Easter Reading
In Lima – Peru- a hippo was pulling the tram car with
its best friend, a water buffalo. They had ended up
here, far from Africa, after the great flood ebbed and
had been blessed with eternal life, only being mere
animals, they didn´t know this. In Lima, no one made
a big issue of this, but when the wider world knew
and some adventurers set about trying to kill the pair,
in vain, the Lima people took another look, especially
since the church thought they were the devil´s own
handiwork, god would never have allowed beasts
besting man. Angry people took to hurling mud and
stones at the animals, also calling them rude names.
From the mountain came a man dressed in white
burnoose, and spoke to the people:
“For years, you respected my creation, the hippo
the water buffalo, with respect and care, I thought
well of you and decided that the archbishop of Lima,
when the time was right, would be the new pope, but you
have disappointed me greatly, hence the new pope
will be the archbishop of Buenos Aires, Argentina”.
The man, in white burnoose, paused and said
“It is also the time you electrified the tram system.”
Under the veil of night, death is just a drawn curtain,
a dance of shadows that silently glides on walls,
we do not collapse all at once, but slowly disperse,
like autumn leaves carried by the wind into the unknown,
piece by piece, under the merciless cut of time,
a river that slowly spills into a sea of deep silence.
The young, these adventurers of untamed dreams,
die the hardest, yet live with an unquenchable fire,
the unknown is their friend, and truth, their guide,
they are the ones who give without asking for anything in return,
with open hearts, like comets streaking across the sky,
in a generosity that shines like stars in the night.
With every moment, we lose a drop of light,
like a candle burning down to the end of its wick,
but the young venture fearlessly into the unknown,
defying death with the smile of a new day,
for they know how to live or to die,
in a devotion that leaves a golden trace in our souls.
Thus, death turns into a mere echo,
a shadow dissolving in the light of dawn,
and life becomes a string of fragile and precious moments,
that burn, extinguish, and are reborn in the hearts of the young and ever-living.
"Lay Fellowship
Snapchat attention of the physical realm:
Blended into the quiet prosperous site;
Remember peace about why must you look through;
the flames hues;
Tortured eyes that are red;
And brown, hazel blue;and green is the heart that beats. Yellow is the blood of that so violent
It is the flesh of humanity.
I go on
as I go on
I am I go;
Showing the ballast of the trauma;
The tone of Adventurer;
Ever so questions crazy military openings
Lay openings
A heartfelt radical humanistic gathering"
Yellow is the blood of that so violent
It is the flesh of humanity.
I go on
as I go on
I am I go;
Showing the ballast of the trauma;
The tone of Adventurers;
Battling lay humanity
11/8/24
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr 2024
-
Friends follow the fraternal advice of a bosom friend.
The disciples followed each word of Jesus till the end.
As birds and beasts, on divine providence, they did depend
Kingdom's sake, like adventurers, all pains they did transcend
Clasping to their bosoms, with divine love, they healed the sick.
Raising the dead, as though waking the sleeping, was no trick.
Lepers were cleansed. Demons, like leaves in storms, did quickly flick.
God's kingdom, like a classic castle, was built brick by brick.
Like rain from above, they gained well-being and elation.
Freed from mammon's hold, they obtained divine revelation.
Bound in grace, physique, and psyche, attained transformation.
Spun in faith, they realised body-soul integration.
The heaven of existence they found in Jesus alone
Like seeds of spring in fertile fields, graces in them was sown.
I’ve never climbed a mountain
Or gone up in a balloon
And if I never scuba dive,
Well, that will be too soon.
I’ve never rafted rapids,
Para-sailed or water-skied
And as for jumping off a cliff,
I just don’t see the need.
I’ve not trekked in the arctic
Or safaried with a guide
And if I said I wasn’t scared
Of all these things, I lied.
I marvel at adventurers;
They’re made of stronger stuff.
To read about or watch their exploits
Is, to me, enough.
israel america playing soccer
with beheaded palestinian face
back to stone age
world is on stand
arab military parliament to nuke attacking nations
such is israel palestine war
free palestine
israel america conducting death tourism
killing palestinians
back to stone age
world is on stand
arab military parliament to nuke attacking nations
such is israel palestine war
free palestine
israel america supernatural adventurers
killing palestinians
back to stone age
world is on stand
arab military parliament to nuke attacking nations
such is israel palestine war
free palestine
Ten adventurers went caving in Yorkshire Dales, England in 1967.
It was a gorgeous June day, so they were in terrific spirits.
Four of them decided not to continue a few hours later, unsure why.
The remaining six were all young healthy men.
Morag Forbes, who had discontinued the adventure, returned to the site.
Mossdale Caverns was underwater so she knew the six were in trouble.
Shocked for her friends, she ran to get help.
Many volunteers began digging a ditch, to circumvent water.
The six inside had been climbing and crawling through the cavern,
When a rush of water came in through all directions due to flooding.
They were caught by surprise in the labyrinth.
Sadly, they were buried inside the cave.
The Harlequins of the night
languish their last aura
Lilly eyed clowns await
commissioners bleed into tweed
Rivillers errantly play drums
Damsels failing in their appeal
Adventurers sent back
Running on empty
the night people slide in between
Those old sinners head for the valleys
backing their wasted years
No prayers are said, just the orbital of silence
Inevitably places have changed,
where I was born looks like an alien city to me,
it's now a tourist trap for indigenous aliens.
The world was younger back then.
people were more dangerous yet much kinder.
We once carried books around,
we loaded cars and pushbikes
with travel books and the poetry of adventurers.
We were old enough to be piratical.
Of course the young are always dumb,
the smarter they became the dumber we got,
it's a kind of self-shackling.
I know we early comers
belong somewhere in this world,
but we abide half-hidden and liking it.
I recognize who I was and where,
however only in lost maps
once busily crisscrossed.
Maybe I am too young to forget,
it will probably get much better
as distracting rainbows turn slowly
to blancmange.
You tell me to be real
But what's real to you?
What does it mean
To feel warm
To feel loved
To feel sure
Sure that what I want to be
Is what we are meant to be
For I will only ever wish
You to be you
To allow me to breath
Your essence
To be mesmerized by
Your journey
Your lips
Your touch
Your spirit
Even if I do not know
My own
Even if my journey is
But a sample
Of all the adventurers
I have met
All the loves that
I have discovered
Forgotten
And
Loved
I work and I work
To be prepared for the life
I wish to give
To lose myself in
And
Discover
Alongside
You
You who remains without
A name
But whose shadow I follow
Even in the dark
Off us two went, beneath the trees,
that crackled and snappled
in Autumn’s crisp breeze,
our wellies slish-sloshing through the pelting rain,
plip-plopping, plip-plopping
again and again.
The thunder it rumbled,
and the wind it blew
but on and on,
the adventurers, two,
rustled through leaves
till we came to a tree,
and the treasure it threw -
just for you, and for me.
Dark red-brown shiners
were there to be gathered,
the bigger the better -
that’s all that mattered!
We took them in armfuls,
filled carrier bags,
then we strung them on strings -
“Oh, what fun we had!”
Crashing and bashing,
we let the strings fly,
around our knuckles,
and up, to the sky!
Knocked them together,
till they spun around,
in a smackety wallop -
one fell to the ground!
One of the shiners
was all split into two,
twas tough on the outside,
but inside, all goo!
The champion, victorious,
announced that she won
and I was defeated, but still, it was fun!
Conkers, all bonkers,
Oh, what a game!
And when next year comes
we will do it, again.
Suzy Davies, 2017. Copyright. All Rights Reserved.
There are no adults here..
Only confused kids.
Children under the delusion that they know what they're doing.
Youngsters playing make-believe in a world they perceive so solidly.
Every one a narrator, a role-player. Everyone..
Leads in our own stories.
Every thing we can imagine, we can be. Everything we are we imagine..
What creations we can dream!
One great, big game of mummies and daddies, shop keepers, teachers,
cops and robbers, mad scientists, inventors, doctors and nurses, and animal healers,
heroes and villains, and rulers, and rock stars,
warriors,
adventurers,
gourmet mud pie makers;
'anybody I think would be more interesting, more loveable, better than the "real" me'...
A bit of looking, some basic understanding of psychology, and a whole lot of gut-wrenching honesty is required to see that humanity is full of toddlers through tweens:
most of us are prepubescent, so few ever reach mere adolescence.
Billions of babes, tots, small fry, minors, juveniles, and youths.
A whole world bumbling with infants!
Littleuns, in our innocence, taking ourselves so seriously..
In a way, it's kind of tragic.
In a way it's kind of sweet..
Being older than I once was, inevitably places have changed,
yet where I was born now looks like an alien city to me,
it’s now a tourist destination for the ever rootless.
Back then people were dangerous yet much kinder.
Now here in my corner of no-place-much, faces
float in and out speaking a language that means less to me
the more I hear it.
We once carried books around, we loaded cars and pushbikes
with travel books and the poetry of adventurers.
We once dared to be piratical.
Of course the young were always dumb, and the more educated
they got the dumber we all got. The old have
always talked like this, our handbrakes are looser,
thoughts slip backwards downhill, yet we must speak
occasionally about the puerile encroachments
the cheapening of what was once hard won.
The land I now inhabit gave me a passport, and an address.
I recognize sometimes who I was and where I went,
however only in antiquarian maps once crossed.
Maybe I am too young to forget, it will probably get
better as I age. Besides vapid banality
tends to grow on you bit by bit.
Before
Toussaint and Dessalines
It was nothingness
Organs, guts and spleens
Of our ancestors could be found alongside the roads
Many fleeing poor slaves in disarray
Were treated worse than animals
Oh! It's hard to find the words
To describe the usual carnage
From the time of slavery.
Before
The Battle of Vertières
Graveyards and cemeteries
Were virtually everywhere
Before
Pétion and Boukman
Christopher and Biassou
It was slavery
Blacks and Indians were considered savages
Worse than animals
Were humiliated, lynched, tortured, massacred, and killed
By adventurers, buccaneers, hyenas, deplorables, freebooters
Pirates, motherless bastards and marauders of the time
In search of sugar, foodstuffs, indigo and gold.
Copyright © June 2022, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
Sacred silence
Blended with praise
For the Creator, who always will amaze
Quietly hovering, winged splendor
Beautiful like the vibrant hues
Glazed in whispered dreams
Music, art and poetry
Blessed brilliance
Laughing like the stars
Whimsical and mysterious
Magnificent, painted in exciting tints
Melodious aspirations kindled
Beneath prayers for grace
Awakening on the heart of faith
Holy lights, soft sensations
Breathing – dancing
Across the flowers, the shadows
Breathtaking wisdom
Open to the heartfelt belief
That paints the spirit
In intimacy, caressing, kissing
Softly, like a sigh
Butterflies tour
The buds and blossoms
Grazing, amazing
Stunning those who see
These delicate adventurers
Stirring hearts, stirring dreams
Reminding eyes to see…
The journey of beauty and grace
Flickering across the prayer
For an image so amazing, praising
Flight Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Chantelle Anne Cooke
June 4, 2022
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