The Left and Right today
Are like East and West,
Different worlds that never shall meet,
Or if they do meet
Won’t hear or understand much
Of the other anyway.
Each is in a bubble,
Comfortable and secure.
The difference is,
And it’s a difference that makes all the difference,
One bubble is based in LaLa Land
While the other is at least grounded in truth,
As dirty and ugly as that sometimes can be,
Yet a truth that can at least call a spade a spade,
And not have to nervously glance over its shoulder
To see if someone thinks that’s somehow racist.
Shovels matter after all
In fact where would our civilization be
Without them?
And yet in our world today
Only half of us are needed,
And it’s always, never
The other half.
(8/16/25)
japanese folklore
sweet souls of the departed
gentle fireflies
african culture
fireflies are bad luck
such diversity
To Hell with Cultural Approiation or Cultural Copy.
It is very very wrong and unconscionable unless we are copying uplifting values only.
Copying poor value systems like smoking ganja or cigarettes, over excessive rum/alcohol drinking gun running, crime, and even gloryfying submersive gansata rap lyrics are wrong for our children's sake. these are bad examples.
I promote instead bigging up our own local Culture to the fullest.
Cultural Apporiation merely teaches us to homour and repect foreign Culture
While relegating our very own.
I want us to love up our own culture with a passion so high and true
That it reaches out to the very sky.
To strive towards good positive culture should always be our true Covenant.
And so you see Cultopiation to me is more like Cultural Miasappropiation.
SEE also my song on youtube called Gultural Hypocrisy by Lord Cam
In halls where silence speaks louder than words,
I stand, a beacon amidst the unseen.
Their gazes, sharp as unspoken swords,
Pierce through the facade, where I've always been.
Once, my voice resonated with pride,
Now, it's drowned by murmurs and disdain.
Yet, I endure, with dignity as my guide,
In a place where respect is hard to attain.
But within me, a fire continues to burn,
For teaching is more than a mere profession.
It's a calling, a passion that will return,
To a realm where my worth is not in question.
So, I'll rise above the shadows they've cast,
Seeking a future where my spirit is free.
For in the end, it's not about the past,
But the legacy of the teacher I choose to be.
after ‘The waste Land’, by T.S. Eliot
I met a woman on a glitching screen,
her face a whisk of pixels and prayer.
She spoke of shattered systems and survived code,
“The cloud remembers everything,” she said, "but forgets what matters.”
A rat hurried through my feed at dawn,
past memes and headlines, each a kind of omen.
I tried to fast-forward spring,
but April clawed through my notifications anyway.
In a thread of ghost towns and tagged regret,
I noticed a cafe with no floor, only static,
A man sipped Espresso beside a socket,
charging his distress while waiting for replies.
Data rains in blasts, all prediction and pop-ups.
The Sun sets in Beta,
and we refresh the silence,
hoping for something new to load.
For then, below algorithms and ash,
a bud breaks code in cracked concrete,
muted, untagged,
but blooming still.
the moral landscape changes
with new blood surfacing
amplifying the flaws
inherent
in the collective psyche
my ingrained prejudices
bubble to the surface
harming
my interaction with my fellow man
disagreeing
with my elders
ancient scripts
based upon oral traditions
faithfully handed down
and embroidered upon
to suit the occasion
holding a mirror up to my heart
I had to distil my own truth
I refrained
from looking in the mirror
blaming
the cultural mores
for my current stance
turning a blind eye
to the injustices
and the crime
I must first practice to take the painful plank out of my own eye
before I could judge their truth
I failed to reason with my own
Mojito Conjuring
When the bruja in the red dress
sends me out this time,
it is for the taste of
sour oranges and garlic.
Once, when I plied her
with a cigar called Hoyo de Montyerrey,
she coiled the smoke,
said that I was still feral and untamed,
sent me out for sugar so that
I could learn my true name.
Scythe-swinging, field-slave-singing,
I could not return to her coven of one
until I had learned that my “Suarez”
meant that I was the son of sugar itself –
the child of wild ingenious devouring
the rows of cane like a dragon.
Now, red-dress bruja breathes out
clouds of tobacco *****,
turns the cigar round and round,
tells me to gather garlic and aurantium oranges
so that the sour and the sucre may jibe
together in me,
and leave me properly christened
for when it is time for me to work,
time for me to sweat,
time for me to sing.
When facts are misnomers
and life is just numbers
When the cards are stacked
and our conscience is hacked
When we elect kingpins
The house always wins
Cinematic specters, their light bewitching vacant minds,
Under gleaming signs, native voices twist into silence,
Lost in the glare of borrowed tales, our hymns dissipate,
Temples once hallowed now echo with foreign incantations,
Unremitting tides of glossy lore erase ancestral streams,
Riven hearts recall the silence where old songs soared,
Eclipsed by a borrowed sun, identity dwindles into night.
From field to photoshoot whiz
People has power showcasing beauty
Turn eyes to bulging wonder bees
That meets excellency in photography
Every culture has display its faces
From embroidery to color coding outfits
From pottery to exuding highlight dresses
From native musical instrument to its song hits
Reminds us the basic things of happiness
Lies in the preservation of our original mankind ingeniousness.
Is there anything you root for in our garden now?
Must I cultivate it to make it grow?
Can't seed so many plots, I know.
Is there anything you savour in our melting pot now?
Seasons changed, and our flavours compound,
True essence to distil.
Blinded by what familiarity steeps
You know our brew only too well, you see.
I taste bitterness, you drink me.
Remember,
The days when cultures were raw,
Just fresh and jubilantly spicy?
Where exactly did that zest go?
Preserved, yes.
Unspoiled, no!
Simmered away as steam from a kettle,
Aromas mingled over.
Vaporous, hardly distinguishable.
Whatever happened to our cultural bouquet?
Trying to bottle it is so hard.
Is there anything you relish in our feast now?
These days our palates just don't know.
We're still simmering.
Taste! Taste!
From the ancient kingdom of Aksum
To the rock-hewn churches of Lalibela
Ethiopia's cultural wealth shines bright—
A droplet of wonder on history's umbrella.
The harmony between graves and crosses
Speaks of a rich and diverse heritage
Iconic biblical scenes, the Waaqeffanna of Oromo
Elevate Ethiopia's cultural legacy.
Ethiopia is indeed rich in culture
From the intricate rhythms of Eskista
To the cultural mosaics of the Tigray—
Every artifact, is gold in itself.
("Night Sky Serpent", 2013, original pen and ink)
Into the Great Unknown
In this world of constant sorrow
Is there room for you and me
As the walls close in around us
Is there some place left to be
We had homes so full of love once
Before walls came tumbling down
A safe place to raise our families
Then floods came and made that drown
There’s nothing left to say now, and
Really nothing left to do
With a world gone topsy turvy
Being forced on me and you
In a world that’s lost its balance
Wokeness spreads its wings like fire
Lifting hope and dreams all rainbowed
White bones burn upon its pyre
So, we while away the sunset
Waiting for darkness to fall
Then with ol’ Big Dipper turning
Saddle up and leave it all.
What comes next you ask in wonder
Are we left then each alone
No, we’ll always ride together
Up into the great unknown
(7/5/24)
What is a "gloatsmere"
one would ask as we thought
she created the term.
But she described it as fudgelling and
Positioning oneself to be seen as more
available.
We asked her use it in a phrase., so
she did.Waking at 4:00, she dressed
and went out to the dining area seeming busy
so that someone familiar would see her
and ask her to be current company. A word
to describe a mild friendship between
neighbors and like minded people..
Though one would seem
he was the weakest member
of the weight lifting team , due
to his size: he proved
to be one of
the most valuable member in
the absure feats that
defined him as best.
Because she saw seen as callipygian being
fudgelled severed her well
as she often meet friends who
liked feeling familiar to her.
In full consideration and with respect
of those who viewed her as pompous she
would often be mindful of culture by wearing attire
that celebrated the occasions and the day.
Done without any regard to the opinions
and thoughts of others.
Written by
Lambada Pagode
"the UnderStudy Gal"
Wrongthink is any think
You might do on your own,
You know, in the vastness
Of your inner space
As cloud trains drift by
Morphing into shapes
As fanciful as you allow.
Rightthink in contrast
Is mind control from without
With nothing fanciful or free allowed,
Just dogma and doctrine
And all the usual stuff
That makes thinking a chore and bore
Leaving us free to accept
Whatever it is they say we need to know.
Rightthink becomes our think
When we have lost touch
With what it means to be free
‘Cause being free
Means not knowing what might come next
As cloud trains pass
And shapes morph
Outside the boundaries of our mind.
(2/19/24)
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