I can show you where the brimstone sun has no remorse,
and where devils on horseback, have burned our homes, have pillaged our farms.
A killing spree, the drum of guns, some tried to flee, but died,... each one.
The screams, I dream! Oh, the cries........the cries.......
I try to mute the sound of them
For..., I was there, I hid in fear, was somehow spared, but now I look for
something, ...something, ...something, here, ...someone to care.
A bit of food, a bit of shade, such bitter taste is in my mouth
A world of hate. To have no shoes,...a walking ghost.....
a blistered soul, I have no hope.... but nothing, nothing left.
My eyes are blurred, and fires burn, a heavy world, shouts out despair.
Where are the flowers that used to bloom, where are voices, that once I knew?
There are no flowers here...just flies, in waist-deep dust, and a hot orange sun,
that coughs up sounds of fear and guns, and swords and words against my ears, I
live in fear with no one here.
I'm just a girl, or at least I was.... for just a while.
I was defiled, when found by one
He spared my life, but did not see, I'd rather die than be this girl, who feels the
shame in being free.
I once had a mother, I once had a father, I once had a brother who made me smile
Where did spirits, lift and go, when the devils on horseback came to kill? Spilling
blood as if for fun? For thrill? For what?
Where were the Gods? Where are the ones who turn their heads?
In desert's dust with blood red crust. They poisoned our wells, burned out our land,
ravished and raped, and relished their brand......,
nomads came, leaving shame, evil and horror came like rain.
Janjaweed, the name, I cannot say... I live with shame, a world, insane
I try to sleep, but I cannot........I can't forget and I am lost, the cost too much,
a swollen tongue and calloused feet, across a land of bleached white bones
Alone, alone,....lost and done...a vanished heart......no one sees me
There are no flowers, there are no trees,
Famine as my lone companion, a pool of mud a home to stay,
Life drains out more every day, my belly swells....my eyes are parched,
and I can't tell
if I'm alive, or if I'm dead, dried up tears are what I shed....
Where are the flowers for my head? I've been scorned,
all I have, and all I see is wind and rain, sorrow and pain
thorns, and dust, and a grave, that waits for me
Devils on Horseback – The Darfur genocide (ongoing) The Janjaweed (translated,
devils on horseback) slaughter and rape the women, men and children of Darfur. As
of today, 480,000 people have been “exterminated” and 2.8 million displaced.
Let's not turn our heads away from this, or from other atrocities being committed
throughout the world.
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2014
Men sometimes put no value to sex and the sacred decision a woman might hold dear for the reason to
Submit options of letting you indulge in her essences. See some have had men all over the world and there is one thing for
Sure that pussy has a name never a face, Mumu , myse ,kisse, pepita, catellus, passera, mita it all mean
The same thing Pussy, pussy, pussy. And the truth of the matter is your sometimes not remembered or
Even thought about once you give the pussy up!
So guard and respect your pussy and you’ll be wiser for not giving it up, I thought of all the times I
Gave up my pussy and grieving the next day he was gone, nothing but a memory of the condom he either didn’t
Or did put on! I have disrespected my body for a moment of pleasure far too valuable to get rid of, and
The 15 minutes or less or if I’m lucky an hour of pleasure soon will be forgotten as he’s on to the next one
Or back with his main love or the one whose holding out, but she worth waiting for.
Pussy is abuse sometimes tainted with the smell of semen left inside you with your naïve ass, I’m not going
Anywhere imma be here for you, trust me so the pussy stinks reeks of disappointment!
As they get dressed to leave a delicate kiss on the forehead and a polite thanks for the pussy!
Don’t be this chick (hold out on giving up the Pussy, be known for your worth)
You’re so much more than ass or pussy! I now know my worth!
Written by Monica Chrisandtras Hines 9/16/2014
You have to be selective and or practice abstinence in order to be valued ,some women get lucky and he does come back the next day ,but for how long ? Men like to chase and if you give it up too easy its a waste of time ,hes no longer interested and will soon prowl for another ! Keep it to your self till the time is right ,if he won't wait then forget about him!
Copyright © Monica Chrisandtras Hines | Year Posted 2014
Tell me of your peace.
Let it tell your story now
Of trials and tribulations, a tale not of dreams
Weary from a journey of self-discovery
My child, know the comfort in your peace
You feel hope in this familiar place
As it gently sloughs the pain away
Tell me of your peace
In which we all are blessed and free
Search throughout your soul sweet child
Peer not within your cluttered mind
Look out to rest your tired eyes but do not let them see
Solace found strewn upon daily thoughts is fleeting at it's best
Lasting merely moments, in untouched souls a true peace
Oh yes! You'll know when you arrive but only you will know
The world will melt away as a candle left under the blazing sun
Away away, until you feel home again, an unguided familiar scene
An innocence once lost is restored, all sins suddenly forgiven
Soaking this in with relucant ease,
Breathe it deep with a slow release
Take it in, delight in details you discover
Be calm here child, please have no fear, I am here
You are safe in this place of yours, no hurt no tears
We share not the same peace, no no
Unique to each of us, yet stranger to none
Trust in more than what you see, know beauty is within reach
We share this unspoken bond of freedom from ourselves
Please young one, listen closer now
I say, leave it all behind you love, it will only weigh you down
Cleanse yourself of careless words and careful lies
I know you're weary, let go of all you carry
Don't be afraid, here you are burden free
Trust in you, blessed one, it's easier than you believe
Sweet child, tell me now if you see
Peace resting deep within
Waiting for you
For you to let it be
Copyright © Gabrielle Charisse | Year Posted 2013
Ambitious Girl, your ideal for me
We living in a fake world, but you kept it real for me
Your drive is driving me crazy
Steering me to your direction,
crashing into your heart like I'm drunk doing 180
Make-up, you don't need it boo
Your beauty is a reflection of GOD and the image on the screen
You don't feed into
I love how your determined to follow your dreams
Be the next star on the movie screen
Not focused on material high price jeans at the venue
I love the genes thats in you
Love what you aspire to be, you inspire me
To do the same
You getting older so you don't have time for the games
These other girls can't even fathom your imagination
They show off ass, you showing off your aspirations
I'll be there for your graduation, you got all this passion waiting
My last one didn't have what your packing which is fascinating
I can tell you love the thrill of the chase
Don't smoke but these drinks you willing to chase
To have the pain erased, still hold that smile on your face
Your spirit can't be replaced
While you logging into school, in your dorm
Your honey to these niggaz who B ready to swarm
I'm here to help motivate,
My heart is a home for you so you'll 4ever have a place
From the Stress
From MD to wherever, our mutual respect will connect- GQ
Copyright © quincy cannon | Year Posted 2015
Seasons change as do people...
A girl named Autumn….enters quietly into the room….
Yet no one sees her there...
She has a certain presence, still …
and her perfume fills the air...
Yet no one speaks to her…
Her colors are not light, but bright…
reds, yellows and orange, quite a sight…
But even though , she's more than that…
No one approaches, some don't seem to care...
So she quietly leaves ...before the trees are bare...
Copyright © kj force | Year Posted 2014
It was kind of nice having money all the
Looking back when I was seventeen,
I looked forward to going to work.
It is unlike what I feel about work now.
I did a lot of reading as a child.
I read all kinds of books.
I would consider Oak Lawn a safe
I can’t remember any times when I got beat up.
I did a lot of running home and telling.
I avoided a lot of suffering by talking to
My parents about the bullies.
It wasn’t until junior high that I had to
Take care of a fight that went way wrong.
I was scared to death of a seventh grader.
I fought him, and found out he wanted to
I wasn’t that good of a
I got better
In high school.
It was kind of chaotic, and the wrestling matches
Were more “fighting” than wrestling.
I hung in school and made a name for myself
At Oak Lawn Community High School.
My sister gave me a collection of albums
My junior year.
I was introduced to all kinds of music by
My first good introduction to music came
My sophomore year.
A friend introduced me to “The Police” with
“Zenyatta Mondatta” and “Ghost in
He told me what he did at his party
In eighth grade.
They sat around and played Gin.
They drank soda.
They went bowling.
I got off to a late start with music,
And I finally caught up with my tape-
Radio I got for Christmas my junior year.
I could have had a big party,
But I decided to wait.
I didn’t really have one except
The one’s I had in grammar school.
My friend thought he was going to
Get married to this one girl at O.L.C.H.S.
It fizzled out like my relationship did.
That girl liked someone else though.
I should have given up calling her,
It was no fun talking to her.
She didn’t talk to me at all in school.
I’m not sure she even knew who I was
I didn’t have anymore classes with her.
Her boyfriend went out for basketball
Like I should have done. I was pretty good. Maybe just
Doing my chess and studying was the best thing for me to do.
Copyright © Hannibal Lecter | Year Posted 2011
I know a girl more broken than the aftermath of a bull in a china shop. She knows that her pain wont stop, so instead of trying to fix that, she only ever tries to make others happy. She puts everyone above herself and if life was a shelf shed be the ground. The most common sound escaping her lips is sorry. She cries herself to sleep every night, she has cuts on her arms as if too tally up all the hate she receives daily and if she could pay the bills in blood she would be able to afford a living. Lately all she's been doing is forgiving.
I want you to know that it's always darkest before the dawn, so if you have to wait another hour for the sun to rise, I will sit beside you with a watch and a red bull the size that two people need to keep them up just long enough to fall asleep together. If the weather is on our side or not, I will stay just to make sure you know you stay up long enough for that sun to rise. It's not a surprise when it does, and if it means you've gone a day without painting in blood, I will do what it takes to keep you from it another day. I suppose what I mean to say is;
Put it down. Just pretend its not there; let it disappear into thin air without a hair of a trace, because all it ever does is hurt you. those cuts mark the scars of your pain that will never fade. Cut into your skin, you don't remember the beginning, but you can find the end. Send a message to all the people that made you start, you're a work of art that just has a splatter; it doesn't matter, you can paint over it. Just sit down and look around you. You've built so many walls. You're trapped in a labyrinth made to keep people out but in turn you've locked yourself in. You can't climb the walls, all you hear is the echoed calls of your pain.
If you search for a while, maybe you'll find another face trapped in their own maze and you'll both smile; because it's comforting to know that you're not alone. Maybe that person you meet can give you a boost over your wall so you land feet first in grass. You don't need to ask, they're still there; trapped in the maze. Its sad how the price of happiness is almost always someone else's pain.
Copyright © Will Ayling | Year Posted 2014
A young pretty lady, seeking company from an unknown
and to the hospitality of my open arms, she quickly lodge.
A stranger still remains an alien until some acquaintance is established
seeing what is right in front of me, such a feeling was purged.
Sweet conversation, chilly atmosphere and some sense of belonging
are benefits attached, hence nothing observable to judge.
Her youthful exuberance was glaringly into play,
but it was stimulating and an effective nudge.
She’s damn good! - Soft touches, sexual tricks, and erotic riddles,
all put my physiological smoke into heavy surge.
A sudden feeling of satisfaction and a ‘game over’ countenance surfaces,
she’s definitely an expert and what’s next is to dodge.
Taking a polite excuse, she run-walks to the bar’s comfort zone,
my instincts begin to define all her gestures to be a forge.
Then I realize my fat wallet is her hired escort,
officially making me a stranded victim of a beautiful scourge.
Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2015
You always run after me,
In playful and angry mood;
You scold loudly,
Take stick in hand to bash;
You play with me,
As if you play with doll;
Hug me hard,
Soothes my heart;
Take me in your lap,
Gives me warmth;
Care my dress,
Care my look,
And braid my hair;
your chat does not end;
You sing a song for me,
lyrics are so sweet,
My ears too rapt,
Don't feel being bored;
You are always after my life;
Don't do this, don't do that,
don't talk like this,
Don't sit there,
Don't go there,
Don't stay late,
Worry appears in your face;
Wait near the window,
Lips move complaining me;
You feel relieved when,
Watch my glimpse;
'O' Mama, my Mama,
You are always after my life;
© sadashivan nair?
Copyright © sadashivan nair | Year Posted 2016
An innocent small girl is crying on the roadside
her face seems very candid and
expressions look naïve, but
nobody knows the cause of her sadness and
and no one can ever feel
the hidden wounds inside her heart
Why does she scream?
Why does she shed painful tears?
Her eyes are tired of crying and
her tears are frozen
today there is no one to wipe her tears
maybe she is missing her childhood
when she used to insist on Barbie Doll
holding the fingers of her mother
and holding the hand of the father
used to chase butterflies in the garden
Used to kiss the droplets of rain
while floating a paper boat in the pond
Will her days come back?
Listening to mother's lullaby at midnight
used to fly with the fairies in the blue sky
Maybe she is still crying
now her tears must be tired
she still is waiting for her parents to come
But she does not know that
her parents will never return
God has called them to heaven
because her parents, at the hands of cruel terrorism,
have been killed
in the Menchester Bomb Blast
on 22nd May 2017.
Let us pray that the soul of her parents
rest in piece!
(By Kishan Negi)
Copyright © KISHAN NEGI | Year Posted 2017
The strength of a woman
Is not in her tongue
Or the length of her hair
Or the songs she has sung
Control is not found
In the clothing she wears
Or seduction she offers
Or the child that she bears
Her honor and glory
Comes not from what shows
Except her reliance
On God that she knows
For God gives her power
Beyond height and length
And makes her much stronger
To display her strength
It’s there deep within her
And flows through her being
Revealing a boldness
And strength we are seeing
For man cannot crush
All the things she can do
For she is a woman
And warrior too
Copyright © gregory boyer | Year Posted 2014
Fantasy like Reality can be a disappointment...
Clearing the Air........
He worshipped her from afar...
He had since he was three..
He hid it well , no one knew...
She was his heart’s desire...
With her big bright eyes and her winning smile..
He never thought she would beguile...
Then he turned ten and it was clear..
It had been she who did inspire...
this young man ,with his heart on fire...
He arrived at seven in the morn...
To help prepare the feast de jour...
He stuffed the bird and chose to make..
Her favourite dessert...fresh Raspberry cake..
He feverishly cut and whipped and stirred..
Grandpa ‘s little helper was becoming quite the gourmet chef...
Then came the time to shower, and get dressed...
He chose his wardrobe carefully...
Making sure that he looked and smelled hmmm good....
She arrived and you could see him beaming proudly...
Everyone feasted on the bird and ate their fill...
He waited on her as I watched..
No one even blinked an eye..
They spoke for what seemed an eternity..
His face could be read for all to see...
Then out of the blue, she excused herself..
And went out on the patio to puff some stuff...
His face went white, I could see his plight..
She chose to be with others you see..
Who foolishly did an atrocity...
The one he worshiped from afar..
Went up in smoke...as she smoked her cigar...
Copyright © kj force | Year Posted 2013
In my life I often feel I am alone; alone in my thoughts, alone in my musings, alone in my day-to-day movements and unsatisfying activities. I move like a ghost through hallways and down sidewalks, unnoticed and, at times, gratefully so.
I do not wish to be eternally alone. I long for togetherness. But despite this desire for a real connection, I find myself regularly retreating from that temperamental beast that is human interaction.
“Come on now, sweetheart. Don’t lower your head. Don’t look away. Look up! Smile at someone! No! Don’t go back into your bedroom. Don’t lock the door! Why are you doing this?” my brain will plea.
I can’t help myself. Aloneness is comfortable. In being alone, I don’t have to worry about anyone but myself. I don’t have to please anyone else. I can think anything I want, wear anything I want, listen to anything I want, and laugh at anything I want.
And still there remains that nagging desire to be loved and wanted and needed by somebody. I do not know the feeling of being truly desired. I do not know what it is like for someone to crave my company, my smile, my kiss, or my touch.
But I would like to…
I cannot make someone love me or like me or want me in some primal way. It may hurt, but I cannot make that handsome boy want to hold my hand or brush my hair back behind my ear. I can only struggle on. I can only work within myself. I can only try every God damn day to hold my head up, keep my eyes fixed ahead, a give the world the best smile I have. I and I alone can bring myself out of the safety of my bedroom and into the bright world that lies beyond that locked door.
I often find myself alone with nothing more than my thoughts and the ever-strong glow of a computer screen. But no longer will aloneness be the constant in my life. It is true that never having known the caress of a man’s hand on my thigh doesn't make me any less of a woman, but I fear that if I stay confined within myself much longer I will begin to become less of a human. A flower cannot grow if it retracts its leaves and petals every time it feels the warmth of the sun or the kiss of a gentle spring rain.
And I want to grow. I want to grow so tall and blossom so big and beautifully that every place on earth is touched by my shadow at some point in the day. And I will grow. I will push myself and share myself with the world, and finally
know the closeness and comfort of love and honest, unabashed companionship.
Copyright © Molly McCarthy | Year Posted 2013
She sits there in the back of the class, doodling on her paperwork. Getting lost in
the scribbles, tuning out the teacher, forgetting all the madness around her, her life
fading in the paper. Slap! The sound of the ruler splintering across the desk. PAY
ATTENTION! Head jerking upward, she sits up in her little desk. Pencil dropping from
her hand, rolling off onto the floor. She looks straight ahead, back straight as a
board, eyes glued ahead as the teacher drones on. Drilling things into their heads,
eyes sharp like an eagle. Looking for every chance to catch someone falling asleep,
to catch someone passing notes, to catch someone whispering. The little girl quietly
picks up her pencil and her mind drifts to dreaming of playing dress up, drifts to the
path the lead makes on the paper. The curves of a woman, not a little girl. Dreaming
of growing up into a woman. Confident, pretty, smart, strong....someone people will
notice....a woman with a voice. Slap! The ruler across her hand. She jerks it back,
clasping it to her chest. Instant sting, instant redness and she feels the tears start
to pool in her eyes, her lip quivering to hold back the yelp. Pay attention! You’re not
listening! I asked you a question young lady. Should I repeat it? She’s so scared
that she can’t even speak so she just meekly nods her head. Hard as steel, cold as
ice, the teacher repeats the question. She hangs her head and answers but her
voice is barely above a squeeking whisper. Speak up! says the teacher. The class
can’t hear you, I can’t hear you she says. The little girl raises her head and repeats
her answer. WRONG! Slap! The ruler across her other hand. See if you had been
paying attention instead of DOODLING, then you wouldn’t have gotten the ruler.
You’ll make sure next time you will listen now won't you. The little girl doesn’t
answer, doesn’t speak up. She doesn’t want the ruler again. So she carefully and
quietly lays her pencil on her little wooden desk that bares the markings of many
ruler slappings. And on her little wooden desk, she rests her hands that bare the
scars of many ruler slappings. She stares straight ahead at the chalkboard,
unwavering, searing a hole in the chalkboard. She tries to find the dream of dress
up, tries to find the girl dressing up as the woman she wants to be. But all she sees
on the chalkboard…no matter how hard or how long she stares...all she sees on the
chalkboard.....is nothing but chalk.
Copyright © A Rambling Righting Riley - Shauna Riley | Year Posted 2011
Sometimes everything seems fake to me, and I am so tired of people acting like they remember what love is.
Everyone says it.
“I love you, I love you, I love you.”
No words are more meaningful to me when sailing from the lips of a true friend or a kindred spirit, but the rest of you have to be careful where you point those syllables
because that’s like taking the closest thing to
the Lord’s name that I ever understood
I was walking back from the gas station a few weeks ago and some girl I didn’t even know looked at me and said it.
Her lip gloss opening and closing like some kind of sea creature fishing for plankton, and I just happened to be the nearest thing drifting past.
“Love you!”, like it was hello.
Now I have just one question
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN”
You have no idea what I am.
My smile’s like this because my parents had the money.
My eyes are not the windows to my soul.
They don’t mean jack except for genetics that I had no control over, and what my mother ate when I was in utero.
That’s like acting like my poetry is who I am.
Like how myelinated the neurons in my linguistics center
I can feel the right to decide that I am more or less, valuable.
It happened again earlier too.
I was sitting on the greyhound back home, having a conversation with a girl with guys all around her like fire ants with their mating tubes out. All of them with ink, piercings, and sizing me up
because my six-foot-four stature could not speak for itself.
I’d like to think we talked about something more important than my assets and destination, but as she turned to disappear out of the bus with her escorts, she cast the three words back on me
like throwing a fishing line on the off chance something might bite,
“I love ya.”
….what in the world.
After this, I think of the only one whose words held their weight.
I don’t mean no harshness,
but if I could go back in time and have half the balls my poetry does, I’d take you aside, and tell you something you wouldn’t understand. Something like, “BAM! I am a tulip field on fire at sunset.”
Something like, “My shirt, is from the Goodwill.”
Something like, “You’re telling me Christ could have saved the world with His cheekbones?”
“You’re telling me I’m viable and worth a few minutes of your attention?”
“You’re telling me tall, black, and attractive is what’s in this century?”
But let me tell you.
You don’t have any idea of the size of the planets you’re saying you want to try and swallow when you say those words to me.
I’ve been waiting to be able to hear, feel, taste, smell, and know those words for too long. You have to mean them to say them.
But you see, I was a philosopher before I was a poet, so I have to take that back and reflect it on myself.
The truth is, I’m so confused that sometimes, I don’t know which end my head is at.
Poetry flies in my eyeballs that should never make it past my lips, but I’m getting tired of trying to impress people.
In this past month, I’ve been day dreaming about the girl smiling at me and it meaning more than
“You look like you got good genetics”
“Could I please date your self esteem?”
I’ve been day dreaming of the girl who reminded me of what those three words are supposed to mean.
Like when my acne came back, and you told me not to scratch at a handsome face.
“I love you.”
Like when my poetry departs, and all I can do is ramble things too big for my head.
“I love you.”
Like when I didn’t feel like just a romantic stereo type anymore.
“I love you.”
What those words meant to me, before I made the world make them less.
Copyright © Spenser Jones | Year Posted 2012
The wind was blowing when she left the city...
I believe it was twenty below...
Where she was going she already knew...
But... first she had things she had to do...
Get rid of the body that was clear....
There were no options, it had to disappear....
The heater was broken and blowing cold air...
She could feel the ice, building up in her hair..
She had cleaned up the blood as best she could...
As she had hit him hard with that log of wood...
All she had asked him, was to light a fire...
To take off the chill in the house....
Do it yourself if you are cold...he snapped
And while you’re at it get me a cold beer...from the fridge..
It was early morning when she finally arrived at the bridge..
This was his favourite fishing spot...
She pushed his body off the pier...along with his ice cold beer..
And suddenly began to shiver and sneeze.....
Oh well, she said...this too shall pass..
When I get to the Florida Keys..
PS..this is the first in a series..watch for part 2.."gator bait..the dream "
Copyright © kj force | Year Posted 2013
She was always on beat and the most fluent mover. Never hesitant to step out onto her linoleum playground, Letting the stage lights beam down at her like sunshine, only refracting rays to intensify her lime light see she… was a dancer. &no I’m not talking about ya everyday tutu wearing mannequin. This one was special. The music was a part of her, she found a rhythm in every void and a tune in all speeches, it could only, flow thru her mind like water through the globe, more than she runs through my thoughts, like the way those greens slips of sustenance fell to the ground as she worked her pole.
Tragic ending to the perfect fairytale.
Mommy and Daddy had her dancing at six and in and out of auditions, wishing for her dreams to be realized unlike her own. Praying that her daughter could be somebody important, the next best thing since Broadway, better than Dejan Tubic, another Janelle Ginestra, but daddy had a sweet spot for his youngin. Wanting more for an innocent life and only turned her out of a fantasy. Pushing her on with the hopes only fools in the Ghetto would believe. Graduation day, she crashed hard, spinning back into reality. With no way to pay for her Julliard dream, a fistful of issues, and not a pot to piss in. She was strolling the block one night, and, heard music. Got sucked into the charisma of a strip joint. One second she was on the corner, everything goes black and when she comes to… she’s bare, with enough ones to get a place and put some food in her belly. That night she looked in the mirror… breaking down crying… all the dreams she had, crushed by the nimble fingers of fate. She doesn’t pity herself for long. Her mind’s already made up. “Gotta do this for me…” She rests, and the next day she finds herself back to the club to make more ones and satisfy more customers. It wasn’t the life she chose, but it’s one she’ll never regret, cause always had that sweet spot for her in el Corazon.. and she’ll always be, Daddy’s Little Girl.
Copyright © William Smalls | Year Posted 2011
MUSICK NONnude Review
Grand Funk Railroad was a fave group of mine the best time eye ever had was in
a house on a rug listening to this song of hard rock and rhinocerous thumps.
Wait. FOGHAT was the best for sex but lucky mee was never a Catholic. The
Horns blew for Chicago and there was lots of other groups to make this fable
bleed there was the Creedence Clearwater Revival so cool so wonderful a thing.
John Fogarty sure must have been a saint. Eye wish he had not got so mad and
left the other members of his group. But Creedence Song became a new fave
Daddy had a band
Played him a little guitar
Traveled in a van
Livin' that rock and roll
Night after night
People comin' up to the bandstand
Say you can't go wrong
If you play a little bit of that
It was late one night
Cruisin' on down the interstate
Stopped into a diner
To get him some chili and fries
Heard the waitress tell a guy
Standin' over by the jukebox
Hey you can't go wrong
If you play a little bit of that
Well daddy took a shine
To the lil' girl behind the counter
She movin' her hips to the swamp beat
Right on time
Said could he play her somethin'
Over there on the jukebox
She said you can't wrong
If you play a little bit of that
Daddy had a plan
He asked that girl to marry
With a brand new wife
They're livin' on rock and roll
Night after night
She whispers oh so sweetly
Hey you can't go wrong
If you play a little bit of that
Copyright © charles hice | Year Posted 2008
Do eye need a kis. Eye need a girl to kis. Eye have a girl that eye can kis.
Eye have kis her in the rain. Eye have kis her in mye heart. Eye have kis her in
mye start of every day for years of love. Eye have only to the kis to go to read more
into kis to find the place she dwells in this old mortal frame of yearning
dwelling place. The kis is purple bliss of alarm blazing love waking me from
death like a Snow White Charmed young man a captive smith to Pocahontas
fame. A dandelion flower lost in the caverns of the depths Ianthe drowning mee
in sea ward tufts of left and right bouts of beating on the air to keep from sliding
to the depths of drowning in her arms of love. A leap at faith a death reprieved
from Grounded Grave a leaping portent making waves of Gragon wings. An
attitude of love refrained in every tuft of wind again the sound of love the beating
of the water on the roof of tin the sound of kis inside the wind and rain. A younger
man and woman would have hardware in the way the nose and yes the nose gay
and the corners of the vampyrific fangs. The center of the tongue is one the belly
button too. The snooker table has a cue it’s called the ball extender bridge it's a
cheater it’s made to let the basest man to reach her in the wind. There is so
many problems with people the gas is oughta sight at the pumps this country is
no longer prominent but a third world country going south. The end of time has
come and arrived the ruthless and worthless rule in the name of god money and
time. Take a number wait in line what’s your name please fill this out and wait.
The number of his namme. Have you got a credit card or payment of any kind iff
you can give me seven dollars for an office visit eye will help you the doctor is inn.
The man was lighting a candle in front of the computer and the lieberrian asked
him what do you think you are doing he said eye cannot see the screen. There is
not very many rich people in all those cars on the highway whizzing by the most of
them is middle class or less the plastic hose on the back seat is a siphon they
use it to get gas. Eye had too many problems at home growing up to ever be a
father. The age factor plus the drug indicator keeps me from trying to further my
benefactor with fodder or with mudder. The morality of this hurried fable of
dividing documents is this a kis.
Copyright © charles hice | Year Posted 2008
on this spine
having a mouth of crocodile
always jump down
the sunglass changes
look at the soil and the sky
no one of them has any body-guard
the open mouth of the light
swallows the grey coin
here the wall becomes more tamed
the wild jasmine comes nearer to the heart
then ripping open my veins
should i also vomit the blue elocution
accumulated on the cock-pit
after recovery of the flower-mill from fever
the harmonium is being played on
even introduction with the gas-balloon
has not been done yet
arrangements are being made
the green shirt will gradually
the culverts that have become exhausted
within the travel-format
will get recharged again to sit up straight
and the hawker will get passed the silent-home
shouting with undressed coconuts in hands
from the lap of the stand-still rocking-cradles
of the children-park
the amaltas will say
then to escape the sun-shine
the boy who comes to attend the private tuition
will embrace… oh margosa … its your pierced-heart
you may tell him that the name of the girl
who is eating guava and swinging her legs
sitting on its branch is munni
the horse is running
just above 3 feet of the yellow cornice
his back is full of dreams
or a girl named miss dorothy
around it is the mid-night
around it is the wind that wants to be printed
and in every corner of its flying
are hundreds of skirts
all are of free-size
what may be their market-price
there is no shop-keeper there
in that valley
a shadow is proceeding on
do you know whose shadow it is
he is philip the teacher who gets irritated easily
this time there is no thin cane
in his hand
in the pieces of papers dumped in the waste-box
under his window there is a manuscript eaten up by the worms
there is ‘darling’ there
and ‘yours beloved greta’
in which skirt
a touch of that greta does remain
is it being searched even today
is it greta or margaret or eliza
there is no bar if it is dorothy
in whose smell there is no greta
who has no such horse flying just above three feet
of the yellow cornice
each mid-night fills the fountain pen
with the flow of blue ink
Copyright © murari sinha | Year Posted 2010
The Martyr Girl
Arabic Poem by: Jasem Al-Khafaji*
Translated into English by:
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
In your absence,
Dreariness, in every class,
Has been the prayer of the break..
Every teacher calls your name,
His voice falls slaughtered, in pain, on his lips..
In every standing and every sitting,
Your class condoles with your desk..
Without you there, the schoolyard feels empty
The bell sounds strangled as it tolls for you..
Oh, grief of all schools!
Oh, weariness of all lessons!
Too young to be gone..
Your mother wished to see you a bride..
Vacant was your stand in the lines and rows
For the flag ceremony
The flag was raised..
The blackboard is missing your words
Saddened with no words to spell
“Dar” … “Door”
When your braid caught fire,
The kids tried to put it off with your bookcase
Their hands were too small to carry water..
May God help your mother..
Your mother, who, in her grief, turned white,
Like daylight upon your coffin
Your mother, who, with slaps of grief,
Drew skipping squares on her cheeks
Your mother, who raised your hand in prayer to God
Your mother, who used to come to get you,
At the end of the school day
Your mother, who, not even once,
Received a teacher’s note complaining about you
Your mother, who is wrapping ribbons
Around your pictures
In madness after you
God help your mother, who, in her grief,
Turned white like daylight upon your coffin..
O God, May all bombs be paralyzed,
And all blasts be blinded!
* Jasem Al-Khafaji is a poet from Iraq,
The poem is in Iraqi folks spoken dialect
Copyright © Inaam Al-Hashimi | Year Posted 2014
AM STILL IN LOVE WITH YOU
It wasn’t easy to fall in love with you,
though your looks were always new.
You won my heart with time
but oh! then I had no money, no dine.
with nothing to offer you but my heart and soul,
you decided to go away in search for gold
leaving me in melancholy and jeopardy.
I cried for my loss; I mourned for my tragedy.
you overlooked my errors when I had affluence
but now you underlook me in every sense
you yearned for my love before
now you snoop me unlike before,
you disgraced me amidst my friends
and you broke our engagement, caring less;
You called me “sweetheart” before
while now you call me merely “Michael”
everything you do to make me hate you
doesn’t hurt me and I curse myself for it because
am still in love with you.
My father disowned me because of your sake
and I nearly drowned in a lake
you showed no care when i broke a leg
and you left me while sick in bed
you called my mum a whore
and in my absence you stole from my meagrer store
I can’t put your deeds in words for it is long;
for after all that you did to me
am really confused and i curse myself for it
for…for… for.. am still in love with you
Copyright © Temajung Michael Tanjang | Year Posted 2014
Follow the line onto the bus
put in your money, grab a seat
earphones plugged in,
you let your eyes wander
resting your dance on the girl across of you
her head lowered, hair cascaded around her face
eyes closed, sometimes opened - completely void of emotion
The air around her was gloomy,
diffident, curled up into herself
she rested her head against the seat
hands occasionally rising to fiddle with her earphones.
You watch as a tear drop fall
and hide into strands of hair
Her head is again lowered
hands hastily wiping at her eyes.
The bus stops, and she gets of,
walking steadily and confidently-
a contrast to her slight hunch
and her eyes that were fixed on the ground.
Green light - she starts to move
and you watch as your body walked away
Copyright © Bre Varzena | Year Posted 2015
In a house high on a hill an old man grows weak, many years have gone, he lays in his old bed,
Back in the day, a dashing young officer with a brilliant red uniform he had many girlfriends,
Flowers scattered across the mead's and meadows the heaths and the glades and over wide glens,
Those days bright and hot, the occasional thunder announces itself in the seasons sultriness,
Today it is summer again trees rich with green leaves now darkened and oaks have little acorns.
Laying in his bed the French doors wide open, summer greets him warmly for just one more time,
White haired and thin his skin yellow and his eyes sunk into wasted sockets his lips quiver,
He remembers the woods well, sitting by a sheltered warm bank, new greenery bursting through,
He tries hard to sit up and to see his long ago self in the beautiful green ripening gardens,
Sweet flowers know him well, respectfully they nod to an old friend who is going on a journey.
As a man who liked to be outdoors he walked and tended these landscapes even as a young blade,
He casts way back to his youthful days when he would walk in the sun a sweet girl at his side,
Running up a woodland bank, his hands on hips, he would wander miles enjoying wonderful views,
His heart raced with joy as the carpets of the forest grew around tall trees along the floor,
Now the songs of the birds grow faint the nightingale is hushed and the cuckoo bows his head.
A nurse tiptoes in she quietly shuts the doors, he whispers, she cannot hear him but she looks,
It is so faint she goes to his bed bends down to listen her ear to his lips they barely move,
He says don't shut the doors the beauty makes me feel safe my old friends are out there waiting,
She lifts him higher, puffs his pillows adds another blanket she smiles, 'you are a lovely man',
The blackbird and the thrush perch near the French doors and sing a musical goodbye very softly.
He can now see the Coltsfoot and cardamine in the fallows with green moss in the moist meadows,
And the star of Bethlehem gleaming from the copse the woods, a special beauty from shady places.
The celandine and kingcup glow in golden lustre he watches them his eyes rheumy and tears fall,
Daisies scattered across lawns like patterns in a carpet of lime green, smelling of spearmint,
The elder flower, corn poppy and the viper's bugloss with a rich azure smile from his garden.
He begins to smile shakily at the crocuses spreading a purple flood over the greenest meadows,
It's a sight you have to see, to take it in, color returns to his cheeks on his ashen old face,
Above all the favorites of the field is a violet, many times he picked one for his lady friends,
White, purple diffuse sweetness under hedges, a landscape painted in mind, those were good days,
Young girls would walk arm in arm across the glades to listen to his wondrous battle stories.
These pictures of beauty he has known since his early childhood days, his memory so very clear,
Whispering do you scent the hay, do you hear the scythes ringing, do you hear sweet laughter,
The joys of running across green fields like young breeze and smelling sweet newly cut grass,
Scented breezes fill his room, his eyes close, happy to return to his precious long gone days,
And with his last breath he walks arm in arm with a beautiful young girl in sweet old meadows.
Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2013
The moon, a golden doubloon buried in the midnight sky, amongst a billion diamond
speckles, shimmers in the warm summer night’s air, as it slowly climbs to its zenith. The
lake reflects the scene back a thousands times on a thousand different ripples as oars
silently part the dark waters leaving star trails in their wake. In the small boat a girl lies
on the bottom, her long dark tresses hidden beneath a dark woolen cloak. Her sparkling
green eyes squeezed closed tight. Her full lips hold no emotion in them only lay still,
betraying nothing. Her delicate hands clasped behind her back bound there by a coarse
rope which winds its way around her small soft breasts and makes its way down to her
bare tender feet, trussing her up as neatly as a pig on its way to market. Yet there is no
fear in her eyes. No tears running down her smooth pale cheeks. No breath quickening in
her chest. Yet when she opens her bright green eyes, out emits what can only be called
faith and hope, like sunbeams through holes in the clouds, as if she knows someone is
waiting for her just on the other side of this moment, waiting to rescue her from a peril
she knows not what. Yet no one does. She is now laying on a cold gray beach. The girl
turns away. Not caring about the pain that tears through her hands and feet. Tears run
down her cheeks in torrents. Her body convulses silently. And there in the first of the
morning light, lying on the pale white sand, she fills utterly alone for the first time in her
life. And as the waves crash on the shore, the suns rays burst forth filling the world, she
lets herself go. Her hair is plastered to her face, she doesn’t notice. Someone has undone
her bound legs. She didn’t even feel it. Slowly a strong calloused hand pulls her to her
feet. She lets it. Empty now she lets them gently push her along a narrow trail that leads
farther away from the place that use to be her home. She sags to the ground. Let them
kill her. She would welcome it. She would beg for it if she could only find her voice, but
she lost that when she lost her heart. Her heart, somewhere back on the sands, at the
edge of the lake. Somewhere where the waves are crashing down on top of it, crushing it,
slowly dragging it out to a dark watery grave, where it wont have to bare the light of day
again, where it can dwell in the darkness that it so desperately wants to consume it.
Copyright © Jeremy Moore | Year Posted 2011
LEAST WE FORGET THE GIRLS’ KILLING CRY
(Apropos The Boko Haram Girls)
I no longer hear
the screams of the young girls
nor the whimpering
of their little brothers—
only the echoes of falling tears
of grieving widowed mothers
and the muffled shhees
to new born babes—
How much longer
must I awake
to another morning
I wish I never lived to see?
A horizon whose plains
are dotted with earthen keloids
of humpbacked graves
in makeshift cemeteries
where food crops once grew;
horizons reminiscent of
the scared skins
of the weary backs of slaves.
Another damn day deranged
brothers roaming, ravaging, raping
their sisters and slitting mothers’ throats—
Driven by a demonized illusion
of the Nile goddess of fertility,
and further intoxicating themselves
with chalices of their families’ blood.
Brainwashed and mind warped
as if by a crazed neocolonial
good luck fetish—
are these who’ve lost the free
in freedom like those who sold the in
to and of ancient slave masters
who’ve learn well
the western ways of deception.
Unmoved and no longer
the world mesmerizes itself
with a deceived sacrilege image
of a revered Nile goddess—
Meanwhile, no longer news worthy
wretched of the earth sisters
continue to suffer ethnocentric
rape and “gendercide”
from their hoodwinked brethren.
Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2015
You soulful, bohemian colors…That late 6o’s, free-spirited, peace & love type of chic’...
Au ‘natural beauty, with curly headed locks’; sweet like Egyptian oils, and at one with nature…
You emulate light.
Like the roaming freedom of incense burning smoke, you are the calmness of its meditative flow, its therapeutic aromas, and I am the candle that burns along your side…I crave your vibes girl.
Holistic vibrations, surrounded by clusters of green crystals, you share enlightening stories of prayerful chants that assist in the healing of an unsettled mind as Bob Marley’s “So much trouble in the world” plays out in the background…
Let’s light up you say, in further elevation of the mind.
Esoteric in thought, intellectually divine, with an artistic nature by birth, what is this peaceful place of self in which you dwell?
Is it the internal manifestation of self-professed love and inner peace to your soul, or your understanding of the short time we have on this earth in the borrowed flesh in which we stand?
…”I am, that I am” you say, spoken with confidence.
Reminding me of the spirituality we all carry from within.
The effortlessness of your being and acceptance of the now seems unreal in a world of disappointment and despair, yet here we are. I can see you, I can hear you, smell you, and most thankfully touch, and taste you. So I guess it’s nothing left for me to do but just love you.
You are my peace girl…My light girl... And the woman I want to love forever girl…
Copyright © Meagan Murray | Year Posted 2013
Hide and seek.
But no one seek me.
I, wait, wait, and wait.
But no one seek me.
Only I seek them.
I, seek, seek, and seek.
But there's no one around.
They leave and go.
Everyone forgets about me.
Only I remember them.
I try, try, and try.
Try to know why.
But no one answers why.
No one wants to answer why.
Copyright © Alice Chen | Year Posted 2016
she is short
in other words she is hot
when shee caries an African pot
my body looses salt
her smile is never ending
as her love is never fading
since she never likes to see me falling
as I hold while she is vibrating
she acts shy
but me and her we are so fly
up to the limit we feel so high
but we always remember to say hi
all the people say she is mean
at least that how she is seen
even you say she is thin
but my heart she will always win
she likes to observe
although we don’t meet at a reserve
but she never gets on my nerve
since we will meet at a cave
she is polite
as everything she does it right
she likes not to answer my call at night
we don’t even have a fight
Copyright © tanaka chirombo | Year Posted 2012
My nails grow longer in the heat,
I like to keep them short, hands and feet,
pedicure and manicure by the girls in Phuket,
they give you more, full service and yet . . . .
I don't need my shoulders or head massaged,
there's a slap on the back as their fingers emerged,
nothing too intimate otherwise I might get erection,
the personal service should be my selection.
Now there's a mask on my face, an extra they say,
don't worry, it's free, you won't have to pay,
I' m not too keen on cucumber, peer over the edge,
shouldn't be so fussy, after all it's a privilege.
I walk out of the shop, spent my last Thai coin,
can't help but notice - there's a swelling in my groin.
Copyright © Terry Reeves | Year Posted 2017