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Il As Poem
Night
Gloomy, windy
Frightening, dripping, breaking
Storm, lightning, house, tree
Roaring, flashing, swaying
Cluttered, distressed
Chaos
Copyright © Il As | Year Posted 2013
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Il As Poem
In the morning at 4am
Ma took me in her arms
She said "Let's go out little Ben"
As she walked through the barn
The day before, Ma was crying
Searching for air as she gasped
Strangers asked her to stop trying
They said it's for the best
Food was so scarce in our village
Poverty in display
The robbers and thieves they pillaged
To everyone's dismay
Mama tried hard to keep me well
Since Daddy was long gone
But she's a victim in this hell
In hell, hope never dawns
The day before, they came to us
They said one word "Adopt"
Mama cried when they called me "Love"
When she smiled, my heart stopped
In the morning at 4am
Ma woke me up from sleep
She said "Let's go out little Ben"
Crossing the forest deep
I asked Mama where we're going
She clasped my hand so tight
I saw my fate not a knowing
Everything was a blight
We came a halt at a doorstep
Handsome house with grandeur
Ma ran the bell; I held my breath
The door opened; I shuddered
Ma pulled me close, and held me tight
Rocking me as she swayed
She said "Darling, hold your head high"
Mama don't go away
ILAS (04/02/2015)
Copyright © Il As | Year Posted 2015
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Il As Poem
Summer lady
In her blue cotton dress
Walking down the street
Her red hair shines in soft evening ray
Like copper ribbon in gentle breeze
With a soft voice she sings a song
And it’s of a nightingale’s
Sweet summer lady
With a dimple deep
Her skin is of color bronze
Hard tanned from the wheat field sun
She sways gently along the way
Her straw sandal brushing the tall green grass
Summer lady
As plain as the pale blue sky
She would scoff at melting butter
She would hush a crying boy
She would try to rhyme the world
With her sweet verse late at night
Sweet summer lady
In her blue cotton dress
Strolling down this narrow street
She waves at me and drops a smile
Which falls gently upon my chest
There I smile and whisper soft
“Here’s a daughter of the earth”
Copyright © Il As | Year Posted 2013
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Il As Poem
He happened to me like an autumn
Just like the change of leaves
It was sudden
But it was raining, raining on that day
Raining with black umbrellas and hurried footsteps
With wet papers and cold classrooms
Then, just right then
I heard a shrieky little laugh
Just a glance and I was caught
Caught in a whirlpool of warm chocolate
And there, just right there
Was where I met my Peter Pan
To me
He was a bouquet of sweet herbs
Sprigs of parsley crossed by bay leaves
Topped by thymes and wrapped in sage
Fragranced by mint
And colored by lavender
He was… all the good old nature
To me
He was a puzzle book
Filled with ancient spells
And wondrous casts
Rested on the shelf of red mahogany wood
Dusted in ignorance
Waiting to be learned
To me
He was a drop of sunshine on the window pane
A slip of moonlight through the crack door
The first morning dew and evening stroll
The summer breeze and the night air
To him
I was a blank page
A passerby ring
Snow in the summer
And a midnight dawn
One day
I swore
I’d knock his guard and ask him out
Yes I swore on that one day
That had passed long ago
Copyright © Il As | Year Posted 2013
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Il As Poem
Hear my people shout, the shouts of despair
See my people’s faces that no one can bear
Feel the songs they wail, the wails of the night
C’mon people, come along
On this trip to Calvary
Here on the mountain our tribe dwells
With its rocky little lane, and the spring way swells
When the first light of hope dawns another day
The faithful dogs breakfast on the master’s bones
The ash of last night corpse feeds life into the leafy plots
The shrieks of a child for a missing toe play the first song of the hood
So hear my people sing, sing the song you’ve never heard
With lyrics that burns us out, that numbs us through
So hear it a bit more and hear us out
Then you’ll see what this is about
Once a fortnight the scorching begins
They burn our homes; they kill our child
They put us in chain, and rock us to death
They call us witch, child of devil
They put us on the run that never ends
Let me ask you, what fault do we people bear?
We the victims of fate, the victims of God’s examples
If things happen for a certain cause
For what cause do we happen?
Why for us the life is darker than the night?
We have skin but we can’t touch
We have nerve but we can’t feel
We have voice but no speech
We have sight that’ll soon be gone
But with our hearts still beat fast
We have love and we feel pain
We have hope like everyone
We are scared as all men
Where’s the justice that we seek?
Where’s the kindness that we crave?
We are named as living dead
We are cursed by the Gods
We are damned by the King
We are the outcasts, the forsaken
So drag on people! DRAG ON!
Through the ash and debris
Through the pain and sorrow
Through the mourns and sufferings
Hold on tight people! HOLD ON!
The tide is coming
We’d be washed through
We’d be freed
March on people! MARCH ON!
Till we rest in the God’s chambers
So raise the flag
And roar the song
As we go to Calvary
Copyright © Il As | Year Posted 2013
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Il As Poem
Bob, the cat, lives in the room number 13 of the sixth avenue.
He likes fish, rollercoaster, ice cream cones and Sunday papers.
He's an artist. He's a painter. When people ask him about his latest work, he answers:
"I'm painting the meaning of life. I'm coloring it black, but my inner self keeps telling me it's green."
He has gothic way of seeing materials and articles.
He wishes everyone to speak in fragments of literary lyrics, and then he would spend all his days tangling these fragments making an abstract form out of a puzzle.
He goes for a walk before breakfast; walking on two legs, wearing a leather jacket, and whistling after big ass women are his forte.
He passes Mr. Pumpkin floral shop, turns into the eighth avenue, and enters his favorite café called "Your Favorite Café".
He sits on the second chair at the second table, and orders a coffee:
"Black, dark and bitter like a cat's soul", he says to the waiter.
He sits there all morning, sipping his black coffee, dreaming about how it would be if his past, present and future selves exist together, thinking in sync, and communicating through a common medium of artistic sense, saying words in the silence notes of Van Gogh.
He dances all the way home. If anyone cares to ask, he says:
"I'm drunk in Coffea Arabica, a perfect weed to make you tantalize with Arabian dreams and gives your nerves a breakdown."
Dancing along the pavements, he counts the roses in beats.
One, two, three, four… two, two, three, four… three, two, three, four, and so on.
The number of roses is directly proportional to the number of steps he's gonna salsa in the bathroom.
He sits on the toilet bowl, and deciphers the problems with human rights.
He stands on one leg on the bathroom floor, with arms spread like hugging the air, mouth wide opens.
He squeaks like a mouse and tries to hop like a rabbit.
He falls hard, crashing the cold bathroom tiles.
He bleeds red like the color red.
He says "Perfect".
He runs into the bedroom. There stands his actual latest work, the heart of a vampire, portraying himself with a deadly cat fangs and a wicked mustache.
He splashes his blood all over the painting, and shouts "eureka".
He starts to hum Yankee Doodle through his nose.
He falls asleep, and dreams about dinner.
"Scramble eggs with tomatoes".
Copyright © Il As | Year Posted 2022
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