jar that wasn't filled And through it all, poor pregnant Jolene Wondered who would end up killed Time to call the Country Preacher A service needed to be done The end result was up to Jesus At the wrong end of a country gun The preacher preached and people listened Amened here and there throughout A few well placed hallelujahs Praise the lord was heard no doubt All dressed in black with eyes just shining He couldn't have done smiled more For who in town knew that the preacher Owned the gun and ammo store? Time to call the Country Preacher A service needed to be done The end result was up to Jesus And the preacher would refill the gun.

Continue reading...

"May I introduce to YOU! " Wee Willie Frog of Mine. JUST because you're Green, You think you're "SO-FINE" ! Sittin with your nose STUCK-UP in the air, Jumpin here and Jumpin There!___ . Just WAITIN for the chance to "SNAP-OUT" your Tongue ,, Even as we sit here listening to the RIPPITING Song you've sung ! NO longer do they call you the Polly *** OR even the Tadpole swimmin under the Log. NOW _You're the GREAT BULL FROG of all time, Wee Willie Frog of Mine. Just because you're Green, YOU think You're So Fine ! From Lilly Pad to Lilly Pad You jump so Neat, Landing Perfectly on all Four feet. Looking around for Dinner to come Your WAY, Croakin OUT your songs all the day . Jumpin here and Jumpin there ! Sittin with Your Nose stuck UP in the air ! ALL can hear YOU in the night, Bellowing out your Songs with All your might. Wee Willie Frog of Mine, Just because You're Green,, You think you"re so fine ! The LORD Made You my favorite Pet, But I haven't seen you Jump in my Pocket YET ! MAYBE, JUST Maybe with some practice YOU'LL learn ALL the tricks, even the one with yellow Building Bricks.... " I Really Like It, That when I Call, * YOU Call RIGHT-BACK", Could it be , You want to see what's in my sack ? A SNACK for You is what I've brought, *SOME "Y U M M Y - B U G S * , is what I caught. "just for you ! ! Yes you're GREEN , yes You're SO FINE! ! "WEE WILLIE FROG OF MINE" "RIBBITT"

0

Sep 29, 2010

Sep 29, 2010 at 3:48 AM UTC

* " WEE WILLIE FROG OF MINE " (#27)

"May I introduce to YOU! " Wee Willie Frog of Mine. JUST because you're Green, You think you're "SO-FINE" ! Sittin with your nose STUCK-UP in the air, Jumpin here and Jumpin There!___ . Just WAITIN for the chance to "SNAP-OUT" your Tongue ,, Even as we sit here listening to the RIPPITING Song you've sung ! NO longer do they call you the Polly *** OR even the Tadpole swimmin under the Log. NOW _You're the GREAT BULL FROG of all time, Wee Willie Frog of Mine. Just because you're Green, YOU think You're So Fine ! From Lilly Pad to Lilly Pad You jump so Neat, Landing Perfectly on all Four feet. Looking around for Dinner to come Your WAY, Croakin OUT your songs all the day . Jumpin here and Jumpin there ! Sittin with Your Nose stuck UP in the air ! ALL can hear YOU in the night, Bellowing out your Songs with All your might. Wee Willie Frog of Mine, Just because You're Green,, You think you"re so fine ! The LORD Made You my favorite Pet, But I haven't seen you Jump in my Pocket YET ! MAYBE, JUST Maybe with some practice YOU'LL learn ALL the tricks, even the one with yellow Building Bricks.... " I Really Like It, That when I Call, * YOU Call RIGHT-BACK", Could it be , You want to see what's in my sack ? A SNACK for You is what I've brought, *SOME "Y U M M Y - B U G S * , is what I caught. "just for you ! ! Yes you're GREEN , yes You're SO FINE! ! "WEE WILLIE FROG OF MINE" "RIBBITT"

Continue reading...

Names are funny. Have you ever wondered what your name would be if your parents didn't name you? I'm one of the lucky few that know. If my parents didn't name me, my name would be Timothy. You see, apparently, when two people love each other, Mommy cheats on Donny with daddy and all three demonize the baby. Unfortunately, abortion isn't an option. Poor Donny believes his little Johnson made a tiny Willie but really it's Mike's Rick. The trick wasn't revealed until Donny signed the birth certificate. Obviously, Karen's husband abandoned their family. Mike ripped his love from her and gave it to Dominique. Karen, twice-scorned, mid-divorce, postpartum, decides a shelter isn't suitable for a nameless infant. At this point, it's a little too late for abortion. Nowhere to go, knowing she can't stay, Adoption became the practical option. The noxious auction caused a nauseous reaction to her conscious. Karen picked the option, least pompus, with the most promise. An intuitively honest Christian was brought to her room so she could sign the synopsis. As she's reviewing the terms of this blood oath, she glances at both of the parents cradling her second baby boy. They turn and ask "What is his name?" "I don't know. I thought he was going to be a she so I had the name Sade." "That's ok, we have a perfect name in mind. Timothy."

0

Feb 26, 2017

Feb 26, 2017 at 5:26 PM UTC

Blood is Thicker

Names are funny. Have you ever wondered what your name would be if your parents didn't name you? I'm one of the lucky few that know. If my parents didn't name me, my name would be Timothy. You see, apparently, when two people love each other, Mommy cheats on Donny with daddy and all three demonize the baby. Unfortunately, abortion isn't an option. Poor Donny believes his little Johnson made a tiny Willie but really it's Mike's Rick. The trick wasn't revealed until Donny signed the birth certificate. Obviously, Karen's husband abandoned their family. Mike ripped his love from her and gave it to Dominique. Karen, twice-scorned, mid-divorce, postpartum, decides a shelter isn't suitable for a nameless infant. At this point, it's a little too late for abortion. Nowhere to go, knowing she can't stay, Adoption became the practical option. The noxious auction caused a nauseous reaction to her conscious. Karen picked the option, least pompus, with the most promise. An intuitively honest Christian was brought to her room so she could sign the synopsis. As she's reviewing the terms of this blood oath, she glances at both of the parents cradling her second baby boy. They turn and ask "What is his name?" "I don't know. I thought he was going to be a she so I had the name Sade." "That's ok, we have a perfect name in mind. Timothy."

Continue reading...

Once I looked to the Bard for words profound; ageless, his wisdom ran unabated. Yet Hamlet is now ideologically unsound, “the slings and arrows” historically Iocated. I wept for the creature of Frankenstein, spurned by his master, forced to roam the Earth. But I’d been subjectively positioned in a paradigm by Mary’s anxiety about childbirth. I read Balzac, Hardy and Henry James describing “worlds” which seemed quite sensible. Now Eagleton’s exposed their bourgeois games I find them morally reprehensible. I dreamt of being Robinson Crusoe or proud, fierce Hawkeye in his buckskins dressed, but Fenimore and Defoe have to go, they’re culturally encoded and empirically obsessed. Inspired by Guinness, did James Joyce sit down to see what magic flowed when he was ****** The stream of Ulysses floats Bloom-about-town dreamthinkingnever : “I’mamodernist”. I’d gladly give Woolf a Room of Her Own and be one of the boys with Hemingway, but sensitive guys leave their bulls alone say de Beauvoir and Luce Irigaray. No more fun with Wordsworth being daffodilly, no simple pleasure reading Mickey Mouse; Steamboat Willie can’t help but look silly dissected by Foucault and Levi-Strauss. The Bible shows intertextuality says the two Jacques, Lacan and Derrida. Judas, a construct of bisexuality? The **** fixations of Herod are? It’s got so bad I deconstruct a holiday brochure. I can’t even **** without Roland Barthes and Ferdinand de Saussure.

0

Feb 25, 2015

Feb 25, 2015 at 12:06 AM UTC

LAMENT FOR LOST LITERARY COMFORT

Once I looked to the Bard for words profound; ageless, his wisdom ran unabated. Yet Hamlet is now ideologically unsound, “the slings and arrows” historically Iocated. I wept for the creature of Frankenstein, spurned by his master, forced to roam the Earth. But I’d been subjectively positioned in a paradigm by Mary’s anxiety about childbirth. I read Balzac, Hardy and Henry James describing “worlds” which seemed quite sensible. Now Eagleton’s exposed their bourgeois games I find them morally reprehensible. I dreamt of being Robinson Crusoe or proud, fierce Hawkeye in his buckskins dressed, but Fenimore and Defoe have to go, they’re culturally encoded and empirically obsessed. Inspired by Guinness, did James Joyce sit down to see what magic flowed when he was ****** The stream of Ulysses floats Bloom-about-town dreamthinkingnever : “I’mamodernist”. I’d gladly give Woolf a Room of Her Own and be one of the boys with Hemingway, but sensitive guys leave their bulls alone say de Beauvoir and Luce Irigaray. No more fun with Wordsworth being daffodilly, no simple pleasure reading Mickey Mouse; Steamboat Willie can’t help but look silly dissected by Foucault and Levi-Strauss. The Bible shows intertextuality says the two Jacques, Lacan and Derrida. Judas, a construct of bisexuality? The **** fixations of Herod are? It’s got so bad I deconstruct a holiday brochure. I can’t even **** without Roland Barthes and Ferdinand de Saussure.

Continue reading...

Visitors pass from empty bed to empty bed, like Royals, silently soaking up the dread atmosphere with remote respect. Examining clipboard histories, rehearsing their medical soaps. Volunteers answer questions, the front line troops in trying to raise our war dead back to life. Have a care John Willie was not just a private, not a number, nor a diagnosis. He was a person and a brave soldier. Old photos frame soldiers' pains, they're wearing posterity masks, hiding feelings and memories that lurch back again and again.

0

Jan 16, 2016

Jan 16, 2016 at 10:35 AM UTC

Stamford Hospital Dunham Massey

Visitors pass from empty bed to empty bed, like Royals, silently soaking up the dread atmosphere with remote respect. Examining clipboard histories, rehearsing their medical soaps. Volunteers answer questions, the front line troops in trying to raise our war dead back to life. Have a care John Willie was not just a private, not a number, nor a diagnosis. He was a person and a brave soldier. Old photos frame soldiers' pains, they're wearing posterity masks, hiding feelings and memories that lurch back again and again.

Continue reading...

"He ought to be home," said the old man, "without there's something amiss. He only went to the Two-mile — he ought to be back by this. He would ride the Reckless filly, he would have his wilful way; And, here, he's not back at sundown — and what will his mother say? "He was always his mother's idol, since ever his father died; And there isn't a horse on the station that he isn't game to ride. But that Reckless mare is vicious, and if once she gets away He hasn't got strength to hold her — and what will his mother say?" The old man walked to the sliprail, and peered up the dark'ning track, And looked and longed for the rider that would never more come back; And the mother came and clutched him, with sudden, spasmodic fright: "What has become of my Willie? Why isn't he home tonight?" Away in the gloomy ranges, at the foot of an ironbark, The bonnie, winsome laddie was lying stiff and stark; For the Reckless mare had smashed him against a leaning limb, And his comely face was battered, and his merry eyes were dim. And the thoroughbred chestnut filly, the saddle beneath her flanks, Was away like fire through the ranges to join the wild mob's ranks; And a broken-hearted woman and an old man worn and grey Were searching all night in the ranges till the sunrise brought the day. And the mother kept feebly calling, with a hope that would not die, "Willie! where are you, Willie?" But how can the dead reply; And hope died out with the daylight, and the darkness brought despair, God pity the stricken mother, and answer the widow's prayer! Though far and wide they sought him, they found not where he fell; For the ranges held him precious, and guarded their treasure well. The wattle blooms above him, and the bluebells blow close by, And the brown bees buzz the secret, and the wild birds sing reply. But the mother pined and faded, and cried, and took no rest, And rode each day to the ranges on her hopeless, weary quest. Seeking her loved one ever, she faded and pined away, But with strength of her great affection she still sought every day. "I know that sooner or later I shall find my boy," she said. But she came not home one evening, and they found her lying dead. And stamped on the poor pale features, as the spirit homeward pass'd, Was an angel smile of gladness — she had found the boy at last.

0

2.8k

A B 'Banjo' Paterson

"He ought to be home," said the old man, "without there's something amiss. He only went to the Two-mile — he ought to be back by this. He would ride the Reckless filly, he would have his wilful way; And, here, he's not back at sundown — and what will his mother say? "He was always his mother's idol, since ever his father died; And there isn't a horse on the station that he isn't game to ride. But that Reckless mare is vicious, and if once she gets away He hasn't got strength to hold her — and what will his mother say?" The old man walked to the sliprail, and peered up the dark'ning track, And looked and longed for the rider that would never more come back; And the mother came and clutched him, with sudden, spasmodic fright: "What has become of my Willie? Why isn't he home tonight?" Away in the gloomy ranges, at the foot of an ironbark, The bonnie, winsome laddie was lying stiff and stark; For the Reckless mare had smashed him against a leaning limb, And his comely face was battered, and his merry eyes were dim. And the thoroughbred chestnut filly, the saddle beneath her flanks, Was away like fire through the ranges to join the wild mob's ranks; And a broken-hearted woman and an old man worn and grey Were searching all night in the ranges till the sunrise brought the day. And the mother kept feebly calling, with a hope that would not die, "Willie! where are you, Willie?" But how can the dead reply; And hope died out with the daylight, and the darkness brought despair, God pity the stricken mother, and answer the widow's prayer! Though far and wide they sought him, they found not where he fell; For the ranges held him precious, and guarded their treasure well. The wattle blooms above him, and the bluebells blow close by, And the brown bees buzz the secret, and the wild birds sing reply. But the mother pined and faded, and cried, and took no rest, And rode each day to the ranges on her hopeless, weary quest. Seeking her loved one ever, she faded and pined away, But with strength of her great affection she still sought every day. "I know that sooner or later I shall find my boy," she said. But she came not home one evening, and they found her lying dead. And stamped on the poor pale features, as the spirit homeward pass'd, Was an angel smile of gladness — she had found the boy at last.

Continue reading...

Come see black night. Black night proposes more Than madness in a prophet's dream, sets free A lean uncertainty, sweet taste of all We dare not see. My sweet Kathryn, you were older than me, Knew all the black mountains--Olson, Creely, Duncan, Morley, Dorn... While I was learning Levertov. Your dark, unshaven armpits Drove me wild. I understood the honor Of that crazy night--how could feather leave you-- our dance at the outlaw bar, Your sapphic gaze bemused by coal miners, In cowboy boots, as the band played Haggard, Coe, Willie, Waylon, Johnny Cash, Kristofferson & Emmy Lou. I wouldn't trade it for a date With Miss Brazil, or Russia as it were-- Some people say you made that up, Changed heritage and grew the hair to seem more European. I couldn't care Less. A great dark mystery I loved Now thirty-seven years ago with me Just old enough to drink and you come down From Bingington, I loved the way you said That frozen town, where your husband lingered, Teaching English to native speakers. I know you still loved him. I think you loved Me, but needed a woman's touch the same As I. Strange how a night can be recalled More than years, one drunken naked sunrise, Pillow talk instead of class. I ditched the speech At PBK, can't remember what they Fed us, coming for you in a straight shift Chevy pickup, red as the night was black.

0

Oct 13, 2018

Oct 13, 2018 at 8:38 PM UTC

Come see black night. Black night proposes more Than madness in a prophet's dream, sets free A lean uncertainty, sweet taste of all We dare not see. My sweet Kathryn, you were older than me, Knew all the black mountains--Olson, Creely, Duncan, Morley, Dorn... While I was learning Levertov. Your dark, unshaven armpits Drove me wild. I understood the honor Of that crazy night--how could feather leave you-- our dance at the outlaw bar, Your sapphic gaze bemused by coal miners, In cowboy boots, as the band played Haggard, Coe, Willie, Waylon, Johnny Cash, Kristofferson & Emmy Lou. I wouldn't trade it for a date With Miss Brazil, or Russia as it were-- Some people say you made that up, Changed heritage and grew the hair to seem more European. I couldn't care Less. A great dark mystery I loved Now thirty-seven years ago with me Just old enough to drink and you come down From Bingington, I loved the way you said That frozen town, where your husband lingered, Teaching English to native speakers. I know you still loved him. I think you loved Me, but needed a woman's touch the same As I. Strange how a night can be recalled More than years, one drunken naked sunrise, Pillow talk instead of class. I ditched the speech At PBK, can't remember what they Fed us, coming for you in a straight shift Chevy pickup, red as the night was black.

Continue reading...

Today I have followed the strange Damselfly, Down to all ponds on my father’s marshland, Not to live the blissful Waldensianism like Thoreau, But to come down unto discovery of wonders Readily displayed in the ****** manners of the damselfly Sub-dragonfly that was conveniently called damselfly, It is dark and white in pearly texture, Like the Palmyrene Queen dear Zenobia, Damselfly move as a pair on every time A female and a male like a musical duet, The Female has a lock on the ****** As the males does; tight lock on the sheath, Keeping safe its ***** away from robbers, The female damselfly has key to unlock The cryptic lock system on the ***** sheath Of the garlanded male damsel fly, The male damselfly too has the key That can only unlock the cryptic lock system, On the ****** of the female damselfly, Their lock and key functions within, The specific species of the damselflies, All this evolved to block out the thieves The predating dragonflies of other species, Intending to steal *** with the damselfly With no other reason but to darwinize the damselfly, Willie Topaz Mcgonall is the damselfly with Male lock Billie Burroughs ghost is a dragonfly minus any key African poetry is the damselflies with female poetic lock Both have keys on each other’s custody of culture.

0

Sep 24, 2014

Sep 24, 2014 at 5:33 AM UTC

alexander-k-opicho

DAMSEL POETRY FLY

Today I have followed the strange Damselfly, Down to all ponds on my father’s marshland, Not to live the blissful Waldensianism like Thoreau, But to come down unto discovery of wonders Readily displayed in the ****** manners of the damselfly Sub-dragonfly that was conveniently called damselfly, It is dark and white in pearly texture, Like the Palmyrene Queen dear Zenobia, Damselfly move as a pair on every time A female and a male like a musical duet, The Female has a lock on the ****** As the males does; tight lock on the sheath, Keeping safe its ***** away from robbers, The female damselfly has key to unlock The cryptic lock system on the ***** sheath Of the garlanded male damsel fly, The male damselfly too has the key That can only unlock the cryptic lock system, On the ****** of the female damselfly, Their lock and key functions within, The specific species of the damselflies, All this evolved to block out the thieves The predating dragonflies of other species, Intending to steal *** with the damselfly With no other reason but to darwinize the damselfly, Willie Topaz Mcgonall is the damselfly with Male lock Billie Burroughs ghost is a dragonfly minus any key African poetry is the damselflies with female poetic lock Both have keys on each other’s custody of culture.

Continue reading...

Guida & Me drove up to the ***** D In my whip there was co-pilot Bryx and Captain Sleezy E We rolled up to my yerp bro Brad D's Next were greeted by Dino whos drinking a 40 Labatt Blue bonging and ponging like were competing for beer drinking glory Then its onto asweome fries, saganaki, and telling funny stories That night was crazy and a definite blast Woke up the next day to see Dino's Dad's spot and gasp! Walk into the kitchen to see Grandma Rontondo cooking homemade marinara Smelling fresher than the lobby inside of a Panera Next it's downstaris to the "Thunderdome," mindblow is all I can tell ya! The food was amazing with Uncle D on the grill Sammy the Bull said "Plastic Cups!" so that was the deal Party was wild, popping bottles in other words unreal Zoo was great, conductor swag was for real Tigers beat the Twins, and that night it was freestyling, speeches, and Labatts on chill Like the words of Willie Nelson the ***** D stays on my mind I'll never forget that trip like my brain is a VCR and has the element of rewind!

0

Sep 19, 2011

Sep 19, 2011 at 7:00 PM UTC

My First Trip To The ***** D

Guida & Me drove up to the ***** D In my whip there was co-pilot Bryx and Captain Sleezy E We rolled up to my yerp bro Brad D's Next were greeted by Dino whos drinking a 40 Labatt Blue bonging and ponging like were competing for beer drinking glory Then its onto asweome fries, saganaki, and telling funny stories That night was crazy and a definite blast Woke up the next day to see Dino's Dad's spot and gasp! Walk into the kitchen to see Grandma Rontondo cooking homemade marinara Smelling fresher than the lobby inside of a Panera Next it's downstaris to the "Thunderdome," mindblow is all I can tell ya! The food was amazing with Uncle D on the grill Sammy the Bull said "Plastic Cups!" so that was the deal Party was wild, popping bottles in other words unreal Zoo was great, conductor swag was for real Tigers beat the Twins, and that night it was freestyling, speeches, and Labatts on chill Like the words of Willie Nelson the ***** D stays on my mind I'll never forget that trip like my brain is a VCR and has the element of rewind!

Continue reading...

An old angelic poet went flying one drab and tempestuous night. Upon the clouds he rested as the fallen angels were in his sight. Whence all angel's were together Serving their mighty God. Now separated by good and evil By free will the hellion hadst lost. Their spaceships were ablazed And their crown's they wore as king's. Their wing's we're ivory crystalline And their thunderous aura like electricity didst ring... A trace of cherub dust they left behind in the sky Telepathically knowing, today their wing's shalt fly... Chorus- Chariot's roll Chariot's play Seraphim riders, in the sky....... Their countenance unearhtly, their eye's lit Their batas all drenched by unseen blood. Their flying hard to get those hellion But they've lost one of their ship's. Because it's their duty, to protect the all powerful God They sweep by force in by million's, with lightning bolts as Rod's. As the chariot Master's swept by the ghouls The ghoulies calleth out their names, The serpahim said to the ghoulies Go back to hell from whence thou came. And hellion its to late to changeth thy ways, thou made a bad choice..... So the Hellion's retreated, back to their doom of fiery noise.... Chorus- Chariot's roll Chariot's play Seraphim rider's in the sky, Serpahim rider's in the sky Serpahim rider's in the sky......

0

Jul 12, 2015

Jul 12, 2015 at 9:53 AM UTC

Seraphim rider's in the sky.. ( remake by me from song ghost riders in the sky by johnny cash and willie nelson) mine own version...enjoy

An old angelic poet went flying one drab and tempestuous night. Upon the clouds he rested as the fallen angels were in his sight. Whence all angel's were together Serving their mighty God. Now separated by good and evil By free will the hellion hadst lost. Their spaceships were ablazed And their crown's they wore as king's. Their wing's we're ivory crystalline And their thunderous aura like electricity didst ring... A trace of cherub dust they left behind in the sky Telepathically knowing, today their wing's shalt fly... Chorus- Chariot's roll Chariot's play Seraphim riders, in the sky....... Their countenance unearhtly, their eye's lit Their batas all drenched by unseen blood. Their flying hard to get those hellion But they've lost one of their ship's. Because it's their duty, to protect the all powerful God They sweep by force in by million's, with lightning bolts as Rod's. As the chariot Master's swept by the ghouls The ghoulies calleth out their names, The serpahim said to the ghoulies Go back to hell from whence thou came. And hellion its to late to changeth thy ways, thou made a bad choice..... So the Hellion's retreated, back to their doom of fiery noise.... Chorus- Chariot's roll Chariot's play Seraphim rider's in the sky, Serpahim rider's in the sky Serpahim rider's in the sky......

Continue reading...

I tried fitting in with them but was told my skin was to dark and that I was not the type. I asked a darker crowd for companionship but was denied because I was told I talk white. In reality they ment proper but I cannot hate my own people for what they don't know. In a country where a letter from Willie Lynch divided us and still stunts our growth. We were deprived of our name, religion, and planted an idea in our head that lighter is better. Features once seen as a sign of ugliness such as big lip or now being imitated and make others jealous. These life scars remain though, that rain from feeling left out seemed to only get wetter. Hoping one day this alienated feeling will dry up but one can only be zealous.

0

Oct 6, 2018

Oct 6, 2018 at 9:47 AM UTC

I tried fitting in with them but was told my skin was to dark and that I was not the type. I asked a darker crowd for companionship but was denied because I was told I talk white. In reality they ment proper but I cannot hate my own people for what they don't know. In a country where a letter from Willie Lynch divided us and still stunts our growth. We were deprived of our name, religion, and planted an idea in our head that lighter is better. Features once seen as a sign of ugliness such as big lip or now being imitated and make others jealous. These life scars remain though, that rain from feeling left out seemed to only get wetter. Hoping one day this alienated feeling will dry up but one can only be zealous.

Continue reading...

I tip my hat to Kierkegaard Who was there when things were hard, To Mr. Hofstadter Loading my cannon with fodder, To Willie Yeats Who showed me my poetic cognates, To the Buddha Who, mentally being a barracuda, Illuminated what patience really means, To Graham Greene's "Brighton Rock"'s influence on Morrissey, Which made me smile at the sea And recognize "in my own life What Robert Browning meant By an old hunter talking with Gods; But I am not content."

0

Jun 24, 2014

Jun 24, 2014 at 1:26 AM UTC

christopher-howard-gorrie

I tip my hat to Kierkegaard

I tip my hat to Kierkegaard Who was there when things were hard, To Mr. Hofstadter Loading my cannon with fodder, To Willie Yeats Who showed me my poetic cognates, To the Buddha Who, mentally being a barracuda, Illuminated what patience really means, To Graham Greene's "Brighton Rock"'s influence on Morrissey, Which made me smile at the sea And recognize "in my own life What Robert Browning meant By an old hunter talking with Gods; But I am not content."

Continue reading...

Revival of a revolutionary spirit What I represent? The Motherland of wisdom BLACK genesis Check the pyramids My heredity IS God-man manifest in the physical, And astral and mental Been mastered every plane of existence Whole civilizations who understood the Science of Living Tens of thousands of years before any 'westernized thinking' An enlightened people Way before colonialism How you gon bring democracy (now capitalism in disguise), To Afrika where it was invented? And dress ya pawns as 'appointed' leaders Devil oppressors Erased our culture, history, and identity Spiritual genocide by 'Willie Lynching' Karmically tied to these modern times I gotz to watch my temper Lost ONE, Who found refuge in the Buddha to be most skillful But what happened to my people? I just wona know My whole life, I was ashamed of being BLACK and didn't know it Guess it was sub-compartmental But through practice with experience Of accumulated virtue I shed dem old ethers And broke me down Psychological brick by brick and rebuilt me Na I'm ready for war

0

Oct 1, 2020

Oct 1, 2020 at 5:00 PM UTC

REBEL TALK PT.2

Revival of a revolutionary spirit What I represent? The Motherland of wisdom BLACK genesis Check the pyramids My heredity IS God-man manifest in the physical, And astral and mental Been mastered every plane of existence Whole civilizations who understood the Science of Living Tens of thousands of years before any 'westernized thinking' An enlightened people Way before colonialism How you gon bring democracy (now capitalism in disguise), To Afrika where it was invented? And dress ya pawns as 'appointed' leaders Devil oppressors Erased our culture, history, and identity Spiritual genocide by 'Willie Lynching' Karmically tied to these modern times I gotz to watch my temper Lost ONE, Who found refuge in the Buddha to be most skillful But what happened to my people? I just wona know My whole life, I was ashamed of being BLACK and didn't know it Guess it was sub-compartmental But through practice with experience Of accumulated virtue I shed dem old ethers And broke me down Psychological brick by brick and rebuilt me Na I'm ready for war

Continue reading...

Willie sat by the side of the river in a philosophical mood under a weeping willow. Midway, between the two banks, was a small island only paddling distance away. Debris from a previous flood had accumulated on the low foliage of an uprooted tree. A funnel of cold air from the ten arch bridge made a wind sock of a plastic net nitrate bag. In all his time, Willie had never ventured on to this little islet, even wondered if he should flag it. Off with the shoes, rolled up the legs of his trousers and slowly he negotiated his way over the stones. On exploring the land mass, which was an isthmus of a mere ten square meters, he decided to return to land. Just before his disembarkation, he noticed a large denominational euro note caught in the gills of a dead fish. Eureka Eureka money and food all in the one catch (was his thought as he made his way back). The sodden state of the 100 euro note was what guided ******* wise decision to take it, as was, to the local Credit Union. In the queue whilst waiting for a vacant teller, everyone was admiring ******* dead fish. Eventually, at the desk, and known to those working therein, a 100 euro note was not his norm and created suspicion. After tendering the note attached to the Trout, that had apparently been fowl hooked up the river by Johnny Logan, The lady behind the desk called for the manager, who immediately held the note up to the halogen fraud lamp. Willie had never encountered anything like this when he made a 5 euro deposit once a month to his savings account. He enquired of the manager as to why he was holding his fish and 100 euro note up against the bright light. The manager responded, “ It is the policy of all banking systems to check high denominational notes for visible water marks “ !!

0

Sep 5, 2018

Sep 5, 2018 at 4:01 AM UTC

A Tender Moment.

Willie sat by the side of the river in a philosophical mood under a weeping willow. Midway, between the two banks, was a small island only paddling distance away. Debris from a previous flood had accumulated on the low foliage of an uprooted tree. A funnel of cold air from the ten arch bridge made a wind sock of a plastic net nitrate bag. In all his time, Willie had never ventured on to this little islet, even wondered if he should flag it. Off with the shoes, rolled up the legs of his trousers and slowly he negotiated his way over the stones. On exploring the land mass, which was an isthmus of a mere ten square meters, he decided to return to land. Just before his disembarkation, he noticed a large denominational euro note caught in the gills of a dead fish. Eureka Eureka money and food all in the one catch (was his thought as he made his way back). The sodden state of the 100 euro note was what guided ******* wise decision to take it, as was, to the local Credit Union. In the queue whilst waiting for a vacant teller, everyone was admiring ******* dead fish. Eventually, at the desk, and known to those working therein, a 100 euro note was not his norm and created suspicion. After tendering the note attached to the Trout, that had apparently been fowl hooked up the river by Johnny Logan, The lady behind the desk called for the manager, who immediately held the note up to the halogen fraud lamp. Willie had never encountered anything like this when he made a 5 euro deposit once a month to his savings account. He enquired of the manager as to why he was holding his fish and 100 euro note up against the bright light. The manager responded, “ It is the policy of all banking systems to check high denominational notes for visible water marks “ !!

Continue reading...