Long poem by
Neldy Jolo | Details |
Oh well I got an angry email to begin my day
Because of my last post on the Jabidah thing yesterday
Galit sa akin but greeted me with Assalamu alaykum.
And kung personal Moro friends ko naman ito
They know I don't criticize Moro leaders
I always leave that to them to criticize their leaders
According to my friends baka nasa gubyerno or something
Next time I'll write na lang about the sea and the palm trees and the beaches
Pray and pray nalang para walang provocation
ako nga ang daming nag-message sa akin nagalit sa issue ng Sabah standoff
Ikaw pa kaya na wala namanng masama na sinabi dun
Alam mo ‘buti na lang you verbalized that kasi iniisip ko rin ‘yun
I know you have reasons and you know better kaya; I just read your posts
I don’t have to go against parties kasi both have rights
And the issue must be solved
Wala, kasi sa akin kundi independence lamang ang kailangan
May ganyan din kasing realities?
Minsan you are being asked or expected to take sides
Yes, my side is peace – with peace is independence
Yes, I heard that sa dating Jabidah Massacre celebration
Somebody said that, “Walang kapayapaan kasi walang kalayaan”
And that is very universal, kapatid.
Moro or non-Moro and writing should always geared towards humanity
That’s why for me it “anti-humanity” if you will not listen
Or suppress when somebody will talk about freedom.
That’s the problem with Filipinos, they don't listen.
Kasi the leaders may sarili ring interests.
How do you see being Filipino?
Ako, it's a cage, Filipino nationalism
Agenda ng mga oligarchs and landowners
Filipino nationalism is violence against Muslims and lumads
Kasi ‘pag ako ang tatanunginmo I will never say I am Filipino
Because Tausug it’s not a name but an identity...
I understand but kaunti na lang kayo
Ako sasabihin ko na I am a Filipino but I have reservations
When I was a teenager hindi ako tumatayo ‘pag Lupang Hinirang
ngayon tumatayo na kasi napapaaway ang mga kasama ko sa sinehan
Yes and identity should be critically assessed and examined.
Kaya if they say Filipino ang mga Tausug masakit sa aking loob
But not all, kapatid. try mo pumunta sa Manila
Yung mga Moro na malalapit sa mga institusyon ng Pilipinas
Bakit iba ang Moro at ibang ang Tausug
kaya sila naging Moro at masaya na tawaging Moro
May identity na naiiba sa Filipino
Pinag-aaralan ko rin yan and ino-observe ‘yung pag-yield sa 'Filipino'
‘Will give Filipinos a disservice
Because it is tantamount to be an accomplice to a corrupt system
And this system is the one that oppresses Muslims
At alam natin ang Tausug di lamang taga-Sulu
Pati Bisayan, Tausug din
As much as possible I am trying to make my writings 'away'
Away from Filipino nationalism
That's the right way for me and my writing
I will ask first, “How it is to be human?”
At super last na ang, “How to be a Filipino”
And the Bangsamoro struggle is the greatest critique to the violence
And failures of Filipino nationalism
Ang problema kasi kaya di successful ang Bangsamoro struggle
Dahil nagdadala sila ng pangalan na di naman originally sa kanila
How come ang pangalan ko ay Abdul sa rights
Gagamitn ko ang Juan para sa aking bayan?
Kaya war of ideas ito and alam mo naman sa akin, ‘pag ideas
And perspectives walang kompromiso and peace talks
I do not compromise my language, my craft and myself, my writing
Filipino is an imagined nation, as well as Bangsamoro
Bakit di natin magamit ang orignal nation natin
Na based sa Sulu archipelago and Mindanao
Yes, actually diyan ako papunta - papunta
Bakit hindi i-Bangsamoro-ized ang buong Filipinas?
It doesn’t mean na i-convert ang Pilipinas
But the spirit, the struggle it should mean something to Filipinos
It should kasi ang dami na nagbuwis ng buhay
Kaya ko pa na tanggapin kung Maharlika
‘Yan ang gusto kong ma-achieve: Filipinos should listen to Moros
Siyempre marami pang madidiscover along the way
Indeed. Ikaw ba ‘pag sasabahin ko na ‘Tausug’ ano ang maiisip mo?
Tausug is Moro and Moro for me is something that predates 'Filipino'
But now, I would like to know the concept of “Lupah Sug”
I want to know it, I think there are more and beyond Moro on it
Before ‘Moro’ was named to Mindanao and Sulu people
It was first name to Aceh people, Melaka, Brunei and then Manila
Sulu and Mindanao were the last places to have been called the name ‘Moro’
Sulu archipelago was united under the name Sulu archipelago
The name of people is Tausug.
Tausug is composed of different ethnics:
Arab, Banjar, Dampuan, Buranun etcetera.
The concept of Sulu as part of dar al islam
Is already a nation and state
Where the government is the people and itself headed by sultan or raja
Yes, and I would like to feel this from the ordinary Tausugs when I get there
I would like to experience this from ordinary Tausug and on from place itself.
In the hinterland of Jolo, their laws still on the ground not of Philippine law
I believe in narratives
I want to hear and feel this from the place and from the people.
And then capture it; I have these thoughts
That Lupah Sug has something that the Moro concept does not have
And it’s a bit metaphysical but sige lang.
I know my craft can capture it.
I think there is a language that can capture it
And specific craft that can carry its soul
Not fictionalize but put it in a form like a novel or a narrative
Which have their own logic and truths as crafts.
This poem is made after the conversation and sharing with Filipino writer Rogelio Braga who also serves as the editor of the poem. He is currently in Mindanao, travelling and writing; he will then proceed to Sulu Archipelago soon. 2:28PM, 19 March 2013, Facebook Chat across Sulu Sea!
Long poem by
Robert Candler | Details |
Fifty years, boy and man, I’ve been a Sooners fan;
And watched thousands of recruits try to make my Sooners Team.
Often, I’ve enviously wondered what it must be like
To be a touted Sooners recruit, living out his dream.
He’d had a great career through high school;
Made good grades, was a football star, played baseball too.
Coach said college recruiters were watching closely;
So, he tried his very best to make his dream come true.
You see, he’d played on the L’il Sooners as a kid;
Started getting serious about the game when he was only eight
Played with older, bigger boys and practiced hard;
Always told his friends, “To be a Sooner, ya gotta play great”.
Oh yes, his parents raised a football player;
And, even more important, a Sooners fan;
But he wanted more, to be a Sooner,
To feel the glory raining down from the stands.
Now, the Sooners’ Head Coach is in his living room.
“Son, you’ve got talent. We think you fit our scheme.
We’re offering you a scholarship, an opportunity
To be an important member of our great Sooners Team”.
His mother smiles her biggest smile.
His father nods proudly and pats him on the knee.
“Lord knows, son, it’s a dream come true.
Go be the very best Sooner you can be”.
He walks into the locker room,
Not quite sure what to expect;
But sure that to play for the Sooners
He will first have to earn respect.
He looks each man straight in the eye -
Other recruits, trainers, assistants, and every coach.
“Be proud, but respectful”, his mother had said;
Your character, more than your performance, must be above reproach”.
His handshake is firm and he smiles.
“Only one chance for a first impression”, his father had said;
"Always put yourself in positive light, on and off the field.
That’s what it will take to play for the mighty Big Red”.
He meets so many other recruits, each one a high school star.
He’s played against a few and knows they share his dream.
And, to a man, each knows before any chance for Glory,
He first must prove worthy to play for this Sooners Team.
He knows a few will fail to meet the coaches’ expectations.
For some, the scout team will be their fate.
Many will suit up, but rarely play.
Only the very best will ever dare to be great.
Coach says, “If every man learns and executes when called on,
Then this team, we Sooners, will win a lot of games;
But, win or lose, if you play hard and give your very best,
You’ll never have to hang your heads in shame”.
“But gentlemen, with or without you, this team will win.
Every season, the Sooners strive to win it All.
So, listen, work hard, and prepare yourselves. Each game is war...
And you must be ready when Victory calls”.
Through grueling practices, he finds himself.
As he walks to class, his closest friends are aches and pains;
But, just the other day, Coach helped him up, smiled, and patted his helmet.
“You’re doin’ fine, son. Keep pushin’. Remember, no pain, no gain”.
He sees his name on the "open scrimmage" roster for the very first time.
It’s a moment he’ll never forget, another milestone in his dream.
He calls his Mom and Dad, knowing they’ll tell his family and his friends.
He hopes they’ll actually see him play, proof he’s made the Team.
As he suits up for the last pre-season open scrimmage,
He wonders if the coaches would really let a freshman play at all;
But Coach puts him in for eight plays against the first team;
He makes two great open-field tackles and intercepts the ball.
He barely hears the roar of the crowd, as the whole defense “gives him five”.
He’s so excited, he forgets to ask if he can keep that ball.
Fans are buzzing, “Did you see that hit”!? “Who is that kid”!?
“Will he red shirt or will Coach let him play this fall”?
He sees his name in the Sunday paper, hears it on local sports.
He’s happy, but he doesn’t let it go to his head.
He keeps his focus and uses it as motivation.
After all, he wants to start one day for the mighty Big Red.
Yes, we’ll hear more of this young recruit.
Perhaps, one day he’ll be the hero of the game.
A seasoned veteran, maybe All Conference or even All American,
Who’s tasted Victory many times and helped glorify the Sooners’ name.
Oh yes, there have been so many who’ve aspired;
But many fewer who’ve actually made our Sooners Team.
They are our heroes, each and every one;
For it’s through their accomplishments, we fans can live the dream.
Billy Vessels, Steve Owens, Billy Sims, and Jason White,
The Selmons, Little Joe, the Boz, Josh Heupel, and “Q”
They, and so many others, were once touted Sooners recruits;
Who set a higher mark and built the Tradition that is OU.
So, c’mon! c’mon! all you great young football players!
Dedicate your talents to OU’s Team and OU’s Fans.
Make Oklahoma’s Owen Field your Field of Dreams,
And feel the Glory raining down from the stands.
Long poem by
Jorn Kolding | Details |
While a part of my soul longs,
To be carried away,
To another world,
To a mountain top,
To a lonely place,
To where the air is thin and light,
To where sensations stop,
To where feelings end,
To where noise is drowned out by clouds of silence,
Just wants to be where my soul belongs,
Entirely available and present,
Near to who I am,
In the moment,
Here and not there,
To the voice,
Do you see me?
The wings that lift me into the sky,
Soaring in the icy drafts,
Glide with grace,
Leaving no trace,
Of the invisible pilot,
By the reigns,
Of the eye of the mind,
Like a drone,
Operated in some far off place,
By a craftsman conjurer,
Whose fingers mime,
What the imagination can not speak of.
Like a dream,
Where the magic fluid of time stops,
Just long enough,
To not disrupt,
The trust of continuity,
The wings contract,
Revealing an intention,
In a slow,
I am carried,
First up and around,
In a giant bow,
Like the swinging arch,
Of destiny’s hand in the sky.
The torsion and kinetics,
Leave no ambiguity,
What awaits at top,
Hanging upside down,
In the air,
In a chair,
Is unspeakably worse than the crime,
Devised by the mind,
Whose role is to parole,
The empty fallacies,
The narration of self,
When the screaming starts,
In the eyes of those you love,
Is the absurdity of your own silence,
Is the utter feeling of having already given up,
Is the incompatible peace in knowing the end was near,
Somehow not bothering even,
To just say, hang in there my little friend,
I am with you, I am near,
Instead just sitting there,
Waiting for it be be over,
Who you love most of all,
Sits alone in tears.
That my friend,
The rest is just,
A blissful crash.
Hiding is the remedy,
Fighting the disease,
Forgetting is the poison,
That writers conceive.
I will go then,
To that place,
Where solitary men,
From the fires of the soul,
Where broken drums,
To walk among,
To count alone,
Scars and wounds,
To touch and wander,
To love and let go,
To make amends,
With friends and foe,
Just one last time,
Intensely eternal words,
Only she could know.
As if by doing so,
The sun could set,
On the shoulders of all that I have seen,
I would say,
I am not broken yet,
Do not forget.
On the art of living,
For the sake,
Not just yet.
The marksman who chooses his arrow,
Is not like the blind falling sparrow,
In his sight,
Whether day or night,
The beginning of time is now,
Bend it then man,
Forfeit the other plan,
Make from the shaft and plant it.
This then was not a poem,
Nor, was it ever,
Meant to become one,
Which is not to say,
The obvious desire,
In the mood portrayed,
To write something poetic,
A gem even,
A crown of jewels,
For the world of fools,
Those miserly souls,
Being something entirely different,
A monstrosity of sorts,
Entirely myopic, dystopian and fake,
More than blurry,
Always in a hurry,
To cover over what was never even there to begin with,
One might ask,
What was it?
To which I respond,
Hat in hand,
Letter of resignation,
Hidden in my sleeve,
Be patient reader,
Do not despair,
This little speech,
Is meant for the air,
To be inhaled only,
By those addicted,
To disreputable habits,
Those little rabbits,
Who rise from the orifice,
Of one we all know,
Yet never did notice.
This then was how it ended,
Never to be amended,
Just left alone,
To make peace,
With the words,
Who always do,
What they please.
In the beginning was the deed…
Long poem by
Robert Candler | Details |
Bob had a special talent
That only worked in his men’s store.
He had ‘clothing ESP’.
He knew what his customers wanted…and more.
When customer would come into his store
Bob would invariably say,
“Hello. I'm Bob. Don’t say a word.
I already know what you need today.”
And he was always right,
Never missed a color, fabric, style or size.
He even knew the necessary alterations.
Customers couldn’t believe their ears and eyes.
Meanwhile, in another part of town,
Joe had a pounding, relentless migraine
For every minute for more than five years,
It had driven him near insane.
He’d lost his job to the pain.
Then, he lost his wife.
He had lost a lot of weight and rarely slept.
Yes, his was a miserable life.
And, of course, sex was out of the question…
Even a little self-abuse.
There was nothing left for Joe but pain.
He felt his life was of no use.
So, Joe went to his doctor.
“Doc, please help me end this pain.
Give me something to make me sleep
And never wake up again.”
“You know I can’t assist your suicide.”,
Then he looked sad, perhaps ashamed.
“I never dreamed it would last five years,
But I know how to end the pain.”
“You can make it go away?!
Tell me, Doc! What’s the word?”
“I’ll have to remove your testicles.”
Was the last thing that Joe heard.
But…when he came to, it struck him.
Sex was out of the question anyway;
But he might enjoy his meals again,
And he could sleep for days.
“Please check me in, Doc.
This opportunity I cannot shirk.”
So, the doctor removed his testicles.
He did his very best work.
A few days later, Joe waddled along,
Headache free and feeling pretty nice;
But every attractive woman he saw
Reminded him of his sacrifice.
He decided it was appropriate
To do something nice for himself for a change.
So, he went into a travel agency;
And a six month cruise he arranged.
As he left the travel agency,
He was excited, feeling ready to go;
But for such a glorious adventure,
He would need new clothes.
As he walked along, he saw Bob’s Men's Store.
He walked in, only to hear Bob say,
“Hello. I’m Bob. Don’t say a word.
I already know what you need today.”
“How could you know?” asked Joe.
“It’s a gift. I don’t know how, but I do.
You’ve suffered five years with an ailment,
Found relief, so now you’re taking a cruise.”
Joe could not believe his ears.
How could this stranger possibly know?
"You're right! That's amazing!
And I'm going to need new clothes."
Bob then laid out a fabulous wardrobe
All the right colors, fabrics, styles…and each size.
Joe was incredibly impressed.
He could hardly believe his ears and eyes.
“How do you like the wardrobe?”
“It’s wonderful!” Bob could see that Joe was pleased.
“Now,” said Bob, “What about undergarments;
You know…shorts and tees?
Let’s see…medium crew neck tees, all cotton.
I believe that you prefer white….
And jockey shorts, all cotton…. 34s.
Yes, I'm sure that’s right.”
Joe beamed, “You’re an amazing talent
And I just this second realized,
You've laid out this entire wardrobe
And only missed one size.”
Bob, surprised by his mistake, asked, “Really?
What did I miss? I did my best for you.”
“Well…you’re right.” said Joe, “I do wear Jockeys,
But…well…I wear 32s.
“Oh, no!” said Bob with an ugly grimace.
“That would be a serious mistake.
Thirty-twos would be too small,
They would cramp your balls.
You’ll get migraine headaches.”
Long poem by
Therese Bacha | Details |
~A Portrait ~
A mother feels that her life resembles
to an unpretentious painting
hanging on the wall in her residency,
it projects nothing except
no ocean with the seagulls
flying on top humming
happy sounds to express
how much they love their liberty.
That portrait is dark lifeless
when she is far from her children,
the sun doesn't like to wake up,
there are no tourists walking
on that beach,even the waves
are stuck they do not have
the energy to move and splash
on the shore.
The crabs don't come out
to breath from underground
as it feels lifeless,the moon
changes its course not to be
seen in there and is not ready
to shed any lights to avoid
this obscurity,even the fish
are sleeping dizzy without food
due to their sadness
with all their surroundings,
nothing is alive, and knows
she is stuck for a while
with this painting having to
look as is and accept it.
Until she lands and sees her children
holding a bouquet of roses,
then the painting starts breathing,
everything awakes,sleeping or dead
come to life, the waves splash
on the shore,the seagulls fly
and the melody is beautiful,
the sun peeps looking so happy
and clear,the crabs start popping
up crawl with pride,the tourists
stride with huge smiles,lovers
holding hands, kissing love is happiness,
later the fish cant stop swimming
from one place to the other
searching for their breakfast,
later on the rainbow appears
as a surprise the sun will leave
and the moon will take its place
to shine from above on everybody
in that portrait,now she could start
looking at it because its alive
it becomes the most beautiful portrait.
She was one of the most beautiful
women when she turned 32 after
11 years of marriage with 2 children
young boys she would walk in
the streets with them everybody
would turn and double look at her.
In that portrait she is wearing one
of her black & white Chanel suit holding a
champagne glass in her hand standing
on the sand an everlasting peaceful look,
sometimes she wears her hair up
with pearls to hold them firmly,
the white and black earrings from Chanel,
always has make up with such elegance,
she has a small nose everybody admires
and envies her,she has green eyes beautiful,
very sexy lips as she knows how to dress
up her lips a brown contour and a light
pink lipstick,her body is gorgeous
tall & slim now she's admiring
her living portrait.
She sees beauty and sharing only
with her children when she feels young
& has a wide image of describing
this same painting which is hanging on her wall.
When she goes back home she becomes blind
only by looking at it with no tomorrow
except her sitting on the couch
watching TV or writing poetry.
Most of the time shedding
tears of fear and loneliness.
But when she leaves home
to join the outside world,
everybody thinks she's doing great,
looking good with her make up,
after all those years of being
separated she knows
how to camouflage her pain
in the presence of strangers.
All what she asks for,
is listen to her sons voices
whispering her name.
Voices,through a wire for years.
Today,I am that woman of 76 years old.
5/7/2013 Win No (7)
Long poem by
Mari Roberts | Details |
As soon as I convince myself that food is not my friend
This one-sided relationship will all come to an end
Each day when I arise I pledge an archetypal goal
To overcome the food addition pulling on my soul
But as the day goes forward, problems start to come around
The vending machine calls me and my love jones comes on down
Food shouldn’t be my buddy, nor my solace when I’m sad
Not what to do when I’m alone or feeling really bad
I can’t find myself in popcorn, there’s no counseling in chips
This love affair’s not working out; I see it on my hips
I utilize my pantry like a confessional booth
But it’s really not where I should go when looking for the truth
For many years I’ve searched and searched for pairs of loving eyes
Those I find are on potatoes - or my skinny lover – fries
I look for comfort in the coolness of a milkshake’s sweet embrace
It seems to be what I need but – it’s showing in my face
I love the crunch of fried fish once it’s bubbled in hot grease
But back fat rolls as a result make sexiness decrease
I always think I’ll overcome but alas and alack
The smell of rising dough just seems to stab me in the back
This symbiant feeds off me as I gorge upon its flesh
And my attempts to conquer it are marginal at best
The truthful path to happiness is what I most desire
But yet the path I choose to walk is paved with tight attire
Buying bigger clothes would be a way to make amends but
Money is a joke that I discuss with all my friends
Vanity keeps me from moving on to larger sizes
Self-esteem flees from me with my morning scale surprises
Pain becomes a part of me when I put on my jeans
Because of how the waistband cuts so deep into my spleen
There are the times I launch a siege and race off to the gym
I cut out all the dirty carbs and find myself in Zen
But alas my lover follows me and sings a sweet sweet song
Of a tired, broken lady who has worked out far too long
Of pudding pops and ice cream which I certainly deserve
Cause in kickboxing they tortured me and worked up quite a nerve
Of Cheez-Its and Doritos and all kinds of savory treats
Because “After all, I did work out, I should get something neat!”
Food. Not song, or dance, or even following my dreams
Not writing funny poems or saying silly things
Not feeling good, not working hard, not fitting in my clothes
Filling my gut with sustenance but not filling the holes
This relationship waits for me at the end of every day
It’s never late; it’s always there faithful in every way
You have to ask yourself sometimes, “What kind of friend is that?”
Who gives me what I think I want no matter how I act?
Is this the friend I want to keep, the one who fills my needs
Or is this just a mind-screw consummating my foul deeds
My ankles swell, my belly too, my butt hangs kinda’ low
I can sit in for the fat girl during any vaudeville show - but
As soon as I convince myself that food is not my friend
This one-sided relationship will all come to an end
Today when I arise I’ll pledge an archetypal goal
To overcome this food addition pulling on my soul
Long poem by
Laura Breidenthal | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/light_on_the_devils_chord__part_2_609518' st_title='Light On the Devil's Chord -part 2'>
Later that day, I fell upon my knees and prayed to God fervently,
“Lord God, with us, among us,
I am ever grateful, and I am ever joyous,
I thank you for the gift of existence,
And the gift of this Glorious Millennium,
Soon, among the many teachers,
I shall be ready for the Second Coming,
To share with them your awesome statutes
And heal the many wounded hearts
Soon, I will change minds with Your power and spirit
I will melt hearts, breaking them into the mortar,
As you smell the aroma of change lift into the skies
On this incredible, rejuvenated earth, all will have the opportunity,
All will have the opportunity to be saved…
Lord God, with the glorious Word, the shining Son,
In all of the joy and happiness,
I am aware of one bitter, dark, sinister being,
Who dwells in the abyss you tightly concealed to protect us,
This I ask, Lord– is there a way to his heart?
Will he always be evil to the end?
Is it possible that one can bring him to repentance?
I spoke with Christ and Noah briefly on the matter, Lord,
As you know…
I am aware that our words and our requests matter to you,
And we have some power, through your consent,
To change Your mind and even Your plans,
So this I request,
Can someone, with wisdom and understanding, if not You,
Save Satan, the Devil?”
There was a cool breeze all around me,
And His mighty voice replied immediately,
“Satan the Devil, curses Me as I speak,
Plots the death of you and your brothers,
He is the Prince of Darkness,
Contrary to the Law and Life I have sustained upon these replenished lands…
He bashes his face on the walls of his torment,
Vomits mockery and perverseness
At even the thought of peace,
He craves your blood and all others, envious of their innocence
Hating you because you please Me and not him
He spills his lying tongue and rattles reason to rust…”
There was silence, for He watched me carefully
Knowing my intentions were good
A tear ran down my cheek,
The first tear in 500 years…
“Yes, you may request and your words may make a difference,
Yes, you have the power to change My mind if I see it will result in peace,
Yet Satan, the Devil,
Holds hate only I can bear…
He cannot change for he is trapped in his own snare
This darkness he dwells in was brought on because of his never-ending sins,
The collateral damage he afflicted on the multitudes
Shows me all he wishes for is destruction
And it is that very destruction that will consume him in the end…”
I paused briefly, and sighed in heavy grief
“Is it wrong, Lord Almighty, that I grieve his soon coming punishment?”
“No, you are not wrong…” he said, in a serious tone.
“Though hear Me daughter, you shall learn by experience more of what I mean… soon enough.”
For days, He left me with that,
And I sat there, wondering what He meant
As all ate their meals and rejoiced,
I fasted five days in the flower fields,
Humbled by the blessings given to me
Thankful for God’s complete understanding and wisdom
Baffled by his mysterious prophesy…
Long poem by
Brody Brown | Details |
That what our baby girls name would have been
But sadly her life will never begin
She lives only in this song and in my heart deep within
Now i look back and imagine her grin and wish things could have been,
different now bring on the violin
Our little girl would have been so innocent
The most beautiful little infant
But now she'll never see the light of day and we've become so distant
We no longer share anything not even a commitment
We like strangers in the street we stay at a distance
Even though we both know that it was alway me B but i was too blind to see that
After that week to my love you were resistant
And i was too persistent
I never thought that I was the ticket to your depression
Now i look into the past and want to cause a spin and take everything back but what i would change is the topic of my thoughts yes the answer at last So What would i change in the past Id make our love last and bring nymphadora to this world so i can hear her laugh and id change myself
For you and her thats just that
Id do anything to give her the greatest life and be the best dad
Unlike the biological one i never had
Its odd that i don't find that sad and its never made me mad
Because the father i have is great and i will be too thats not up for debate
For now just sit back and relax as i explain my story of how i became what i am which is perfection
It all started with my father to my recollection
He set the example for what i would become, a locked up abusive alcoholic coke head who is now dead
What you don't believe what i just said
Well believe it i mean his name was Brody too, I've worked all my live to not be his replication
We have alot in common except i care and i have endless toleration
He didn't thats why when i was a child him and my mother had brutal altercations
He was always in jail i only met him through visitations
My family kept me away from him like segregation
Now that i'm older i can't even remember his face or voice i still want to meet him so i wait everyday in anticipation
I know hes no longer my father but i still dream of have him in my life even if it was just an association
I wish i could get him on a track as a collaboration
But between the dead and the living there is no communication
All i have left is storys told to me by family im sure its all just a dramatization
I met him in a hallucination
Of a bright light call it a visualization
Then he walked out of the shining light in the illumination
But He didn't say a word he just looked into my eyes
I didn't realize what he was telling me then i did an interpretation
I knew he was proud of me his only creation
And i could tell he was sorry because all my life he was gone in jail incarceration
When i came back to reality i had a realization
That i need to change my lifes direction thats right make a correction to perfection
Then discover my true identification
And yes thats B punctuation.
Long poem by
Ruben Hernandez Diaz | Details |
Roses in the garden,
Roses in the world,
But now roses curled...
Peach roses show modesty,
Peach roses show gratitude,
However, they are often insincere...
Yellow roses seem to care,
Yellow roses show friendship,
However, they are often joyless and jealous...
Pink roses communicate sweetness,
Pink roses radiate elegance,
However, they are often unthankful...
Orange roses have desire,
Orange roses show their pride,
However, they are often impassive...
Purple roses are majestic,
Purple roses express love at first sight,
However, they are often repulsed and unenchanted...
Green roses are harmonious,
Green roses carry hope,
However, they are often unpeaceful...
Blue roses like dreaming,
Blue roses are imaginative,
Blue roses desire to know the unknown,
Blue roses are mysterious,
However, they are often elusive and unattainable...
Red roses are emotional,
Red roses are devotional,
Red roses are respectful,
However, they are often remorseful, sorrowful and mistaken...
Gold roses are occassional,
Gold roses like memories,
Gold roses are preserved,
However, they are often misinterpreted and confused...
White roses are pure,
White roses have innocence,
White roses are spiritual,
White roses carry secrecy,
However, they are often arrogant...
Silver roses are rare,
Silver roses like to grow,
Silver roses convert fantasy into reality,
However, they are often lost and uneasy,
But they seem unpredictable and mystical...
Black roses are mysterious,
Black roses are rebirth,
However, they often remain elusive,
They often symbolize death and loss,
But they are unpredictable and silent,
Though, they are often harmed...
Roses in the garden,
Roses in the world,
But now roses swirled and twirled...
Although, now peach roses are lying,
Yellow roses turning jealous and browned,
Pink roses being unsweet and unthankful,
Orange roses being impulsive and compulsive,
Purple roses being repulsed and revulsed,
Green roses losing hope and harmony,
Blue roses being undiscovered and lost,
Red roses being regretful and voided,
Gold roses bewildered and confused,
White roses losing purity and innocence,
Silver roses turning black and unused,
And black roses silenced and unborn...
All there is to see are roses vanishing,
All there is to feel are roses withering,
In a bed of bleeding roses...
Long poem by
Richard Lamoureux | Details |
She kept TELLING,
YELLING at me,
to GO with the FLOW, to write with a GLOW. How?
My mind feels too SLOW to capture the UNDERTOW!
I try rising to the SURFACE with my VERSES. yet
I wander from PURPOSE, bam the bottom or a boat.
Feeling like a dazed PORPOISE, stranded and stunned!
Desiring the protection, of a TORTOISE shell
Underwater there's no way to YELL for help
My voice muted like broken BELL not able to sing
Vocal chords locked by an ancient SPELL
A mind cracked and confused
With a story to TELL
Up was up until it FELL
Wanting to THRIVE, a member of a pod or HIVE
With words I feel ALIVE
In unison I FLY and DIVE through liquid space
Not noticing the warning SIGNS up ahead
My words are more than nursery RHYMES
The arbrators of more and lesser TIMES multiplied by NINES
Here swimming within discarded LINES
They are articulations born to be,
With each one I arrive at the end of myself
My BEGINNING is my ENDING within this ocean TRANSCENDING
Words CURVING and BENDING
we are all PRETENDING
Afraid of OFFENDING
Worried what message we are SENDING
Some are gentle others SHARKS
Eyes that glow through water like SPARKS
Yet some eyes are cold and DARK
Destiny of man a cryptic MARK
Floated on this water in an ancient Ark
So I swim to the SURFACE lifted on my CURSiVE
Not wishing to be DIVERSIVE, ELUSIVE or COERSIVE
I swim in circles going deeper DOWN
If I drink your air I'll surely DROWN
Come to my water, filter my SOUND
I am your lost and FOUND
Feel the Earth's pulse within me POUND
Circular in motion my spirit flows
Within LIQUIDITY, I am bound yet FREE
Tossing and turning it escapes from ME
Morphed beyond this endless SEA
Water evaporates to become what it must BE
Nourishing ground, rain helps form the TREES
Carried in sheets upon the BREEZE
Sometimes into ice the vapors FREEZE
The ground like rock it will APPEASE
When in spring like our thoughts it THAWS
No longer DAZED or CONFUSED
Much more aware just a little BRUISED
List of words used in my word play.
Sorry Verlena my tablet won't let me access bold or italic.
65 words I cheated two at the beginning and added three at the end.