Long poem by
Joel Lee | Details |
I have a story that needs be told
A story I never knew if words can transcript
For it belongs when in dreams I enroll
Visions before or an afterlife if I shall seek
If it all shall begin… it begins with me
A stranger living in a past, a stranger place to have been
Another world for my eyes… a world yet to be
For the voice need be deciphered for it all to mean
It was past several nights ago
A paled darkness I remember to have sunken into
Perhaps too much of love I have enfold
Or simply too much of a self I’m lesser to overrule
Venturing in thoughts unrealized… unknown
I am lost and alone, unloved and unworthy
Behind a closed door, am I to feel at home?
Needing answers for my troubled mind… needing tranquility
As I began dwelling into myself nevertheless
I shut away a world I have come to know too well
A stranger finding a resolve, a past to rehearse
Yet having found was a voice… an alternative to compel
The voice has only but left me enthrall
A language unheard of… perhaps of an ancient tongue
And to understand… how is it I am empowered?
And trailing behind, an aria from others sung
“I was enchanted by those who sung… they who sing
Like sylphs, like sirens… unearthly yet encompassing
Did I remember being at home, behind a closed door?
Or is it a dream I slumbered into for a time to recall?
An hour less before midnight for an hour more before daylight
Yet of thirteen bears the time I see for my hourly need to hide
A truth perhaps far from disbelieve is all I’m left to see
Yet… the mysterious voices promises me for what couldn’t be
Like gravity… flowing without control, without life own
Like a design for quivering quivers to the shivering unknown
And blinded of numbered time, I allow myself this moment
This moment when love isn’t at all to matter even
Timeless became my life, sinking into the voices of the unholy
Knowing an answer I seek no more from a world reasonably
Almost a subtle caress to have perhaps felt their touch
Flirting with me, toying with my soul a little too much
Have they not to bring solace… I wouldn’t have believe
Have they not voices as intriguing… if I can simply leave?
And they sung ever on… evermore, forever to be
Giving me a shade of another world unimaginable to see
Perhaps nothing more from my real world I need hear
Compassion for another… a self I need no longer dear
Entice yet… I hear the aria softening away for another
Branding into my mind till possibly shall life departs me forever
For when it came, it belongs an utterly voice to articulate
A much deeper sounding of another language to translate
And unheard of were the words spoken in today’s tongue
Yet heard were the words I somehow understood to have undone
However all has come to pass, darkness returns with a familiar door
Delivering me from my moment for another moment to recall
An awakening for a darker side or a lighter side of life awaited
I cannot know with my deliverance kept at bay of time presented
And no sooner than I realize am I back in my room once more
Gifted of words is all but all to reside from an ever before”
“Fear is a fire
To temper courage and resolve
Be it desire
To quench the thirst for one’s unfounded lost”
That be of words left for me
Spoken without teachings of today to date
Yet burnt into mind was what I see
A reference perhaps from a past to now relate
A moment given I can still believe
That moment if I am to encounter once more
To explain the least for my words receive
Be it a dream for the unknown to recall
Has it been past several nights ago?
Living in this dreaded world as a lesser self I am
If it isn’t for the voice… would life I have to behold?
To find a more positive side of a stranger me to befriend
Perhaps I will return once more unknowingly
And much I would give for this transaction be made
A founded lost must I be… in search of this tranquility
Surrendering to unforgiveable time if I must but await
Long poem by
Gerald Dillenbeck | Details |
What to do,
to totalitarian tyranny
in someone else's home
OK, good question,
yet with ample precedent
in polycultural battles to attain harmonious balance
where we have become monopolistically lost.
What do you do,
to monocultural stimuli
advancing in your own heart,
across your backyard?
When death stalks you,
declares you alien to life's current probabilities
of rationally redeeming praxis,
when your friends recognize your karma
arcing from past memories
inviting evolution's highly personal fragile future?
What do you do when you fear
your ego and relationships of love,
and sometimes even faint suggestion of domestic peace,
may realistically be at an unwelcome end?
I tend to ask myself,
then those around me,
profoundly wise questions:
Have I done something to tick you off?
Why this tyranny,
where is the winning function of decay,
mayhem, mercenary merciless mob
Who is winning what
in this long-hot summer
of monopolistic habits, norms,
assumptions of egocentric,
rather than ecologic,
zero-sum lose-lose strategies
and principles of economics?
Who designed such chaos?
And, my answer always echoes
resoundingly back across our Eternal Transitional Moment,
this is a fool's game we witness."
So, whether this totalitarian monocultural weedpatch
of a socioeconomic culture
is your own
or your neighbor's
or your larger DNA/RNA-rooted
if you know them as
interdependent relations within EcoTherapeutic Praxis
we mentor with, by, and for each Other.
So continue to water your cooperative flowers
and ignore that violent weedish autocrat
suffering from too much yang,
too little yin flexibility and graceful mind
and inclusively grateful breath.
If you can't engage them,
join them in distant laughter at ourselves
for being such an autistically exclusive species,
distracted by our own solar spots and days gone solo,
we forget we're all in our mess together,
whether we aim ballistics at eco-systemic hearts,
When my teenagers cannot believe
they need not fear me,
because my actions tell them otherwise,
according to their diverse abilities,
they laugh with me,
this laughter so surprises
I cannot retain my fear
but maybe a little suffering,
or my daughter shuns me,
or my older sons ask me
what is my problem?
It helps when they remember
to ask with kindness and patience
with my pain and fear and cherished suffering.
So, why not a simple email
from one head of state,
I can see you are suffering
catastrophic loss of wealth and happiness,
your nutrients are leaking,
your polycultures fade
and your monocultural trend is sharply rising,
how can we help?
Sometimes I'm in no mood to talk.
I want to hang on to my suffering,
to fully harvest its positive lessons.
Sometimes I'm in a mood
to not tolerate shunning
from Ms. Oppositional Daughter,
but my son who cannot speak,
understands no language
beyond rhythm and resonance,
language as music in personal keys and chords,
when he laughs at my vast righteousness,
I melt and wilt
to join his polycultural revolution
primal assumption of mutual gratitude,
we will always laugh together
as we have throughout our incarnations.
Long poem by
Abdulhafeez Oyewole | Details |
So soon after supper, you’ve forgotten
Those ones you called your alter egos.
Said adieu and you did not stay o!
So soon you forgot those ones?
The one you met and greeted in clan,
During moon, storm, wind, rain and sun.
When did you see such last o!
Have you forgotten that one?
The day you laughed, soul solo,
The day you wined and dined with time.
The day you saw what meant not see o!
Have you forgotten that one?
(Look) lad and lass, you’re right about your proof,
You hailed from the noble city.
But useless you to the piss poor, when yet yearning for more o!
Have you forgotten that one?
You’re known before your canker-worm,
You’re (now) renowned of being perilous.
In addition is your notorious nature o!
For God’s sake, did you forget that one?
It’s you that’s spotted in the red road,
Caught red handed and still didn’t repent.
Wake up and have a rethink of your ways o!
Be pure heart and build a better unforgettable one.
It isn’t right when you rolled late in rock n’ rule,
It’s lovely then to have discovered you’ve inborn.
The loveliest of all is mastering one at a time o!
Let’s hope you wouldn’t forget that one.
Tis terrible there you mounted upon
Would you mind stepping down from there?
Saying wisely, you are the master of your ships o!
But stay grown, before you decide that one?
Wanderer (like yourself) wouldn’t warn you youth.
That is your life you’re playing apart.
Stay put so as to not cross your luck in the vain search o!
Let’s hope you wouldn’t forget that one.
Having a slot in the scorching sunny days,
Pitter-patter you’re yet there.
Should no vacancy, don’t let longing for home hook you o!
Work (more) harder, and there you get a better one.
Thinking about joy to come without working towards joy,
Hoping that that will bring forth the fortune you crave.
Joy won’t near you until you dare joy o!
Never forget that one.
Often, you’re inspired by rich men virtues
These call for emulations, they’re what you lip.
The outer- ordinary you see but careless about digging o!
And what would you call that one?
There you’re when you suddenly spoke,
And found your blurred lids exposed to transient.
Deeply lost when you lock in lack of exposure o!
To knowledge, you dare not forget that one.
You know what; I think you’re right,
That wrong rag-tag rule is the reigning rule.
But that got nothing doing in your personal dreams o!
Let’s hope you’re aware of that one.
You met your kinds in the region seemingly round.
Or have you forgotten that one?
Soils and skies make sphere most suitable for soul o!
Don’t say that, you forgot that one.
For you to assure me you note those terms
Show me what you’ve taken down.
About war, perhaps fun, or on allies and foes o!
Let me hear you on those ones.
Always remember you lived zero worlds,
Always remember you toured the middle worlds.
Since the last worlds, is still obscured o!
Live those ones you know as one.
So soon at first light, you’ve forgotten
The one you proclaimed your alter ego.
Said farewell and you did not save o!
So soon you forgot that one.
Let’s hope in the struggle through life,
You wouldn’t forget someone.
That perfected you in the most appealing beauty o!
Let’s hope you wouldn’t forget that Worthy One.
Long poem by
Nsamu Moonga | Details |
In My Language
This you might not know is a conversation,
It’s a conversation not of persons.
This is a conversation of multiple languages.
If you could observe the functions of my mind,
You would marvel at the thought processes
Criss-crossing ideas in various languages
I am not sorry for not thinking in one language only.
I am happy that the multiplicity of languages
Offers me just as multiple images;
Here you are thinking I am writing this in English,
Yes. But know this that what you see in this language
Is thought through ciTonga, through, siLozi and even
Through ichiBemba and chiChewa
How more purer can an idea be created!?
You sure do not know that a dog in siLozi is nja…
To know the word ‘dog’ I need to imagine ‘nja’
How else would I know its meaning?
To write a sentence, I must have thought about it
Three times more than you reading this…
‘Wait a minute’ in my language does not mean sixty ticking bits
That’s what it means to you…
In my language your minute could last a year…
You wonder why ninety days is more than ten years!
Wait a minute darling…welcome to my world.
In my language things are winding.
Don’t ever make the mistake of thinking that a ‘chimbwi’
Refers only to the animal ‘hyena’
It should; but does it?
In my language, you are safe if you do not translate anything.
Say ‘chikala’ and you will be cheered on
Translate that to some uncivilized language…
It’d be too civil for the hearing.
We do not name, we image in my language…
Love imaged as someone’s property
Think of a car that one really cares for…
That’d not sound real romantic in your ears…
In my language a mate would dance hearing
Being referred to as a well-tended car…
In my language, unlike yours, ‘fat’ is a compliment
Sex is communicated through naughty dances.
No one is exempted from these dances.
Even people in public offices show desire…
What you see…that’d not what you get.
The smiles carry within them deep felt grief.
They hope their loved one would come back.
He has prayed his goodbyes without facing them.
They wait for a minute; they still wait.
They sing dirges as the sun sets
There you are thinking they are morning a loss
In truth, they are rehearsing for a soon to occur demise
The disease without a name has come to visit yet again.
In my language stories are a norm
Alcoholic drinks accompany the tales
We have long known how to play our ‘ngoma’
The sound of ngoma does not mean anything to you; maybe
We know the differences in pulses;
Which announces a birth and which a death
There are fewer birth sounds…not birth to this side
Many births to the other side…
In my language Christmas is not the birth of some strange child.
It is for eating and drinking rare food and beverages.
The free range chickens know where to hide…
The greens wave with joy; they celebrate…
The not so nimble white hens pray in surrender…
The young and the old flirt…what a sight…
All adorned in new regalia…
In my language…
© Copyright.2012. All Rights Reserved. Nsamu Moonga
Long poem by
Travis Lone Hill | Details |
I live in a place striving for sobriety surrounded in alcohol looking for happiness trapped among our very own sadness. I hear my people’s laughs and I hear my people’s cries, but most of all I see their dreams because their dreams are my dreams because we remain not against each other today as enemies but hidden friends united through culture, language and blood. I laugh with my people and of course I cry with my people and I fight with my people but most of all I continue to dream with my people. I know who I am and where I am from to know where I been to still hope to where I am going to go. I feel darkness engulf not only myself but also almost my entire reservation’s race, no matter mixed or not because soon our culture and language will have no face without any more light to shine upon it. I know where I lived and still live to know if I will truly go where I truly want to go in life before I have my one walk with death. I know by a long shot that I am not the best but by a close hit on the reservation’s target I could be better.
I take a stand against self to stand against others to better a worsening crowd of many young lost indigenous souls waiting to be unknowingly found and waiting for something similar to what I’m about to write. I take a stand for self so that others know that we aren’t all lost and we can and will be found with the true hope of no one’s but your own. I take a stand because my brothers and sisters wont, I take a stand because now days most the people around me or within me can’t or don’t know how, I take a stand for the children who don’t have a father and mother as I once had, I take a stand for my unborn child almost here, I take a stand for courage because within me is filled with fear, I take a stand against because the alcohol and drugs within me now I just can’t stand, I take a stand for those around me who cannot stand, I take a stand for a culture dying on its knee’s trying to get back up, I take a stand for the forsaken yet to be forgiven self-stand.
I patiently wait, lying away in the darkness searching for light even though I can see the light I just don’t know how to get on thy path to the light. I am not alone, I know for a fact that I am not alone in my thoughts and feelings about life on earth here. I can see our pain, I can hear the hollers and screams, I can feel your anguish and I can smell our destruction. I walk through the reservation valley of darkness as if I am but a blind witness to our own destruction upon where many of us go unknown truly forever in depths of time, in the depths of death.
I know that I cannot give in or give up on a dream of a people’s dream where the buffalo in our young hearts and minds may roam around free and where the wolf warrior chief may rise above all odds and become thy greatest modern day warrior, the people seek him, the people crave him, the people need him, the people need someone to rise if not geographically the worldwide mentally.
Long poem by
William J. Jr. Atfield | Details |
The Bad, Bad Boy
My Dear, sweet China Flower :
The Oriental fragrance of you lingers on, it has permeated the very fibers of my mind and my home.
I am, oh so very sorry for over stepping boundaries, going beyond my place, in your life. I am sorry for letting my passions, my desires become the flames that defiled your beautiful innocence.
I really feel bad for the BAD, BAD thing I did to you and for leaving you unsatisfied. I am also, so very sorry for pollinating - planting my seeds deep within - your beautiful flower,
and for doing so without your desire, your consent as I slipped between your stems and into your dreams .
I do hope that you can find it in your heart to forgive this old fool for - in the heat of moments of desire to taste, to savour the flavour of your liquid honey, honey that felt so good I could not resist - defiling the innocent beauty of your womanhood, in desecrating a beautiful Flower, of China. All to satisfy my own lecherous appetites, appetites that violated the purity and innocence in you, broke the trust, that I believe you placed in the hands of this foolish old stranger.
I am truly sorry for my acts of indiscretion, and even more so for my not
bringing to fruition, the blossoming of your beautiful flower, feeling it, seeing it explode in a brilliance of rainbow colours, that would have lit up the hours of our late night, early morning.
Please do not think to badly of me, my Dear .
LOVE BILL .
As I look into the above, I come to realize that I painted a picture of what must appear, to you the reader, an aggressive, forceful, selfish, inconsiderate,monster who is lurking among the shadows of my rhyme ?, / poetry ?, but let me assure you that that is as far from the truth as is the closest universe .
The above poem ?, / rhyme ?, came on the heels of my lack of understanding, an inability to read the signs and the over active imagination of this author as I was looking into the beauty of the first times I made love to this Beautiful China Flower, in a bright light at night's darkest hour and again in the soft glow of dawn's first sight of passion's delight .
The truth be told, taking poetic license, an active imagination, lack of verbal communication - for there is this language and cultural difference as well as only three months of Canadian culture and the English language under her belt, at the time - told me one story while I neglected to take into account all the none verbal expression that came, and came from this Chinese Flower, as she expressed in the silences of her physical participation a truth and that truth has blossomed many, many times since under the green thumb of this old gardener, so what is the true reality ?, the rhyme ?, / poem ?, this statement ?
In the light of this, the poem ?, /rhyme ?, does not a reality make . A monster ?, a fool ?, a blind man ?, an artist ?, does any of this tell what this author could be under all my words ?
Long poem by
Suzette Richards | Details |
I painstakingly take down reading list.
(I thought that our dear teacher surely gist.)
“Of Bison Men”, antiquity : out o’ print;
and “Batcher in the Fry”, a concrete stint.
“Odious Night in Gail”, seen fit to ban –
Perhaps by an old “RAD at Sky March” fan.
And “Cellphone flowers of yellow and green”,
From “Loose'y in the Sky with Diamonds”, seen.
“You Lie, Sees” on top of list of sorcerers –
Our Homers being the main baseball scorers.
“Vinnie, VD, Vichy~”: Dude ate too much
I do not understand the rash and rush…
A cross all incontinence, without much flare,
there grammar mistakes is to much too bare.
1. Bison: Prehistoric animal, now extinct. Also, Bison Men Street Fighter = movie;
Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck
2. The Catcher in the Rye is a 1951 novel by J. D. Salinger
3. Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats
4. Radetsky March by Johann Strauss Sr.
5. RAD – abbreviation of many interpretations; also, slang for “great”
6. The actual line from “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” is: “Cellophane… “
7. "Loose'y" is slang for cigarettes sold singularly
8. Ulysses is derived from Ulixes, the Latin name for Odysseus, a character in ancient Greek literature. Odysseus also known by the Roman name Ulysses was a legendary Greek king of Ithaca and a hero of the blind poet, Homer's epic poem, the Odyssey.
9. Julius Caesar said this when described how/what he did on his campaign. (veni (I came), vidi (I saw), vici (I conquered). Colloquially used by teenagers as an expression for conquests of the opposite sex. "Vichy" as in vichysoisse, a cold potato soup
10. In the final couplet I vent my frustration with the incorrect usage and spelling which I often encounter in script; spelling and grammar which change the intended meaning of the text.
11. Written in: A quatorzain (from French quatorze, fourteen) is a poem of fourteen lines. Historically the term has often been used interchangeably with the term 'sonnet'. Various writers have tried to draw distinctions between 'true' sonnets, and quatorzains. Nowadays the term is seldom used, and when it is, it usually is used to distinguish fourteen line poems that do not follow the various rules that describe the sonnet. I followed the Shakespeare sonnet style with the volta at the COUPLET:"In Shakespeare's sonnets, however, the volta usually comes in the couplet, and usually summarizes the theme of the poem or introduces a fresh new look at the theme." ~ Wikipedia
6 July 2013
Sponsor Roy Jerden
Contest Name Malapropisms and Mondegreens
Long poem by
John Heck | Details |
My heart is empty, Jeffrey.
I’m standing here transfixed
within the threshold
of a vacant bedroom.
The air is still
but the delicate scent
of your passing soul
invades my nostrils.
The aroma travels deep
inside the tunnels
of my abdominal cavity -
a dew-anointed meadow
a fuchsia sunrise.
Your mattress is scrubbed,
stripped and sunlit –
except for two eiderdown pillows.
I envision a perfect outline -
your fragile face
softly carved within
the creases of these satin cases.
I visually inhale the profile
of your splendor;
a modern day Shroud of Turin
resurrected and resplendent
through trickled specks
of semi-dried sweat.
“No more IV’s”…“right…”
“No more bedpans”…“exactly…”
“No more night sweats”…“yes, handsome…”
“Now give me a big hug, Jeffrey…Jeffrey…”
My hands tremble as I
reach from one photograph to the next.
The images I want to barter
with Faustus and friends -
ensuring me a pact
whereas I can live and breathe
inside these time honored pixels -
content in lonely frames
hanging upon clinical walls
in a half-emptied bedroom.
I grabbed a beaded satin pillow
to cushion the fall as
I slowly hyperventilated.
I breathe once more, Jeffrey,
but I’ll gag twice again,
as I remember our newly spoken language -
a private dialect we created last month
reminiscent of the movie
“The Lost Language of Cranes.”
Those three long weeks before
you suddenly became incoherent
Remember how we improvised?
(shaking and arms crossed) “OK…you’re cold – I’ll get you a blanket!"
(pointing to your mouth) “You’re thirsty…water or juice?"
(pointing to your mouth and shaking) “OK…I’ve got it…ice cream…pudding?"
(index fingers pointing upward and swaying) “I know… you wanna listen to music”
(index fingers pointing downward) “Please turn off the TV set”
(middle finger pointing upward) “OK…you want me to adjust your pillows?"
(both middle fingers pointing upward and shaking) “Alright…alright – I know!…If you
hear Celine Dion one more time on the radio you’re gonna kick your bedpan off the side of
(arms folded across your chest)…”Rest handsome, rest…”
It’s OK, Jeffrey...it's OK.
No more IV’s.
No more bedpans.
I have your pictures.
You're not sweating anymore.
I’m not choking...now.
TV’s turned off...
Ate the last of the ice cream
and the pudding...and...
And as I did -
I swallowed every part
of your triumphant,
Long poem by
Keith Jefferson | Details |
I feel invisible. And Christmas feels like another terror crisis for families. I design
every city, feel no pity for this except, and can't travel and have romantic sex in the
cities with my princess Jaclyn. I will make the Da Vinci Code book come to life as
I read out loud at any (crowded place.) I will prove why the United States of
America is invincible, how I make all people and products possible. Can display
any where, we are in my supervision, which is a controlled environment. I am a
super power who created the best super power country, I have and continue to
bless North America. We are one world divided by religion. So we are still
divisible. Anybody who knows the english language should be able to tell nobody
chipped in to create the language and titles of companies. The rhymes, the
articulate ways to play with sound. Only one person could do this for the reason
of trying to reach you. All I can do is play with tv and family. Only if I had allies
there would be no defects. I hate marketing our life spans. You can believe or if
not, you just sided with the devil when youdon't believe, and I hate to make
people decide on their lives. Example is suicide.I hate to be evil. Need money to
get out of my house. Its lame to see people blame. This is not a game, I want
change. I am royalty with not enough loyaltists. If this persists, people will keep
on perishing. Allah is allowed to have a career in reality, since I am the most
creative.. All I know is I is he, he is I. I even
created the aloe plant. We can start to heal families, and I prove I gave all "Family
Ties". I build on what I build. The world is mine. One day it will be ours. If read
this I wouldn't wait till my ressurection of making the future making cycle ,
beacsue I don't feel comfortable. I hate to create insurgents, I created the internet
to reach the world. I designed the internet. You bet its a playhouse,like Wynmoor
on Cococnut Ceek Blvd. I get illusions from the word conk=cock or (count.) I get a
scroll or dimensional pop up before me of the pearl of a girl. Love handles really
means for drawers on furniture. Don't pull love handles but put you weight on it,
like railings at banks and Disney World. I made the design of slang for the
reason to rap it up. People are using the wrong words which makes our lives
miserable. I would like to progress, but still no progress of reply. All I need is one
mic, and money to come out and play. My souls' sold on dvd's and cd's around
the globe! Its a goddy god world."
Long poem by
Travis Lone Hill | Details |
Today we need a miracle of revolutionized culture to survive with our heritage's past for our future.
Many of us don't even know our traditional language no more.
So much has already been taking from us that it seems most of our culture is forever lost.
There is a big difference between white man's law and our Native American laws,
Many of us have been here in America since time began here in the America's and the only waste we leave behind is the bodies of our people burried like our culture is being buried in the prarie.
The white man has raped and took our culture and way of life from us.
So what kind of legacy will we leave behind as a Native people? We must reject the white mans way, we must take no part of it, but how can we when we are now a conquered people among a conquering people which a majority remain white.
We as a Native people only want to survive so that we can remain who we really are, and its our language and traditions who make us who we are and it is dying at a alarming rate.
Our way of life is today is almost gone and how can we ask to pass on our culture when too much of it is gone and soon our people's legacy will be just that, a legacy.
We are the lost generation of young Native's unseen to the mainstream American eyes.
So with that said we as a people must cling onto what we have left because if we don't do it now we will never get back to who we once were as a people.
There used to be millions of buffalo that feed, clothed and helped us survive as a people now the buffalo roam no morem and all that roams the prairie is a broken dream of many spirits longing for the living to bring back the buffalo.
Many of our elders and great one's died are will killed too quicly for their knowledge to be passed down the wisdom of our great people.
Now we have to pick up the many broken piece's where our ancient ancestors left off.
Now for the one's who do want to keep our culture alivewe have to teach ourselves what we dont already know with experience.
Now that the cultural leaders are dead and gone we have to search deep within ourselves to know who we really are as a ancient Native people.
We must teach our children now for great grandma's and grandpa's are in our children, many or almost all just don't lnow it yet.
My life and the life of my peers belong not to certain indivduals but the life we live and breathe belong to the people no matter our Native blood degree, it's not that our children belongs to us rather it's us that belong to the children.