Best Guerilla Poems
Somehow I feel connected to each lock
They remind me of a time before me when black was not just hip hop
They remind me of a movement towards freedom
When we were gaining the momentumm to no longer be oppressed
To me they represent bold, natural blackness
Symbols of non-conformity and to some
a sign of spiritual royalty
From ancient egyptians
to the movement of the rastafari
The lion of Judah remains represented entirely upon the heads of those
who rebel against enslavement
In modern times and during the times of
John the Baptist, King Tut, Solomon and Samson
Connected deeply to the Rastafarian and the struggle of the block
Guerilla warriors swore not to cut the locks
until the release of their authority
Jah-Rastafari or Haile Selassie I
Big ups to the dreads with conscious minds
The intertwined knots remind me of naturally grown crops of herbs
Each lock a spliff of some FIYA YA
to help calm my nerves
Burning the corruption and the lies told about the words written
While filtering out the bullcrap I found truth in transmission
Giving it to you is my soul mission
Locks. Beautiful like the afro
Symbolizing freedom from strong holds
Still black and proud though
I love locks
They remind me of pure blackness
The volatile excerpt reads “The behead-
ings that were carried out by the Isla-
mic State of Iraq and Syria, the
rage of hate is a control factor for
the power of the leader to be sup-
reme. Is this the measure of mankind?
The rigor-mortis that lay before us
is a terrorist creed dogma time clock.
None the less than government formed through doc-
trine of Qu’ran and Sunni stated to
be the divine order of all the land.
al-Baghdadi caliphate is mercen-
ary to the faith of the Middle East.
The rage of hate must be depleted now."
R oused was the first leader and destroyed.
a l-Baghdadi came on board.
G ruesome guerilla killed woman, man, and child for his caliphate.
E quality must be palpability today.
F ear that is caste by ISIS.
O ften is not considered by the people as a terrorist.
R egards are to the governess.
P opulations are nations
E volved to roam.
A spirations are not known.
C aliphate has formed.
E quity and identity is commercial paper shown.
______________________________________|
Penned February 27, 2015!
This poem is a sonnet that is emphasized via an
acrostic for the desired effect on the stated form.
a ghost haunts the country of Laos
sieving through jungles
crackling twigs because
it has not yet died
beware of it
the one who drags one foot
while the other rots 20 feet away
shoes made of cast metal
footprints ever so present
in night fall
imprints of bomb shells in mud fields
a phantom roams
plains in Laos
hide your children
its breath reeks of agent orange
its shouts
dynamite flames that dusts away human bones
and bamboo baskets
a stench of wheezing willing to fold
curl
leaves and skins of families who
who hide in forest
till their flesh shrivels
like the lungs of many dead soldiers
the fissures of its face
exposes land mines
crooning a song of torment
through throats of civilians fleeing
on the hair of this
wicket phantom
its hair droops the length
of the Ho Chi Minh trail
hear its whispers
it also cries
moans of a past that begs
to be remembered
clawing trees to spell out its name
the ghost wails pain
filters itself everywhere
whimpering
peeling steal and lead
by the millions
what remains become chains
that burrow into earth
by cluster bombs
big bombs
B-52 bombers dropping
in its tons of U.S. congress approval
in ink
an old friend still alive and well
and under moonlight
refugees run
only to meet more trouble
in camps
they desire to break away
from this ghost and its name
and no one recalls its name
of this
ghoul who rages through
the country of
Laos
melting tendons and flesh
this ghost hungers
for humans
screeching napalm gas on
palms of
guerilla soldiers
american soldiers
and vietcong alike
death does not even remember its name
beware but
tell your children
light the candles and the
incense
the ghost drifts because
no one wants to
know about its name
The Secret War
put this crying soul
of secret history
to rest
recognize
its name
bless this curse
that wants to
name
all the people
it claims
and they too
will remain alive
like mines beneath the soil
seeds of calamity
You can't imagine what its like to march on a sacred city,
to plunder and pulverize a Peoples' promise to Deity,
demolishing centuries of lavish labor, wasting offspring of ancient heredity,
destroying flesh, scriptures and stone with a savage Roman military synergy,
a discipline determined in it's destruction of dissention, inspired by ancestral victory,
politics was not our purview, methodical punishment was our specialty,
We were War's royalty, we were Legio XV Apollonaris,
monsters of Mars, messengers of Apollo, the juggernaut of Jupiter,
along with 11 other Legions led by General Titus, 60, 000 cuts of glory we stood,
for 3 and a half years we fought through Jewish guerilla ambush
asymetrical urban warfare welting our progress like a pirate pestilence
district after district, hell spell after hell spell we bled with chilled maneuver,
the Zealots were pyromaniacs, burnt sacraficers, their zeal and our bodies zesty wood,
in the Kidron Valley they flooded the streets " knee high " with oiled water
as the Cohorts waded through the lanes leery, a torch was tossed, flames rose in rush
240 men perished like spazing stars trapped in a box, our grief agape with a horrified crush,
as reprimand, Titus made the Legate sit in a tent with his chopped off ring finger
smoldering like hot sand in the hand of a marooned man aware of error in his plan,
the insurgents had men we called Fox Tails, desperate demons who knew how Hell began,
as a skirmish succumbed to our skill and number they would run into apartments,
dragging the fury of our blades into rooms of Hades revenge, these were fire entrapments,
the buildings would blaze like windowed volcanos, screams salting us with panic linger,
It was not uncommon to discover a missing Brother Legionary
castrated, and decapitated with a headedless eagle carved upon his chest,
don't speak to me about morals and mercy for I have seen and dealt the damage of rude death
hate becomes your Father, vengence your Mother, aggravated murder your cause
when everything you revere and fear merge to make a leviathen of life,
the " Chosen People " of God became the chosen target of annihilation,
Mount Moriah, mansion of Yahweh the Pariah would become capital of Divine crucifixion,
J.A.B.
This poem has been entered into the Roman Legion Contest
to honor Ancient Rome and the Poet who sponsored this historical subject.
We'd made a dawn start that day, following in his footsteps, as
apparently Jesus used to get up early.
Our group had gathered for a reading, and to pray, along with
fruit and cereals our first staples of the day.
The good Lord had gifted us a painted morning of Coeruleum blue,
and a warm spiced breeze flossed my smile.
I turned and watched the city for a while.
Amidst the pink and beige jigsaw of the old city, the Dome of the rock
had caught the morning rays and was now bragging about it,
shamelessly blinging,
competing with the shouts of Minarets
and Church bells ringing.
Few things can compete with an Israel morning, but you did.
Perched like an Owl on a low wall, cross-legged, your head moved
from side to side, scanning the mount, sharing our glass,
drinking the moment.
You wore white cotton, an arm hung with beads, an evil eye bracelet
and what looked like a Kara, glistening.
Styled by the Gods, with three quarters of a straw hat
wedged in the bricks.
And then I found myself before you,
Lord knows how, and I was trying to remember how my mouth worked.
Your head cocked to one side you watched me for a while
then nodded me a soft hello, and finished with a smile.
Ice broken, we gathered intelligence- you, a 'gap year Guerilla'
on a global reconnaissance , armed with just a shoulder bag and a credit card.
Me, a lapsed Catholic with an empty soul, seeking a childhood faith long discarded.
A shout from the tour guide burst our intimate bubble and I retreated,
backwards, gesturing, as if in the presence of a Shah.
She waved back, almost lost her balance, and a gust of wind would
have placed her gently among the sleeping of the Kidron
if she hadn't grabbed her hat.
And that was that.
I went back to the wall that evening, and the following morning,
I don't know why- she'd be bathed in the rose of Petra by then.
For a short time I was bereft, and stood, fittingly, before the
Basilica of the Agony, and then sat on our wall,
to watch the chosen wake up.
I think my soul woke a little, just then.
For God had left me with a little bit of love.
Unrequited, but worth hanging on to ,
worth building on.
It's been thirty five years, and in those occasional quiet places
I still think of you
For contest 'Love in a far off place', sponsored by Frank Herrera
22nd July 2015
Our fortified camp is well out of range of arrow, or gun shot, except the rear flank,
of course the Shoshone are reputed to be deficient in firearms
but are expert in hand weapons and guerilla tactics,
its a gamble, but we must seek to establish identity and intent
I'm taking a recon group of twelve into the valley
we're spread out to mitigate the impact of ambush
remaining close to the brush and treelines
the interior of the mountains look like the inside of deep candle wells
and we are the flame that attracts attention,
I see three people by a popping creek,
its a girl child, a teenage girl and an old woman with baskets picking grapes,
for an instant I think of the mythological Fates, have we been plucked and cut,
signaling for Drouillard, I procure a mirror, a comb and other small trinkets
to offer as gifts, and I'm rolling up my deerskin sleeve to show I am a White Man,
tactfully I step out of the snowberry thickets unarmed
pleading repeatedly the Shoshone phrase I've learnt from Sacagawea,
" Ta ba bone...Ta ba bone...Ta ba bone..."
the child has immediately wrapped herself around the old woman's leg
the teen has scampered like a doe in silent terror
looking back at me with eyes of screaming innocence, mouth crying open,
the woman is standing frozen with a face of defense
and from her beaded belt unsheathes a carbonized dagger,
Drouillard comes out gently doing his best with the speech and sign language
as I go on one knee showing the gifts, thank Deity they calm, smile, and accept,
we have convinced them to lead us to the village
the woman has persuaded the teen, named Maraseca to rejoin and receive the mirror,
J.A.B.
You can't imagine what it's like to march on a sacred city,
to plunder and pulverize a Peoples' physical promise to a Deity,
demolishing centuries of lavish labor,
wasting offspring of ancient heredity,
destroying flesh, scripture and stone
with a savage Roman military synergy,
a discipline determined in it's destruction of dissension
inspired by ancestral victory,
politics was not our purview,
methodical punishment was our specialty,
We were War's royalty,
we were Legio XV Apollonaris
monsters of Mars, messengers of Apollo,
the juggernaut of Jupiter,
along with 11 other legions led by General Titus
60,000 cuts of glory we stood,
for 3 and a half years we fought through the Jewish guerilla ambush
asymmetrical urban warfare welting our progress
like a pirate pestilence,
district after district, hell spell after hell spell we bled with chilled maneuver,
the Zealots were pyromaniacs, burnt sacrificers
their zeal and our bodies zesty wood,
in the Kidron Valley they flooded the streets ankle high with oiled water
as the Cohorts waded through the lanes leery
a torch was tossed,
flames rose in a rush,
240 men perished like spazing stars trapped in a box,
our grief agape with horrified crush,
as reprimand, Titus made the Legate sit in a tent
with his chopped off ring finger
smoldering like hot sand in the hand of a marooned man
aware of error in his ill plan,
the insurgents had men we called fox tails,
desperate demons who knew how Hell began,
as a skirmish succumbed to our skill and number
they would run into apartments
dragging the fury of our blades into rooms of Hades revenge,
these were fire entrapments,
the buildings would blaze like windowed volcanos
screams salting us with panic linger,
J.A.B.
HANUKKAH
Festival of Lights/ Feast of Dedication,
As a kid, Hanukkah
was the Jewish replacement for Christmas,
But even better!
We celebrated for eight nights,
Which meant eight presents!
It was the festival of lights
We ate latkes or potato pancakes,
We Played with spinning tops called driedels
Sang the driedel song
Opened one present each night
Filled up ona chocolate money called Gelt
Got all the adults to sing along
In our beautiful nine branched candelabra
Called a hanukiah or menorah
One Hanukkah candle was lit each night
An extra candle, called the shamash, or the "attendant"
Was used to light the others candles
Oh what a memorable sight!
Antiochus IV Epiphanes, invaded Judea
Came upon the Jews with a great army, took their City by force
soldiers plundered without mercy, slaying a multitude of Jews
Antiochus spoiled the Temple, stopping the ritual daily sacrifice
Judaism was outlawed, circumcision was banned, an alter to Zeus was erected
and pigs were sacrificed in the temple, the people lost their right to choose.
Antiochus's actions provoked a large-scale revolt
Maccabees fought a guerilla war, and won the battle
The Seleucid monarchy was crushed
The temple was purified and rededicated
Undefiled pure olive oil was required to light the temple menorah
Only enough oil for one night, yet the oil burned for eight, the people were hushed
Hanukkah, a celebration of struggle and liberation
Whether or not the miracle occurred
Is secondary to our continual struggle to survive
We place the menorah with candles burning
In a window, to show the world
We’re here, we’re free, and we are still alive!
This Casuistry is a paradox
Fallacious feelings repress
A Sophistry you ingress Chemically redox
Tergiversate under scrutiny. A misfit – an anachronism. Elusory emotions to express
My argument a confused paralogism Chicanery
Fugacious Piety worships AWAITING THE FALL
An elaborate machination Formation of
this Cabal To unravel this conspiracy
Renegade inspiration
A
Live
Grenade
Revolution call.
Societal crumblings
A mind poisoned by barricades
Limitations.
Cures itself
By questioning everything
Invalidity, obscurity, corruption
Topple under
Plots of our Coterie
Political pressure
Militant insurgency
Worship the gun
Worship the steel
Guerilla tactics
Metro
Urban
Rurally
Camouflaged pawns
Stratagem
Pieces on the board are people
Playing for real.
Didactic Leaders
And
Pedantic parents
They’re history and experience
In perspective reveals.
Cycle of manipulative
Elite, controlling
The pariahs
Starved in appeal.
Wood chew believe aye took stock...?
Upon a whim, an endeavor
arose to communicate
cumulative key whatchamacallit,
yea...nuggets o' wisdom, asper
about yours truly no reason, nor
rhyme unwinding, tooling sputtering
most vexing mystery more
baffling than any whodunnit,
asper in this ole rattle trap to whit,
which drab filler hoop fully doth newt
induce thee to vomit
while this true bore doer sits here twit
tilling thumbs, one doubting Thomas
addresses, (albeit favoring abridged titbit
alphabetized list), I attempt (collusion
gluten, GMO free), aye solicit
motley fool, not to accrue superprofit
unbiased worded atypical, bohemian
rhapsodizing non mercurial portrait
most challenged since umpteenth orbit
whiling away this last May 2019 Tuesday
around nearest star circle game
impossible mission exit
or at least until after exhausting
without courting death
senescence to delimit.
ME? ANTI THE FOLLOWING::>
aggression, alcohol, apartheid, authoritarianism,
billboard, bureaucratic, censorship, church,
cigarette, anticlericalism, anticolonialism,
commercialism, communism, conglomerate,
conventional, corporate, corruption,
counterfeiting, crime, cruelty, cult, defamation,
diarrheal, dogmatic, dumping, elitism,
establishmentarianism, fascism,
fashion, formalist, fraud, fur, guerilla, gun,
hierarchical, hijack, hunter, king, illiterate,
litter, lynching, macho, materialism, militarism,
miscegenation, monarchical, monopolist,
mosquito, nationalist, nepotism, noise, nuclear,
obesity, pesticide, plague, pollution, poverty,
racist, racketeering, rape, religion, revolutionary,
riot, royalist, sexist, shoplifting, slavery, smog,
smoker, smuggling, snob, subversive, tax,
terrorist, theft, tobacco, totalitarian, violence,
vivisectionist, welfare.
What About You?
Partisans has now entered politics
fighting secretly against an occupying force
supporting the rights to kill Holy Innocence
blood of our martyrs is on your hands
Prejudiced in favour of a particular cause
carving death as their poster child speaks volumes
manipulating gossip overlooking facts that's no lie
These public figures are an out and out disgrace
they should be ashamed of themselves
serving the master of deceit
when the truth comes to light let us face it
I hate to tell you that I told you so
the guerilla fighter helps spill innocent blood
Goodbye, *****Erectus!
Talking monkey with the rainforest tan
Bent knuckles scarred ...
low brow crouching,
and arched eyes wondering —
Looking at the bright yellow rock
dusk paper moon burning
Green banana hope
is swelter swagger of nuclear dawn man
Bad buy, *****Sapien!
Curious chimpanzee, ever tool tinkering
Tick-tock pages
of the Jungle Book clock
is mandrill turning
Loves the evol jokes
that a-peel knock knock
Dollar sign rope
has the greedy ape treehouse a-swinging
Every Donkey Kong thing
has a deposed king Bonzo canopy end
Bray for peace,
using cold metal of an uranium blend
Baboon voices a-bellowing
Hot off the guerilla press:
WW3 hurls came from a prompt send
Brimstone reign
is Apocalypse Now falling
Bald face lies: Hairless claim
of superior tech skin coconut thin
Grey matter descend
has a groping, monkey-shine grin
In the New Age of Stone vows,
idol hearts did bend
Specie extinction blame game
was of unknown orangutan origin
And the cave dwellers
won’t ever know the genome source code
To amino acid awaken
from the ash entropy Eternal Sleep mode
This poem was inspired by the talented Phil Capitano
powerful poem titled, "Nuclear Dawn"
from the brilliant poetry book, "Roses on the Moon"
I had pondered over complaining about my life yet again
Filling up this pages with idle talk
Sharing past and present experiences
Politicizing my perception of reality
Writing about friends i had failed...
Relationships i had lost
And opportunities i had taken for granted
Then i remembered
Somewhere out there in the world
Not far from our borders,in the lands of syria and south sudan
Innocent people are surviving under appalling conditions
In spaces that undermine their humanity
Deprived off a normal existance
With no roof over their heads
No place to call home
The lucky sleeping in abundant buildings
As they have fled their villages over night
Attempting to outrun guerilla wars
They are innocent civillians, caught in the firing line
Seeing starved brown babies
Going for days with no food nor water
With their bulged mulnutritioned tummies
Seeing the unlucky...forced into manhood
As they get made into child soldiers
Dying on the way to seeking freedom
Their childhood stolen from underneath
We have heard...as far away bystanders
Of their 'sneaking' under our fenced and guarded borders
Seeking for refuge
In the unknown lands,to find a better tomorrow
What will become of them?
The thought of their plight tortures the soul of the viewer
As we watch their lives play out on our tv screens
The shock on our faces is temporary
As we share their lives in documentaries
Their whole lives scripted into 120hours
Their history formulated into screen shots
Our greatest nightmares is their everyday reality
As we ponder over our political future
We fear that we can turn into the next zimbabwe
Yet,they have nothing left to fear
As they have experienced rape,beating and gun shots
We cry for them from our posh homes
Yet,we do nothing to improve their conditions
Imagined as victims of circumstances
In an empathetic world
Coming to realise...that my reality is propably what they inspire to
Voices from the ashes
I
Note that I was murdered to have risen transformed
Note that my flesh and blood was readily made dust
Note that my bones and skeletons got incriminated
Note that my impetuous voice echoe from the ashes
Note how I was silenced... to have risen transformed
Note how I struggled: from the liberational coercion
Note how I triumphed over the sceptre and bayonets
Note how I gamed over the war sceneries impeccably
II
Note that I was flawless, efficient, resilient, competent
Note that my energies were sapped during the event
Note that my knee crawled from valley to valley deep
Note that my aim was for the betterment of the kins
Note how I was enslaved* before and fought swiftly
Note how I become a guerilla in motherland, savage
Note how I raptured apart the foes and the schemes
Note how I became violent and vigilant in my domain
III
Note that I was a victor before I got engraved deeply
Note that my wrath did grew with the evolution peak
Note that my beloved comrade back stabbed his own
Note that my bornes has risen the ashes mold vessels
And let my long gone blood reflow from the pool of
That Impetuous distant rivers, and rekindle the lost
Blazing flames of the Chimurenga wars... Magamba
Josiah Tongogara the barracks named after decades
IV
Denote when I rise from the ashes I votes mercilessly
Denote when my passions gather I will spit of venom
Denote when my strengths grew I will fight back fists
Denote when my courage reverberates I will burst out
Denote when I become potent, I will reign over again
Denote when I am with the mighty I will aside favours
Denote when I reign the Augustus house it will report
Denote when I speak order will reign, reconstructions
V
Denote how the muddled economy will reboot again
Denote how the incubators of corruption will vanish
Denote how the lost zealous and confidence bestow
Denote how the ills and evils will be driven to extinct
Denote how the brothers will cheer from the drums
Denote how the sisters will break a leg to Jerusalem
Denote how the fathers will fail conscience off brew
Denote how the mothers will pail the yeild in joyous.
LABORIOUS LABYRINTH OF LOVE
Love must be complementing
It’s not a “tug of war”
That each side, end of the rope going against each other,
Instead of complete understanding
Not of a perplexing or confusing…laborious labyrinth of love.
Wherein the center, there is a gravitational force!
At any rate, even the wisest war tactician fails
If not possessed with solid know-how, diplomacy and good judgment
Lovers or protagonists must sit conform to each other.
They give and take
Study the problem
Solve the problem and not attacking
And not a squid or guerilla tactics or hide and seek process
But to a sharp contrast: to success
Rather than to a laborious labyrinth of love!