"winston" poems
Men and women are equal
None are above the other
In rights and respect
Equal
Men have strength yes
Yet it's women who endure
Men and women
Both are intelligent
As their brains made of the same matter
Biologically here equality stands firm
Differences of course are there
Yet minuscule
Appearances cast aside
Only few can be observed
Women and men
Both are sensitive and feel
Yet where women show it; display
Men conceal; pretend not to feel
Society kills
In tactics and ideas
Is where our message ends
For too often it's said to
Disregard the thoughts of women
Too dumb and feeble minded to be
Of Value and interest
Yet where there's Winston Churchill
The mastermind of Britain
There's also Elizabeth the 1st
The queen who beat the Spanish Armada
Hence with logics like this
Any notion of ****** inferiority**
Can be easily dismissed
As utterly ridiculous.
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 12:28 PM UTC
Deep in the bottle,
where even the strongest minds fizzle,
perspective sways softly
and judgment is cutting
deep into submission
of stupor and stumble,
a profound lack of commitment
nodded off in the chair.
Wishing away
today and tomorrow,
but shadows can be patient
and wait for the dark.
The lump on the couch,
he bristles with anger,
fed whiskey and Winston’s
to dull those sharp cravings
for death ever-lasting,
for abyssal release.
You left the lump breathing,
withdrew your attention
to his core care and feeding;
you’ve taken to singing
serenades to the sleeping,
but memories keep bleeding,
that puncture your tincture;
for that lump is your fixture
of regret and remorse.
The lump does not whimper
until shadows are long,
the reruns on TV run into
the screaming of your song;
the drum solo hammers
on tomb-like front door;
a concert, just for husband and you;
the social worker’s knocking;
whatever will you do?
Oct 9, 2011
Oct 9, 2011 at 12:24 PM UTC
Temptation watches from afar.
It lurks, patient, and shrewd.
Knowing best,
it will come from the shadows.
It has many masks, and with each one,
pulls the rug from under my feet.
A familiar fall,
comes with new hurts.
Laid out, not wanting to rise.
Since resolutions are meeting demise.
This time I lay, whispering "whys."
Feeling the ground, ruminating lies.
Breathing in and exhaling defeat.
The cherry of this Winston, my only heat.
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 3:59 PM UTC
The instructor said,
Go home and write
a page tonight.
And let that page come out of you--
Then, it will be true.
I wonder if it's that simple?
I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.
I went to school there, then Durham, then here
to this college on the hill above Harlem.
I am the only colored student in my class.
The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem,
through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,
Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,
the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator
up to my room, sit down, and write this page:
It's not easy to know what is true for you or me
at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm what
I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you:
hear you, hear me--we two--you, me, talk on this page.
(I hear New York, too.) Me--who?
Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.
I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.
I like a pipe for a Christmas present,
or records--Bessie, bop, or Bach.
I guess being colored doesn't make me not like
the same things other folks like who are other races.
So will my page be colored that I write?
Being me, it will not be white.
But it will be
a part of you, instructor.
You are white--
yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.
That's American.
Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me.
Nor do I often want to be a part of you.
But we are, that's true!
As I learn from you,
I guess you learn from me--
although you're older--and white--
and somewhat more free.
This is my page for English B.
2.9k
#Winston Churchill Defies the Nazis
#Intersectionality come together
#As one we are cliché strong privileged
#Patriarchy ethically sourced all options
#Are on the table chilling effect quagmire
#Teutons behaving badly doomsday clock
#Transgressive sustainable Guccifer
#Renewable change the gender binary
#Wiretapped microinequity
#Unity in diversity is strength
#Build bridges not borders no fascists here
And let The People say “#Meme”
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 5:43 PM UTC
In English,
we’re learning about
Winston and Julia
in 1984, but
it’s 2017
all I want to study is
you.
I want to study less
about the
control and freedom
Big Brother has
and more about
the calculation of your
moves.
I want to study the way
your knuckles could be an
infant’s home, small
hands reaching out
longing for you
or the way the veins in
your arm makes abstract art,
beautiful enough to be showcased
in any gallery.
I understand now why they say
“as pretty as a painting.” Because
you’re as timeless and
breathtaking as
Mona Lisa.
And your blue iris's,
swirl with dark and light
tones with a slight
a golden glint,
I could stare into them for longer
than any
Starry Night.
Maybe,
I’m just better suited to an art class.
I want to learn the primaries
so I can swirl them all together and
get your dark brown hair.
I want to add the most expensive
white, so I can paint the
faint freckles on your nose and
I want to mix blue and red adding water
until the colour is a perfect match
for the faintest birthmark
on your shoulder.
Instead of the History of Russia,
I want to learn the History
of you.
I want to learn what makes you smile
and what makes you cry.
I want to study you,
I use each brush stroke to
perfect your skin,
each pen writes down
notes until
I have a whole book
full of each heartbreak,
so I can learn a lesson
in you.
Dec 4, 2017
Dec 4, 2017 at 8:04 AM UTC
Flower beds in every nook
was Bangalore's delight
for long long years,
even before the time
Winston Churchill lived there
as a young British soldier.
Salubrious climate turned it then
in to a pensioner's paradise,
full of quiet tree lined streets.
The one time cool "Garden city"
one finds now with a new itch,
in its mad rush to get hitched
with the so called" flat world"
every which way possible,
it kills the symphony of colors,
both willingly and otherwise;
trees fall, monstrous flyovers rise,
technological behemoths,
which fast become dinosaurs
as economic down turn hits hard,
stand daunting us, adding green house gases
now, its all kitsch and concrete **** everywhere.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 8:41 AM UTC
There were times
she felt
like his bad habit
passionately
longed for,
quickly savored,
and then
carelessly crushed
beneath
the weight
of his world
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 8:16 AM UTC
I can hear them. There is not one, but might be hundreds of them lurking behind these rickety wood walls.
He is watching. The party has always been watching. I can control my thoughts. Cogito ergo sum. This is my world, no one can touch me. These are my thoughts, my heart beats for what is good for me. My hands scrawling, my brain is just scribbling.
Yet, I’ve known from the start that I am a dead man.
I didn’t commit adultery, I followed them. I am alive, I can feel my heart racing. My blood all over my body... reminds me why I’m here. To survive and live, yet I am still a dead man.
I am no mute, but I can’t speak. While writing this I can picture my hands and feet with shackles, wounds of torture. I’ve been always a dead man.
The prole doesn’t know. They need to know. They should stop listening or watching the telescreen. They should strive to dig the Oldspeak.
Oh, right. Who dares to doublethink against a totalitarian regime anyway?
The guns are always on their hands. The war is always going. It’s always here. The past... is always here. We don’t see it, but it’s here! There’s nowhere to run or hide, the world tried.
I will be the next unperson, vaporising in the history of Oceania. They won’t remember. They’ll try not to remember. We are a nobody. Winston was right. I can feel the boot stamping on my face. This is the future.
My voice... is a thought crime, will never be accepted in this society.
I am a dead man.
I am ready... the Thought Police has been always watching me. The INGSOC. Big Brother. I will never love him!
But I am ready to be trap in the place where there is no darkness. I am ready... for the Ministry of Love.
I won’t ever, ever love Big Brother!
I do not care, for I am already a dead man!
Nov 7, 2017
Nov 7, 2017 at 10:38 PM UTC
Seven born to a home in the hills
Lost in the waste that time kills
Each segregated to a different day
Or so at least some say
Anthony couldn’t help but fall
Built too tall
As he hit his head upon a door
Running adjacent to the floor
Young Mr. Cooper took form
And quickly ran to his scholarly dorm
On the way he transgressed to
A fellow who
Used to dwell in the same domicile
Until he felt the environment was too vile
Fled the scene in the matter of a moment
Not knowing there wasn’t an opponent.
Reluctant to turn around
With no answer found
Another division began to develop
One, which was quick to envelope
Everything the boy thought
And freedom sought
The new guy Stephan sold the car
Got a job at a bar
Cleaning up there every morning
While other livers were still in mourning
He had to remove the lingering drunks
Still caught up in their mid life flunks
One always takes a swing
Ben Gunn wakes up feeling the sting
In panic he flees
Watching passing tress
Tracing the trail of something known
The place he called home.
Once in sight
This personality takes flight
Out steps Dewey Dell,
Who looks like a glimpse of hell
Takes a nap to restore
His body, which felt quite poor
He had expected to awaken
The boy was mistaken
Waking up on the cliff
Was a boy named Winston Smith
A devotee to a righteous cause
He just didn’t know what it was
Spent his days inside a pew
Surrounded by slim to few
As answers ceaselessly taunt
Halls made to haunt
Without hope he grew less attached
And quickly became Anthony Patch.
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 8:45 PM UTC
Look Both Ways Before Crossing the Street
by Winston Lee & Enigmuse
Thoughts: they careen through my head like
cars in the midst of rush hour. I search for
one car in particular. My head is the foundation
of an unconstructed civilization, and I find myself
to be a tourist in the depths of my own mind. I
know all too well how easy it is for others to get lost
in the enigmatic chaos that is my head but I won’t
lose you. I am nothing, compared to the blinding lights
and insistent, blaring sounds, all warring for your attention.
I wander the streets with the sad, distant thought
that maybe I’ll glance up and find your headlights
slicing through the grey overcast. I’d even settle
for the looming red glow of your pretty, quiet
tail lights. But I know you’re long gone and your
lights are long out. The sad and beautiful part about
my mind is that I’m trapped here. And I believe I’d
still be searching for you, even if I didn’t want to. I’m
am a slave to my own thoughts, I am in love
with my mind’s creations. And while I’m well aware that
you are but a figment of my infinite imagination, I will do
everything I can to continue to believe in you.
I am merely a second of time, while you’re the hours
the days and the weeks; I am only for a moment and
you seem like an eternity. The people I pass on the street
know something I don’t - everyone seems to have
figured out how to live with their demons, while mine
like to play keep-away with my sanity. They look a lot like
you. Every time you cross my mind it sounds a lot like
contorting metal and the shrieks of pedestrians. I suppose
we’ve got a lot in common with a car crash.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 7:40 PM UTC
Seldom have I seen such strength, such purposefulness shown
And I have witnessed many who have made their message known,
Immovable this woman stands in seas of raging tide
Where friend and foe, as challengers, she’s deftly swept aside.
Resolute she stands atop white cliffs of blazing chalk
To glare across the Channel where her predecessors stalked
In league with Winston Churchill with pugnacious jawline set
When he thrashed the fiend in Jackboots and field grey appuletes.
In league with Margaret Thatcher with that glint of grey in eyes
To the accolades of Gorbachev who recognised the prize.
In league with Boadecia the ghost of power past
Who rallied this great nation to fight on to the last.
Snapping at her ankles the dogs of turmoil writhe
And comrades of another time amass to criticise,
Labourites howl murderously to all who would take heed
While the rabble rousing Europeans joust to intercede.
Swirling round her skirts they mass now screaming their abuse
At her articulated message of a pathway less obtuse.
If Tony Blair had the ***** it’s to her side he’d dance
As would Jeremy Corbett but of that there’s little chance,
Her Majesty stands forthright, as do all her heirs
Including Will and Harry who are cheering from the stairs.
Dianna’s there in spirit plus the Kiwis from the pub
And the rough crowd from the chippie all dolled up with a scrub.
She needs ALL of you behind her in her struggle for the best,
Independence for Great Britain is ascendancy’s great quest.
The very heart of what It means to dwell within these shores
The very heart of what it means to be Brittish to the core.
England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales combining for the task
Of a guarantee of future from the quagmire of the past.
We SHALL stand behind Teresa May and make our voices heard
As we scream aloud the anthem to impart our final word….
RULE BRITANNIA,
BRITTANIA RULE THE WAVES
BRITAIN NEVER, NEVER EVER…
SHALL BE SLAVES!
Boom, boom, boom
RULE BRITANNIA,
BRITANNIA RULE THE WAVES
BRITAIN NEVER, NEVER EVER….
SHALL BE SLAVES!
M.
18 December 2018
Dec 17, 2018
Dec 17, 2018 at 6:33 PM UTC
I was the one who received the faithful letter from Mr. Darcy
I was the one who held Holden when he cried
I was the one who Guy Montague thought was beautiful
I was the one who Heathcliff came back to the Wuthering Heights for
I was the one who Mr. Rochester tried to illegally marry
I was the one who D'Artagnan grieved over after the abduction
I was the one who Captain Wentworth fell back in love with
I was the one who Dorian Gray actually cared for
I was the one who Candide brought the gold for in El Dorado
I was the one who Winston Smith kissed in that attic
I was the one who cried when they all left me with a silent flipping of a page
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 2:50 PM UTC
I take a minute to sip some beer,
Miller High Life and Winston's,
Shakey Graves is stomping out through the wires,
Telling the tale of a boy walking to his execution,
His head held high,
Misguided in his actions that evening,
in the waning days of summer.
The song ends, I take out a tin,
Open it up and throw in the last of the dip I had,
After that I'll be done with smokeless tobacco.
Elton John is now waxing poetically about the ideas of roses in Spanish Harlem,
His voice eloquent, nostalgic, and tear-jerkingly honest,
The loss of innocence in an idea,
Ripped asunder by the cruelty of the world at large,
If only there were one Good Samaritan,
If they were to stand up and say enough!
In the album he is but the Master of Ceremonies in the château.
Weaving great tales of happiness and woe.
And isn't that what life is,
Both the ultimate comedy and tragedy?
But what do I know?
I'm just an Average Joe.
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 1:33 AM UTC
Like Winston Smith,
I think it’s time to start a diary.
Follow me now: it’s April in Oceania,
The cruelest month,
The silly season, printemps,
A regular I see London, I see France.
I see Winston’s Underpants.
If you catch my drift?
La Primavera: Vivaldi’s rocking the
Juke box and the vote, Botticelli’s painting,
A mural on Jerusalem's wailing wall.
My diary will be hard evidence of thought crime.
Thought crime: one of the more severe varieties of
Religious experience & the most psychotic form of mental illness,
In a category known as antisocial personality disorders.
Thought crime means never getting into any serious trouble,
Until you’re caught, can we at least agree on that?
So, we'd better add the DSM to our stack of essential literary classics.
The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders,
Published by the American Psychiatric Association,
Providing a common language,
A shrink’s Esperanto.
DSM-IV codes classify mental disorders.
The DSM: a Frommer’s travel guide &
User’s manual for life on planet Earth.
So, like Orwell's Winston, I start a diary of my own; but
Unlike Mr. Smith, I address my message to the here &
What’s happening now, not the future, not the past but
N-a-zayer, N-a-zither NOW.
That's right, I write for the present:
“If thought was ever free, it is not free now."
If truth exists it is a closely guarded secret,
Although McLuhan’s observations hide in plain sight:
*“The new electronic interdependence, recreates
The world in the image of a global village.”*
Which makes us all global village idiots.
We are no longer different from one another;
The age of groupthink is here.
I write to you from an age of security & surveillance,
Warrantless search and predator drones,
An age where no man is ever truly alone.
From an age of standardization, replaceable parts,
Whirling dervishes, dabblers in spin control,
Newspeak and doublespeak,
Atlas shrugged, drugged and fugged,
The new world order:
All but the faint of heart need apply, …
"I send greetings.”
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 3:56 PM UTC
*A shadow on the upper right lobe,
its probably nothing*
Its close to Christmas,
I think about our first
and how purple it was,
sunflower medallions
and George Winston.
I grew my hair long
and wore camouflage.
We ought to run a few more tests
My guilt was more than
I could carry back then,
gallons in half gallon buckets,
blood splashing onto
white carpet.
*We'll get a little more blood on
Tuesday*
The waiting game was nearly terminal,
the kids and I exchanged gifts in the Sears
parking lot. When I got home you held me.
We need to talk in my office for a minute
I cried about the choices they made.
You were never unkind. The rosaries I
made were hung on our bedposts,
they hang there still.
The shadow on your lung is a tumor
Its been five years. They're adults now
and old enough to hear about death.
I'll schedule a biopsy for after Christmas
I don't think I'll tell them.
I don't think I'll tell you either..
maybe just once we'll have a peaceful holiday.
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 4:46 AM UTC
So I'm sat minding my own business just watching the unicorns play tagg.
Risky I know when you have a light sabre with a blown bulb strapped like a *** toy to your swede.
This old guy sits next to me an asks "Do you paint?"
Before it registers he says "All we had in common?"
I said, I have a bit but I realise I'm somewhere else.
Who do you mean I ask?
****** of course
I then realise I'm having a chat with Winston Churchill.
The unicorns should have been the big clue it was a dream or I was dead shouldn't they.
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 3:30 PM UTC
Winston Hope
Having a stroke on two consecutive mondays
I guess all now he can hope for is that
next Monday
is the
same.
wish for death, Winston.
what more is there?
can’t fight or flight
can’t ****
can’t even, without help
perform natural
****** functions.
coming back from this is a pipe dream
a myth.
salud to Winston.
Apr 9, 2012
Apr 9, 2012 at 6:10 PM UTC
past Rock City we carry the fire!
to the ring; where Führer fights a frail foe!
to conceal what burns at 4 5 1–dire
Big Brother won't notice our hearts aglow
"Understanding: allow their point of view
walk around in their skin; folks are just folks"
Watch the merry-go-round go 'round a few
"More Weight," says Giles, but a witch? deadly hoax
The One Ring finally reaches Mordor
Kings are justly crowned, Bingley marries Jane
The Old Man caught the fish, or so he swore
but Dad, Liesel, Allie, Winston are slain
journeys are sacrificial, lives immured
Cheers to pilgrimage we haven't endured
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 9:20 PM UTC
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Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 8:51 AM UTC
We shared the same bunk bed
in the tiny Astoria projects apartment
I laugh to myself recalling the 3 AM singing sessions
we crooned right along with the Bradshaw brothers
stocking caps plastered to their heads
doo-wopping on the benches below
beautiful voices framing the cold,
unforgiving, angular brick buildings and ghetto nights
Sis, you were my head pall bearer
shouldering the shoe-box casket
along with an odd collection of project kids
forming a procession up 27th avenue
towards the green steeple church on the hill
solemnly we laid Pixie the cat to rest
“Last Looks” I quipped before lowering the box
she had accidentally slipped out of the window
and was not as lucky as Winston Parks
a young toddler who had fortunately
landed in the bushes
when our newborn twin brothers, Chris and Pat
surprised our parents bringing the count to 5 siblings
I officially became the 2nd mom
a reluctant teen, my head buried in a book
simultaneously rocking a twin carriage and stroller
LOL...seems like only yesterday we were camped out
in apartment #6B planning all sorts of mischief
now there is a pile of little shoes next to my door
and the next generation trudging in
with water pistols, bubbles and coloring books
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 9:13 PM UTC
I found you, in a stack of photos:
the 2D you, I can't touch, taste or smell
the first thing that came to mind was sharing a joint with you and spilling the chocolate ice cream cone on your skin-tight white shorts
and sneaking into the Woolworth bathroom, and our freaked frenzied scrubbing of fabric with nimble fingers and pink powdered hand soap
and how we couldn't stop laughing
until a woman older than time caught us
before we could consummate
which we did after running the entire
200 yards to my van, wet white shorts in your hand, with me looking over my shoulder for imagined narcs and other freedom snatchers
when we finished, we shared my last Winston, blowing smoke rings in the gathering gloom
your shorts were dry, and our high
had worn off--you didn't kiss me goodbye when I dropped you off
between your pad and mine,
I hit a black mongrel pup wandering on the dark asphalt
I scooped him off the road
with my hands; lifeless, light he was...
I found you, in that stack of ancient
photos--that was the day we conceived a son, one you had shredded in a doctor's office for $300 in illegal tender
I see the messy ice cream, your naked nineteen year old flesh, smoke rings disappearing, the poor mutt dying
though not for lack of trying, I can't see the child you had executed in utero--without trial, judge or jury, save an elusive dream
of freedom
Albuquerque, 1967
Apr 9, 2018
Apr 9, 2018 at 5:37 PM UTC
Wrestling My Father
The scent of gasoline and lanoline lingers
mingled with sweat and Old Spice, menthol
Winston’s from back before you gave them up
for good persist in half-life beneath Vitalis
sheen and Listerine, waves of Bengay radiating
off red hot coals of trapezius muscles seized
inside a white V neck tee from Monkey Wards,
thin cotton canvas worked with small fevered hands,
greedy, slathering claim, leaving myself open to
reversal and the pin, sting of ancient rug burn
still gracing my cheek, palms pressed to face inhaling
what little I can of you by lung full.
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 9:47 AM UTC