Best Commonalities Poems
In Ulzana's Raid,
the Native- and European-American concepts of property ownership
and rights
are incompatible and irresolvable. McIntosh
had no illusions about that. He said hating Apaches for killing whites
is like hating the desert for having no water.
I suspect the movie's not a good source of anthropological data
and overlooks the commonalities among human communities
to focus on just a few bold characters
as all art must.
I consider McIntosh fortunate
to have died commensurate with the way he lived his life,
rolling a final cigarette, nothing between him and the desert,
and no gravediggers waiting, jesting, defecating. Also,
he is lucky to have had one last, dispassionate friend
to whom there is nothing left to say, the Chiracahua tracker
Kah-ti-nay.
Last night's performance of Beauty and the Beast
may have been the most victorious, ecstatic, cohesive
moment in our little school's history. Emily was Beauty, a filament of
energy
who doesn't like to be touched and has been known to punch
boys hard. She had memorized her lines until she was hardly
Emily but only Beauty in a blue dress unselfconsciously
hiking up her tights between the Beast's advances.
Is this done in every American town and the world
over so there's no need to feel lost or lonely
ever?
There is no context for a man
outside the platoon or raiding party, home or shop.
When violence comes to the neighborhood,
the hierarchy of communicants will hold or fold
it is then the peace work proves relevant. I noticed McIntosh,
grizzled as he was, accepted the given hierarchy, a raw lieutenant's
orders,
as he did the desert and Apaches, with a shrug and foreknowledge
of the outcome.
If there's anywhere with no Emily or Beauty
we should bring them such blessings at the point of a
gun. But there is no place without Emily, not
the least-known prison in deepest space as long
as we do not hate or hurt or shun
the Beast.
Throughout the animal kingdom,
There are commonalities, don’t you think?
One of the strongest among them
Is an inborn maternal instinct.
She wouldn’t leave her litter
To go outside and save herself;
Instead she stayed beside them
And barked and howled for help.
He rushed into the burning building,
Not sure of what he’d find;
The smoke and fire very thick,
Making him practically blind.
He followed a path to the sounds
Of the barking, howls and yelps;
Being a dog owner himself,
He knew he had to help.
He found them in the laundry room;
A mother dog and her six pups.
He used an empty laundry basket
To pick the newborns up.
She stayed close to his side
As he led them out of harms way;
He checked out each of her little pups
To make sure they were okay.
Sometimes we wonder if animals feel
The same emotions that we do;
The lick she planted on his face
Sure felt like gratitude.
Throughout the years this fireman
Had rescued many souls,
But the rescue of this dog and pups
Is the one he most often told.
NOTE: In verse 5, instead of "mother dog" I wanted to use the accepted term for a
mother dog - "b_tch", but PS would not accept that word - damn, I mean darn!
Self-Portrait, 2011
v. Ortiz Vazquez
4’9” or 5’0”, never quite knowing which
Brown eyes, black Afro hair
She Hercules strength within
34 years old wondering where times has gone
A second, minute, hour; days, weeks, months
Young morena, carded at times
Few gray hairs basilan between wisdom and just time passed
Time spend recording images, words
Hidden ideas within pages
Pieces behind doors, question of “Am I an artist when no one except me sees my
humble images?”
Energy transfer in a moment of passion where soul, thoughts merge
Written words waltz between lines wondering “Am I a poet when no one except my
girl listens to the movement within my writings?”
Quote-on-quote educated yet ignorant
School smart, whatever that means
Socially dysfunctional, quietly listens to the cacophony-story telling time
Not my story but hers, his, theirs
Commonalities, none
Fearful she hides behind her home’s walls
Pages hide her thoughts
Agony bleeds every time she wakes
Capture by her moving hand yet stored away
Aching, waiting to break through
She turns and walks
Sanctuary, solitary times
Lingering questions, who am I?
How to survive without knowing
Knowledge eludes me
To find a different host
Jealous, envy; no, lost
Floating through time, space
Looking to land yet not knowing where
Falling back to old tricks
Seclusion
Time to put thyself asleep
Lights out
I once wrote a POTW, getting to know you, was the theme
Simple little rhyme, about soupers commonalities it seems
Now I’m discovering disparity, divisions, different schisms
Joining the dots together, one picture emerges, extremism
A few (leading lights), have gathered sheep into their pens
Who in turn follow them blindly, to anywhere and back again
None of my business you say, and I would be first to agree
But our paths must cross sometimes, as now you can see
Such is lies, such is truth, it’s all immaterial within a poem
A story is a story, our imagination counts, on bringing home
I manipulate words, trying to imbue you within stark verse
Encouraging open-mindedness, never planning to coerce
Others have hidden agendas, encoding influences of ambition
Deluded in their own self importance, to maintain recognition
Suppressing freethinkers, using propaganda, covert pretexts
Don’t like the tone of your language, get shunned by request
Teach us a lesson, an opinionated authority, waves a big stick
Seen this crap before in institutions, got caned as a small kid
Gaslighting, solipsistic, narcissistic, torchbearers of nothing
Pushing your own egos, not poets work, shameless plugging
Some fellow poets do fall foul, getting led up the garden path
Instead of expressing independence, write to appease wrath
So this message is from a nobody, and I’m calling you to task
Why! because I have a pair of balls, not satan behind a mask.
This is no exposé, majority of soupers, see through your cover
Easy now, I won’t mention any names, best ignore this nutter
I proffer diversity and conversation, no nihilistic atheist stray
Unlike his predecessors, won’t get disheartened or walk away
Look at history what happened, when pandering to dictators
Carrying swastikas in suicidal obedience, to Hitler their savior.
I’m not trying to tempt your faith,
write about god write about man,
But when man believes he’s god,
Yeah! we’ve already lost the plan
And for that habitual poltergeist
that keeps messing up comments
Are you trying to tell me something
or just afraid of the open contents
By
David Kavanagh
Things confuse me easily these days
it might be age or some kind of rare
oncoming dementia preparing me for
a difficult but joyous passage of elder
time fulfilling my wildest dreams or perhaps
a period of prolonged revelation of prophecies
and keys that I alone will possess and heads
of State and ministers and elegant dignitaries
will stand in line to have an audience with me
just to have the good
fortune of hearing a
few pearls of wisdom
that will completely change
their perceptions and ways of thinking about
governing irritated populations that will make
them realize that harmony amongst all the peoples
of the world is a great and simple thing a kind of Babel in reverse and that the hunger for power for conquest and for control is a long and twisted journey over too many broken bodies of thought too many centuries down dark and lonely roads
with no demarcations or clues
no sacrificial boundaries and a
wasted expense of Capital on tanks and rockets and plutonium and the building up of armies instead of cultivating an educated and healthy populace capable of enjoying their lives and nature without destroying it and each other
and that pointing fingers
and screaming and filling valleys and neighborhoods with rivers of blood and lifeless bodies old and young is much less profitable and will prove over the long haul that the myriad unknowns and commonalities and fears we all share are far less destructive than the surface disparities that somehow always manage to turn into declarations of aggression and oppression and the bankrupting of moralities and policies and families…
or maybe it has to do with my
not getting enough sleep last night
or something to do with changes in my
eating habits or the climate or a reaction
to the round-the-clock radio waves
that surround us all
lead my hand o' dear life
lead my hand
on this land
o' dear life,
until the end
o' dear thought
of comfort
seed my life
feed me not in strife
bleed me joy from nine to five
lead me a journey of phases
a journey of ages
to face this
germinate in me a corn
of survival
a history of possibilities
a record of living to afford
a source to live
for this life
is a choreographer of life
a propeller of existence
an economy of spiritual commodities
a tear drop of opportunities
yet not so many does see its commonalities
an event of anomalies and regularities
lead me a way o' dear life
carry me a sledge on a journey of life
a terrain of survival and life
a gemstone for many
a pentagon of any
a model of penny
an artwork of joy
a string of life on a journey
a script of many
a stanza of any
opn08022012/0106
from: 'journey of life' and 'on a journey',
february 2012
>> ntema's unique poetry (nup)
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lead-my-hand-o-dear-life/
I have a mind, a body, a sense that I am one
I am a husband and father, but first I was a son
I do have faith, but I question, the many times I’m tried
As, that just goes to prove that I have many sides
I am a worker for a dollar, with hopes to get much more
Truth be known, if I was richer, I’d know not what it’s for
I have a burning passion every morning, noon and night
To express my thoughts poetically, these ideas that I write
I also am a dreamer, allowing my mind to let me play
It helps to break monotony, to make a better day
I teach sixth grade religion, because kids today know not
They have no values, nor morals, truly they know squat
But, if I were to sum it up, this man of whom I speak
I would honestly have to say that I am quite unique
Though I may share some interests, commonalities you’d say
I am just me, with good and bad, I’d choose no other way
Allowed for his glory.
The bound burden seems so heavy,
So brutal as if to chastise,
Though that is not its purpose.
To peel back the sinful man,
And replace with divine scars.
To wrench such commonalities,
And replace with a tempered soul.
To this end, only the blessed
Will have this world beaten from them.
Cast out to leave a vessel for his grace,
And fill with the whispers of the Lamb.
Dear traveler, hearken not for peace.
Pray for trials and tribulations of the Son,
That you too might know the strength,
And the power to bleed with thanksgiving.
Oh Lord, pluck from us boastful contempt.
My heart is sour with discouragement!
Grant me courage to trust in the Word,
And know what has been given.
In the quiet darkness, in a pool of tears,
On my knees, bowed in penitence,
Surrendering the dust from which I’m made.
I give thanks for His blessings are plentiful.
When you look at me, what do you see?
When you look at me, what do you expect?
When you look at me, what do you need from me?
May be, I may not be perfect,
May be, I may not be your type,
May be, I may not be your kind,
Nor your friend, neither your like,
But, ooh no,
We are not the same
Nor, are we similar,
Neither are we a like,
However, we share the same commonalities,
We are all people, made from fresh & blood,
We are the mighty creators,
We both breathe,
We both drink & eat,
We both reproduce,
Yooyoo taa!!!
Do not forget, we both release,
Ooh yes!!!
Clear my mind,
Opened up my mind,
Let me see through.
I knew two twenty-somethings who
had been soul mates since age sixteen.
The commonalities that drew
them to each other were quite keen.
They relished great old movies, those
with lively song-and-dance routines.
On weekend nights, they sometimes chose
to join in Fred and Ginger scenes.
Before long, “Singin’ in the Rain”
became top choice. One time when they
were watching—Don’t think I‘m insane
when I tell what transpired that day!
As unpredicted raindrops fell
and matched those on the tv screen,
the cute young couple could not quell
the urge to reenact the scene.
Outside, quite wet, they’d morphed into
the movie’s Don and Kathy. While
they sang and danced, they bid adieu
reality in their own style!
Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers
“Singin’ in the Rain,” sung by Gene Kelly (Don)
Kathy, Debbie Reynolds
I
I the great leader of Africa,
A true revolutionary of the pan African struggle
The acquitter ’s blood I enjoy, in the tears and sweat
Of the peasantry, I stroke and baptize all descendants
I the great dance of poverty rhymes, mambo in the melodies
Of the howls, mourning and weeping of the ancient and infantry
I the prodigious leader of liberation skirmish
Who can sojourn me? Who can rheostat me?
I for one the predecessor of soil they are sons to
Neither death nor era stances my way
I am greater than the commonalities. My voice,
Is a sword that incisions with both ends
Remind me my accountabilities and see the morning sun
I slay in any angle age nor gender despise you are mine on not
I am Malta all my age mates are departed, bereavement
Took them to their ancestors as I animate to demonstrate my supremacy
In the heights of Nyanga flora and fauna trembles the echoes of my voice
My word is the judiciary I am the law the rule is me.
I the forebear of peoples, leader of a race
As black as my skin is my heart
Only bullets can confiscate my Crown
Ballots reinforces I myself and radicalize thy
I enjoy their pitiful demonstrations peace rains on me I their reigns
Their pursuit for freedom springs me hopefulness in my livelihood
Their pursuit for justice decorate the shields an medals of my great success
Where ever they are, my ancestors are gratified, my comrades are awe-struck
This is what they suffered for in the thick forests of our land,
Oppression, poverty and suffering and injustice, a fight amongst us
I a revolutionary who enjoys dressing every newborn in
Jewelry, jewelry of chains in hands and leg irons
To the rich paint them gold, my patriots and commissars
I get them aluminum chains.
This is my story I the great leader of liberation revolutionary
A devoted pan Africanist and a leader of race
Miss your dread I be defeated my legacy, stay forever frightened
The wood is stacked for winter.
One way out of the mind's limitations
is through other minds' contemplations.
The books are stacked for winter.
Yet even that cannot satisfy.
Failing to hold still for meditation
my teacher smiles, makes this observation:
The purpose of sitting's not to be satisfied
or satiated. Remain hungry,
cold, uncomfortable and counting enemies.
These, and fear, are our commonalities,
and the discipline of not hitting whenever angry.
You'll appreciate dying
quietly at home. Whichever season has been randomly assigned will be beautiful
as ever
as a molecule of water is to all matter.
"In my life there were always too many things."
If there is no time, only change
the linear becomes circular.
Do not say north or south. You're
within the winter range
of chickadees, hawks, owls and herons.
River grapes, rose hips, the cedar waxwings'
repast. Their talk is my reminding
change outlasts endurance.
face to face
inevitably doing this to
kill time doing this to
find a place outside the moment to
reside doing this to bend the
will of a foe doing this to
see into another equally
coming to the conclusion that
there is absolutely nothing else
there back in the depths of the
dead eyes doing this in parallel
torture doing this to survive the
extent of what’s left doing this
to the edge of the void doing this
to analyze the commonalities
between the both of us doing this
to trace the differences so
wondrous so beautiful so chaotic
doing this to surf the wave of
indifference doing this to kill
away another minute doing
this to provide sustenance in
a world full of nothing.
Where does it begin?
Is it in the DNA?
Is it in the foundational structure?
Is it through skin conformity families?
Is it through children's cartoons?
Is it through confirmation bias?
Is it through popular music?
Is it through the foods we eat?
Is it through the idols we idolize?
Is it through the complex nature of our history?
Is it emblematic in our very flag?
Is it through statues glorifying the past?
Am I damned to hate my brother because his skin doesn't match mine?
Or am I free to love my brother despite our difference in pigmentation?
Everybody always asks
Where does it begin?
But nobody asks...
Where does it end?
The truth is simple
It ends when we do not deny our differences
But when we accept and celebrate them
While also rejoicing over commonalities
And recognizing our shared destiny
On this blue planet in space
Where does it end?
It ends with you
It ends with me
It ends with us
This friend I have aquired
commonalities abound between us.
Our wishes correlate
like a long lost pal
separated by chance
reunited by fate.
Our friendship grows daily
jokes and quips thrown about
together, we jest.
Slowly, we grow comfortable
in our desire.
It drives us forward
propelling us together,
hopefully, down the same path.