Cali is a descendent of Babylonians
She practices necromancy
conjuring spirits of her ancestors
her rituals and spells are world-renown
bullies who misunderstand despise her
they fear her visions and insights
she often foretells what comes to be
This terrifies those who cannot
Ignorance often courts violence.
Cali’s spiritual guides warn her of the bullies
She escapes their ignorant pitchforks
Praying for their spiritual enlightenment
Do you hear the drumbeat of my heart?
The thunder of a Star’s descendent?
I’m bound to the sound there is no evil;
Nature is both the left and right hand;
Do you hear the pounding deep inside?
My spirit runs with the seven in the sky;
Coast to coast through the mountains,
I honor every mile of wide open land;
Do you hear the ancestral cry roll
whenever the Earth needs a warrior?
Cherokee and Blackfoot within me,
the blood in my veins a native groove;
Do you hear the drumbeat of my heart?
The thunder of a Star’s descendent?
I am a garden pansy, a descendent of the family Viola,
poet's write praises of me not just these days;
but in the days of Spencer and Shakespeare, I am that old,
I am a small flower but a garden survivor.
You planted me in early Spring in the partial sun,
I love the sun and soon showed my purple face;
I am a cheerful upturned bright and happy garden flower,
symbolizing thinking and thoughts for you.
In the summer months butterflies caress my petals,
and bees steal my nectar but I have tons;
I love watching the birds fluttering about the garden,
oh, chipmunks bite 'cause I am edible !
I am the famous Arabian stallion, I am worldly renowned as champion
l am the descendent of a special breed, I am the soundness and the speed
I am the king, of every hill, no other horse could match my skill
I am the pride, I am the grace, I am the hero of every race
I am the beauty, I am the glow, I am the star of every show
I am the stallion, I am the mare, I am the spirit of every heir
To every king or lord I serve, I am the jewel they do deserve
In battle I charge without fear, enduring the thrust of every spear
I am to knights, “the warrior horse”, I kick and bite without remorse
I am the jumper, I am the strider, I am the one loyal to his rider
I am simply a legend.
Saleh Ben Saleh
Lord, you made everything
You made me Black
and put me on this earth
You made me a descendent of Adam
Why am I so prosecuted in this place
Satan is not black
Descendent we are
forefather’d as we are
(not all obviously),
from the Germanic tribes.
Around the year zero
we emerged out of those dark primordial
winter forests,
fully formed and tribal.
Not to get too historical, however.
The fun part is
we get to choose which one of these
we want to be,
choose imaginary friends and foes
so let’s see -
Saxons
Angles
Jutes
Friesians
Franks
Hermione’s
Churusi
Suebi
Marcomanni
Alemanni
Lombards
Goths
Vandals
Burgundians
Herull
Finns
and Skandza.
Trouble is, all too often
it Just sucks to be German.
Deity of Greek myths
Descendent of Great Zeus
Demeter birthed this son
Dwelled on Mount Olympus
Divined as god of wine
Devoted to vino
Drama enthusiast
March 4, 2022
Greek Mythology Contest
Sponsored by Joseph May
checked with howmanysyllables
In the same domain as I released several days ago
A magpie with foot caught in wooden mouse trap
Aves my baby is a Saviour, her soul beauty a show
Freedom breadth materialised in blessed moment
Limping gives way to delivery, staid cage collapsed
River snake jaw compels ocean, propels hope that
Latitude comes upon compiled memory's sure flow
Broadsword my boy taught firm ethics keeps pride
Strength activated matures to be a bold protector
Man of moral multitude, by vital sacrifices inspired
A A B expands her brain, guards precious treasure
Chaste of spirit assists needy, heart always in tact
17th December
- descendent -
Redding Poem 2
"Sacramento River WordScape"
These descendent waters swim like mad lagoon fish,
Heading decidedly south with a fiery mindless turn,
Their cool liquid urgencies reaching to all sides enticing
The bosomy turning earth and its pectoral indecencies,
With an impotent power unknown to anyone alive now,
As watery signatures knife their way into the crestfallen sand bars,
Adrift in an ambiguous undertow of death-marked reticences;
Swimming and floating lazily as a red lily floats downstream,
Enveloped cooly in blue clarity, absorbed by diamond sureness,
These arching trees lapping inward the reeking salmon atoms,
As rippling currents of heaving hands and wild bone sneezes,
Salvage the unsalvageable, and a solitary blue bird
Jiggling a crimson ring, as it bobs upon its ascended perch.
Once we were a room,
a space for the spilling of pagan oaths,
for the pleading of primal prayers.
Now that room rages
upon an emptiness only my blood hears.
Bondage was good for us.
“You’re not my master”, she would say,
“you are me taking me”. She was right,
I would lose myself in her.
She’s related to George Washington,
at least by sexual union.
A man of his time.
A black girl for all times.
As her descendent she shared herself with me.
I imagine her now as she arranges
the form and flavors of desire.
Her skin a sensual braille for my shaping hands.
Her limbs submissive yet grasping a
binding chimera. Flesh capturing silks;
blind Labial dances preface
a choreography of complying violence.
We struggle with the glottal language
of inarticulate gods,
we’re deep sea divers bound to an erotic gravity.
This place is a womb
for the birthing of tattooing hungers.
Rooms enter rooms until dark suns
open our mouths with their electric flares.
Somewhere in another story,
an aged Washington shoves
his shriveled member
into another girl – another room.
A place we were pleased to burn down
again, and again.
Son of God
Lord
You are:
Oracle of peace
wise counselor
source within the living waters
That breathes life
into insightful predictions
of our future holdings
Son of Mary
With grace and mercy
one regal descendent of David
A sacrificial birth born
under the shadow of the cross
the Son of the most high
An eternal ruling Monarch
whose loving touch precludes no man
behold our King has come
Immortal spirit of divinity’s
Fulfilling the prophesies
divinely anointing our Prince of Peace
Truth held under Christian virtues
through the portal our great Father
forever speaks within, Amen
unrhymed tercets
A co-written piece by Liam Mcdaid & Donna Loughman
Son of God
Lord
You are:
Oracle of peace
wise counselor
source within the living waters
That breathes life
into insightful predictions
of our future holdings
Son of Mary
With grace and mercy
one regal descendent of David
A sacrificial birth born
under the shadow of the cross
the Son of the most high
An eternal ruling Monarch
whose loving touch precludes no man
behold our King has come
Immortal spirit of divinity’s
Fulfilling the prophesies
divinely anointing our Prince of Peace
Truth held under Christian virtues
through the portal our great Father
forever speaks within, Amen
unrhymed tercets
A co-written piece by Liam Mcdaid & Donna Loughman
Poets That We Are…
Poets are umbilical cords—
chosen links of the pregnant mind
and its births—amniotic guardians
of the poetic descendent.
As mere servants of the word,
we cannot be more of an apostle
than that of: Humble.
Let us who write, worthily walk
in our own integrity;
man judges—The Most High chooses.
We’ve been blessed with the creativity
of the griots and muses of our own reality.
No longer must we let ourselves be led astray;
rather, let us forever write truth each blessed day.
When the keyboard, cobwebbed in silence,
ceases to ink, let not stillness miscarriage the word;
and may our creativity become like Lazarus.
Met a spiritual flower, descendent of protectors of the lands of Tulum, in times long ago. Her eyes, so unique, captivated me, it was hard to look away. I felt gazing into their Depths,The spirits of civilizations of a different time and place. They seemed to speak to me, crying out, " why must our sacred balance with nature, be violated by men from another world, with eyes blinded by greed, incapable of feeling or hearing The voice of the spirits within every living thing? This spiritual flower, it is a woman now dedicated to make a difference, in the lands preserved from the ignorance and folly of men. Is she a modern day vessel, for the ancient ones I felt within?
With every war man has waged,
the countless banners he displays.
You cannot kill mankind's will,
his bombs, bullets, or blades.
It's his will to die seeing his prided flags wave,
fear not the sorrow his death may bring.
All the dead men's colors,
live to fight and see another day.
Descendent banners gladly raise,
and his kin like fools still cling,
to that which must, and will fade away.
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