"workers" poems
A Queen in waiting, a Princess no less.
Each day, a routine before being seen.
For some, a shadow and not of the eye.
The kind you'd find on that of a guy.
An army of pogonophobes in dysphoric confusion.
Each purging our wardrobes,
a repeated delusion.
A leading *******
from a pornographic circus.
The ***** under graduate from
a school of *** workers.
Your Hubby's vision in blue
is our secret down south,
'cause he wouldn't kiss you with
that ***** mouth.
So, I'll stop you there Sizzle Chest
with your cans of Stella
in your pristine white vest.
'Cause this is real easy,
even for you Mr ******
I used to be a Princess but
now I'm a Queen,
recently coronated
after all that I've seen.
Poetry by Kaydee.
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 9:43 AM UTC
“Being a farmer is like being a priest;
you take a vow of poverty
and make a pact with the Lord
that no typhoon will come
and destroy your crops.”
In the rise of sedentary human civilization,
The nation’s agriculture
Became the key expansion.
Its history dates back thousands of years,
With its development,
Has been driven and defined –
By different climates, cultures, and technologies.
The Filipino farmers:
Are they now a dying breed?
Numbers of small farms has dwindled,
With workers opting for city life.
But this trend could exacerbate food insecurity!
Yes, in an import-dependent country –
Already struggling to meet current food demand.
In the face of growing losses,
And from volatile weather,
To new-fangled farming tech,
Limited education makes them less receptive.
What took such toll on the agricultural sector?
Maybe the farmer themselves,
The investors, the buyers – maybe.
Now, it’s due to the government policies,
Our programs are good, yet so weak.
There’s excessive reliance on agricultural imports,
And corruption on the upper level.
Compounding the problem
Is a younger generation –
Largely, leaving rural areas nationwide,
And depleting the pool of potential agricultural workers.
They say it’s too late to do something;
But the mind-set of the younger generation
Still we can change
And make farming appealing once again.
(9/8/13 @xirlleelang)
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 10:02 PM UTC
Oh, they a strange brew.
Almost like a union crew.
One minute disagreeing.
Then the next tight as can be.
In house fighting that makes you question their love.
Just to see them turn around and show it.
Siblings, only they can explain it.
Getting to the truth is hard as can be.
Unless you have a young one.
Who will tell on everyone?
Siblings, only they understand that connection.
Parents know their bond.
That if attacked by others.
They gather together to bare arms.
And it's not with any guns.
The world of a child is simply hard to explain.
The way they wants to go outside and play in the rain.
And avoid coats in the snow.
And when questioned about , how things got broken?
Then between them nobody really know.
Siblings, we all been there before.
Unless you're the only child.
Then you just don't know.
This love bond stays between some as they simply begins to grow older.
Their motto , somethings parents don't need to know.
Unless it's something vital.
Then the protection goes out the door.
Yes, there'll be fights.
And lectures from parents.
There's be wearing of clothes that belonged to others.
Who hadn't had the chance to wear them before?
And give you the option of taking them off freely.
Before they assist you to the floor.
Yes, siblings.
They hard to explain.
Counselors advice isn't asked or requested for.
Not by parents that know about these things.
Books wasn't going to be their teacher.
Because books didn't raise them in anyway.
That this new generational thing.
Where judges and courts thinks social workers needs to be involved?
The best instructions is in the book about the teaching of God.
Where we see the same conflicts?
Siblings, there's no one better to have than a sister or brother.
Who had a mother or father to witness it all?
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 9:47 AM UTC
Oh, they a strange brew.
Almost like a union crew.
One minute disagreeing.
Then the next tight as can be.
In house fighting that makes you question their love.
Just to see them turn around and show it.
Siblings, only they can explain it.
Getting to the truth is hard as can be.
Unless you have a young one.
Who will tell on everyone?
Siblings, only they understand that connection.
Parents know their bond.
That if attacked by others.
They gather together to bare arms.
And it's not with any guns.
The world of a child is simply hard to explain.
The way they wants to go outside and play in the rain.
And avoid coats in the snow.
And when questioned about , how things got broken?
Then between them nobody really know.
Siblings, we all been there before.
Unless you're the only child.
Then you just don't know.
This love bond stays between some as they simply begins to grow older.
There motto , something parents don't need to know.
Unless it's something vital.
Then the protection goes out the door.
Yes, there'll be fights.
And lectures from parents.
There'll be wearing of clothes that belonged to others.
Who hadn't had the chance to wear them before?
And give you the option of taking them out freely.
Before they assist you to the floor.
Yes, siblings.
They hard to explain.
Counselors advice isn't asked or requested for.
Not by parents that know about these things.
Books wasn't going to be their teacher.
Because books didn't raise them in anyway.
That this new generational thing.
Where judges and courts thinks social workers needs to be involved?
The best instructions is in the book about the teaching of God.
Where we see the same conflicts?
Siblings, there's no one better to have than a sister or brother.
Who had a mother or father to witness it all?
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 9:47 AM UTC
And so the girl child sat
knitting melodies beside
the great river of words.
Soon her songs were heard,
beyond the Lake of Lyrics
and the vast Sea of Verse.
The evening tide carried them
across oceans to foreign shores.
Field workers sang her songs
to children in their hovels.
They escaped the lips of scholars
in the great halls of learning.
The child became a woman,
and still she weaved the magic,
from the words of the river,
for the hearts of all who read them.
As she weaved she told the secret
to a child who knitted beside her.
Emerging from the womb of time
I heard her whisper to my heart.
I felt the great river in my being,
and I began to knit a melody.
I heard my soul sing with joy,
I am the child of an ancient poet.
© 30/12/2009
Oct 27, 2010
Oct 27, 2010 at 9:51 PM UTC
Ambitious bastions always tout
progressive plans when they're about
while within they hide and pout
from novel things that may prove out.
And while inventing goals to follow
their ancients habits hold them hollow
as in vain wary workers wallow
force fed lies and hooks to swallow.
They hunt for those who work past five,
that trudge to work, endure the drive
who will sacrifice their personal live
until ambition can't survive.
Yet if you strive, you're constant told
do not do more, do not be bold
just fill your seat, forever hold
your tongue until you're dead and cold.
To subsist we're forced to hide,
only in others can we confide,
all success pushed to the side
as managers act bona fide.
Since those of meager measure make
hope of meeting metrics fake
interloping leaders take
their toll until hard workers break.
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 4:19 PM UTC
Sandwiched in layers of liquid crystal display,
Encased in vats of plastic,
we
Voyaging in data-spheres, plumes of digital play.
Mindless,
In the soup of silicone,
all
Myth-makers,
Pouring over electro-spawned
networks,
fall
Workers,
In the buzz of bits and bytes, of
megabytes and terabytes,
down
Everyone
Far from the wood, the brine, the
mud that caked us,
In tighter and tighter
digitised projections,
click!
‘Like me’,
‘Share me’,
‘Leave your comments.’
Messages smoothed out in polymers,
Beyond reproductions of ourselves,
enter:
Deeper, delving in the mire of dream-conscious,
Now a waking voice,
Hardened, digitised, recorded in
bubbles, in drives, in clouds:
Numb numbers of numbers numb,
mirror.
A platform slotted home:
The motherboard!
To record the echo in the hollow
of our Being.
Sep 30, 2017
Sep 30, 2017 at 10:44 AM UTC
Corrupt and quiet
Brain damaged
Like a mental hemorrhaging
A ****** heart's craving
Tattooed on your clear skin
Running hands over it
Dusting off your innocence
Dancing on ground that's caving in
Men and women in pain
Broken children going insane
Holding their breaths
Hearts heaving in their chests
Painstaking memories
Sipping tears from souls unclean
Empty verses, lyrics obscene
Children who will never be seen
You've lost your health
Now, what do you have left?
***** just like the rest
Nothing to show, no family crest
Tear jerkers
Hard workers
Acid-bathed men
You simply cannot win
Thoughts under arrest
Burning names off the list
Fighting with a pointless fist
Lost in the lifeless mist
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 5:17 PM UTC
Doctor Larch peers out the window,
Pulling aside brocaded curtains to hide
The grief that he will not show,
The rending emptiness he feels inside.
As his son Homer rides past the sunset,
Not knowing where he goes
But aspiring to see the wide world,
The ocean at Mount Desert,
Seeing wonder in the expanse
And worlds inside a circle of glass.
He has taken with him his heart,
A dark picture of frailty.
He finds unexpected work in an orchard,
Leisurely harvesting round, garnet jewels.
The nomads, dark and wary,
Ask him to read about death and stars.
There are rules for the workers.
And Homer finds that they apply
To no one, neither nomads or
Curious young men.
He sees in the errant father
The reflection of his own,
The man who made him good.
“You are my work of art”
He wrote.
Like an artist with his painting,
Who resists giving it away,
So Doctor Larch holds on to him
Hoping his adolescence ends
And he returns.
Finding peace at the last.
The lack of rules bring about a sea change,
Allowing forbidden love and pain.
He ventures out once more into the vacuum
Of conscience set free,
He devises his own rules about the womb
And how to help those in agony
But eventually…
With all the rules now open,
There is nothing left for him to do.
So he boards the migrant truck
Just as the pilot returns, broken.
He watches the struggle with a wheelchair
Sees his lover watch him with her yellow hair
Knows her future, years of sacrifice.
And he admits at last
That he has a purpose,
The train to St. Cloud huffs slowly away,
With Homer standing in the wet snow.
There is the old asylum,
The orphanage and home on the hill,
Almost black, with the sunset behind,
Homer begins the long climb.
He approaches slowly.
But then, a burst of laughter
And children from the door
Flock around him, dancing, shrieking,
Some holding him like an errant dog,
Who must be told to stay.
“Will you stay?” they ask.
“I think so,” he smiles in irony.
He is home at the last.
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 10:58 AM UTC
∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
A little bit of summer
a little bit of breeze
in the days of warmer
love has so much-
to bring, come let us sing
A little bit of freesia
a little bit of lilac
never can resist a scent
-of Ms. Narine
Ogles, a morning scene
A little bit of sunshine
a little bit of eventide
caress upon the shores
-of such imagery,
passions of immortality
A little bit of cosmos
a little bit of crocus
in a glebe-like galaxy
stars white as daphne
from a garden of syzygy
A little bit of cerulean
a little bit of vermilion
shimmers the lucid lake
with trout's and doves
Golly! autumn is awake
A little bit of plowing
a little bit of sow
the hard workers of
-those pumpkins
reaps a stewful of zin
A little bit of snow
a little bit of flail
fly away as butterflies
hibernate as snails
Forging! a winters gale
A little bit of details
a little bit of trail
from dew drops of-
a frozen rose, icicles on
a drowsy bear’s nose
A little bit of sleeping
a little bit of wait
till the sun comes up
gray clouds strew away
spring is here to stay
A little bit of sprout
a little bit of grow
And can it be, on thee
an Epiphany shows
the Lords glorious prose
Jul 18, 2017
Jul 18, 2017 at 9:56 AM UTC
Overwhelming mental congestion for perfection,
Socially influenced blueprints of future attraction.
Constructive criticism given by construction workers,
The labor of family and friends for reassurance.
A solid foundation of first impressions,
Structured walls of growth and development.
Insulation of natural feelings and experiences,
Ventilation to cool down the heated encounters.
Electrical wiring of an emotional and physical connection,
A circuitry of passion and romance with a light switch.
Hardwood flooring for candle lit dinners and ballroom dancing,
Granite kitchen counters for intimate midnight snacks.
An attractive exterior siding to woo the public eye,
A secure lock of commitment on all the doors.
A roof of trust, and a picket fence,
And now, my love,
I’m simply yours.
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 3:05 PM UTC
They say, beauty is in the eye of the beholder
But sometimes I ask myself, how can this be?
Cause when I look with my eyes, I only start to feel resent
and I begin to despise, the things I realize like
how my women of color have been simplified, and hypserxualized
how the black woman's body has been used and abused and now
It personifies, sexuality and promiscuity, out of all the things media feeds us these are some of the worst lies
You see cause black women are queens, and when white culture saw their worth, they were rattled
They couldn't help but try to minimize and de-legitimize, and put a guise over the eyes of all that viewed her
She is not just a big *** big lips or hips
She is the mother of humanity, in her essence from her hair, to lips to her fingertips she is a Queen, and she is to be respected.
And I will die for her honor, We will not go back into slavery days, I will not stand here while she gets up on stage naked and her body is dissected, and her soul, her essence neglected, her heart, her mind infected.
From these queens come the workers, the Kings, without the black woman we have no past and we have no future
We must protect the black woman, for she is sacred like scripture.
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 3:51 PM UTC
the bus poets
we are the modern day chimney sweeps,
the ***** black faced coal miners of the city,
digging up its grit, toasted with its spit,
the gone and forgotten elevator operators,
the anonymous substitutable,
still yet glimpsed occasionally,
grunts of urbanity
provoking a surprised
whaddya know!
once like the bison and the buffalo,
we were thousands,
word workers roaming the cities,
the intercity rural routes and the lithe greyhounds
across the land of the brave,
free in ways the
founders wanted us to be
us, the stubs and stuff,
harder working poor and lower cases
we were the bus poets,
sitting always in the back of the bus,
where the engines growls loudest,
seated in the - the most overheated
in winter time, so much so
we nearly disrobed,
and then come the summer,
we were blasted with a joking
hot reverie from the vents,
but vent, no, we did not!
no - we wrote and wrote of all we heard,
passion overheated by currents within and without,
recording and ordering the
snatches and the soliloquies of the passengers,
into poem swatches;
the goings on passing by,
the overheard histories,
glimpsed in milliseconds, eternity preserved,
inscribed in a cheap blue lined five & dime notebook,
for all eternity what the eyes
sighed and saw
books ever passed
onto the next generation in boxes from the supermarket,
attic labeled, then forgotten beside the outgrown toys
with our names writ indelible with the magic of
black markers
if you stumble upon a breathing scripter,
let them be, just observe,
as they, you,
these movers and bus shakers,
as they, observe you
tell your children,
you knew one in your youth,
then take them to the attic
retrieve your mother's and father's,
teach your children
how to read, how to see,
the ways of their forefathers,
the forsaken,
the bus poets.
Sep 29, 2017
Sep 29, 2017 at 7:53 AM UTC
It's 3:09am
I'm im the library
Desperately trying to write a research paper:
'LGBT Familes'
How fitting.
Caffeine courses through my veins
Coffee overloads my bladder
Bathroom.
I hate bathrooms.
When you have no gender
The simple act of relieving yourself becomes a chore
The heavy weight of that key decision
Chokes your lungs as you stand outside the doors
Two doors.
Men.
Women.
Not me.
The choice becomes simplified:
While I sometimes pass as a man
I often do not.
I can choose the men's bathroom
The consequence of which could end in physical violence
The same hate I explain through my essay.
The same fear that plagues my community.
The women's restroom is also an option
The consequences likely less dire than the former:
Heavy side eye and the potential of yelling.
A much safer choice.
Obviously.
Per usual, I walk into the women's room.
I take three strides inside.
Then I stop.
I've never used the men's room.
My fear of violent reactions has always won.
Yet at a time like this
How likely is it that someone is inside the men's room?
Now is my chance to face my fears.
Now I have a safe chance at peeing in peace.
In a bathroom potentially more suiting
Of my gender identity
So I turn around.
Let the door slam behind me.
Half a step into the men's room
The smell of rancid ***** hits my senses
Toilet paper liters the stalls
I have missed absolutely nothing in my years in the women's room
Women have nicer facilities
A significantly more advanced hand dryer
Cleanliness
Air freshener
Men do not have these luxuries
Now I question,
Do men not take as good of care of their bathrooms as women do?
Do the workers intentionally prioritize women's sanitation?
What causes this undeniable divide?
Is the messiness of the men's room a result of their conscious decisions?
Or simply a response to societal expectation?
Regardless,
I think I'll stick to the women's room
While I add bathrooms to my compilation
Of more discrete gender inequality
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 2:23 PM UTC
Around the Time when the Drinkers come out
And the homeless start setting up their cardboard for night
When kids talk loudly on the train going for parties
And the rest just Grim and Bear the commute home
All the Soldiers and the Workers of the Ant Farm go to the holes growing mold
Unseen but necessary for the Queen
Those throng and quiet desperation lives
Of plain gum Globules on pavement
A sigh
And a downward glance
With the slight smell of Chinese food
Such is modernity…
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 1:16 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
It is the 30th day of the months in Kenya
State and corporate capitalist have now paid their workers
Wages or salaries or stipends or emoluments all being remunerations
While the rural bourgeoisie and urban bourgeoisie have also paid ex-gratia
To relatives come over-aged workers who have declined retiring
For the fear of looming starvation if at all they go home, where they were born,
Nonetheless; proceed they receive will do nothing whatsoever
As it will be stifled by the monster of desperate consumerism;
So fat and gullible in this tiger of land in the region called Kenya;
The terror peddling rent, courtesy of ruthlessness of the landlord
Bills of electric power in their full monopolistic gear
Bills of water devoid of quality, indifferent dysentery monger
Wages for maid who keep on usurping the food of my child; milk
Bills for gas, all of it redolent of comprador bourgeoisie in fashion,
Hotel and bar bill - a surreptious one, as the bar girl only knows
Airtime and renewal, TV channels and other screen capitalistic ploys
Family trip to local resort in a feat of foolish consumerist venture,
Money to the old mother at home and, sometimes depraved but patient father
ARV’s money to my *** aids stricken sister at the village, my aunt also
Tuition fees for my son at the kindergarten, who goes to schools but learns nothing
fees balance which my wife has to pay at the tailor to ransom out her dress,
M-Pesa and M-Swari loan repayment, this only for Kenyan 30th dayers
They know the agony of dealing with Kenyan mega-capitalist safaricom ltd.
This consumerism and **** consumerism,
It is the menacing bane of the Kenyan poor
It is the avaricious tube which siphons back
The hard earned money from pockets of the poor
Back to despotic account of the pitiless world pigshotry.
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 9:35 AM UTC
The Emperor left his palace
with something shiny on his shoulder
it weighed as much as an apple
but was the size of a boulder
it was the greatest weapon
his workers could build
the town awaited its appearance
even though they had foot the bill
Amazing said the scholar as the emperor passed
so much power but such little weight
this right here can save a country
what you hold will educate
we will teach people
and they will listen
and if they won't
we will show them this weapon
splendid said the old lady as the emperor trotted by
I have been waiting all my life for this
we must end all wars
that is my dying wish
now we can do that
we can fight off the opposition
and make sure peace reigns
while our leaders stay in top position
I don't get it said the kid and the emperor stopped
what could you not understand about my gun?
the boy answered this world is full of idiots
and while you are surely not one
there are people out there
who would **** for that gun
let's not act like one large weapon
can change everybody under the sun
what's more likely is that it will only amplify
the issues that should be regional
we'll proclaim "Our gun is big!"
to justify that our choice is final
the bigger the gun
the more people it could ****
and the more people that can die
the more people that will
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 4:22 PM UTC
The Flower Sellers
Rushing with their bundles
The Milk Vendors
Cycling with their milk cans
The Newspaper boys
Sorting out their packets
The Morning walkers
Warming up and stretching
The Chai-walas
Pouring out their teas
The scarfed mill workers
Speeding for their shifts
The vegetable vendors
Carrying their head loads
The Suprabhatham
Flowing from a distant house
The night shift workers
Returning home.
The Municipality workers
Cleaning the streets..
*The city is waking up
Or did it ever sleep?*
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 7:37 PM UTC
My brother-in-law is the tightly wound sort.
Self contained in his miserable way.
Always quick with a quip or a nasty retort,
and, most likely, a miserable lay.
His job unfulfilling, his woman unwilling.
His co-workers thought he was gay.
He labored long hours for his indifferent masters
for infrequent raises in pay.
When he defenestrated his co worker Sally
and police asked me, what could I say?
" It's always the quiet ones
you have to watch out for-
I knew this would happen someday."
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 9:01 PM UTC
Bilang na ang aking maliligayang araw.
dalawa na lang. Kung isasama yung pangakong panlilibre ng lomi
ng mga kasamahan sa pabrika sa unang restday matapos ang endo-
tatlo. At ganito pala ang feeling ng may taning.
Para kang nasa nilulumot na aquarium na walang oxygen
at goldfish kang kasama ng dalawang golden arowana.
Hindi ka makahinga.
Sa a kinse, matuloy man o hindi ang balitang super-bagyo
Tapos na ang limang buwang kontrata.
Matatapos na rin ba ang hindi naumpisahang pagsinta?
Tulad ng paghahanap ng mga skater sa kanilang skate park,
matatagpuan ko rin ba ang lakas loob at habambuhay na hindi na?
Kaya naman kaninang tanghalian, wala akong kwentong maihain sa iyo.
Parang habambuhay ko ngang uubusin yung inorder kong BBQ
kanin at RC.
Paano ko ba sasabihing baka isa na ito sa huling dalawang tanghalian na sabay tayong kakain?
Paano ko ba sasabihin na sa maraming pagkakataon na sabay tayong kumakain,
nagtitipid ako at hindi naman talaga ako nagugutom.
Gusto lang kita makasama kasi parang gusto na kita.
Pero tulad ng inililihim kong pagtatapos ng aking kontrata
Hindi mo alam.
Hindi mo alam na ikaw ang dahilan kung bakit masarap ang simoy ng hangin sa loob ng pabrika
kahit wala naman talagang bintana at inuubong industrial fan lang ang meron tayo.
Hindi mo alam kung anong kapanatagang nararamdaman ko
tuwing sinasabihan mo akong mag-iingat ako
tuwing uwian kahit ang totoo, hindi natin kakilala ang kaligtasan
at kapanatagan sa pabrikang walang fire exit
at benefits.
Yun talaga yun, hindi mo alam.
Pero alam mo naman sigurong salot talaga ang kontraktwalisasyon?
At maramot talaga sa mga lovestory nating mga below-minimum-wage-earners
at contractual workers ang sistema ng paggawa sa Pilipinas.
Sa mga susunod na bukas, ikaw naman ang mag-e-endo.
Baka mapunta ka sa Savemore na tadtad din ng kontraktwal.
At masnatch ang numero mo at hindi na kita matatawagan.
At ako, baka sa hirap humanap ng trabaho maisangla ko ang aking telepono.
At isang monumentong singlaki ng Mall of Asia ang itatayo sa pagitan nating dalawa.
Kasalanan ito ni Ernesto Hererra.
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 12:53 PM UTC
For 21 days I saw changes wrought
by the freedom of 22 years
Secrets of razor wire straight and taut
Speak of those who continue to fear
I saw nature’s beauty in land and face
As black heel continues to rise
Via school, ambition they prep for the race
Even as secretly despised
What’s changed in Soweto? I did not live
But photos and newsreels survive
Pictures of shanties bulldozed to give
Whites room to extend their hives
Now malls; monuments to white retail
Built on Mandiba’s words
Polished chrome and marble hail
“Happy” workers in a black-faced world
Monuments ringed with vendors tribal
Carved goods for sale and cheap
The rands they make do not rival
What multi-nationals’ continue to reap
Happiness is shallow until sundown
When the curtain of decorum lifts
Showing reality’s new shanty-town
Where space and plumbing are gifts
I wonder if He would be okay
Seeing his people so used
As pawns for labor with little say
As black is seldom excused
The young know the time is now
As old hatred’s in shallow graves
To be unearthed by book and plow
Keeping dreams from stunting and fade
Oct 12, 2016
Oct 12, 2016 at 8:48 AM UTC
Freedom At Kannyakumari
“The destiny of India is molded in her class-rooms”
Kothari had no confusion; no vision on the fusion-
of the East and the West, as Swami Vivekananda’s vision,
“The comingling of the East and the West will dawn a new Era”.
As tissue culture, transplantation or cloning
we Indians imbibe the Western Culture;
or as G.M cotton or brinjals,or tomato
Indians are produced, transmuted
destroying the very indigenous genus for material growth.
Ayurveda is preserved not in Sanskrit but in English letters, now !
Followers of Lord Maccaulay as obedient servants,
by experiments,bring up Indians only in blood and colour-
in every other respects-Europeans
(using imperialist - capitalist media);
poor sycophants ,for a visa,
the Indians: now , turn to the West for light,
leaving the bright light under the Urn;
cry for a way of progress, safety and food;
and beg:once self reliant nations as cells of a body
No retrospection or introspection,
only putrefaction, hence , no resurrection.
On August 15th ,at Kannyakumari beach , beside me,
a bare body of a woman(my sister?) lay asleep;
I witnessed at the starry cold mid-night:
the surging sea spitting frothing snow
upon the black rocky *******
protruded, greasy, mossy. bare but fair ,
ever young at the feet of Bharat-matha.
Wet in the salty breeze , from the foul smell of death,
I walked and walked searching shelter,
but no room for a single son with meagre wealth.
The tourism net -workers with the thirst of mosquitoes
hummed around me with highly rented room offer-
source of tourism exploitation- I bargained,
till, morning red balloon rose up in the Eastern horizon
cleaving the vapours of the sea,
when , thousand tongues chanted Gayathri;
then , the locals thronged around the woman on the shore;
somebody among them, staring blear eyed
as the police jeep and the ambulance arrived , bewailed
“O! Gayathri, my darling, O! Gayathri…” Unsoothed.
The chanting and the yelling dissolved in the breeze
that passed by the Vivekananda rock, afar, south
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 3:50 AM UTC
Extra Extra ...Read all about it!!!..The time for the righteous ***** is dead...You claim Your stature of limitations..But all you got is knowledge...Let me reconstruct the past...That the ones you preaching to don't see...Slavery...to share croppers.. to steal mill workers...Cotton pick en...to bootleg ‘en...to crack rock..slag ‘en...They got Aids from monkeys..So lets give it to all the monkeys..They know to much lets bury the smart ones under all the dummies...Rise up you righteous *** Shabazz..With more medals then Marcus Garvey...but this dispositions is thicker than the stash on Steve Harvey. Cuz the kids they love the Wiz...and all the green he smoke...Forget the yellow brick road...its these white bricks they see as Gold...But you so righteous with black power on Your bumper sticker...And so sweet that your water start to be thicker...then blood...with a hood that attack your own progression..You Been righteous for so long..with hope you feel depression..that you accuse your brother of mental retardation...urban gentrification...when he still live in the same house he did the year before...but you been moved to the east side on the top floor..You righteous *** ***** you been pronounced dead...back when them bombs hit over Bagdad...they waved the white flag..but you just made it easy...cuz you still so righteous...you done Got Fat, Turned Gay...and rallying for pride marches...Cuz you don’t know what else to do...your time is over..Them black cats use to be panthers, now you dress them up...and placed us all in a new minority...just to keep your righteous priority...Are You still looking East, or have you finally excepted the West..
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 1:02 PM UTC
I’d worked late the previous night,
programing applications.
When the alarm went off at four A.M.
I hit snooze- no hesitation.
Eventually my feet found floor,
I stumbled to the shower.
A routine usually done in ten
took me a half an hour.
I was running up the platform steps
but my train just left the station.
Great, I will be late for sure,
I thought, in consternation.
At least the day was perfect,
Warm and clear, no threat of rain.
I fished and found my ticket
and took the next westbound train.
The ”E” was fairly crowded
When I boarded it at Penn
I’d missed the first and I was glad
Another quickly came.
Beneath the streets of Gotham
The subway lurched downtown.
Above all hell was breaking loose
as two large planes were down.
I climbed the stairs up to the street
And entered the inferno
The sky now black from billowing smoke
Bright day turning nocturnal.
A Seven thirty Seven’s wheel-
I heard a woman screaming
I saw a body at my feet
Were we at war or was I dreaming?
I stared up at my window-
where I worked the night before.
Where flames and smoke leapt to the sky-
where my co workers were no more.
They’re jumping, someone shouted
I saw black specks launch from on high.
Better to die upon the street
Than to suffocate or fry.
I turn and ran, I am ashamed.
No Hero’s tale to tell.
I was a safe way away
when the first tower fell.
Had I not hit the button
or dawdled in the shower.
Had I caught my usual train
I’d be dead in the tower.
This is my shame and burden
To live when others died.
Preserved by fate and circumstance
From terror from the sky.
Jan 27, 2012
Jan 27, 2012 at 11:04 PM UTC