Sometimes I am happy, sometimes I am sad.
Sometime I sing, sometimes I stammer
Sometimes I dance on the music of my soul, Sometimes I dance on the fingers of
one single person
Sometimes I expect so much from others; sometime I myself can’t meet my own
Sometime I make fun of others and feel bad later, sometimes life makes fun of me
and I smile
Sometime I win and sometimes I lose, sometimes I don’t even understand whether I
won or lost.
Sometimes I laugh as if whole world is with me,
Sometimes I cry as if I am alone wandering in a strange land
Sometimes I give up so easily
Sometimes I work so hard that no one can stop me to achieve what I want
Sometimes I am dynamic person, who wants to change the world,
And sometimes I am a kid who expects anyone to embrace him tightly.
Sometimes I feel happy about the achievement of my enemy
Sometime I feel dejected with my own success.
Sometimes I help others and show them the right path
Sometimes I feel totally helpless and don’t know where to go
Sometimes I ask god to please give my past back
Sometimes I pray to show me the way forward
Life is composed of SOMETIMES and I just flow with that.
U admit or not but you are also sailing on the same boat.
So join me and enjoy it EVERYTIME as SOMETIMES life is very short!
You don’t know this but
we’re all ISBN’s. At birth,
we’re tattooed across our asses
with barcodes, ID tags, social security numbers.
The only doctors allowed
to perform this surgical move
were trained in suits and sunglasses,
were handcuffed to computer suitcases,
held galas in mansions in the hills
of Virginia, roamed secretly through tunnels
beneath Abe Lincoln’s feet, they infiltrated
every hospital, mandated staff to hand over
the key cards. Don’t be alarmed.
Chocolate brownies can still
hold good dreams, peanuts, and marijuana.
This information should not stop you,
you wondered before about those
seven digits printed across the tops of your pay stubs,
didn’t you? And the 48906 signature on every document
from your university.
Yes, you see now. All along,
that tattoo on your soul numbers destiny:
one of the numbers stands for the birthday
of your child, one for the day your parents will find
cancer sinking its teeth in their osteoperostic bones,
and one lists the street address of the building
you will die in. The hospital’s phone number
is merely a set of numbers. Ask them
what they’ve done to you, and they’ll shrug
their white-collar shoulders.
To view this poem on my blog, visit http://wordsareaneed.blogspot.com/2014/12/lucky-numbers-2-10-24-65-93.html.
I do not know?
they end all fight
the bride with no veil
to see with no eyes
why do we despise
as the world does turn
our minds they do churn
thinking too much
my mind loses clutch
and the wall does grow
so high i cannot throw
my words at your mind
they fall short then behind
frustration sets in
as the sun goes to fin
the darkness will win
not i as this is my sin
i will glance with no stare
find the pain that is there
and the wind will be fair
as it carries my prayer
one day you will feel
what i meant to steal
as the darkness will peel
my pain from this real
communicate i cant
i try but its faint
i turn on my pain
i turn on my pain
i turn on my pain
i cannot regain
i want to show the day
that the sun will remain
as the clouds unite
they don't end all fight
it is i that must cite
it is i that must fight
for only i can prevail
only minds can grow stale
if not used you will trail
if not used you will fail
if not seen its your grail
if not noticed your in hell
i will try to tell all
i must try to not fall
only you will be seen
in my eyes of ever clean
that the tears will one day fall
down my cheek in all glory
as they will be of not pain
but rejoice as i gain
and rejoice we shall reign
to the water of no shame
as i finally can blame
no one else for my rain
and all the world will see
it was i that was freed
it was i with no creed
that was released to bleed
I do not know?
You could see the pain inside her
A child old beyond her years
And the story of her life
Would bring the coldest man to tears.
She could not control her anger
Often turning into rage
From a life of pain and sorrow
Another day, another page.
She didn't know how to reach out
Or express her feelings well
It is difficult to trust someone
When your life's a living hell.
When you grow up seeing love as
Something filled with hurt and shame
Now it's time to start your own life
Will you reach out for the same?
It's hard to change the cycle
To get better, not get worse
When love has never been a blessing
It has always been a curse.
Can you feel the pain of me knowing?
Can you see my pain is it showing?
With blood stained sky, Engraved with lies,
This horrible pain, Is it growing?
This unseen pain eats at my heart,
The day they killed you we were forced to part,
This pain inside so cold so deep,
How can I eat? How can I sleep?
All those horrible days, I swore they would pay,
When they said little brother , that you were dead,
That's when I lost my way,
All these tears of my broken heart,
All these tears, they are all mine,
All that's left are my tears,
No smiles left to shine.
They took you from me my brother,
Hiding behind their shields of gold,
Motionless you lay there my brother,
Never to grow old.
They swore to serve and protect you,
But those were all empty lies,
Now at the grave where I buried you,
That's where well say our final good byes.
I miss you so badly my brother,
Miss you that I do,
One day I will come join you,
Why did they do this to you?
I love you my dear brother David,
I cant see through all of this pain,
Ill have vengeance for you little brother,
Their souls is where your blood stained.
I do not know?
Dear Sir, my innocence is gone now, no more fear
Do you love to **** me again, I am always here.
I wonder when you taught me how to use a pen,
I was so into you but my ****** was in pain!
I was crying; I was too immature to understand
I was turning only 13, I couldn't feel what happened.
but I promise I never forget what you taught me at the end.
I begged you to stop and looked into your eyes,
there was a reflection of a cruel world, that’s what I deserved!
Don't be afraid, mommy never knows what you did,
Nobody knows that you made me bleed.
Dear sir, my innocence is gone with all my tears,
as I had no safe place to hide myself from fears.
Nobody saw anything as your world was so blind!
having hidden hatred inside, a virgin died.
Dear sir, time cannot erase your memories,
time doesn't heal all wounds, that you marked,
yes, you took my innocence that will be always on my mind.
My innocent world was shattered by your touch
Hope no one ever has to experience such
For all the pain, all the cruelty, thank you very much!
Thee, are my deepest emotions; taken beyond; my control.
Thou do express love; sweeter; than view of sunshine.
One single touch, from you, feels so fine.
No thoughts of your face would ever console.
Desires; that when I see you, I fight to control,
My heart; is blinded by numbers more than nine.
My soul is bound to you with more than twine.
Thee taketh my senses, beyond, compression of coal.
My blustery habits; are taken; when I see thee, with him.
Coal contracts to brilliant diamonds from pressure, we are told.
My heart aches for thou, under the pressure of seeing his kiss.
No brilliancy of any treasure shines; only a full moon goes dim.
My desires are real; though they have no growth; in gold.
Thee, shall be my dream forever, though I shall have no bliss.
Kids go down
The slide…they head toward the swings
TIME TO SCREAM!
Free time ends
Their parents want to go home
The Color Missing
Red, black, and blue are the colors of our work pens. Red is the color of the blood we spill on other people’s mistakes. Blue is the color of the songs we sing on tax forms or pay stubs- every page has a secret melody. Black is the color of the streets we fear most. Black is the color of our signature of approval. Black is the color of our death.
‘But what about the Green pens?’ I ask. They say ‘the ink is too hard to see.’
generic minds listen to generic music
have generic thoughts that are unknowingly abusive
watch generic things talk about generic things
gee this generic *****is spreading like a disease
better get your flu shot
thats what they said to me
a suicidal vaccine
a subliminal killing spree
its contagious and the outrageous
thing about it is that the people are blind in an eye
that they didn't even know they had
it's sickening to watch these clueless civilians
inside the looking glass
with nightmares of being free
without a key to their mind
for it is trapped in the frequency
in the illusion of time
bathed in our universe
killing all that refuse to see
those that admit to hypocracy
or see the message in hip hop
how cant you see
the message in the lyrics that
bring adolescents to their knees
from bullet wounds conflicting their flesh
contradicting that they're the best
but the songs keep telling them that they dont need no rest
that they dont wanna go home
that they should ride alone
with the gat as their only companion
and so the only path they choose is the one that they're told
until they grow old and hope turns to a window pane
inside a window pane, until all they feel is pain
they realize that the music itself is ashamed
so whats to look up to
when you cant even speak when you cant even walk because you look so bleak
your eyes are sunken from the tv you're infested with the dee zees
now its too late to turn around and live for your conscious
so when youre screaming oh please
close your eyes and bring your mind to life
open your eyes for the first time
and never wonder why
since the answer this entire time
has been inside
and you better find it before you die
you dont want your soul to be in a pool with all the others
a buncha brothers missing their mothers
but only seeing strangers
only feeling the haters
wishing they would have used their minds when they had them
and now its too late,
now it's time for another new born fate to grab them
Stands, four players.
Quarrels of foul cries, collided.
Facing each nemesis into quadrants, divided.
Individuals motivated by objectives.
Devising plans, careful detectives.
Goal to achieve the highest rank, careful steps--discriminate.
Going by the hit-list, tunnel vision, hindrances must eliminate.
Scoping intensely, measuring opponents, methodical evaluation.
Staying alert, mind assessment, sedulous investigation.
Shrill of the first struck, the red bullet--bounces.
Instant reflex, ricochet the shot, violence--denounces.
The King may bend the rules, charges swift modification.
The Pawns are summoned, critical prosecution.
The Bishop prays for the suspects, classified praises, flattery denunciation.
The Queen cradles a heart, each beat rebounds, battery probation.
Could I not see such ugly drawn out choices.
Hollow I feel such nothing for people it is fear that feeds me.
Alone in this forsaken world with nothing to accept.
Order is such pain that it is nothing but chains.
Souls that bare nothing but lost cause to confusion is such utter mistakes.
P aranoia permeates, etching itself into your fractured face,
A cacophony of constant pressure; life remains a stressful race,
N othing to hope for, no positives like promotion in the workplace,
I nability to love, relationships lift anchor and set sail without chase,
C hildren crushing dreams under mortgages; age grows with disgrace
My only friend is pain
existing in shadow of a fear
fear of insignificance
hurting and attacked
lying in defense
works are in motion ; grinding their gears
Looking back, I never had a chance.
The oppressors are winning
lying and manipulating
piping their pipe, and dancing their dance.
The systems pressure has me breaking
torturous, unbearable, intolerable
and yet we allow it to control us.
breathing its greed through us.
come to conclusions on your own.
Be a renegade, find your own way
The rules to out grow
To be an individual one day.
09-07-2009 by J.R. Thornton
Land of the free
Home of the slaves
The blood, sweat and tears of my ancestors resonate
Amongst the soil where they were slain
I’m hearing their struggle
I’m feeling their pain
I can’t imagine being forced to part from my family
All for massa’s gain
So I pay homage to those who promoted change
People like every slave who tried to escape
Nat Turner, Ms Carlotta, Harriet Tubman
And the safe houses who were in accord
And peg leg Joe with his song
Follow the drinking gourd.
People like, the disregarded - those thrown overboard
And who was dismissed and defamed
The ones who were stripped of their soul, their pride, their names
The list could go on
The full will never be told
So I pay homage to others who were bold
Like John Brown, The Freedom Riders, Sojourner Truth
Ida B Wells, Phyllis Wheatley, Maya Angelou,
Langston Hughes and Charles Drew
George Washington Carver, Ruby Bridges
Booker T Washington and Mary McCleod Bethune
Charles Houston, Ralph Bunche, Fredrick Douglass
WEB Dubois, Paul Robeson, Ralph Abernathy
Benjamin Banneker, Marcus Garvey and Crispus Attucks
Who’s death by the way
Symbolized the American lie
You cant declare the rights of all men
While the people of African decent rights get denied
But still we rise
Thanks to Dr Martin Luther King, Malcolm X,
The Black Panthers, the Buffalo Soldiers and Tuskegee Airmen
None who were showed any love
Yeah it’s an uphill battle,
But obviously greatness can be done.
We can rise above this stigma
That blacks are lazy and daunting
That our worth is null and void
And in essence minus nothing
And of all the names mentioned
And the greatness of their successes
No one has been able to erase the evil transgressions of a racist mind
And once you have experienced just a taste of it
It changes your perception of time
The oppression beats like the drum on the chariot
Of when it was finally time to escape to freedom
I do not know?
someone always told me this with tears in her eyes...
(for Lata Sethi's late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)
a wife left South Africa in the 1960’s to join her husband
who was in exile at the time...
in 1970 the husband was sent by the African National Congress to India to be its representative there...
the husband and wife spent two years in Bombay...
one afternoon the husband fell and broke his leg...
the wife knocked on their neighbour’s door, in an apartment complex in Bombay
the neighbour was an old Punjabi lady...
the wife asked the neighbour for a doctor to see to the injured husband...
a Parsi ‘Bone-Setter’ was promptly summoned...
the husband still recalls his anxiety of seeing ‘Bone-Setter’ written on the Parsi gentleman’s bag...
by the way, the ‘Bone-Setter’ worked his ancient craft and surprisingly for the husband, his broken leg healed quite soon...
but still on that day, while the ‘Bone-Setter’ was seeing to the husband...
the wife and the old Punjabi lady from next door got to talking about this and that and where these new Indian-looking wife and husband were from as their accents were clearly not local...
the wife told the elderly Punjabi lady that the husband worked for the African National Congress of South Africa and had left to serve the ANC from exile...
and that they had left their two children behind in South Africa and that they were now essentially political refugees...
the Punjabi lady broke down and wept uncontrollably...
she told the foreign woman that she too had had to leave her home in Lahore in 1947 and flee to India with only the clothes on her back when the partition of the subcontinent took place and Pakistan was formed and at a time when Hindus from Pakistan fled to India and vice versa...
the Punjabi lady then asked the foreign woman her name...
‘Zubeida’, but you can call me ‘Zubie’...
the Punjabi woman hugged Zubie some more, and the two women, seperated by age and geography, wept, sharing a shared pain...
the Punjabi woman told Zubie that she was her ‘sister’ from that day on, and that she felt that pain of exile and forced migration and what being a refugee felt like...
Zubie and her husband Mosie became the closest of friends with the Hindu Punjabi neighbours who were kicked out of Pakistan by Muslims...
then came the time for Mosie and Zubie to leave for Delhi where the African National Congress office was based...
the elderly Punjabi lady and Mosie and Zubie said their goodbyes...
a year or two later, the elderly Punjabi lady’s daughter Lata married Ravi Sethi and the couple moved to Delhi...
the elderly Punjabi lady called Zubie and told her that her daughter was coming to Delhi to live and that she had told Lata, her daughter that she had a ‘sister’ in Delhi...
Lata and Ravi Sethi then moved to Delhi...
This was in the mid-1970’s...
Lata and Zubie became the closest of friends and that bond stayed true, and stays true till today, though Zubie is no more, and the elderly Punjabi lady is no more...
the son and the husband still have a bond with Lata and Ravi Sethi...
a bond that was forged between Hindu and Muslim and between two continents across the barriers of creed and time...
a bond strong and resilient, forged by the pain and trauma of a shared experience...
and that is why, and I shall never stop believing this, that hope shines still, for with all the talk of this and of that, and of that and of this, there will always be a simple woman, somewhere, anywhere, who would take the ‘other’ in as a sister, a fellow human...
and that is why there will always be hope...
hope in the midst of this and of that and of that and of this...
(for Lata Sethi's late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)
Ones who wage,
Ones who rage,
Ones who take,
Ones who pay,
Ones who craze,
Ones who rave,
Ones who crave…
Ones who fear,
Ones who breathe,
Ones who give,
Ones who need,
Ones who will,
Ones who weave…
Ones who plead,
Ones who beg,
Ones who beseech,
Ones who entreat,
Ones who appeal,
Ones who volunteer,
Ones who disappear…
The ones who follow,
The ones that don’t know about tomorrow,
The ones who don’t deserve the morrow…
The ones who sleep,
The ones who cry,
The ones who live,
The ones who die…
The ones who proclaim,
Those who say they create,
The ones who ache,
The ones who don’t wait,
The ones who hesitate,
The ones who don’t concentrate,
The ones who fornicate,
The ones who procrastinate…
Those who fall in temptation,
Those who get in frustration,
Those who sometimes feel desperation,
Those who keep going without caution,
Those in motion,
Those in tension,
Those losing notion,
Those being poisoned,
Those getting in distortion,
Those following the broken diction,
Those dying like the billions,
Those without unction,
Those washed in the oceans…
I might seem cold,
But it is you who is bold.
I might not express,
But it is you who doesn’t let me progress.
I might not seem like I seek,
But it is you who doesn’t know me…
I might seem like I need,
But it is you who might always be begging on your knees.
I might seem dull,
But it is the one that is fool.
I might not be alight,
But it is you who isn’t truly alive…
I will remain neutral,
I will remain silver,
I will remain gray,
I feel darkness,
I feel light,
I will remain hallowed…,
After all, it is you who deserves no life…
I am a metal hawk,
I am a mountain goat,
I am a silver bird,
I am a gray wolf,
I am a white tiger,
I am a mystic rose…,
I am I…
And I survive,
You are here,
However, it is you who deserves no life…
Being human does not imply that you have humanity…
Was it said before? Sure.
Was it said this way? I doubt it.
Perspective is in no way obscure,
And his works are nothing without it.
His motivation’s observed in daily life,
Misery, not just some vague inspiration.
He begs for reason, some way to lessen strife;
His words reflect a resounding desperation.
There seems a need at times to clarify,
But that’s allowed in his terms only;
So many thoughts seem somewhat ‘rarefied’,
Fed his fire, but made him lonely.
No ‘underachiever’, not just another fool,
But still seeking solace by the glass;
Tempering his stagger and his drool
With just a bit of ‘kiss my ass.’
But, usually, genius ‘sots’ come to ground,
Lucid moments - on the square;
Their driving ‘bolts’ of genius, word or sound,
Only written because they dare.
Yes, you can feel the written “heart”,
But few of us can realize that sort of pain;
No isolated misery… of many lives a part,
Each begs an answer... “Who’ll stop the rain?”
Yes, he’s lived it, seen it, and told it well;
But Timing is the Master of one’s Fate.
Is the timing right? Funny…only time will tell…
Will you will be a whining sot or dare to be great?
One success can be lucky, we’ve seen that before.
One book, one song, then quietly fade away.
But six novels later, we should know the score;
He must have had something to say.
So, at the perfect time, someone heard.
Someone who was “someone” took someone under wing.
And to those with interest and empathy, they sold his words;
Saying they “are genius” and with “ugly truth” they ring.
But did he create any redeeming changes or impacts?
Yes, what singular influence did all his artful whining bring?
None... just a relentless, repetitive diatribe of sad facts.
Oh, yes…..and a little “ching ching”.
Entered in the "Idiot or Genius" contest 27 March 2014
not so genius
A noxious stimulus
scared of odd little things:
leading to the outside world.
paranoia of unexpected guests,
curled under cupboards, and strangers stabbing on sidewalks.
i’m alone in my dark fantasies.
and yet, i’m unafraid.
i crave the reckless life, cheating, binging on drugs and sex and life.
the life where i’m the unknown girl that everyone knows.
My ancestors walking in the night
using oil lights and moonlight for guides
while being instructed to Wade in the Water
to camouflage their scents like disguise
The Sweet Chariot awaited
so they could ride away
Harriet was a soldier
and it wasn't an option to be caught during the day
That's the same mentality Nat Turner had when he sang
They would follow the drinking gourd
so all were in accord to go north
The Gospel Train was coming
and at the end of the journey
was a fine reward
Freedom was coming
and it was a long time coming and
they walked until they heard freedom bells ringing
and I still hear their tired footsteps running
Thinking of My Darling Nelly Gray
Stolen from my arms a random September day
and eliminated our chances to run away together
No family ties, no love, no strength says the oppressor
Then I hear the drums beat in the darkness
giving me the hope of finally being free
Maybe I'll follow them this time on faith
on bended knee
There must be a place for me among the light
of this darkness
Among oppression, thieves, evil-doers
no thought on their conscience
Thank goodness for the safe houses that
supported our traveled distances
and for the conductors who bore witnesses
and may God have mercy on the souls who
were against this
and on those who chose to forget this sh@!
I still hear crying in quilts of safety
because I know that the burden was heavy
to be at the mercy of nature and patrol men
catching run-away slaves for money
Some did it bare feet with freedom ahead of this
loved induced journey and they made it
So all that bull about how your life is hard
just stuff it in an envelope and save it
A serpent underneath blue sky,
in shade of man, in twinkle of an eye,
above brick wall, in the structure, at the floor,
venom of white dove; contaminated food, undrinkable water,
misguided youth, pregnant daughter, unfaithful father and hateful son,
mothers do pray while we walk through Babylon;
on teli and in the press, on top shells,
price none the less, in bedroom and at your door..
dawn of a new day seemed to be dark,
Why go to sleep?
Why we are the ones that have missing things.
Why take a breeze?
When I am the one that needs zephyr.
Why cry until you are satisfied?
When you are always dissatisfied.
Why go and feel contempt?
When we only need respect.
So, why do you expose yourself?
When you haven't cleansed yourself.
Why go and overreact?
When you sometimes don't make a great impact.
Why go and bite?
When you know you cannot eat more than you can chew.
When you only deserve.
Why shed some tears?
When they sometimes aren't clear.
Why are you happy?
When you know you are lying.
Why are we bleeding?
When we only need healing.
So, why live?
When we go and die.
And why die?
When we want life.
We might fall down,
But it is never too late,
Excuse me while I Puke
I hear screams of virgins watching
their innocence being tortured.
I see flowers hiding in the shadows
covering their eyes with shame.
I smell the putrid odors,
fuming from the stench
of bush meat eating scavengers.
Forcing intimacy on cherubs and angels.
I see abused women and children,
giving up and dying because
no one is looking for them.
I saw the First Lady of indifference
at the mall caressing a Gucci collar
for her little poodle dog.
I heard that birds still sing
and flowers still bud.
Right now I cannot enjoy
their contrite delight.
My eyes are filled with blood.
Is there anymore-
Bizarreness to be Ignored
AS I puke.
I do not know?
Tomorrow is Ours.
Suffocating beneath the weight of historical fear,
asphyxiated by the legacy of traumatised yesteryear,
the festering wounds of enslavement still remain,
juggling euphemisms in a crisp sound-bitten refrain,
spewing out neo-liberal economic charades,
doling out charity in strips of plastic band-aids,
tomorrow shall be ours,
casting away subservient mind-sets that shackle,
no longer the weakened prey of the insatiable jackal,
tomorrow shall be ours,
we shall reclaim our plundered mindspaces,
we shall shed our chains, leaving behind the traces,
of past injustice, of the hurt and pain of our ancestors' sorrows,
we are here, now, alive with hope,
we shall rightfully claim our own tomorrows.
I am a misprint,
Ink blot on love,
I remain a maybe
Longing for fact,
No speck of lint,
A hand in glove.
Thunder; a baby
Will only react
When you etch
Whistling on cue
To a dead town.
Dream a sketch
Of silent crowds
This boiling crown
Holes in the walls
To spy through,
Seeking a sort
Of bricked-up sun.
A heaven of halls,
All leaving you.
Someone Felt Like Giving Up!
I know someone who wanted to give up.
Things in life began to “trip him up.”
After much thought and contemplation.
He really offered no real explanation.
He felt like his life was at a “dead end road.”
He said he couldn’t continue
with a heavy load.
No matter how many different things he tried.
He was not happy… Nor satisfied!
He began to share a piece of his mind…
He was ready to leave everything behind.
The choices that he had sometime ago…
Began to “wear” at his heart and soul!
I tried to encourage him the best I could.
But I’m not sure he really understood.
As I watched him go his separate way…
I said; “there’s something I wanted to say.”
“There’s a God who reigns in haven above!”
“He wants to fill you with his hope and love!”
“He knows and cares about everything you’ll do!”
“He’s loving and kind!” “And wants to help YOU!”
As I spoke, I could see he thought for a minute.
A commitment to God… He decided to give it!
He decided to give it all to a God who won’t fail him!
He wanted to serve a God,
who wants to bless him!
He’s happy now that this choice was taken!
With Jesus… He’s never alone nor forsaken!
By Jim Pemberton
I do not know?
The Petty Posh-Wahzee - Liberation & Ostentation
The Not-So Distant Past:
The fallen fighters for freedom, are unable to turn in their graves,
their battered, fragmented bones, mixed with a handful of torn rags,
are all that remain, a mute reminder of their selfless valiant sacrifice.
They endured brutal Apartheid harassment, detentions without trial,
torture in the cells, and mental anguish when loved ones disappeared,
they left their homeland, to continue the struggle against racial bigotry,
while countless others fought the scourge of white-minority rule at home.
Nelson Mandela and many, many others, spent their lives imprisoned,
on islands of stone, and on islands of the cruellest torture, yet they stood,
never bowing, never scraping, they stood, firm for ideals for which they were prepared to die,
and many, many comrades did die, at the hands of the callous oppressor,
and many, many comrades perished in distant lands, torn from their homes,
while the struggle continued, for decades, soaked in blood, in tears, in pain.
19 years have passed, since freedom was secured at the highest of prices,
delivering unto us, this present, a gift of emancipation from servitude,
a freedom to walk this land, head held high, no longer second-class citizens,
in the land of our ancestors, whose voices we hear and need to heed today.
I do not care much for fashion, Lewis-Fit-On and Sleeves unSt.-Moron,
yet the ostentation that I witness baffles even my unsophisticated palate,
our ancestors' plaintive whispers are being dismissed, left unheeded, as
we browse the aisles for more and more, always for more and yet more.
Asphyxiated by the excess of the Petty Posh-Wahzee, we find ourselves,
perched precariously on the edge, of a dissolution of all that is humane,
babies go hungry, wives are battered, our elders left in hospitals for hours,
I cringe as I scribble these words, perhaps too sanctimonious and preachy,
yet I know, deep in the marrow of my brittle bones, I know, I know, I know,
this tree of freedom planted by the nameless daughters and sons of Africa,
needs to be shielded, nurtured, protected from our very own baser impulses,
so that the precious tree of freedom, may bear the fruit that may feed us all,
for if not, then we are doomed, to tip over, and into the yawning abyss, we shall fall.
A kestrel dips into an updraft
thinking he knows the world
through silent valleys
around the earth
through the wind
The creature soars ever higher
in great swoops and dives
the horizon curves as it eludes vision
the stars pulse their siren
but thrill denies
their ambient warning
Gust to gust each fades
quicker than the last
whispers carry the weight of wings
and their soulful song breaches sanity
prayers of rightful good
where petty purple banners
crest twinkling hearts
The last thermal ridden
last lyric dies
as flight’s drone fades
upturned wings alone
the sky empty oblivion
as the sun aligns its beady eye
to the looping path of the bird
Two brittle forms
grapple in light
which blots out the senses
what can never be touched
smites the naive bird
an archangel buried
in a crypt
six feet deep.
Ilang milyong hakbang na ang aking nagawa
Payak na yapak, sa lansangan buhay ay tinahak,
Bitbit ko ay Ginebra, pamatid-uhaw sa pagal na kaluluwa
Nagbabakasakaling mapawi nito ang hangaring guminhawa.
Wika nila: 'Tamad ka kasi Juan, magsumikap ka! '
Ano ang akala nila, ako ba'y nanatiling nakatunganga?
May pamilya ako, iha, hindi ko ninais ang bigyan sila
Ng primera-klaseng buhay ng isang dukha!
(Humagulgol si Juan at humalakhak pagdaka...)
Pasensya ka na, iha, ako ay nadala ata
Ng ispiritu ng dyaskeng Genebra,
Di yata't malabnaw na ang pagkatimpla
Di mapawi nito ang uhaw sa minimithing adhika!
Simple lang naman ang aking hiling
Bigyan pa ako ng Poon ng lakas na makapiling,
Dyaskeng pita ng laman kasi, binigyan ako ng siyam na supling
Ngayo'y hirap ako'ng handugan ng siyam na platong kanin!
Mali kung mali, naandyan na 'yan
Hindi ko na sila maibabalik sa pantog ko't laman,
Pagsisisi ay wala sa akin, na sila'y nakamtan
Handog sila ng Poon upang ako'y pahirapan!
Hindi nga ba?
Nakikita ko ang di pagsang-ayon sa iyong mga mata...
Bakit hindi gayong pinili ko ang buhay meron sila?
Na dapat ay hinay-hinay ko sana ginawa
Upang hindi humantong sa ganitong sistema.
Ahhh...Hala, ako'y yayao na
Salamat sa pakikinig, iha
Kahit paano'y binigyan mo ng halaga
Ang sintemyento ng isang dukha.
(Alay kay Juan, na namataan ko sa daan...)