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mark john junor Mar 2014
her wrist bears a set of golden bracelets
with bells and woven beads
light blue with a tangle of red
it goes with her dreadlocks
and the trinkets woven into her hair
beads and baubles
there is amongst other treasures
on the edge of one of her dreads
a tiny box
within a small face
made of pewter
old as lord nelsons prize at the nile
old as the length of a pewter mans dream
i am the pewter man and
the absence of her perfume on the air
is the absence of my soul
and my heart labors
how will i push the pen forward
can i even breath without her near
Stu Harley Feb 2011
A ten foot high
sunflower man
gold capped
tooth in
his mouth but
there ain't no plan
yet him wearing
them knotty
dreadlocks again
walking himself
through
Black Folk's yard
in bebop-style
no doubt
along the
avenue road
smoking himself
some of that
sweet sweet gunga and
him full of himself
rasta man
young rapster
you rapscillion
did you bring
the juice
mark john junor Sep 2013
the long day
has given itself into evening
she and i lay in eachother's arms
beneath the traces of stars
watching the lights  of passing ships in the sea
listen to the waves rock our skiff
taste the salt air in our every sense
and slowly the rest of the worlds  fades from view
to just us
as our soft talking drifts through the hours
she caresses my arm and laughs
i breath her hair and all the scents  of her womanhood
and  i feel like i could break with all the love i feel inside of me for her
like a window to all the hopes and dreams i ever had
telescopes into one moment

any moment she and her hippie girlfriends are gonna
roll in with sandwich's and green tea
for the hungry masses
and smiling they will pass the time talking
and laughin with young voices
and my neighbor catches them in watercolor
a bright flowing device and masterpiece
his old fingers dart over the canvas
and you can feel the sunlight in his images
you can hear the sweet laughter

we wander long the back street
with the open air market
they are callin out in happy voices
in the strong trade winds
and don't cha know that its so easy to forget all your troubles
and leave the whole world behind
here in the ocean breeze
here under a tropical moon
they all end up sleeping in a pile on the bed
i slept there too
one hippie chick is living on a carnival ride with lifetime
supply of cotton candy
a couple of hippie chicks
is nothing short of
well....everything you could have ever wanted
rolled up on your bed a tangle of dreadlocks arms and legs
K Balachandran Mar 2017
You won't recognize them I bet,
your secrets, even in broad day light,
if they walk towards you smiling,
wearing dark glasses to hide their eyes
in a humid day.They now wear clothes
of different styles to take you for a ride,
even cross dress and change the accents,
they play games with your hazy mind
--the secrets you once buried deep under.

They stand peeping behind blinded windows
prowl as shadows soliciting behind half open doors,.

Time flies in a hurry like migratory birds left behind,
you have to strain your ears too much
to hear even the faint foot falls of the past!

Old memories have changed their manners
they try to distract one with invented details
Like the muffled voices in an attic dark,
on a fateful day so long, your old secrets
speak an archaic tongue, that needs to be interpreted.

One has to be artful as the turbaned village elders
who would for your astonishment interpret
the vocabulary of lizard calls, key to nature's intents.

Or the trained eye of an elder who in flashes
of meteor falls, reads the secret messages of universe.
To get a true sense of your own secret
you have to tread the places they hide.

Make them shed their crusted hides
by which they conceal their true color,
which one has been waiting to see,
with a palpitating heart, walking back
to where one walked once, long forgotten.
That is why elders on days of yore
would exhort, embarrassingly repeat too,
not to have any hidden secrets that hurt
even if breathtakingly beautiful like a courtesan.

In some moment one won't  expect
dreadful they could turn and become witches,
with fiery eyes, dreadlocks, and long nails.
Olive Spectrum was a plain looking black woman in her 30's who lived a very plain life.  She always looked forward to Saturday.  A day she would spend at the Golden Scissors getting her hair done and talking with Jewel StoneWall her childhood friend.  When Saturday rolled around Olive hopped out of bed and got ready for her hair appointment.  On her way to the Golden Scissors Olive thought about how Jewel have been trying to get her to get Dreadlocks.  "Jewel said I should try something different.  I guess I'll be getting Dreadlocks" said Olive.  As Olive parked her red BMW in the parking lot of the Golden Scissors she noticed she was Jewel's first client.  Now only if it would stay like this thought Olive.  Opening the doors to the hair salon Olive saw Jewel sitting in her chair as if she was a client waiting to get her hair done.  "Jewel get off your lazy **** and get started on my hair" said Olive as she entered the Golden Scissors.  "Olive hush your mouth before I make you turn around and leave" said Jewel as she rose to her feet.  Rolling her eyes and waving her hands in the air Olive pranced over to Jewel and tugged on her hair.  "I've decided to let you dread my hair.  You're right It's time for a change" said Olive as she raked her fingers through Jewel's hair.  Placing her hands on her hips Jewel said "It's about time.  Place your **** in my chair so I can get started."  "Oh yeah I got a fish on the line" Olive told Jewel as she sat down.  Dragging the comb through Olive's hair Jewel says "Mmmm do tell Olive and don't leave nothing out."  "I won't and by the way dye the tip of my dreadlocks red.  This new face came in the bank today.  A tall good looking brother by the name of Akurra Wings.  He opened a checking and a saving account" said Olive.  As Jewel twisted Olive's hair she asked the question "Did you ask him out?"  "Not yet.  The next time he come in I'll ask" answered Olive.  "What does he look like?  C'mon Olive I need details" said Jewel.  "He's tall around six feet, light skin, and has a brush cut" said Olive.  "Mmmmm he sounds yummy.  Will you get in trouble if you date him?" asked Jewel.  "I don't think so and it's nobody business who I date" answered Olive.  With a concern look on her face Jewel says "I just want to make sure you don't get in trouble."  "Jewel we don't hang out that much any more.  We need to get together and do something" said Olive.  "With me working all the time Olive I don't have that much free time.  Because of who you are I'll make time" said Jewel.  When Jewel StoneWall finally got finished with Olive's hair it was 1:00pm.  "Take a look in the mirror Olive and tell me what you think" said Jewel as she took a step back.  Rising to her feet Olive looked in the mirror.  "Wow Jewel if I knew I looked this good with Dreadlocks I would have gotten them a long time ago" said Olive as she stared at herself in the mirror.  "What else are you doing today?" asked Jewel.  "I'm going shopping.  I need a new outfit" answered Olive as she paid Jewel for doing her hair.  "We'll get together Olive.  Just let me move things around on my schedule" said Jewel.  "Yeah sure Jewel" said Olive.  Getting back in her car Olive drove to the clothing store New Fashions.
Written by Keith Edward Baucum
This is GREEN Chapter Two.  A gangster love story.
Millar Hill May 2012
Bob Marley Spoken Word                                                                                                                                  5/1/2012
What comes to mind when I say; Bob Marley?

Is it a stereotypical ‘idea’ of a Rastafarian; ***** dreadlocks & *** smoker?
Or is it a …
An intelligent and talented man; who wanted change in a positive way?
   Yeah he had dreadlocks and didn’t see any harm in the herb. That was his apart of his religion and beliefs. You can’t call yourself a true fan if that’s the only reason you’ve liked him because he smoked ***. It’s time to get over that; you need to realize what he truly was about. He gave us knowledge about history, Uplifting and positive rhythms, happiness when you’re down, music to stop us from worrying when shaken and songs of freedom. This man told us powerful messages through his music. This guy was brilliant and I sure as hell don’t think of him as a ***** dreadlocked *** smoking Rastafarian.  Who’s a bad influence on children, most definitely not! Children should listen and gain knowledge. We in the world are lucky to have a man that lived; who still lives in millions of hearts away. I’m glad we had such a wonderful human being he is one of the biggest inspirations to me. I will live to tell messages in my writings that will be a part of history.
-  One Love
Timothy Brown Jan 2014
They were the knotted extensions of her soul.
They showed how she twisted the truth
right out the lies she had been told.
Since birth people tried to typecast her role.

Marry a man
Have some babies
Grow old

Her family would say someone mucked up the recipe;
sugar, spice and everything nice. She was
dissimilar to the 3. Her sugar was solitude.
Her spice? Tattoos. Everything nice in her
had been stripped and *******. So the only
thing left of that were the bits of metal in her lips,
nose and ears. "Brush your hair 100 times a day, dear",
Her mother had said for years. And she did
until the day she told her parents she was
a different kind of queer. Then,the tears.

Somewhere between her mother's damnations,
her father's belligerence and her usual
rebuttal of indifference, she began to take interest
in her hair. Those long, straight strands were
nothing like her. The red reflected
her parents rejection. In that moment.
There was clarity in the contorted
version of love she had to incur.
She decided the only expectations
to accept were hers. And just like that
the barrier between her and the world cracked.
She decided to dread her hair and dye it black.

As the years went by,  her parents learned
to accept their daughter. And in return
each year  she would send them a photo
showing how her hair had gotten longer.
She also added trinkets to the locks and let
the strawberry color grow back.
Yet she kept the tips black to remind herself
no matter what the world wants her to be
the most important thing in life was her self-esteem.
Entirely fictional story I made up. I have an affinity for women with dreadlocks. They are so confident and emotionally strong. So I made a character that was just that.
© January 9th, 2014 by Timothy Brown. All rights reserved.
L B Sep 2019
9-11 POEM:

Dreadlocks of a Scream
____

Fever too high
Doze
hallucinate
doze...

...into the blue sky
and watch the tracer upward
tip
hesitate
and turn toward earth
Split apart
in the widening dreadlocks of a scream
One that took the whole world down with it

A woman is standing on an edge
hundreds of feet up in the open air--
Just standing....

“You-- who have mounted to the sky
will be cast down
with great violence
You, the golden cup”
set down

I am burning up at 103
Toss in the arid sheets
Chafed flushed cheeks
against this living desert pillow

Desert
Hallucinate
Can't get a GPS on where I am
or what's the time
But most of all – what just happened?

I toss and wake to slivered light
coming from another room
Hear the whispers
See their vacant faces
Must have walked into the den
Feel their shivers hush
My questions
Between the aisles of candlelight
and murmured prayers
I'm walking
Still in my right mind

“It's on the screen”
for all to see
without electricity

I have a fever of 103
--and the main question???

Why everyone's transfixed

Everyone
______

1-28-86-- Space Shuttle Challenger explodes, killing crew.

9-11-01-- World Trade Center
_______

“...Now so that your heart does not grow faint,
And you are not afraid at the report that will be heard in the land—
For the report will come one year,
And after that another report in another year,
And violence will be in the land
With ruler against ruler”— Jer 50:46

Where Did the Towers Go-- by Doctor Judy Wood
I know that one of the "reports" was 9-11.  Not sure about the other, but I sensed something about the Shuttle Columbia's loss was significant.  In any case we are on borrowed time if Jeremiah's words are right.

Dr. Wood's book is hard to get, I understand.  Much of her scientific observations are on You Tube.  She does not speculate beyond what clearly DID NOT HAPPEN-- but does attempt to understand "WHAT" happened without conjecture as to "who or why or how."  Her observations are from many thousands of photographs and other accounts.
THERE'S RUDOLPH, FROSTY, SANTA CLAUS AND GOOD OLD EBENEEZER
THERE'S CAROLS SUNG BY EVERYONE FROM KISS ON THROUGH TO WHEEZER
THERE'S CD'S OUT FROM NAT KING COLE, THE BOSTON POPS HAVE TWO
THERE'S  ONE OUT  NEIL DIAMOND WHICH IS STRANGE BECAUSE OLD NEIL'S A JEW

THE STORES HAVE TINSEL EVERYWHERE, THEIR TREES TOO,LOOKING NICE
THERE'S WRAPPING PAPER, CHRISTMAS LIGHTS AND EVEN PLASTIC ICE
THEY ATTACK YOUR SENSES CONSTANTLY, THEY MUST THINK I'M A FOOL
FOR ALL THIS STUFF IS ON DISPLAY, BEFORE THE KIDS GO BACK TO SCHOOL

THERE'S A RASTAFARIAN SANTA CLAUS WITH DREADLOCKS KNOWN AS "STONEY"
GENETICALLY ALTERED TURKEY MEAT THAT TASTES JUST LIKE BALONEY
PEOPLE DON'T BUY CHRISTMAS GIFTS THEY SEEM TO JUST GIVE MONEY
SO THEY GO SHOPPING BOXING DAY, AND THIS I FIND QUITE FUNNY

THE CHARITIES ARE ON THE PHONE AND AT YOUR DOOR EACH NIGHT
THEY WORK YOU WITH SOME CHRISTMAS GUILT, AND SAY "IT'S ONLY RIGHT"
TO DONATE TO UNFORTUNATES AND THEIR FOLKS NEED IT MOST"
AS THEY FLASH THEIR SMILES, FAKE I/D'S BEFORE THEIR PHONY BOAST

PEOPLE SHOP AND BUY AND BUY AND THEN THEY ALL RE-GIFT
MOST TIMES YOU'LL GET CHRISTMAS CAKE, THAT'S REALLY HARD TO LIFT
YOU WORK O.T. AND DO YOUR BEST, YOUR CHRISTMAS CASH TO SAVE
AND YOU SMILE WHEN YOU GET YOUR GIFT, AND IT'S THE ONE YOU GAVE

CHRISTMAS IS LESS FESTIVE AND TO ME IT'S GOTTEN RATHER CLINICAL
WITH SCHEDULES MADE AND SALES AND THINGS, IT'S MADE ME RATHER CYNICAL
TO SAY WHAT CHRISTMAS REALLY MEANS, I READ THOMAS ACQUINAS
BUT INSTEAD, I'LL USE A QUOTE FROM SHCULTZ'S PROPHET LINUS

..."AND SUDDENLY THERE WAS WITH THE ANGEL A MULTITUDE OF THE HEAVENLY HOST PRAISING GOD
AND SAYING "GLORY TO GOD IN THE HIGHEST, AND ON EARTH PEACE, GOODWILL TOWARD MEN.""

AND THAT IS WHAT CHRISTMAS IS ALL ABOUT....PLAIN AND SIMPLE.
Tara J Williams Apr 2016
I've been telling my therapist about you.
I've been trying to sleep, yet all that fills my head is you and her.
You talking to her. A filthy wreck. I feel sorry for her.
Me working into the early hours of the morning, watching a sunrise on the long drive back, me wanting to get home to you.
You getting involved with her while I'm gone. You inviting her to the bar. Let me make you a drink.
You could be wiping her lipstick away before I return, erasing her taste from your lips. I bet it's disgusting.
I thought you hated dreadlocks.
I've been going over and over in my head if this is what I'm worth. I know I'm not a looker.. My hair is messy, my clothes are ripped, I'm all marked up from the past.
I thought my personality shone through that though.
Sometimes though, I guess that's not enough.
What hole do you need to fill? Please tell me.
Please, oh please tell me why you knocked me down. Why am I not enough.
I've been crying a little each day, then pulling it back together.
I've been trying to still be that stone wall I always am throughout this horrible pain.
I smell like cigarettes, you smell like lies.
I've been telling my therapist about you.
mark john junor Sep 2014
greyhound station
quarter to three am
in the rain
she is sitting on the bags
playing a vampire movie on the kindle
the screen lights her up
as she leans in close for the big wedding scene
run my hand along her dreadlocks
stopping to eye a new bead
thats her...a new little treasure for my heart each day

she leans on my shoulder as we
sit in the very back of the bus
bare to the warm night air
while dave matthew's sings to us
a little ditty from his long ago
has such a style don't he
she whispers a kiss onto my cheek
slips into dreamin

miles run past breathlessly
just an ebb and flow of u-gas and jiffy ****
just a parade of kids playing by an endless river
right outside this dim window
shes sleepin softly
i'm so awake to how i feel
to how much she means to me

where ya going mister
where ya headed
i point ..."thata way to the bright future"
so full of promise
so full of joys
with her at my side i can do anything
with her i am superman
Tobias Engkvist Dec 2014
Your spirits strength I've seen,
More amazed, never have I been,

It reverberates from the lion roar,
Echo (echo) to the core,

Inside the mane you reside,
Yet ever so bravely; playfully you stride!

Swinging madly on Gods dreadlocks,
Your pendulum of ethereal knots,

Twines of love mirroring yours,
Synchronized rhythm, an unstoppable force.
tread Sep 2013
winter creeps
like Rastafarian
dreadlocks

3, 4th, intervals
calmer then an
Ativan pill.
Olive Spectrum was a plain looking black woman in her 30's who lived a very plain life.  She always looked forward to Saturday.  A day she would spend at the Golden Scissors getting her hair done and talking with Jewel StoneWall her childhood friend.  When Saturday rolled around Olive hopped out of bed and got ready for her hair appointment.  On her way to the Golden Scissors Olive thought about how Jewel have been trying to get her to get Dreadlocks.  "Jewel said I should try something different.  I guess I'll be getting Dreadlocks" said Olive.  As Olive parked her red BMW in the parking lot of the Golden Scissors she noticed she was Jewel's first client.  Now only if it would stay like this thought Olive.  Opening the doors to the hair salon Olive saw Jewel sitting in her chair as if she was a client waiting to get her hair done.  "Jewel get off your lazy **** and get started on my hair" said Olive as she entered the Golden Scissors.  "Olive hush your mouth before I make you turn around and leave" said Jewel as she rose to her feet.  Rolling her eyes and waving her hands in the air.  Olive pranced over to Jewel and tugged on her hair.  "I've decided to let you dread my hair.  You're right it's time for a change" said Olive as she raked her fingers through Jewel's hair.  Placing her hands on her hips Jewel says "It's about time.  Place your **** in my chair so I can get started.  "Oh yeah I got a fish on the line" Olive told Jewel as she sat down.  Dragging the comb through Olive's hair Jewel says "Mmmm do tell Olive and don't leave nothing out."  "I won't and by the way dye the tip of my dreads red.  This new face came into the bank today.  A tall good looking brother by the name of Akurra Wings.  He opened a checking and a saving account" said Olive.  "As Jewel twisted Olive's hair she asked the question "Did you ask him out?"  "Not yet.  The next time he come in I'll ask" answered Olive.  "What does he look like?  C'mon Olive I need details" said Jewel.  "He's tall around six feet, light skin, and he has a brush cut" said Olive.  "Mmmmm he sounds yummy.  Will you get in trouble if you date him?" asked Jewel.  "I don't think so and it's no body business who I date" answered Olive.  With a concern look on her face Jewel says "I just want to make sure you don't get in trouble."  "Jewel we don't hang out that much anymore.  We need to get together and do something" said Olive.  "With me working all the time Olive I don't have that much free time.  Because of who you are I'll make time" said Jewel.  When Jewel StoneWall finally got finished with Olive's hair it was 1:00pm.  "Take a look in the mirror Olive and tell me what you think" said Jewel as she took a step back.  Rising to her feet Olive looked in the mirror.  "Wow Jewel if I knew I looked this good with Dreadlocks I would have gotten them a long time ago" said Olive as she stared at herself in the mirror.  "What else are you doing today?" asked Olive.
"I'm going shopping.  I need a new outfit" answered Olive as she paid Jewel for doing her hair.  "We'll get together Olive.  Just let me move things around on my schedule " said Jewel.  "Yeah sure Jewel" said Olive.  Getting back in her car Olive drove to the clothing store New Fashions.

Written by Keith Edward Baucum.
Gangster love story.
Trevor Gates Apr 2013
Walking back onto the street around nine O’clock
Pizzerias, Clubs and white guys with dreadlocks
Moving like sea urchins with an urge to mock
Hey 2 for one at Roxy’s for black rubber *****

I’m carrying two bags of groceries; One with a pie
There are no stars in the city. Just the moon in the sky
I move lazily and tired as evening joggers pass by
“God I wish I was more active.” I say with a sigh.

I ascend the stairs because the **** elevator is broken
One flight. Two flight. ******* wood surely is oaken
2 minutes of climbing the obstacle that’s unspoken.
I suffer for being the Asian, the part-Korean token.

I reach my apartment, music playing through the wall
I feel worn out and about ready to fall
But I walk in and proceed, feeling anything but tall.
The time has come. I walk to the kitchen from the hall.

I live with three roommates: Sam, Dean an Owen.
Sam is shut in his room. He’s a DJ and I think Samoan
Dean is weird. Don’t ask about flagellated protozoan
And Owen is a reader and blogger. Just plain Owen.

I place the groceries on the counter, I stumble.
Owen is reading and I hear him mumble
“Did you say something?” I grumble
“Wrong Pie.” He says, his words fumble.

“What?” I don’t understand

   “Wrong pie.” Owen says again.
I point towards the pie on the table. “What, this?”
    “Yeah.” He says.
    “What’s wrong with it?”
    “Everything.”
    “Like what?”
    “Well, it’s the wrong pie.”
    “How?”
    “It’s apple.”
    “Yeah, so?”
    “But I thought you were going to get cherry?”
I shrug my shoulders, “Yeah but they were out.”
    “Where did you go?” Owen asked, but he knew.
    “Just that corner market.”
    “Well why the hell did you go there, you know they don’t have **** there.”
    “Does it matter?  I got most of the things.”
    “Yeah, most.  Not all.  You didn’t get the right pie.”
    “Does it matter?” I tell him. Owen closes his book.
    “I think so.”
    “At least I got a pie.  You guys said, ‘Hey man, make sure you get a pie’. You didn’t say get a ******* cherry pie!”
    I try to calm down, but the blasting of dubstep remixes warp my thinking process.  Owen leaves the kitchen and knocks on the doors. He tells them I’m back and that I ******* up the groceries.
“I did no such thing!” I yell, “You ***** think you told me what to get but you’ll all too into yourselves to ever know what the *******’re saying and you come off as ignorant over-privileged *******! Yeah Owen you’re so unique” I mock sarcastically, “Must be why you dress exactly the same as every other hipster here, going online and vlogging about the same **** a 12 year-old in suburban America would talk about and his ***** probably haven’t even dropped.”
    Owen’s eyes are wide, never seeing this side of me before. Sam and Dean open their doors to see all the commotion.
I walk back in to the kitchen and grab the pie.
    “Here *******!” I toss the pie as hard as I can so it hits the ceiling. The tin tray falls to the ground and the apple crusted pie is splattered, stuck to the ceiling like an IKEA fan made of butchered apples.
    I open the door.  “Dubstep is just edited noises of transformers having ***!”
I slam the door and leave, walking back downstairs and onto the street


Roommates ******* ****. I was tired of their **** and rules.
They used me for their homework, Working me like a mule
I’m barely able to pass my classes, let alone graduate from school
So trivial to help them just to earn my cool.

I flipped up my hood and rushed through the streets
I didn’t know where I was going, I didn’t care who I’d meet
A slice from Death Metal Pizza, a drink from Fat man Pete.
I need to let loose. Relax and take that invigorating leap.

I stumbled upon an old movie theater, playing classics, new and old
“I want tickets for all the shows.” To the box office I told.
I bought popcorn and milkduds. I think my chair had mold.
And watched as Al Pacino was out of jail; being paroled.

Carlito’s Way, then intermission
A glimmer of previews then Pulp Fiction.
Ezekiel 25:17 and blasts of omission
From Jules’ and Vincent’s handgun ammunition  

After the credits roll I get three hot dogs and a large soda
Next movie: The Evil Dead, enough to put me in a coma
AH ******* demons Killing like the cancer of lymphoma
Scaring me and making me spill my watered-down cola.

Next was the Monty Python to ease the chills
Ensuring talking fish, puking and hilarious thrills
I really enjoyed the collective animation stills
I was relieved from the films and I had my fills

Now I had a good place to come and let loose, relax and laugh
And I wouldn’t have to display my clustered, boiled wrath
To my ******* roommates. Maybe I’ll move out on their behalf
We’ll see how it plays out. I’ll write a “*******” graph.

But thanks to them I found a new way to survive
Which is better than the alternative; a desperate suicide
Watching movies late at night is better for me than to die
All ascertained from the incident of the wrong ******* pie.
Please forgive me for that middle section just being a straight narrative.  I thought it would add comedic effect. This whole thing started out as a short story. I was converting everything to the rhyming scheme but I just loved what I originally had for that part that I just kept it like it was.

Lot's of fun in this one. i couldn't help but laugh to myself some of the ridiculous rhymes (or lack of) I was trying to squeeze in.

Good references in here to Pulp Fiction, Carlito's Way, Monty Python's The Meaning of Life and The Evil Dead.
Timothy Brown Apr 2014
She wanders with a ponderance
of an unfulfilling existence .
It's like she missed the instance
when life was handing out
purpose. She became subverted
by her own thoughts.
Self-image contorted
like spaghetti noodles or dreadlocks.
The simplicity of existing has become brutal.
She keeps the gold within
vaulted like Fort Knox.
That protection is like an island
preventing her journey's beginning.
A short introduction to Sweet Memory  You can find other parts of the story in my poems entitled Sweet Memory left with Bad Taste. ©April 7th, 2014 by Timothy Brown. All rights reserved.  P.S Thanks Letty for the inspiration
We look for Satan with the same intensity
that my mom and dad looked for God.

In retrospect
my parents were always pushing me to expand my consciousness
by huffing glue or gasoline
or chewing peyote buttons.
Simply because they'd done their time,
wasted their teen years
lolling in the muddy fields of Vermont
and the salt flats of Nevada,
naked except for rainbow face paints
and a thick coating of sweaty filth,
their heads festooned
with fifty pounds of fetid dreadlocks,
teeming with crab lice
and pretending to find enlightenment...
That does NOT mean I have to make the same mistake.

Sorry, Satan,
once again I've said the G-word.

Without breaking stride,
Leonard nods and points
to indicate the former deities of now-defunct cultures,
now warehoused in the underworld.
Among them: Benoth,
a god of the Babylonians;
Dagon,
an idol of the Philistines;
Astarte,
goddess of the Sidonians;
Tartak,
the god of the Hevites.

My suspicion
is that my parents treasure their sordid recollection
of episodes at Woodstock and Burning Man
not because those pastimes led to wisdom,
but because such folly
was inseparable from a period of their lives
when they were young
and unburdened by obligation;
they had free time, muscle tone,
and their futures still looked like a great, grand adventure.
Furthermore,
both my mother and father had been free of social status
and therefore had nothing to lose by cavorting ****,
their swollen genitals smeared with muck.

Thus,
because they had ingested drugs and flirted with brain damage,
they insisted I should do likewise.
I was forever opening my boxed lunch at school
to discover a cheese sandwich,
a carton of apple juice,
carrot sticks,
and a five-hundred-milligram Percocet.
Tucked within my Christmas stocking
--not that we celebrated Christmas--
would be three oranges,
a sugar mouse, a harmonica,
and quaaludes.
In my Easter basket
--not that we called the event Easter--
instead of jelly beans,
I'd find lumps of hashish.
Would that I could forget the scene at my twelfth birthday party
where I flailed at a piñata,
wielding a broomstick in front of my peers
and their respective
former-hippie, former-rasta,
former-anarchist throwback parents.
The moment the colorful papier-mâché burst,
instead of Tootsie Rolls or Hershey's Kisses,
everyone present
was showered with Vicodins,
Darvons, Percodans,
amyl nitrate ampoules,
LSD stamps,
and assorted barbiturates.
The now wealthy,
now-middle-aged parents
were ecstatic,
while my little friends and I couldn't help
but feel a tad bit cheated.

That,
and it doesn't take a brain surgeon to understand
that very few twelve-year-olds
would actually enjoy attending
a clothing-optional birthday party.

Some of the most gruesome images in Hell
seem downright laughable
when compared to seeing an entire generation of adults
stripped **** and wrestling on the floor,
grasping and panting in frantic competition
for a scattered handful of codeine capsules.
This is a found poem. I found it in Chuck Palahniuk's ******.

Madison is the thirteen-year-old daughter of a movie star and billionaire who wakes up, dead, in Hell. She soon finds herself and her nearby cell mates, who make up an almost Breakfast Club of the ******-like group, journeying through Hell to discover just exactly why they've all ended up there.
mark john junor Mar 2014
heavy traffic
so we stash ourselves in the publix parking lot
and watch the flashes of the departing thunderstorm
she lays out on the buicks hood in a bikini top
a bead of sweat kisses her bellybutton
her thick dreadlocks spread like ropes
i pick one up and stick it in her ear
shes not happy with that

afternoon is all sunshine and watered down sodas
isles of plastic goodies and elevator musics
the old woman pushing her empty cart while dragging a bag
she goes to get her nails done
i push pebbles into parking lot puddles
and watch the sky drift in the reflection

she is half my age
she sticks her tongue in my ear
i dont mind
there are palm trees and lizzards everywhere
and pebbles in puddles
im a pebble and shes my puddle
shes all wet
im hard

we laugh in the forever summer sunshine
we dance in the parking lot puddles
of the fiveashes publix lot
and daydream the stars above
this is no ordinary love
this is passion's fire in the hearts eyes
shes my jezebel
im her poet
(alternate title "heavy traffic)
It is not wrong to be white
and to have dreadlocks
Though,
you may look like a pleb
but you offend me not
Nor would it offend
a black rastafarian man
of a temperate manner

I don't know any women
with white skin and
straight hair that get offended
by afro-caribbean women
wearing a straight weave
You're all just too soft now,
you're all just pet peaves

Stop getting offended
on behalf of other people
that don't even take offence
Excuse me,
whilst I build a fence
around myself hombre
Not to keep me here
but to keep you at bay

Cultural appropriation
doesn't exist
Cultural misappropriation
doesn't exist
You're all just
champagne socialists
You should get over it

Yes, you mate
The one that thinks
he's above
everyone
and must decide what is
politically correct
and whose life matters

In the end all this is
is a series of cultural
exchanges and we're
all wading through ****

Face it.
A bit of salty food for thought.
Mark Lecuona Aug 2015
How do you know who I am
Or what I stand for
I look ordinary
No dreadlocks
No paintings on my body
No rings piercing my ear
My eyes aren’t weary yet
My skin is white
I am educated
I have a piece of paper
I wear cotton clothes
Black pants
A clean shirt
I look like I am comfortable
That suffering is foreign to me
So what is it that I can say
When my identity is so plain?
But who must declare themselves openly?
Is it the man who has decided he has become all there is to be?
Is it the man who is unsure of the facts of life that he reads?
Is it the man who gives up his ambition to be what does not pay?
Is it the man who tells everyone the streets are where there are real men?
It is him who suffers most who becomes the angry man
It is him who becomes angry that is liberated
It is him who is liberated who can tell the truth
And so what do I tell you?
I am not him
I have no right to be angry
I have no right to be liberated
I have no right to tell the truth
Is that my identity?
No right to speak harshly of oppression
No right to speak harshly of poverty
No right to speak harshly of hunger
And it is true
I am not oppressed
I am not poor
I am not hungry
So I cannot pretend to be any of these things
I cannot pretend to have that connection
Who do I have the nerve to be?
So I spin a tale that I imagine of a life that I know exists
I think about what it would be like to watch an angry man
I think about what it would be like to watch a poor woman
I think about what it would be like to watch a migration
I think about what it would be like if I lost everything
I think about what it would be like to give everything away
Then I know
And I am ashamed
I know I would not survive
And so it is not because I am not poor
It is because I wouldn’t know how to live
Like they are able to live
Without hope
But with life
Without respect
But with pride
Without relevance
But with identity
Because they know who they are
The chosen ones
Who have the right
To smirk at those of us who visit the poor on a field trip
And then go home and forget
Forget them
While they remember us
The soulless ones
Without the knowing of anything
Without the knowing of how to live
Without the knowing of survival
Without the knowing of will
Without the knowing of who we are
mark john junor Mar 2014
she rides her mountain bike
in the sun
dreadlocks fluttering behind like streamers
shes all smiles
as we come to our spot by the river
this beautiful place called fiveashes
and unpack the picnic basket
the world itself is beautiful when i'm with her
time itself loves her essence
even the graffiti looks like love letters the world
has written for her alone

theres something darkly romantic
about the nights down by fiveashes
something about thouse long miles
flying by on nightbreeze
with her hand in mine
with her lips on mine
its like a valley safe from the worlds seein
a place where naked and free we can be just we

down by fiveashes
the backseat of our buick is on fire
with her passions
and the lust in my soul
and theres something darkly romantic
about the humid warm air  and how her shirt clings to her **** skin
about the songbirds opening up the mysterious day
like a gift for the dreadlock girls that shine

she lay with me tangled in her afterwards
as we watch the stars and catch our breath
i taste her on my lips
i can taste her on my soul
like shes a sunrise
rapidly banishing my life's shadows
and breathing life itself into my heart
(for jezebel)
Lotus Oct 2013
It was night
There were no clouds in the sky,
Just stars in the black sea.
Noise spilled through the doors of the bar.
Outside the Brass Rail people with alcohol in their system
And the ***** in their lungs crowd the 49 highway.
In the middle of the road,
Where the white and yellow lines run parallel,
A wild smiling girl sets the triangle of bowling pins.
A ways down the highway line, a smiling man with blond dreadlocks
Swings his arms back and forth, ready to threw the ball.
The wild girl moves, the man throws his ball, the crowd cheers, trucks honk,
And the pins are hit!
Everyone jumps in the air, everyone claps and whistles,
And the game starts over again.
Bowling on highway 49 in North San Juan, California.
These wild free spirits are my friends.
Born Robert Nesta Marley on February 6, 1945
In nine mile, St.Ann
Emancipate yourself from mental slavery none
But ourselves can free our mind
I grew up on that prophetic message and philosophy
And it never left my soul or mind
You have left a legacy
World renowned
This dreadlocks man left his mark
Permanently

I believe you were before your time
I was not yet born
When you departured
But your music was my friend
I was built on your roots
Something music lacks today
Your words emanate so powerfully
That builds faith and tear down injustice
It inspire greatness

I remember the man who chants words of ball of fire
Hitting beyond anyone’s imagination
Or comprehension of his God given talent
He has touched hearts from Jamaica to America
Europe to India to Africa all over
His music is worldwide
It’s like a life’s guide
Whether ball head or Rasta man
Bob Marley music lives on
I have yet to see someone like him
His legacy continues with his sons and daughters
With every Jamaican
His message was deep, spiritual and philosophical
To the soul and mind.
R.I.P
The Great Reggae Legend.

All Rights Reserved.
Christena Antonia Valaire Williams
Jamaica W.I
In writing-In praise-In memory (Poetry book of Anthology by Brian Wrixon, )My poem is featured.
RH 78 Feb 2015
The barber asked "what would you like?
Quiff?
          bun?
           Mohawk?
slicked back?
           side parting?
                    centre parting?
                                            greased?            
                                      permed?                  
                           straightened?
                   skin head?
               bald head?
        spiky?
        A comb over?
pony tail?
        pig tails?
                    curly?
                            frizzy?
                      dyed?
                               mop top?
                         French crop?
                 blue rinse?
           purple rinse?
                             step?
                                    undercut?
                                              shaggy?      
                                     dreadlocks?"
"No thanks" I replied
"I'll have a short back and sides and make it messy on top please"
mark john junor Mar 2014
the hour slips by without a sound
and through the looking glass window
the days unfolding scene
gives life and motion
to the surreal stillness within
the silent theatricals of man and beast
strive and fail under the shifting skies
like the rise and fall of nameless empires
their brilliant banners swiftly stirred by
the storms and seas

i walk along the fresh laid carpet
with bare feet feeling the texture
and stand at the doorway
with its wooden contraptions ajar to allow breezes
to walk into the dark house

the heavy presence of paint on the air
and the devices of workmen underfoot
soon will fade to memory as our polished lives
are neatly adorned and trimmed
we have become what we dread
civilized

she walks from the bedroom
wearing nothing but her dreadlocks
as i finish making dinner
we have duck and wild rice
i teach her some ballroom dancing steps
we laugh and whisper
the night has come to its fading
and though we are restless
we trek to our bed
and wrestle eachother to sleep

this is evening with her
and our elegant love affair
The Scribe Aug 2012
As real as Monopoly Money....

I'm on Mediterranean Ave, buying sleeping gas, and a bulletproof vest to rob Community Chest. Inside info from Dimples. Cut her out of the money by putting 2 in her temple. Off to the projects, the Marvin Gardens. Special discounts when buying guns by the carton. The back up getaway is on Pacific Ave. Her brother will drop me off, I'll plant a bomb in his taxi-cab. Rob them, he'll drop me at the Waterworks, his car blows. I'll swim a half a mile to Reading Railroad. Give *** Jack some chump change, $500 for the caboose on the train. Low profile as we go through the ave's; Vermont, Oriental, Kentucky, and also Virginia Ave. Robin hood theory, throw out bundles of cash. We can't Stop, we'll be taking a Chance. Getting locked up in the Jailhouse, 25 with an L ****!

Jump off @ St. James church, to stash my firearm. "What if it's closed", I'll crack the burglar alarm. Walk in, see the priest, and for our sins we confess. For the rest of this mission, we'll need to he blessed. With this economy messed up, pockets they lack. Time doesn't pay the crime, they've added a Luxury Tax, to avoid the Electric Company where people get fried Jack. Walk down Indiana and blend with the panhandlers, to No. Carolina, where I'll steal us a Pathfinder(Nissan). Then we'll go, it's a quarter after 4 we got to get to the B&O.; Listen for the Jamaican yelling bloodclot. He'll extract the rest of the plan from his dreadlocks. Park Pl. will take us straight to the train station. Hide all your valuables, it's headquarters for freebasing. "What about the cops watching from the Free Parking Lot"? We'll sneak up the back street called Tennessee, and dress up like some ladies, to hide our identity. "Ooooh that's smooth and just might work, to make it to Conneticut in heels and a skirt". Get on the Shortline to Advance to New York, and lay low at St. Charles Pl., on Ventnor and Illinois.

We're at St. Charles Pl. getting undressed from the lady clothes, and the rest of the plan to pull a hit on the Parker Bros. Rifles issued at target practice, to get what we wanted. When we Pass Go, they'll pay us $200. To rent a room on the Boardwalk Hotel Top floor, to shoot the Parker Bros. as they walk out the front door. We'll lean out the window and have them centered. Since the scope is telescopic, we can see where the bullet entered. BOOYAH, the scope is off, so we missed their heads. Broke down the weapons, while we was running downstairs. Stole their Rolls Royce in front of the crowd. Still in pursuit of the Brother's for laughing aloud.......GAME OVER!
Stanley Mungai Jun 2012
My great grandfathers wore dreadlocks
Yet stood firm, proud as peacocks
Patrolling their territory paddocks
Today they are a source of mocks
A representation of sheer evil
In the world we foolishly call civil
Like an attempt on a biscuit by a weevil
We lost it.

Our great forefathers drank milk
And then over the mountains take a hike
Had absolute no need for a bike
Treated all men with respect alike
We are taking concoction for drink
May never cease to suffer sick
Rounded and diabetic as tick
We lost it.

They went to schools to learn practice
Learnt virtue and shunned away vice
To obey all the elders without a voice
Then there was little necessity for police
We are learning to sit all day in office
To treat subordinates with blowing malice
Learning theory, understanding without choice
We depend on book, written advice
Alphabets unlike words know no justice
Scratching as mice full of lice
We lost it.
*We left our heritage in search for western enlightenment and we lost the beautiful and the magnificent aspects of the African culture*
Lappel du vide Feb 2014
i remember when my mama took me up the mountain,
she told me,
"now, you are ready."
and pine and oak softly fluttered their leaves at my arrival.
there were yellow flowers,
growing wildly,
strangling the delicate blue blossoms,
made of flimsy roots and spindly bosoms.

i was the youngest in a tribe of
golden skinned people;
dreadlocks, tattoos,
moon cycles on the sides of their eyes,
and hair like cattails whispering in the dark.

with my stomach churning,
i entered the tall, dimly lit tepee.
the medicine man sat churning the ashes
in an empty fire-pit,
and women stood around me scattering
flower petals like
soft skin
all over the red-dirt earth.

his eyes twinkled,
and told me things that he would only let the
dusk unfold.
i took my seat on a white sheep-skin,
settling myself.

as the night grew older,
the fire grew larger,
shapes elongated on the fair skin of the stretched
tepee,
the flames dancing wildly,
smoke drifting up into the
starry dark.

the fire keeper stoked the raging
yellow and orange tongues,
and the medicine man sat with a bandanna on,
his waterfall nose moving,
and his leather brown skin creaking,
as he told us stories of the sacred medicine.

and we sat,
somebody started singing.
my mothers warm frame was close to mine,
and my step-father next to her,
shoulders touching in the close proximity,
intimate, smoky air.

they beat the deer-skin drum,
badum badum *** badum badum ***
in native languages like
roaring rivers,
they sang songs to the medicine,
for the opening of the heart;
their swift and strong voices
rising like smoke and flame.

when the drum was passed to me,
i didn't know any songs,
wasn't aware that i had to know any.
i started to hit the drum with the padded
stick, and
closed my eyes,
feeling the sticky sweat of my perspiring forehead
drip down upon my licked lips,
tasting of wood and dirt.
i sang something lilting
sounds coming from the deepest
crevices of my throat,
being gently pulled from the grasp of my ribs.

the medicine man put pine on the fire,
it sizzled and breath was filled with
sweet and sharp.

when the air was right, and
the night was thick with song,
he uncovered baskets of small,
green and ridged fruit-like shapes.
"buttons,"

the medicine was taking her form, and was cradled
as a native man took it around the circle,
along with oranges.
i'd find out soon why.

i took two, small and light in my fingers.
i closed my eyes and took the first bite.

my mouth was struck, eroding teeth
and erupting tongue
my face contorted from the bitter juices the small fruit
held within its delicate skin,
my stomach churned and i swallowed it down
biting into the orange, skin and all
begging for a shock of zest to take
down the intense flesh of the medicine.

i looked around,
some people were on their third, fourth.
the beat of the drums was constant,
along with the quiet,
restful crackle of the sighing fire.

the second bite was less of a surprise,
and i finished my first one.

it was only at the third bite of the second button
that my stomach refused to go any more without
heaving,
the astringent juices of the
small fruit working its magic on my stomach.

i closed my eyes and embraced what was around me;
slowly swaying in the deep voices of my
family,
mi familia,
'ohana,
and the heartbeat of the
mountain drums.

soon, i felt weary.
my mother rested her hand like falling rain on my shoulder,
and i lay in the warm arms of her
shawls,
twisting around me like snakes.

a traditional rollie was passed around,
made of corn husk and hand grown tobacco.
my eyes grew slow and drooping,
and i fell into the waiting arms of sleep
while listening to the music of
tobacco and wood smoke, hushed voices,
wilting night,
dancing fire, and alive laughter.

my sleep was deep and dreamless,
my body carried to other places by the medicine,
leaving my mind behind.

i woke to rough feet on the red dirt,
and my mother and father intertwined like red roses,
sleeping below the tepee's watch,
my mothers white skirt fanning out like
soft sheets in the summer
walls.

there were goodmorning smiles,
light spreading from one set of a skin to another,
as my family embraced me,
told me they were proud and grateful to me
for sitting with them.

a bowl of chocolate was passed around, along with a crate
of juicy, pink, dawn touched strawberries.
i dipped them in the dark, sweet and rich paste
and one after another,
felt myself expand into the universe even more.
only when my mother awoke,
to sprinkling flowers,
and lifted sky,
she told me that the chocolate held the medicine too.

i made my way across swaying, long grass,
and sat in the sun, sipping tea with a sliced lemon,
making art with twists and curls of my pencils and pens,
listening to the experiences of last night,
the enlightenment,
the sense of overwhelming love,
that was not quite drowning.

i basked in everything,
let the heat soak into my flesh,
the lilting laugh.
somebody handed me a guitar,
and i sang with my chocolate tinted lips,
and let my voice float within and around the mountain,
filling the tepee and the empty fire pit
once more,
with the sweet and bitter tastes of
the medicine
*peyote.
i wrote this when i started remembering the night my mother took me for a peyote ceremony tepee meeting at a very young age. it was so beautiful, and an experience i will never forget. not until now, i noticed i had no poetry from it, so i decided to try and recreate the mind-blowing feelings of that night.
this will be part one of many other poems about the sacred medicines i have taken with my family and friends.
more info on peyote:
Peyote is a cactus that gets its hallucinatory power from mescaline. Like most hallucinogens, mescaline binds to serotonin receptors in the brain, producing heightened sensations and kaleidoscopic visions.

Native groups in Mexico have used peyote in ceremonies for thousands of years, and other mescaline-producing cacti have long been used by South American tribes for their rituals. Peyote has been the subject of many a court battle because of its role in religious practice; currently, Arizona, Colorado, New Mexico, Nevada and Oregon allow some peyote possession, but only if linked to religious ceremonies, according to Arizona's Peyote Way Church of God.
Scot Powers Jun 2013
Blueberry you sit
heavy on my mind
met you at a party
of a friend of mine

So free a soul
I've scarcely met
with your multi- colored dreadlocks
and presence so fresh

Colorful outfit
like I've never seen
flowing so graceful
as you wander near me

Rainbow scarf
of fabric so fine
green khaki jacket
and a gleam in your eye

You struck me at once
unlike many before
as someone who knows
the trips gift for the soul

The freedom you showed
was clear to see
the joy in your eyes
as you prodded playfully

My soul it did sing
with joy this day
at seeing you Blueberry
lighting the way
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
yes, i know he said he was a vegetarian, delicate counter-priesthood prince - a manner of vegetarianism that expressed an abhorrence of the practice of Eucharist, i too think the Eucharist as a metaphor is a bit porridge: i.e. yucky.  but as Wagner said to him: up north, either you eat meat or you lose the plot (loose - ß - again, not scharfes S - but die scharfes'zart - sharp-tender - already prerequisite of what sharpening omega meant for the w); mind you: salt & pepper to taste according to your own palette - if you're not a sugar ****** you won't over-salt the sauce... and you certainly will not overcook the pasta, halfway between dreadlocks and poodle hair: desirably experience bound al dente, and here comes Socrates with his knowledge of al dente: me no muffin! true that... like all these excess sugar breakfast cereals - ******* the outside, soft inside... or like the idea of ants having an exoskeleton... that's pure culinary theory - al dente exoskeleton; did i already mention salt and pepper to taste? yeah, the beef stock cube is salty, but not salty enough, given the already unsalted meat and vegetables: i cook, i take care of a toddler - Nietzsche keeps bragging: cooked by a cyclops.

who would have thought that a personal
revision of mama Italia's classic
could end up being so tasty;
Nietzsche is the foremost diner in my humble
abode: i just like the way he says:
who let woman into the kitchen?!
that's right, i deviated from the standard recipe
of mama Italia's cooking for papa don
Giovanni - honestly? in lonely times at
university when everyone was into ******
ad drunk debaucheries, and ****** fancy dress
parties? Aria Giovanni saved the day...
just look at the classic beauty, plump as a plumb
in between two cream bergs - such
exfoliation... where's that daddy long-legs
on the catwalk... come on! shove a malteser up
her *** like a suppository escutcheon - i'm sure
the salad leaves will keep her starving even more,
or walk her in Gucci with a drip-pole -
intravenous therapy while on the job -
but can you believe what only a quarter of a teaspoon
does to the Bolognese sauce recipe?
wonders... you don't add the carrot, or the celery,
among the vegetables you add button mushrooms,
and the three colours of peppers -
onions and garlic (a lot of it) as standard -
oregano, rosemary and thyme too,
some Italian five-spice - but the fennel seeds!
the fennel seeds! after i learned to cook i see
ready meals are diabetics in disguise,
and restaurant foods as defunct -
what? we're all expressing our capacity to
make choice, apologies if you made the sort of
choices you now hate... hardly a reason to
complain about my exercise in freedom,
i don't blame you, i'd have chosen differently
if i were you too... but there we go...
i'm cooking Bolognese from scratch because i like
to tickle my sense of smell and the buds of
the palette garden, i look at the sauce and
write fiction: the plot thickens...
                                                     and that's the great
3 minute microwave sequence on the other
side of the spectrum... because we're all so *busy
-
busy bees and that's merely the generation Y
dads getting hormonal treatment from tending to
babies - choices choices choices -
                                                          oddly­ enough
the mediocre work that goes on in those glass
shards - by comparison, the default argument is
pretty obvious: i too would have not invested
in caring for art, or as i once said:
you can't get good art and raise a family -
you can create good art that will support the family,
you'd end up being a great technician,
an artistic engineer - the standard model of bridges /
already in your head - is refining yourself
via plagiarism - you end up plagiarising yourself -
but come one! a quarter of a teaspoon of fennel seeds?
well, i'm not talking cumin seeds...
or maybe it was the turmeric powder that
coloured the onions yellow while frying?
2 tablespoons of garlic - for sure, enough garlic
and we're already talking Dracula -
~5 strips of bacon too -
                                          no, not necessarily involving
carrots and celery - why be boring?
this is me in my furore days in an organic
chemistry class at university - back to the esters
and perfumes, but this is raw, it's analytical
chemistry, it's nothing synthetic -
birds and the bees and some hippy buckles over
a giant butternut squash - which is why i find
people who ably memorise and recite poetry
are the same people who probably write polemics,
and do the peacock verbal dance for a woman
in a restaurant - rather than give her raw grub
of your own calibre - 1 cube of beef stock
dissolved in water - simmering for about 40 minutes,
tomatoes chopped - obviously tomato puree -
500 grams of mince beef -
                                                ever think that poetry
could reinvent journalism and also the way of
writing recipes? FENNEL SEEDS! that's what goes
in first, you roast them in chilli infused olive oil -
let them sizzle for a bit - and yes,
you pour some oil into salted water where
you'll be boiling the spaghetti - the oil means the
spaghetti won't stick together, plus pouring
oil into a saucepan of boiling water is the other
famous pastime of chemists... the former?
watch paint dry. i'm pretty ****** sure i missed something,
like mama Italia missed something to keep
the recipe a secret - well... there's Parmesan cheese
to garnish and fresh basil -
                                                and if i were raising a family,
i wouldn't be listening to the dead skeleton's album
dead magick... oh sure, the reward would be:
i'd have a little crowd at my funeral, some gibberish
about how many people knew me so well... but really
didn't... the whole street profession...
                i never got the idea of solitude and how it
might be sad from the Beatles' Eleanor Rigby song -
don't know never became an impressionable counter -
oh yeah, Darwinism helped! it helped a lot
in creating a world view, a world view that said:
don't touch this ****... leave them to it:
these people are more influenced by opinion columns
of newspapers than philosophy books -
in England, where, i dare say, the daily telegraph
is actually respectable, as is the guardian -
and the central of the two opposites? tickling
tabloid, i call the times posh tabloid, because it is
a posh tabloid: i like the way fame
desired for sales becomes toilet paper
the next day... or the newspaper on the street
that gets the footprint on the plastic surgery escapades...
love it! mm, yes darling! lovin' it!
I fell in love with a boy at a coffee shop
who always ordered vanilla chai.
I knew it was love because I could
never get up the courage to speak to him.

I fell in love with a bony fingered,
anorexic boy in my math class.
I think it was the way he did the problems in his head,
so he could use the paper for listing
everything he wanted to eat that day, but wouldn’t.

I fell in love with a girl who had dreadlocks
and burn marks on her neck.
I always fantasized about touching them,
asking if they still warmed up her skin.

I fell in love with the older man at the tutoring center.
I failed Spanish so that I could spend the next semester
eye ******* him from across the study table.
I've always had a thing for married men.

I fell in love with girl who pushed up her
*****, and pouted for football players.
It may have been unrequited,
but at least I didn’t catch anything.

I fell in love with the person
who left death threats in my locker.
I’d never known someone who felt
the same way about me as I did.
K Balachandran Mar 2013
This Tamarind tree
with a thick  thatched roof of leaves
spread to all the sides
like matted dreadlocks
of a sage
in silent, inwardly turned contemplation,
for long long years
has such cool, comfortable shade,
that is--

lovely rendezvous
to the love smitten,
to bill and coo for hours,

transit home for nomads
who own nothing more than their backpacks
and looking for a shade,

playground for children
in the neighborhood,
with curious eyes,

resting place for laborers
tired from toiling, in the sun all day long.

pen for itinerant goats,
that playfully fight with each other,

kennel for stray pups
finding companionship
all by themselves,

hive for honey bees
that hum tunes for all these refugees,

venue for a cocophonous
congregation of  birds of different feathers,
obviously very political,
probably arguing about the future
plans when such a kind tree no more
would be there, soon
when the road gets broadened.
Such amazing  trees, are fast disappearing from suburban Bangalore , the silicon valley of India,  undergoing a makeover as it greedily want to be the part of "flat world" though the dream is already fading, due to economic slow down.
luapharas Sep 2014
hi how high are you?
my body is shaking within my own skin
my grin shows how high my state of mind is
my thoughts lined with pleasant daydreams
theme undecided
nothing guided
only my imagination
with my own narration
long duration
**** hits, never quits
visits from old memories
carries me away
as if a glistening new boat
was swaying me away from shore
I swore my body was moving to the feel of the waves
moving, and grooving
proving I am who I am
through my dreadlocks
and poetry
this is my story
glory, just exquisite
no, not really its ordinary
I'm going to cut to the chase
life is no race, I'm slowing growing
flowing through my deepest emotions
my devotion is enlightenment  
brighten my eyes and live in the moment
all thats crucial, with the brutal past
and the frightening future
let my worries
become flurries of snowflakes
laid upon the earth and not my shoulders
weight like a boulder
in the eye of the beholder
I hear sweet tunes of floyd
feel the keys on my fingertips with every motion
smell the stale smoke of cigarettes and marijuana
this high as brought nothing but good thoughts
and positive energy
and talkative vibes
nothing describes the uplifting enjoyment
won't stop drifting
shifting from planet earth
to my own birth of reality
Audrey Lipps Nov 2014
Her hand grazed my knee first;
black nail polished fingers
filled with golden rings and solitude

Her hand slid up past my knee next,
A chilling whisper of a husky voice,
"I'm bisexual, whatever, who cares?"
A tone so sleek, so ****,
Uncaring and unrelenting

Her hand moved inward this time,
her warm breath pressed to my neck,
questions of sexuality and culture
in her ******* rasp and
I melted that way, I ******* melted that day

A level booming below,
A band of drummers,
Drumming of ambition and heartbreak,
A base-dropping attitude from Athens

She leaned in first, her smoky green eyes
******* mine and I looked up,
with a feeling of hot temperance on my tongue,
She kissed me,
sweet and bold and the evening was full
of firsts because she grabbed me,
so fast and forward and
dimmed the mood and began her journey
into transcendental fluidity

We swayed to the beat of casuality,
a beat unfamiliar in my world of seriousness,
and she grabbed my hand and pulled her lips
closer, closer
and whispered "I'll get us a taxi"

Beautiful women make my heart flutter,
and beautiful women with smoky green eyes
and blonde dreadlocks make my speech stutter
but I followed her into the abyss of wonder
holding her hand onto the grassy concrete,
our breath white and our spirits hazy

The taxi home reminded me of New York streets,
and it made me forget of Oxford priorities and
senseless irony and she kissed me twice,
her **** fingers searching for answers
in the 2:30am moonlight

She kissed me in the elevator,
A familiar scent of the haunted ancients and
her sly character left me breathless, an
adventurous eighteen-year-old searching for
wisdom and a twenty-something searching for
a definition, we collided

Her dorm, lined with yellow lights and
colorful elephants, a comforting essence of
security and warmth

She grabbed my waist and
turned me around,
I lost my breath in her
seductive sway,
She kissed me hard and pushed me fast,
onto her pillows of a cool fragrance

She screamed once and I screamed twice,
A fantastic pain muffled by the sound
of old heat lamps

"You'll forget this," I said
"Please," she said, "I'm practically sober."

We continued for hours, her spirit quick,
unceasing,
persistent
She smiled exquisitely,
with slanted eyes, she licked her lips

We slept soundlessly,
Her hand where it started, above my knee
and below my waist,
Black nail polished fingers held
my hand until morning,
a soft kiss on the shoulder blade
and I awoke to the chirping of morning

And I left with a sense of softness,
not accomplishment and
I'll see the smoky-eyed,
yellow-dread girl once more,
And I hope it's when I don't know
what
for
Bryon Wistrom Apr 2013
I saw the birds flying in the V of love, I had to free myself of the baggage I carried upon my back, heavy and wet.  I traveled to the village which was called "the dreadlocks" in which I currently resided.

I found the mirror of the sky only to find I was blind; blind to the tenacity of the hills which contained the air I breathe in levels of which I felt the aura; both high and low to realize I was only human.

I saw my reflection which only occurred in this dream, the path of discovery was laid out for me yet I clouded it with smoke.  After awhile, the mirror became clear only to find myself staring at someone I once knew; this person was me.  

And all I could hear was the whistling of the wind only to be comforted by her presence, her dreadlocks.  

In order to make this right I must continue on and leave those who have helped me thus far.  The clouds left a hole in the sky only to show me the man on the moon.  I am fortunate to have my senses which I once buried, 6 feet under.

I came to the playground and got on the swing, pumping my legs and body so I could get higher.  I saw the reflections of the past and left them behind, got to the top and jumped and left the nature of our kind.
Julian Aug 2015
Decadent choirs bemoan the prudish proctor of the inevitable and decisive test
Profligacy anneals and the knaves repeal the prohibition of the earth’s very best
Despondent clouds tower over a garbled loud and an unapologetic proud
Panache whisks the hallowed cross into transmogrified dross amassing a boisterous crowd
Hidebound ideologies tether the masses to masses and gather the rust of the bustle and bust
Recusant allegiance mocks the science of sanctimony and dissolute lust
Deathless in prayer and breathless in despair rhapsody creeps and percolated ideals leap
Arriving in the limelight of providence, the renegades daunted by the specter of commination weep
Proofs now exist and investment in their emphasis burgeons into a divine cease and desist
But in the hubris of victory and the rubrics of history pleasure wrenches control and importunacy insists
Brisk alacrity and savvy rapacity beseech the death of the stodgy gate
Time lingers in evanescent turmoil satiated only by the fish and the bait
But when the bait runs in low supply the society hearkens the agents of the sky
They pout over water even with verdant temptations escorting them away from the dry
How do you anoint in a world preoccupied with the next joint rather than the next joint venture
Revelations lies to stultify the brides of misadventure
Caprice rampant, society recusant deadlocked in hedonistic dreadlocks
The fools boast of victories never won, and the prattle of yesteryear is stalked
Restraining order duly noted but never imposed
Stygian elements wrought apparel to contribute to indecency in clothes
To the master of destiny and the architect of decency
I advise the future to focus more than just on recent sprees
Ignominy forgotten in tokes, we forget about the labor of cotton
We forget also about the putrefaction of the rotten
Abdicate the uprooted era squelched by disorientation wrought by intensified sensations
And return to the regal promise of prudes living beyond temptation
But who is the fool foolish enough to forswear the hide of the bear in the dead of the winter scare
Lilting in sumptuous praise and reckless abandon this charge and travesty seems unfair
Slanted lies of stodgy disguise revile the return to primitive commode and camaraderie
To loot of the panaceas and nepenthes to the extent of dearth seems a more egregious robbery
But in the uprooted future the past has no say
The primacy of today shines the refulgent and overpowering rays
The sun won’t burn out but the burn outs won’t establish any clout
Even in a world divorced from prudishness in sanctimonious doubt
Powerless in the rout of pleasure over the scourge of dearth
The earth awakens renewed even with the impossibility of rebirth
Resurrecting the indulgences of Rome while abdicating the tome
The theophany astounds especially the most prone
The coming of righteousness working to castigate immoderacy
The renegades listen barely enough to subvert their own profligacy
Shouting over the skylines the rain announces the sentences for the wicked crimes
Of a past forgotten and a future rotten because of an ill-designed time
An ill-designed design leading to wanton men groveling in grime
Time to indulge time to abstain
Either extreme ultimately lame.
Dark n Beautiful Sep 2015
I try to remember the kind of September
When life was slow and oh so mellow*
I try to remember the kind of September
When I wore my navy blue skirt
with white bottom down top,
with glistening extension cornrows
so tight like dreadlocks.

I try to remember the kind of September
When I was young and carefree and no responsibilities
Now it’s September those after school activities.
Oh shiver me timbers to all the bus drivers
Welcome to another school year with tears
Sam Greig-Mohns Mar 2012
Woman with a stroller speaking
Can see her baby girl is sleeping
Little pink boots out the bottom peeking
Scritch scratch

Bright orange pen bobbing
Lime colored note book I am holding
Feels like everything is unfolding
Scritch scratch

Looking round, strong smell of spices
Business suit and silver glasses
Dreadlocks trailing, wonder how he ties them
Scritch scratch

All these little notes I'm keeping
Find the places I keep seeking
People never seem to see me
Scritch scratch

— The End —