No ships are mooring at this bay
No ferries dragging to and fro
The visitors that come to stay
The next day pack their bags and go
No planes are landing at this airport
The timetable display is dark
We won’t be welcomed to the board
To be ascended like that lark
The sea’s in sprawling stains of oil
A smell of burning fills the air
The birds lay dead on poisoned soil
Stay home, it’s dangerous out there
Is it the phase of evolution?
Some side effects from climate change?
Authorities have no solution
Stuck in an intermediate stage
There’s no escape, no destination
But nonetheless, I’m thinking of
A better time in reservation
When I evolve in you, my love.
In appreciation of Jimi Hendrix and Mary Shelley
I am sick of minor authorities,
and my boring life, and those stupid fools -
of my job, order, and priorities.
Strike this mundane existence and these rules.
Rise, Jimi, with your electric guitar.
Ghost of your wild, psychedelic flower -
flash stirring midnight lightning from afar.
Jolt me with true, tempestuous power.
Nature, release me from the doldrums' grip,
Blast away, these cloudless, temperate days.
Come on baby, bring it. Now, let 'er rip.
Light up this flesh, these bones through purple haze,
Like Frankenstein and his beautiful wife,
the lightning and thunder bring this beast life.
I am not a hoarder, the hoarder said
She was angry, her face was red
Open your house, said the authorities
she did and they found sixteen monkeys
a skull, some bones, a rats nest too
the flowers were as sticky as last week’s glue
What do you think a hoarder is? They asked her.
I don’t know she said, but what is that fur?
Let’s create authorities
Highlight their careers
Hide in vast minorities
Live in constant fears
Some of their performances
Threaten our rights
Didn't we expect all this
To perpetuate their lies?
So let’s excuse authorities
Their fails and victories
Their top priorities
Their contradictories
Let’s excuse us commons too
Aren’t we all suspected
In the crimes we have to do
For those we elected
They keep worsening our lives
For a greater purpose
And we cannot get more wise
Although we have learnt those
Bitter lessons, but in vain
It’s a sharper’s game
One can vote, or can abstain
It turns out the same
I’ve no business with history
Telling me tales of authorities
Their defeats and victories
Their safety worries and warriors
Have no impact on me
Cause I’m too small to contain
That amount of misery
To me it just doesn’t seem sane
To hold the historical pedigree
While the big ones intend to worsen
Everything we could get for free
From a person to person
They may hate me for some big scheme
Their hatred may come from above
But we live in a different dream
We’re another good world, my love.
So the world without borders was a foolish idea
Poor authorities suffered from disrespect
Our sovereignty we have violated, my dear
Without taking notice we did that
The military industrial complex
Is being revived to standing ovation
Hard times have come, and it’ll be worse
Good job we’re free from further frustration
What a blessed fate, love, to go in due time
Free from their peasant nationalisms
From inane competitions, controlled decline
From taxation of the air we breathe
Back to the garden, as it has been sung
Back to our room with vase on the table
We’re remembered by trees, as forever young
Resting in peace within our fable.
Can’t get enough of power they achieve
By thorough care about our security
They want us, little people, to believe
That their business is of our responsibility
They transferred all the services to AI
They claim that travel is a privilege to earn
I’m sure it is, my sweet authorities, that’s why
I’m globally homebound at your concern
I start forgetting where exactly have I been
in recent times, apart of Spar and other market
across the road, - at home I shrunk inside my skin
My rights are swiped under the worn red carpet
AI police tracks what I write online
How cheerful is my stuff, how well it fits
To their standards, that I should consider mine
I follow rules designed by artificial wits
Come if you are a human, come to talk
Let’s be like anyone we didn’t care to know
We may discuss whatever topics, by the walk
Across the road and back, on trampled snow.
Someone broke into my house
A crowd assembled
Chants and banners were raised
Saying “he’s one of our neighbors”
“he has a right to be here”
He took the 50 inch TV
And my truck
His ‘NEW” neighbors
Obstructed the pursuit
Of the authorities.
Now I must decide
Which of my “neighbors”
I shall “visit”
Whose truck I shall need
And whose TV will be in it.
I lock my doors
To keep the honest people honest
So many voices
From all over the world
Warnings repeated
But the authorities ignored them
Ignored the terrorists coming in from other lands
Ignored the man and his son
And the four guns they had
They also ignored the explosives
Luckily, they were not used
Fifteen people died that day
Thirty-eight people were wounded
The shooters even killed a ten-year-old girl
All because the authorities didn’t care
The time has come to change things
Make people pay attention
And do something to keep people safe
Because it sure ain’t happening now
© Poem – XX/XII/MMXXV
LRET
Dedicated to the souls lost and those wounded
at Bondi Beach.
The Accident
Two automatic cars collided
They were going to pick up their owners
at their place of work
Who are we to blame
It was reported that a man casting no shadows
had stood near the accident
It was said by an onlooker that the man had
concentrated hard on something before
the crash
The authorities are investigating the case
It must be well known by all that thinking
It is illegal to be in a public place
However, thoughts at home are legal, providing
It is not shared with anyone or written down
The car crash still awaits a solution
It is with much regret and remorse,
that I must report a runaway horse.
Seabiscuit has up and left the course.
How can a beast of such renown,
who almost won the triple crown,
evade authorities and not be found?
By hiding on a merry-go-round.
A nation rainbow
It rained and rained, fine rain but persistent
mountains dissolved, and rocks turned into sand
When the rain stopped, a smooth landscape
of peace and camel dung
Before the deluge, people who had sinned were
stoned to death since this was no longer
Possibly the sinner had to eat a kilo of carrots
until they turned orange and
were not invited to dinner
or supervised at the supermarket
The authorities thought this was a good idea and
made a color program,
to better classify
left-wingers
and radicals, making them eat cabbage till they
turned green and could not hide their socialism
tendency and forbidden to enter posh restaurants
The government liked this so much that they decided to
Classify all classes, beetroots for the royals
deep yellow for the middle class, and potato peel
for the working class and pink for artists
Alas, people fall in love across the color barrier
Their children looked like rainbows and were impossible to classify
Therefore, the government declared everyone's
equals, but instead build bigger prisons
Streets littered with white paper sheets
Printed with the ink of black missing kids
Floating through the air desperate to find somebody who cares
Empty are the streets, just like their parents home
Awaiting the day they'll be reunited with their beloved children
Authorities won't listen
Not one eye lid batted
They look the black parents in the eye feeling joy from their sadness
And as cold as ice say their kids disappearance doesn't matter
They claim they've probably run away
That attention is what they want
So they won't feed into their kids 'temper tantrum'
Then to sprinkle salt into the wound
They claim the town has been much quieter
I didn't know that it was a crime for children to play
But then again when you're a black kid innocence doesn't really matter
Last week they stated BLACK LIVES MATTER
Then again it would be naive to believe
That a system built after slavery
Would care to 'serve and protect' black people
Maybe there is a reason to their indifference
Their ability to lack sympathy
Maybe just maybe
They're the reason the black kids went missing
Potent grief exists in the paternoster
recited by exiles each break of dawn —
and they never cease to mourn with drums.
Exiles are men
with two lives,
and they often fast,
preferring to sip gently the treacly sap
dripping from the eyes of fortitude.
Riding the thin line
of the horizon,
they seek truths underneath
receding rims of the atmosphere —
the truths
of a desolated homeland
atrophied by distance.
They do not pray
only to return home,
but to meet their mothers’ funerals —
Mothers harassed to death
by ruthless authorities
whose diaries speak of languor.
How do pirates with their eye patches
count the stars,
and how do feathers of thinning clouds
react to the invasion of rioting storms?
Exiles are native drummers
gone for a festivity yonder.
Like the dead, they live in the
hearts of those who truly love them.
Potent grief exists in the paternoster
recited by exiles each break of dawn —
and they never cease to mourn with drums.
Exiles are men
with two lives,
and they often fast,
preferring to sip gently the treacly sap
dripping from the eyes of fortitude.
Riding the thin line
of the horizon,
they seek truths underneath
receding rims of the atmosphere —
the truths
of a desolated homeland
atrophied by distance.
They do not pray
only to return home,
but to meet their mothers’ funerals —
Mothers harassed to death
by ruthless authorities
whose diaries speak of languor.
How do pirates with their eye patches
count the stars,
and how do feathers of thinning clouds
react to the invasion of rioting storms?
Exiles are native drummers
gone for a festivity yonder.
Like the dead, they live in the
hearts of those who truly love them.
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