It's the doers that will do something in this world
The past it haunts with a heavy presence those idle souls
they sat back as the future of the next generation is stolen
The calling card boils down to those that breathe fresh air
remembering a quote which held me in thought
That peace was the enemy of memory
the wicked stand confounded framed by deeds
There is a spiritual war taking place backwards moving forward
how far down the ladder do we go before stepping up
Hate devours love examining the truth if it were to turn face
respect has lost all communication when fighting this beast
unrepentant it suffers the agony throwing bitterness to the fowl
When it crows it worms its way around sympathy
wicked it claws for acceptance never seeing guilty as justice
it hides with the sloth always seeking but never finding
On the tombstone carved once bitten twice shy
here lies the remains of a broken child
whom sold by actions a nation down the river
Success can be won by
Talent and timing, or sheer presumption,
But Righteousness is acquired in the
Unseen range of options
Where no bravos exist.
The world may recognize the
One who rises,
Yet virtue belongs to the one
Who refuses to rise by stepping
On anyone else.
Success proves you reached
The top.
It never proves you deserved the climb
How can i mourn something i’ve never known
Still I pretend to swim
in the endless sea
nigh of any true misery
only the discomfort of martyrdom
inflicted upon those who will learn
to forget my name
shroud my shattered remains in gossamer
let time feast on my flesh
strip from me all of value
yield to nothing but my eyes
an unmade carcass of becoming
shall drift loosely carried by the windless tide
watching—waiting for the day to bleed into the night
Grief does not belong here
It has no home
Tears shall not be shed where I lay
Irises will not rest by my tomb
Palms will not dig to unearth me
For a stranger cannot be mourned
If they were never known
Blood on your hands
The heart of a killer
Corrupted your senses
How does it feel?
Blue eyes turned red
Vomiting on a pile of leaves
But the trees don't care
So how does it feel?
Trading pearls for ebony
Clutching them no longer makes sense
Because this isn't you
I wonder, how does it feel?
The angels flew away
And even demons grimace
You belong to neither
Pray, tell me how does it feel?
That blind kid dances like the floor knows his feet.
No watching his footsteps, just following the beat;
While everyone is looking for somewhere to go,
The music does the seeing — his body's in the know.
We look at our partners; we measure the floor.
He hears where we're going, and listens for more.
No eyes on the rhythm, no watching the crowd.
He sees every movement by hearing out loud.
Music does the seeing!
Music knows the way!
Shut your eyes and hear it!
Let your body play!
Most people dancing will close both their eyes.
As though shutting out vision lets rhythm arise;
They surrender to something their eyesight concealed—
The music does the seeing, and dance is revealed.
So who are the blind ones when the dancing begins?
The watcher outside, or the listener within?
The best feet need music, not eyes keeping score—
Close your eyes, let it see you, then dance even more.
Music does the seeing!
Music knows the way!
Shut your eyes and hear it!
Let your body play!
history has a way of repeating, that should never of been changed in the first place
Easter bunny sent his eldest to me to brag
Her name was Charlene, she had one small snag
I created this wreath but I have a problem too
The back keeps slipping, so we added glue
I flipped it over and helped her fix the wreath
She was so grateful, she grinned with a whole set of teeth
So, your name is Charlene, I said. She nodded her head.
What’s your Daddy doing these days? He’s probably in bed.
We are tossed by every uneven street
And I try not to recall the ocean
In the heart of this great city-
The cobblestone! The church! The mansions! The soviet blocks!
Wordless stanzas.
Watch the ink
Scratch at half-utterances
World churning
In Grandma's kitchen
1998-
Memory please
Catch the hot wind.
I will be airborne
One day fly back to you
and patience
My virtue dies.
Billboards scream
But I have
Just
Like love, don't want.
My keyboard, the typewriter.
My hand quills
My two-lung stone slabs
Mindless etchings.
Faint anger
And the distant sound of you-
Singing?
free will
it is silly to give it to everybody
So many don’t deserve it
Don’t appreciate it
and would waste it
I think the only people who should get it should meet this criteria:
be five foot two or shorter
be Irish or English
Be from Kansas or Illinois
Be beholden to me
The rest of you do not need to pout
My insanity allows me to add or take away rules as urges come to me
Stand by for daily updates if you think you would like free will
I cannot give it to everybody
Kudos to Albania, in its peoples resolve
I rejoice to see union, and Albaninans massing
So bold, against soulless mouguls whom
I am sure God does abbhor.' kushner brings not diversity. Yet a power hungry
Maw.! In hellish agenda..He plans are
to rape'
The bounty of Albania, with his
Bribed henchmen
Of that state.'
Does he really think about us, God?
When Lyhanna is murdered,
When the earth shakes in Caracas,
When JOHNNY suffers from cancer,
Does he want to make us doubt?
Yet the stars continue to shine,
Galaxies are rams
Who strike the unfathomable void,
Yet the sun, burns us,
Makes us see the light, from Hercules
Yet a pope prays alone
For the salvation of all sinners
Does he really think about us, God?
Pense t-il à nous vraiment, Dieu ?
Quand Lyhanna est assassinée,
Quand la terre tremble à Caracas,
Quand JOHNNY souffre d’un cancer,
Veut il nous faire douter ?
Pourtant les étoiles continuent de briller,
Les galaxies sont des béliers
Qui frappent le vide insondable,
Pourtant le soleil, nous brûle,
Nous fait voir la lumière, d’Hercule
Pourtant un pape prie seul
Pour le salut de tous les pêcheurs
Pense t-il à nous vraiment, Dieu ?
As I have wondered through the halls of old,
the minds of famous scribes in academia
had made me fearless, oft carelessly bold
when Mind betrayed lexical anaemia.
Soon baying at the Moon as it weeps,
a different view, depending on aspect.
The wisdom I crave inexorably seeps,
but seldom culminates into respect.
The misprision's become my badge of honour
as hyperbole swills in lexicon o’ Man.
Long years of uninformed populous dour
with magniloquent thinking that poetry can.
Yet I contemplate books in warehouse—
dyslexia transformed it into ‘wh…house’—
endless mirth that others could never douse.
“The only thing that can save the world is the reclaiming of the awareness of the world. That’s what poetry does.” — Allen Ginsberg”
What drives them to put pen to paper?
To be famous is that their caper?
The world to change?
Tell a story so strange?
Is it a more personal flaw?
Drawn the short straw?
Life made them feel dismay?
They have to live this way....
Prone to despair
Pull out their hair?
Caught in a landslide
Can't escape the ride...
They can analyse
Maybe even surprise
Put words to their feelings
They may even do healings
A pen you did choose
Your ideas more than clues
Why does a poet write
Because they can..... alright
We are often sold it is cricket’s true home
The gold tapestry we toast hallowed tome
Legends ghost last post told free to roam
Groundsmen boast on outfield wield a comb
Host should do a search on Google chrome
Would yield the strip is most about the loam
Frippery and filigree are so suitably kitsch
Coiffured rest of ground then got a stitch?
Eating kedgeree no pedigree critics snitch
Pundits pounce the bounce does bewitch
Batters flounce in tatters is a serious hitch
Not a titch moves alot watch them twitch
Trounce the culprits it is time for a switch
Not in pulpits being a bit*h MCC’s so rich
Scratch fans itch give us a Test match pitch
What does the future promise
that the present does not have
A gentle moon, nights serene
lambent insights, starry scenes
What the present has, the future scorns
possessing what’s not yet born
A glimpse of paradise here on earth
~ if death be infinite worth
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