Long poem by
Stone Fox | Details |
"That also has a steep drop off the far side of Home Sweet Hell" said my soulless guide as he pointed in the direction of the nearby screams.
I could see what resembled silhouettes or smeared shadows of something being thrown or tossed off the side of the tallest tower in sight.
There were so many falling at once the blur of any kind of outline in this smokey medieval lighting was impossible and began to strain my eyes.
"They're throwing bodies over the edge, a necessary task for the good of our home." he continued as he watched me watching the horrific scene of what now was confirmed as bodies.
"They were rotting and now they will rot even faster engulfed in flames!" he exclaimed with a smirk. "It's quiet clever really, it serves two purposes as one form of torture while at the same time feeding the eternal damnation fires of hell. We recently have undergone new management so our productivity points have never been higher." He seemed to wear that smirk like a proud badge as he bragged about the last part. No doubt he was most likely the new management, possibly the one who would decide my fresh new hell.
He gave a new meaning to the expression "milky white" and had a paleness that was almost purple. Freakishly tall which wouldn't have been so bad if he wasn't as thin as a runway model-and that was putting it politely. He was dressed in a crimson velvet suit like some dapper don vampire with the chilling accessory of sharp dead eyes. He exuded terror all around while stroking my anxiety in the most uncomfortable metaphorical rhythm.
With his you-know "devil may care" attitude he attempted to smooth out a newly noticed wrinkle in his crimson red velvet sports jacket.
"Even in Hell, one must always look their Sundays best or in the flames you go!" he giggled laughing at his own joke. I neither laughed or even reacted, instead I ignored him and continued to watch the screaming falls.
The worker bees or drones-or whatever you're supposed to mindless underlings from hell, were now headed for a v-shape among the only body that was not tossed from the tallest tower. Instead it was hanging off a wall like a common prized Picasso at the end of the biggest hall in Hell. Or so my tour guide informed me.
The brutish beasts were poking, stabbing, biting, pulling, cutting, slapping, and slashing the hanging form. "Go then and take her down" My Dracula impersonator whispered in my ear, making me jump at the stealthness it took him to invade my personal space. "Go on" he urged as he moved even more closer to me. "But-" he then said looking down the hallway "who is to say her sin is not greater than yours?" he asked while stroking his chin. "In fact" he continued, "Save her and see how quickly you will be the one to replace her. "
I found myself asking "is her sin greater than mine?" for she no longer even resembled a "she" and I couldn't hide my disgust this prisoner she's appearance.
My five star tour guide squealed "Why heavens yes!" unable to contain it's laugher. "She makes your sin look like childsplay! he continued to cackle while saying "I wouldn't go bragging about your list of dirty deeds that got you here they are not that flattering. Or noteworthy really. You're lucky if you amount to anything other than flame feeder on Hell's roster." He then very seriously added, "but if it was not for the Simple Sinners we would have no souls to keep most of our demons from going hungry. After all we only get fed once every hundred years when we are not topside."
I noticed the dead bodies recently just fallen into flames were starting to return slowly to our intimate greeting party. Most were empty handed or even handless, while all were naked but almost identical in the scorched rotted appearance, no sex could be identified.
"They will be joining us for the rest of our tour" Vampire Lestat informed me following my gaze. He started walking down the hall and I followed as close behind as I could while maintaining a safe distance from both sets of company.
Without looking at me, Red Velvet started saying, "most crazies dispose of bodies because that's what they consider normal. But here in Hell, we find keeping them is productive torture. You see staying in ones body after death is unnatural and therefor uncomfortable, almost painful. So you can see why it is useful to keep souls in their meat suits. We also make them do physical labor like any good slave when the torture has become boring and is no stimulating.
I was suddenly feeling woozy and felt confident I was just as pasty white as my velvet wearing guide. I couldn't shake the disgusting smell of flesh, blood, sex, urine, and pizza from nose. In a meek whisper I muttered "I don't like this.." My words were greeted with a smug "Join the club Sweetheart, no one likes it here but that's the point isn't it? Welcome to your doomed end, your Home Sweet Hell. "
Tears welled up in my eyes and before they could fall to my cheek my thin velvet guide slapped me with such a unbelievable force that I felt my skull vibrating. I was shocked at the guides brute strength for such a blow and considered the possibility maybe this was a vampire. I could feel my tears start to reform and was met with another blow. This time they came with a side order of screams that said, "NO POINT FOR TEARS NOW! YOU WEREN'T ACTING LIKE A LITTLE BITCH WHEN YOU SINNED TO GET HERE, SO YOU'RE NOT GOING TO ACT LIKE A LITTLE BITCH NOW THAT YOU ARE HERE."
I had no time to protest, to react, to do anything and even if I had he was right. I knew what I was doing. My guide started pushing me while still yelling "IT'S TIME YOU EMBRACE THAT YOU ARE IN THE PITT AND THERE IS NO MERCY! NOW ON THE CHOPPING BLOCK WITH YOU!"
He threw me in the closest room that was completely pitch black as he yelled "FRESH MEAT" that served as our farewell.
As he made his exit with his heard of bodies, his dead eyes were the last thing to see.
Copyright © Stone Fox | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Scott Howard Myers The Gypsy King | Details |
Set upon the new world stage within the burning fires of hell. Silently posed factions of the elite, suppress the true inherit of Mother Earth. The meek children bending over for millennium, taken spankings of bare bottoms, pelted slavery.
Upon entry to rule, the open stage of smoked mirrors began to reflect back upon the podium of lies. Taught by scholars from university books of political science. Fearful of leadership matching mirrored images, of false pretense, babbling rhetoric. The stirring masses of discontented, individualistic, thought of as dead - enders, trouble makers, and rebel rousers, rallied aimlessly.
With super hero, Captain Do Gooder, bleeding helpless on the floor of Wall Street. Weary lost hope combatants mustered courage, and accepted destiny. To this point, someone shouted against the wind of change. Felt by all who sensed the importance.
"To death do us part of the purpose to which we, the united, stand for justice".
The chant began, as Captain Do Gooder was dragged away, and cuffed, once bleeding helpless on the floor of Wall Street.
Damn the torpedoes. Damn the torpedoes.
Captain Do Gooder, fallen, bruised ego matching skinned knees, lays helpless. Who will save them now.
Second glances from high rise penthouses. Serving champagne and caviar. Brought iron clenched hands once hidden, to draw the stage curtain down.
With Captain Do Gooder nowhere to be found. The voice that came from pain of pupil. Born within broken dreams of promised lands. Realized nothing was coming cheap on this occupation.
The dusty streets found Captain Do Gooder aimlessly stepping against the winds of change, down Wall Street. The well-intentioned, arrested and broken spirited, lost hope of recycling any salvage rights taken from them by Metro.
Was this the end of the well thought out, pushed down occupation.
Was this the beginning, of the underground faction. Where was senior generation X hiding. Only Captain Do Gooder and the well-intentioned, world stage occupiers, hold the key to that Pandora's box of hope.
The peoples across the oceans were already springing far ahead in their own, more brutal campaign. For they had no cushion on which they were raised to kneel against. Tyranny ran over them. A lesson yet not felt, or learnt, or taught, in the new world. No chance of city mayors issuing eviction notices. Bullets, tanks and bombs were of the order. Brought down the line, traced back to the ones our United Nations to this day, refuse to acknowledge.
While leaders there home internet shop, and pump out the lies. Everyone dies.
In the heart of the continent of center, where unto which as mankind sprang forth, for its first and ever conquest.
The lights kept dim, to obscure the violent cleansing. A facade to disguise once moreover, the brutal tyranny for which the greed of the elite, control the dimmer switch. Diamonds and oil fuel the fire of war and oppression, on this stage of greed and guilt. Too far away, and too many distractions upon center stage for one to see or care. Thought and looked upon by most as racially motivated. The origins of all mankind, to be left, far too far, behind. The true forsaken people. Why is man unkind.
So..........will Captain Do Gooder raise the bar to which drinks for the house, and all around, will quench the thirst felt by ninety nine percent of the people............mother knows best.
Yet, still, self-inflicted roadblocks of appointed destiny, drop kicked long days past. Faint light shining far ahead, within the tunnel of hell, brought up to land. Firm above the depths to which it sprang. The truth of world order.
Wait......what do we see......do our closed eyes deceive our cries........................................
We see Captain Do Gooder catching second wind.
She breathes deep now and all can hear her war cry, no longer whimpering softly. As in past tense situations, given way to dazed and confused wall street *****es.
She builds momentum, as our brothers and sisters lay dying and bleeding. On the streets of some not so distant for telling, of what's to be, will never not be coming full steam ahead and plowing through the hidden agenda. One step beyond the line drawn in the sand of time, we thought would never be crossed. Give way thoughtless future tellers, and takers. Still holding firm with paper cuts, deep into the hands who printed and prepared such slave papers, kept by the elite bankers.
Captain Do Gooder returns renewed and refreshed. Our true Mother.
Captain Do Gooder feels strong, as bruised knees and scraped hands heal.
Brush of destiny sweepstakes, allots winnings of earth shaking, volcano erupting, tsunami tidal waves, with bonus draws of worldwide chaos. Future draws are to be held with worldwide winners. Grand prize, dead oceans rising.
The next generation have no fear digest writes the next chapter.
Hold the press down firmly wall street backbiting backbenchers. Drawn into the crossfire, on her mark, place the x on the next general who dares not fall into civil disobedience.
Captain Do Gooder has grown teeth, and she is biting down hard against the line to pipe riches, spoiled from her lands. Stolen from the first pilgrimage, fifteen thousand years old, lost empire.
How dare you steal from, and pollute the minds of her children. Yet old enough to drink and drug and die in war. How dare all of us.
Meanwhile back at the ranch. Captain Do Gooder hugs tight that tree of life, to which sprang all this elbow rubbing and diversion. Wall street huddles in her corner, painted red to match the lengths to which an end will surely bring to it.
Painted red for all to see.
The end to friendly letter writing, give peace a chance, make love not war, generation taking a bow, and snow birding it, to false sense of security land. Like the ostrich with its head in the sand.
Copyright © Scott Howard Myers The Gypsy King | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
Demetrios Trifiatis | Details |
“I am certain that I have been here as I am now a thousand times before and
I hope to return a thousand times after.” GOETHE
Once upon a time,
The Lord of spiritual consciousness was sitting peacefully on His blissful throne
Ceaselessly contemplating upon His equilibrium
T’ was the era of no moon, no sun, no stars, no earth, no oceans, no rivers
Just a motionless, timeless and deathless entity it was happy with His existence
Suddenly the thought of sacred motion was felt deep down in his essence
Seeking the chaos to be stirred from its core outwardly
Consequently separating the light from the darkness and all the other elements
That constitute the Cosmos
Thus giving birth immediately to old mighty time
When Time: This wizard of celestial art found himself alive
His expert hands stretched in advance, wanting to create
For that the plastic energy he took, that was everywhere around
And skillfully and patiently the Cosmos carved according to the Logos
Creating thus, the nebulae, the galaxies, the stars and all the other planets
Then God looked at times creation and marveled with its beauty
But as there was no life to be seen in all of this creation
The thought of desire was born in God to inhabit every place
For that out of himself he cut myriads blazing souls
Which like shooting stars he sent downwards to animate nature,
In this way, to manifestation’s cosmic sphere, the souls were beamed
Radiating their luminosity to reality’s lower planes
Bringing with them the sacred principles to denser forms of life
As they were passing from the spiritual, the mental and the astral
And finally materializing, themselves on the physical solid plane
Where life began on earth, with God’s will and grace!
Each soul an ambassador was and is of God’s will and grace
A ray of divinity, a guardian of the Holy Law
Each with a specific mission: to learn or rather to remember
How to find the way of return throughout space and time
And with the divine, again, to be seen in perfect equilibrium
The day I was born, as every man alive,
I found my immortal self bound to the wheel of time
That around eternity’s circumference took me, in very heavy chains
Asking to follow obediently the unswerving path of fate:
This endless trip of return where the only constant thing is change
Since then I have died once and many times after
But death's dark palaces to hold me were unable
As my soul’s perpetual desire to follow my destiny
Brought me back to this ephemeral world of fleeting dreams
With a new body, new hopes, new goals but always with the
Thus I journeyed back and forth the plains of oblivion
Choosing the best conditions I could, according to my karma
Trying to find endlessly the golden middle way
That unmistakably between the extremes is only to be found
But since from the river of forgetfulness each time I was drinking
I was obliged, unfortunately, to start over again
So, I was born once a king and another was I born a beggar
And in turns I was born a coward, a hero, a holy man, a vicious man,
A Christian, a Muslim, an atheist, an idolater a strong man and a woman
And healthy and sick I was born and intelligent and witless
And was I born to love so much the things I once detested
And to hate passionately the things I once held dear
And I was born once to laugh and another just to cry
And I drunk successively from joy’s cup and that of sorrow’s
And was born to make friends out of my enemies
And enemies out of my brothers
And was born to realize the impossible dreams and fail the very easy
And I was born to slay and to be slain alternatively for thousands of years
Thus I lived continuously the extremes of both good and evil
Striving to find endlessly the balance in my soul
Through the wisdom that was endowed upon me by the Great Spirit
That like a beacon, luminous, to guide me waits
To my supreme destiny that GOD for me has traced
So, as was passing from life unto death, from darkness unto light
With a speed determined by me, I don’t put on GOD the blame,
All my lessons have I learned through trial and error
Up to the very last reincarnation, in body’s mortal temple
Now free, AT LAST, from all earthly desires and every karmic blame
Radiating with holiness and glowing with grace
My immortal soul, HER divine wings unfolds and soars upwards the heavens
White light blazing in perfect equilibrium
And pure now to her glorious creator returns and with
11 DECEMBER 2013
“A little while and my longing shall gather dust and foam for another body.
A little while, a moment of rest upon the wind and another woman shall bear me”
* This poem because of its length I was unable to post it in one piece for I was not a
member for life at that time therefore I published it in two parts as: “CREATION” and as “REINCARNATION.” Here is the entire poem as it was originally written.
Now, my friends know that apart from my epigrams I write... long poems as well!
Copyright © Demetrios Trifiatis | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
Johnny Williams | Details |
Blackout the sky
Does anyone care
Is anyone there
Enjoy this life
Pop open a Sprite
Roll over to the right and kiss my wife
She's fast asleep
Daylight is trynna come
It's trynna creep
When she wakes up she feel the wetness of the kiss
On her cheek
And I'll feel accomplished
Living life with her
I don't feel like a novice
I ponder all my thoughts cause they all have her in it
At dinner until she sits down
My meal i won't even begin it
Very often through the day she's swims and lingers through my mind
And sometime I have to crack myself in the jaw
And ask is this beautiful girl really mine
Just thinking about how your dreads graze your face
We was Waffle House eating bout to say grace
But my eyes kept poking open
Heart was beating in and outta my chest
It was cold so my Nipples was showing
It wasn't the access lotion that had my face glowing
It was knowing that I get to live my life to the fullest
With the most special girl imaginable
Any muck we will get through this
Your eyes low and gorgeous
What you hide behind them only I know
There was days where your room and the bathroom
Where the only places you'd go
But now tomorrow Ima fly you to the moon and back
Ill pay for the trip alongs you pay for lunch
I'm sure your cool with that
Most likely all gray or black
We've both came a long way
And I refuse to backtrack
I just wish I could take away your past pain
October 16th i found myself in your arms and I cried
And there was times I came over
And I knew your tears you was trynna hide
Both on emotional rollercoasters
A year later we're at Cedar Point riding rides
We hundreds of feet in the air
But next to you I feel super safe
And you'll always be there
I don't have to worry or chase
We was at Ruby Tuesday that one Tuesday
And you sure ddnt mine putting me in my place
I love just lounging around in our place
Cause earlier this year we both barely had one
But now every Sunday either I wake u up with kisses
Or we get awaken by the sun
Everyday we soak it all up
No one other than you makes me feel the way you make me feel
And you don't get mad when I drink outta your cup
Calm and at ease
Walking the bridge
Through our ears we feel the breeze
Small to the world
But to each other we feel like 1000 foot trees
Siri says the weather is about 49
But whenever I'm around I'm around you it always feels like 104 degrees
That's where my heart is going
Right next your heart
That's where my heart is going
Daylight is dim
And we just walking down 4th street
Your heart is pouring and it's far from boring
And mine has taken a seat
And I don't miss those seats at the laundromat
Hauling your clothes downstairs
Cause Flex is frugal, no fun, and fat
House smelling like marijuana and old towels
Old blunts and foul bowel
Battery's being switched from toy cars to the tv remote
So sometimes you can't turn the dial
Now we got 5 tvs
Both got full time jobs and a Ford Taurus from 2003
Bevelyn Kaye is proud of you
Angela Renee won't say it but I know she's proud of me
It won't be dark forever
So smile a little bit and open up your curtains
I know you're hurting
You have me so you'll be fine
Open up your blinds and quit being blind
Blind to the fact that It won't be dark forever
So drawl your curtains back
Both our worlds was was once dark and black
But you had my back and I had your back
I remember that look in October 2014
I'm up here pullin rent money out of my socks
Both our living situations were on the rocks
Flash forward a year later we're at waterfront park
Playing on rocks
And having you in my life rocks
Cause things are quick to get rocky
But we're just 2 young people living it up
Now our peers try to copy
I remember that look in your eyes
Walking down the chicken steps in July
Dodging the heat and all those flies
But it's better than dodging Winston
Hunger pains and period pains kick in
I'm concerned and you're wincing
I hated to see you like that
Was I gunna have to start pimpin
Nowadays when we pay rent we celebrate like we won a championship
Eating WildEggs, BDubbs, and Chipotle
To humble ourselves we eat chips
Every night before bed wether you're dog sleep or dog dead
The words I Love you leave my lips
When someone utters your name
My heart turns front and back flips
I love when you're you
If it's not you then I don't want anyone else
We may not infinite money
But our love has infinite wealth
Kisses from you
Are good for my health
You accept me as an elf
Shorter than the kids at Ice Skating
I love you I love you
There's no doubt there's no debating
F a promissory note
When it comes to bills
There will be no belating
You saying yes to my future marriage proposal
Is the only thing I am waiting
Copyright © Johnny Williams | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
Robert Ronnow | Details |
You can feel it spinning
the Chinese, Japanese, American and European junk
orbiting at several thousand miles per hour could
a hole in your armor, future. Thanksgiving passes, then Christmas.
A nuclear detonation, we absorb that fact. The scientist in us
delays sadness by recording observations. What is is,
sorrow's for tomorrow.
By reducing probabilities to near zero I hope to avoid sorrow.
In yr suburb.
In history when there were many fewer people we still found reason
to cross space, explore, trade and war. Now
may not be the problem but food and water shortages
get our attention.
I have Korf's fears.
And hear what I want to hear.
Some hear singing, some hear speeches or complaining.
Martin Luther King sang his complaints, dreamed of a brotherly nation
which came to pass, spinning fast, past Thanksgivings, past jailings
into reconnaissance, small wars, drones, renaissance, inventions.
At the border,
where the Juaristas fought Maximilian:
Benito Juarez (1806-1872) Zapotec Amerindian who served five terms as president of Mexico. He was the first Mexican leader who did not have a military background and also the first full-blooded indigenous person to lead a country in the western hemisphere in over 300 years. For resisting French occupation, overthrowing the Empire, and restoring the Republic, Juarez is regarded as Mexico's greatest and most beloved leader.
Each soldier chooses what war at what border, or just
spinning with the planet.
The neighborhood and surrounding nature is orderly.
But always there is implied force, violence holding it together,
kept out of the playground, government buildings, children's games
but lies within
the force maintaining order, a spinning tumor, a gyroscope of
The force of the spinning, the speed of the force bring one to one's
seasons, weather, earth.
While the emperor's being beheaded
enduring seeds are discovered and invented, cross-fertilized and bred.
Corn, yams, potatoes, sunflowers, rice.
Food is life and a good study,
The fighting man protects the farmer
and the farmer feeds the fighting man.
They elect the governor
who serves the people. Peace out.
Peace and war are transitory manifestations of spinning
The sun's a nuclear detonation, essential
to spring and planting. Food is life. Seeds endure
if man goes to his daily discipline. If woman is man.
Birth and death
together are orderly, the border can be known,
voluntarily. How we live together, by prayer or force,
is our story.
from laboratory to starry corridor keeps us very
Did Juaristas consider the rights of animals not to be eaten?
Not during that spinning.
And perform the history that surrounds us.
All that can be done
is written in the spinning:
The people of the land, the Indian farmers of North America - like their counterparts in Mesoamerica, the Andean region, and the Amazon - have continuously cultivated maize, beans, squash and other crops for more than five thousand years. One of the salient features of their traditional farming systems is the high degree of biodiversity. These traditional farming systems have emerged over centuries of cultural and biological evolution, and they represent the accumulated experience of indigenous farmers interacting with the environment without access to external inputs, capital or scientific knowledge. In Latin America alone, more than 2.5 million hectares under traditional agriculture in the form of raised fields, polycultures, agroforestry systems and the like document indigenous farmers' successful adaptations to difficult environments.
Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Christine Phillips | Details |
So it was that the night transcended peacefully over my head
Taking me through thick clouds,landing me upon parched land
Spilling tranquil moments into daylight complexity.
So it was that I found myself among a crowd of unfamiliar people
People who I have perhaps seen in the city or on TV
So it was that an influential woman hosted a dinner in a sizable hall in town
A gloomy dinner with little food just to wet the appetite of the starving crowd.
So it was that the courageously dressed host gave a short speech to amuse the
hungry lot, while her husband stood silently summarizing the plot.
So it was that she gave a short speech when everyone was expecting her to preach but the starved guests devoured the tiny portion and scrambled through the door. Hundreds of them instantly streamed through the hallway leaving the host to deeply ponder.So it was that the host came running to me pouring out her heartfelt misery."The people did not interacted", she said, "they just swallowed the food and fled". I told her not to worry they came for dinner because they were hungry.
The night still had me bounded taking me from town to town,
Propelling me into another space, showing me Saudi riyals all over the place.
So it was that I entered this remarkable place and an official man came through a little gate. He handed me a stash of Saudi rial, piled up with one hundred notes with three one riyal notes to keep afloat.I separated the 100 notes from the one riyal notes and muse deeply over such astounding happenings hoping to find some plausible answers. So it was that as I stood there, the woman and her husband that hosted the dinner appeared.The authoritative man tenderly placed some riyal in their empty hands.The husband seemed very pleased but his wife was intensely displeased. And so it was that she walked away and uttered these words in dismay,"I will see to It".
The nights mystery kept me drifting and wandering all over the city
forcing me to submit to its rigorous rules.With nothing to say I drift with the night all the way. So it was that I ended up in a beautiful church in the center of town and walked silently in the church hoping to get some encouraging words.But the entire right section of the pews was blocked off and covered with a tall screen from the back leaving just the front row vacant.Whats the meaning in all of this I tried so hard to understand but nothing seemed to fit.
Three women dressed in white sat composedly towards the back on the left side of the pews.Two of them sat on the very last rows while the other sat further up leaning her back against the corner praying. And so it was that I walked through the pews praying a powerful prayer. I held the hands of the women sitting in the back rows and prayed ''Luke 12: 22-30 from the scriptures with them.
"Then He said to His disciples,Therefore I say to you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat; nor about the body, what you will put on. Life is more than food, and the body is more than clothing. Consider the ravens, for they neither sow nor reap, which have neither storehouse nor barn; and God feeds them. Of how much more value are you than the birds? 25 And which of you by worrying can add one cubit to his stature? If you then are not able to do the least, why are you anxious for the rest? Consider the lilies, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin; and yet I say to you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. If then God so clothes the grass, which today is in the field and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, how much more will He clothe you, O you of little faith? “And do not seek what you should eat or what you should drink, nor have an anxious mind.For all these things the nations of the world seek after, and your Father knows that you need these things. But seek the kingdom of God, and all these things shall be added to you."
So it was that I walked up to the third woman and prayed with her when suddenly the man and woman that was hosting the dinner walked towards the right of the church straight up to the front row.And so it was that as I walked towards them to pray, the night grabbed me vigorously and tossed me back into my bed. I woke up at three fifty eight am at the crack of dawn and mulled over the strange nights adventure.
©2014 Christine Phillips
Copyright © Christine Phillips | Year Posted 2014
Long poem by
Prince Patterson | Details |
Oppressor and the oppressed.
Who is the oppressed and who is the oppressor?
Who has the right to beat a random person on the street?
Who has the right when to pronounce a person guilty or to see that they is the victim?
Who has the jurisdiction to carry a gun and to unload on a random person because of the way they is playing life's game?
There is a president but he has a nation that needs to be run, there is a mayor but he or she needs to govern protection and education for every man,woman, and child. There is those who vote and those who do not, there is those who KILL for a FEE and those who KILL to protect those who threaten and attempt to poison their feed.
In the Crayola box there is over 8 colors and how many of them do you see fighting to maintain a piece of land that doesn't even have their name? These colors have managed to get along but why has us as artist slander there good name?
You may agree we should be free, others may agree to lock them away, the third party may vote that we should have a Hunger Game and declare a winner from each district and let them be reminded by name and plaque.
Will it not be funnier if things went back to being the same before the post-Europeans, before the ice age, before slavery, before time itself? Before evolution, before the industrial revolution, do you believe it will solve the conflict of today? Do you believe it will create a new name of a newer society that is under a different system?
The enforcers enforce a punishment that themselves would not want to see happen to people of there kind, the victim sometimes is the guilted, the drugs may make a person a bit deranged or even appearance may look strange. But deep within their brain hides another person who has experienced a pain that became so unbearable so they hid behind a false name. Drinking, smoking, feeling of looking at trees in 3-D is all the same when you are being called a different name, but let it not change you into something that you did not dream of to be.
Look at me, I am me, you may see prince, others may see another black person, another person may ask me name and they may read my palms and tell me that I carry. Both a Spanish and African name that I was originally given to from birth. But hey life is a curse. You can argue with what happened in the past but will that change the date of today's oncoming past!
But the most funniest thing about our past is how much we cherish it and pray for its ways to be continued on today. But look around you what do you see... I won't say any name for my name is not even copyrighted, BUT EVERYBODY WANTS TO START A RIOT! I look at the people around me and I think how can you say that we need to bring change when your thinking and doing the same as the person who once stabbed you in the back?
I'm not saying don't hate the Man, I'm not saying say **** THE POLICE, I'm not saying that the president is part of some dummy corporation, I'm not saying that their isn't a war that has begun, but if you choose to believe what you hear than you will get what you perceive to be your reality!
I'm not saying don't go to school, I'm not saying don't drink, smoke weed, or snort yayo, I'm not saying that you have to rob and be branded a theft, I'm not saying that you shouldn't give love a chance, but everything is up to thee on how thou wants to perceive the world.
I'm not saying that if you close your eyes you will dream, I'm not saying that if you smoke crack you will become a fiend, I'm not saying that THERE IS NO DEMONS ONLY REASONS, I'm not saying that if youse look into the mirror you will see another person in your eyes, I'm not saying that the soul lies behind the eyes. But if you believe the lies you will think that when the truth is told you will think that, that is the lie.
There is a oppressor and there is there oppressed. There is the depressed and there is the depression that we all feel. There is two eyes but they act as one. Nobody asked to be POOR, nobody asked to have WEALTH,nobody asked to have POOR HEALTH, nobody asked to be born with ways that needs to confine to limited space.
But hey the more you believe the lies. The more that you have to believe you will be confined Into thinking that this life is a lie.
There will be battles, but instead of battling and slandering. Why don't we make our voices be heard like that over a beat slapped with claps and a set of drums. Kicking the inside of ears.
Let us prevent the internal bleeding of our heart that is beating (BREATHING)!
Copyright © Prince Patterson | Year Posted 2014
Long poem by
Vee Bdosa | Details |
THE DEATH OF TUTANKHAMEN
The king is dead--and layed within his place,
and night has fallen as it did before,
within his tomb he hides his golden face
and waits to live and breath and love once more;
a grain of sand will last as long has he--
young man--did they not tell you in your youth
That time will fade away, and secretly,
while you await, to feel and know the truth?
And Tutankhamen, time will not reveal
the secrets of the past, they fade away--
and all the things you long to know and feel
are gone before they see the light of day.
How old are you, young man, four thousand years--
or just as old as all our hopes and fears?
You're just as old, I guess, as any dream
and just as far away as space permits,
improvident sometimes, and yet we seem
agglomerated to a life that fits--
We come and go--in circumspectful daze--
disgruntled in our youth, and growing old,
and never seem to see the proper ways
and disinclined to hear the things we're told--
exhonerating all that we have known,
who take until there's nothing left to give,
for life is just a path that we have flown,
from other dreams, where other dreamers live.
This mass we call "myself" will soon return
to heaven space, or maybe it will burn.
The power in us all is dominant--
just as the time of Tutankhamens womb,
from birth we go through life--intransigent
and hope the best will be beyond the tomb.
We hope that space is part of better things
just as belief--in Akhen Atens day,
we feel the same as did Egyptian kings
who looked at life as where they'd choose to stay;
exacerbated, as we live and grow,
to better space, than what we have and feel,
and though it's part of life we do not know--
it's just as dear--and just as harsh and real.
How old are we? Not one could estimate,
and if they did, they'd tilt the hands of fate.
The pylon gates that lead to peace of mind
are open to the ones who search at night,
but truth in life is sometimes hard to find
and pyramids block out the glow of light--
while deep below--mastabas hold the past
and keep it safe--from any mortal eyes--
with stores of grain--while sun gods gold and cast,
stare into space--where only darkness lies--
and Tutankhamens silence is a thing
to last five thousand years of growing old,
at best--his wish was but to be the king
within a life that's cast and locked in gold--
and Akhen Aten knows he is okay
that's why he will not lead his soul astray
but Akhen Aten hides his face at night--
and southern breezes cool the scorching air,
and any sound is whispered soft and light--
because there's no one list'ning anywhere;
nomadic tribes have perched upon his rock,
and never knew that Tutankhamen hears--
each sound of life--each key that could unlock
his mortal soul--if they would use their ears,
if they would see--the sun god is a friend,
and leads to light, where Tutankhamen sleeps,
how many minds would see his mortal end--
is not his death--though in our mind it creeps--
and takes away the youth of ev'ry man
and sends it to the time where time began;
How old are you--young man--why do you stare?
The world awaits for you to raise your soul--
though fettered to the wind--and ev'rywhere,
in time a dream will make you free and whole--
to walk again--the Valley of the Kings
and ride upon the waters of the Nile--
where spirits bathe, and Nephritite sings,
the secrets of the past--for yet a while,
the world is obdurate of any scheme,
that brings new life--once death has made its' call
though greater men than you--have known this dream,
not one still hides behind his secret wall--
and no remains--stay hidden to the past--
if golden chains are known to hold them fast.
© Ron Wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
Sam Toil | Details |
i hear a snap. and somewhere another body goes limp. i hear it all the time these days. It’s the times i think. or maybe my youth. i can’t tell.
i hold tight as four chins poke into the small of my back. three fists in my face. a shoulder in my stomach. it eases and i grab a tablespoon of air. the breathing is hard now and I can’t scream anymore.
i look at the man between the heads. he cannot speak. the Wires will not let him. he smiles and pulls at his arms but there is no where to put them. he cries. and then he laughs. and then he is awe-stricken. it is what the Wires demand.
i shift as a body beneath me twists. a head and an arm and a belly and another arm and a shoulder roll over and twist my body like a mop. my spine will break soon. but it doesn’t matter. i have nothing to do now but lay here and sink. and watch the sky shrink a little more as the bodies pile up.
but the man between the heads stays with me. his scarred and bleeding face drifts into and out of scattered shafts of light. his face moves as if to speak. but the Wires will not let him. and now a frown and sulkiness because the Wires want it that way. but the Wires can’t get to his eyes. his mind and his face yes. but not his eyes. how he resists. the images forced on him are strong. at least it’s what the dying ones say when i am lucky enough to hear them.
yet he is there. sinking. and waiting. for the platform he knows will come. he can not help it. i am all he sees now. another snap and a shadow. the platform is near. and, too, the mechanics riding it. to pull the limp body from the crowd. there is momentary glee in his eyes. his steady eyes. hungry and waiting. but it passes as the shadow moves away. “you cannot escape for long.” that’s what his eyes tell me. burrowing in through my naked face. i can nearly hear him. the pressure eases and i take in a gulp of air and smell his rotting breath.
another snap. and a scream this time. i treasure the dying screams. the only Truth i know anymore. i forgot all the rest. the ones i was told. the ones who told me even. but not the man between the heads. what would he say. or would he just die. too many scars. and his skin bleeding in too many places. from fighting the Wires all his life. and the rapid twitching in his face. the Wires forcing the muscles. he cries. he laughs. he speaks too rapidly for me to hear. not me. not now. not without the Wires. i wonder if he envies me. my avoidance. “they never found me!” i scream in a whisper to him -- to explain my uncovered face. i wait for a reply. but the Wires are too strong. and his resistance too weak for the pain. he only smiles and then cries and then laughs. it is what they do, the Wires. with everything in the face but the eyes. and the fantasies take care of the eyes for most.
but the mechanics eventually find me. the platform floating in air and the two men leaning out. searching. “here,” i whisper. as best i can between the short choppy breaths. one points. “over there,” he says to the other. they hover above me and place the Helmet on my head. they leave. “its my time, now,” i whisper to the air. to the man between the heads. as the Wires work into my skin. the fantasies begin to creep into my brain. i look one last time at the man between the heads. his eyes smile in triumph, oblivious to my newly found conformity. his shoulder assumes an odd shape as it dislocates. finally his arm is free. he raises it up over his head. his eyes gleam in victory. he curls his arm around his scalp and wedges his elbow into the mass of people above him. he grasps the side of his jaw and flicks his mighty torso. i hear the snap of his broken neck. and see the slow release of breath as his head flops over.
Copyright © Sam Toil | Year Posted 2014
Long poem by
Victor Ehikioya-Brown | Details |
Men, do not give up your dreams for these girls, keep sleeping.
My cousin had read this phrase to me in August, when my wife left me for a harvard graduate that moved in our neighborhood, which is an eyeshot from my aunt's apartment.
Sometimes, I wonder where I stand with these ladies, and their contemporary lifestyle. I soberly, wonder!
Most of them don't understand the essence of having a family or even remember that faithful Sunday, when we, in white suits, perfumed like newly found angels going to heaven, for a wedding that is waiting to crumble if the taxi man comes late.
It was a Monday evening, and I had returned from work early with a bottle of red wine on my left hand and my lazy bag hung around my neck like a two-dollar gold chain.
The killing gossips of a trader's tale in paris, echoing from my neighbors remained the same, even the postman and his moth eaten coif, and Mr. Brown's colored wife who never stops eyeballing me each time I come home with a bottle of red wine.
Wonders will never end, I said. Bringing out the key to my door from my right pocket. Gently waving my head sideways to see if the street thug will show up again.
I had barely undressed my eighty-nine dollar suit, the one my cousin gave me as a wedding gift before Sarah walked in like a lost cat. On her forehead was a mark, a godly mark I thought. But it wrote: "aha!" Like an answer to a riddle only a loser knows. She didn't smile, not even a grin on her lazy cheek.
As I walked close to her, she moved backwards, standing aloof the broken stool she threw at me the last time we talked about having a baby. Her weaved blouse was partly smeared with mud, even her purse, and the stiletto she inherited from my aunt, whose lips never stops gossiping about how favorable she was.
Then like a child whose mouth has been slapped out of his mother's breast, I said, Sarah, what is wrong with you? And how did you end up with a foreign scar on your head? Were you attacked by that old man?
She moved her head sideways, like a dying leaf, and brought out a pen, scribbling a phrase that resembles the one on her forehead. She holstered a dining knife beside her waist as she tries to sit close to the broken stool.
As I reached for her shoulder, she raised her left hand, and said, "Don't even think about it!"
"Your love has made me naked with a blouse, it has stabbed me in the front and riddled my feelings, making me believe that you were reliable and just."
"I have not riddled your feelings, my dear, I have worked for it. And paid two-third of my monthly income and the bonus from the electricity bill to keep your feelings for me: safe, tempered, nurtured and young," I said. Counting what's left in my charcoal-gray purse.
I have got a few cents left, do you need them? I added.
She stood up and walked close to the TV set, intentionally making a noise with her high-hilled shoe. And picked the photo album I made for her in valentine, the hand-less wrist watch, and my 1989 cotton sweater that always sleeps on the couch close to the door.
As she opened the door, she said, so calmly, like she had not sinned her entire life, "I am going to the naval officer that has promised to pay eleven and a half percent of his income to keep my feelings safe and sexy."
The clock ticked fairly beside my bed, like a drunk whose thoughts gently beats the Nunc Dimittis; even as the sun rose, giving notice to my yellow curtain and the shrubs at my window, and the careless radio from Mr. Brown's apartment.
A bang at the door rattled me,
Then I realized I had woken up late for work
Copyright © Victor Ehikioya-Brown | Year Posted 2016