Born Poems

BORN IN NINE ELEVEN

Crack...Boom!
Is it the Big bang...
Or the boom of 9/11,
Everyone goes deaf,

Tears and teeth are out
Are these tears of joy?
Are these teeth of smile?
Is it the beginning or the end?

One boom gave life_
Another took it, and...
For the boy the boom collided 
Somehow, he made it out alive.

A miracle, isn't it? a joy in chaos 
Luckily it

Born Between Coordinates

I was born in the pause between two coordinates
drawn by cartographers with sterilized hands.
My soul was indexed in miles and postal codes
Filed under miscellaneous anomaly at checkpoints.

I crossed borders that did not exist,
except in the mouths of men with rifles.
My breath was weighed against paperwork,
my shadow flagged by predictive suspicion.

I was processed in buildings with

Did We Exist Before We Were Born

Did I exist before I came—
To Time’s reluctant Door—
Or was I but a voiceless Name—
In Silence—evermore?

The cradle of a Nothing vast—
Where neither Breath nor Form—
No Heart to quicken—nor to fast—
No Memory—to warm.

Yet here—I stand—amid the Grass—
The Moon—observes my stay—
She lifts her Lantern as I pass—
And will—when I—decay.

If Death returns me to that Place—
That hollow, unbegun—
I

The twice born

“When man, being baptized, begins to repent and move back toward the Eternal Father and withdrawing his Self from the gross material world, Bhu-loka, enters into the world of fine matter, Bhuvar-loka, he is said to belong to the Dwija or twice-born class. In this state he comprehends his internal electricities”
~ extract from ‘The Holy

Never Born Time Again

Never Born Time Again


Killed time, killed, destruction living in your heart
Hmm, why? Hmm. Because you like to be this, like

Yes, yes, you are a dislike, an anti-love, a killer life
Death hugs me, all my hope is fading smoke in the sky

Trampled life, nothing in my cemetery, dried tree leaves
Crunching under your feet, my soul sighing,

A riot born of flames and rage

A burned up system of control
A revolt spoken with flames 
Silence was no longer an option
Peace had been exhausted 
The only language they communicate 
Violence 
The police man specialises in brutality when it comes to the black man

'Stop and search'
An excuse they use
To abuse 
The 'blacks"
Used as a slur
By the oppressor
As if it's poison, as

In realms of dreams, where magic is born in the late evening hour

In realms of dreams, where magic is born in the late evening hour,
A hidden paradise in whispers and in the descending moonlight's power.
Beautiful settings, love like an old perfume, beyond description,
Amber eyes burning with vows in the fire of a dream's depiction.
On this earth, seductive and full of love, we lose our senses completely,
Shadows of

The Poet's Vigil

In the quiet corners of his own mind,
he walks alone,
a poet whose pen drips with moonlight.

He counts the hours by the hum of his thoughts,
each one a lantern swinging in the wind.

A thinker —
he weighs the weight of names,
dreams of the laughter not yet born,
imagines a tiny hand curling around his own.

In solitude,
he builds worlds

In the depths of our fear, a trembling light is born

In the depths of our fear, a trembling light is born,
A fire that burns slowly, yet surely, in your murmuring silence worn,
Smoke rises from extinguished dreams, let your thoughts float free,
Into the void of the ceiling, where shadows begin to decree.
Strike your head against the cold walls of doubt and despair,
Reject the world’s false smile,

Born Beneath Plutonian Skies

I was born beneath Plutonian skies,
Where silence held the scream of centuries,
And the air was thick with memory—
Of kings undone and gods forgotten.

In the shadow of Saturn’s gaze,
My soul arrived not to live,
But to remember…
To tear through veils stitched by empires,
To speak in the language of dust and fire.

They marked my chart with fear—
Pluto in

She Was Never Born, She Simply Returned

She did not fall—
She flowed.
From the breathless stars to the edge of form,
She shimmered between sound and silence,
Becoming light before becoming skin.
She walked the void barefoot,
Carving paths in places the sky forgot,
Speaking in colors the earth hadn’t learned to see.
She was music before voice,
Fire before flame,
Knowing before name.

In lives long buried in salt and smoke,
She

Before You Were Born

There must be 
an entry point
somewhere in the fabric 
of being, perhaps 
an unhealed 
wound in the bark 
of an ancient tree 
deep in a primordial 
forest or gouged 
in the cliff face
of a remote shoreline 
where southern ocean 
gales pound the continent, 
or somewhere quiet, 
unobtrusive, hidden 
from view in a corner 
of the

In the desert of silence, where thoughts are born from extinguished sands

In the desert of silence, where thoughts are born from extinguished sands,
A creature without garments, with eyes burning like fallen stars,
Holds its pulsating heart in dry hands, like a poisoned gift,
And bites into it, eagerly, like a forbidden fruit of knowledge.
I ask it: "Is it sweet, friend, the taste of your cosmic blood?"
"Bitterness calls me,"

Swicker Turf

Grueling Smiles
is a book about a couple
the woman had married a man who had been married Twelve times.
She had been married twice and would do anything to keep her current husband loyal to her and there marrage.

The book "Grueling Smiles" was written by Mossa Crumbo in 1821.
The main character. The asked for a  new

Born to Rage

I woke with blood in my mouth
and no memory
of the scab that sealed the rasure.

I’m cat-spitting
dog-growling
peregrine-divebombing
rooster-flogging
badger-flipping
hornet-stinging
wolverine-ripping mad.

I fired the sun for showing up late
cursed the fridge light until
yogurt soured in terror.

God called
I let it ring twice.

The therapist said breathe
so I swallowed my tongue
now I speak
in the language of things with canines.

coyote-howl syntax
vulture-vowel decay
the guttural grammar
of

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