Shàngó!
Where are your fiery eyes,
that spit fear into burning coal,
that blaze with warmth and glow,
a conflagrator dancing with flames?
Who dares invoke your name in sin,
and not have their tongue seared?
You summon thunder as a hound to hunt,
their wealth and souls it strikes at once,
swift as lightning no man can withstand.
You are a god with no patience,
a judge whose verdict is fire.
The guilty inherit their own shame,
terror grips their trembling mates,
till their fear spills water from their bladder.
Shàngó!
The king who hung himself–yet none dare say so.
Your name alone bends foes of Dàda,
your gentle, effeminate brother,
subduing armies without a clash,
a king great in life, even greater in death.
Your words are clothed in flame,
your breath consumes in thousands.
No scroll could ever disguise your greatness,
no fool could scorn your name
and escape the storm of your wrath.
And now, O thunderous king, hear me:
Unleash your fire on all my foes.
Shatter them into smouldering dust,
burn them in your raging inferno,
heap grief upon grief, lament on lament—
O king whose hanging none dare declare.
Brutish Trump, Meek Musk?
Trump comes across as a brute and scares people off the middle usually nice middle-class people who do not what it is like working on a building site or spending years at sea with men appear ruffian but mostly, is a braggadocio and as such nothing to be alarmed over in Trump’s case he is not likely to start a war with China, Russia or Iran Trump likes powerful autocrats, he respects as much as he hates effeminate Macron also Starmer
With his perfect modulations, yet sits cross-legged when speaking to Trump who is not in the habit of showing the heels of his shoes, but as we know English leaders have hidden distaste for those they think are inferior to them
Trump, like many rich people, pretends he comes from a modest background, his father was a wealthy man in real estate which made his journey easier; the millionaires we see today are from wealthy families and that is Ok, but their idea of poverty is miles away from the mark
The hatred we see of Elon Musk is grossly unfair He is at heart a good man with a dream of saving humanity from itself, but I fear when the chips are down politicians will put the onus on him
His fingers are so long and delicate, almost effeminate.
His eyes are so brown, almost a bronze garnet when sunlit.
His face is so perfect, I want to forever kiss it.
Oscar and I
Today, I drove to Faro, In the Algarve
I wanted to eat a tunny steak at a café
I used to go fifteen years ago
The place had gone upmarket, as had
prices
The server remembered me, but not
my wife and took an instant dislike to
the man said he was effeminate
Oscar Wilde entered, or someone who
looked like him
He was of the expansive sort, told jokes
and recited poems, the other guests
and my wife liked him
I decided to become gay for the day
and after a few glasses of wine, stood
up to read my poems
she tugged at my sleeve and told me to
shut up.
Oscar Wilde looked at me with deep
sympathy in his intelligent eyes
I had my moment to gain, if putative
fame, she had to spoil it all
My chance had gone
Skirt and blouse - rejecting tomboy
Is never the cringing coy:
Very early dumps every toy
And her milky but effeminate soy,
Cheerily ever for the boyish,
Forswearing everything girlish…
A sex-change operation hopeful
And male-fun partaker in full:
Never the allergic to drinking contests
And exclusive-to-males protests:
Not when she has got her throaty bellow
And could say A Pure Rebel’s Hello!
Cleary not a put-up ploy
The mannerisms of a tomboy:
She’s the come-back soldier from Troy:
For a bodyguard, please her employ…
Already has she donned a thug’s haircut…
And can effortlessly tighten the loosest nut:
From the lips of bra-avoiding tomboy
Out tumbles piratical ‘Ahoy!’
A Friday of Gayness
Today, I drove to Faro town wanted a dinner of tunny steak
with onions at a café, I frequented fifteen years ago.
The place had gone upmarket so had the prices.
One waiter remembered me, but not my wife who took a dislike
of the poor man with failing eyesight, said he was effeminate.
The café used to have two parts one part was a wine bar
I mostly sat there when Oscar Wilde walked in if it was
not him in person was someone who looked like Oscar.
He remarked what he had observed this morning
at the railway station and could recite his poems beautifully.
I decided to become gay too to be frivolous and happy
But avoid the sex part, the thought of this made me shudder.
Alas, I had to drive my wife home.
I tried to translate some of Oscar´s remarks into Portuguese
she didn´t think it was clever or funny,
this, was my fault telling jokes is not my metier, so I was back
being my pedestrian self.
A unicorn, dragon, or appaloosa? I stare at the blank sheet.
Should it be running, walking, or rearing? Will she be riding it?
How outrageous can the hat be? I begin drawing tentacles.
The unicorn-dragon-appaloosa is a giant spider. He is riding it.
He looks effeminate too; I never draw men that look male.
I give him a frontal shelf, and earrings; turning him into a she.
It is the least I can do. The spider turns and stares at me.
Eyes? A hat? A tuxedo? I let my imagination figure it out.
One less thing for me to worry about.
Hate is born of fear
From the bowels of the barrel of the beast
of a closed person
Closed heart
closed fist
closed mind
Hate poisons the environment
Worse, hate finds hate
The perpetrators look carefully
For those like-minded
Others who carry rage and sorrow and anger
and want to kill someone,
thinking it will make them feel better
Let’s get that one.
He looks different than us.
He is kind of effeminate. Not a fighter.
No camo, no guns, no anger, no rage.
Let’s go as a pack, like a slashing crashing murdering
insane, crazy, fanatical out-of-our-mind mob
That should make us feel better
Picking on beauty, slashing it and annihilating it.
We congratulate ourselves with buckets of beer
Because we are the chosen
Maybe and
The trickster devil may have a special room for you
Tread softly you homophobic haters,
You may not yet know what real fear is….
Here is a poem on etiquette, about which
I barely know the subject from the predicate
It seems to me that etiquette's all stuffy
It's for royalty's ilk, haughty and puffy
Who the hell cares how you hold your fork
One way for fish, another for pork
Of course, eating soup's a precarious matter
Make sure not one drop is carelessly splattered
As for zupping up the dregs straight from the bowl
That faux pas will land you in etiquette gaol
Then there's the matter of how to drink tea
Proper form being, up with one's pinky
And effeminate gentlemen tuck in their napkins
When carving a bird with all the trappings
Well, I hope you've enjoyed this sacrilegious romp
Dripping with sincerity, and a dearth of pomp
And now that I have etiquette happily hammered
I leave it to you to lambaste English grammar
In a sky stained with black and white tinges, the moon slowly rose,
Interspersed a being and a storehouse of innocuous anecdote.
Innumerable starlings clove the air,
Even with mawkishly effeminate sentiment and soullessness.
Yet, the brassbound stood bold before the austere hand of adversity and drill,
In the moments of pleasure, utter idleness and insipidity,
Moods of vindictive recoils visible like a new dawn,
At times, oddly disappointing and fickle.
Many people priced but couldn't pay,
And the rest paid but couldn't price,
A golden twilight set to transfigure the world,
The soul pelted with honour, dignity and an interminable torrent of words.
Radiant with the beautiful glamour of youth,
A supreme arbiter of conduct,
Not sunk in a phraseological quagmire,
Like the pristine freshness of spring badly described by a common maxim.
It's not a brand of merchandize,
So I wonder when it would be sold.
Far from a title or characteristic of a man,
Integrity is a way of life I have embraced till the end of time.
Cartooning has been my go-to-hobby since I was four or five.
For years when I have to sit, I am drawing.
In a car, as I waited for children, or a husband, I would draw.
My go-to-subject is faces.
Usually women’s.
My men look effeminate.
Because they are really women
With man hair.
I always begin with their eyes.
Faculty meeting? No problem. I can concentrate better if my pen is moving.
My co-workers have learned to ignore my ability to giggle at the speaker’s jokes
As I never look up or express any additional proof of listening.
My principal smiles, as she stands behind me, watching my fluent pen
Doing its dance. She knows I am hearing every word.
While drawing I am in another world, not caring a bit
About the irritations or annoyances of the day.
My imagination is giving me relief from common ordinary things.
I can cartoon page after page, turning them furiously
As my mind picks up momentum.
My pen is on a mighty roar now.
I always start with the eyes.
As a childhood memory, was told I was spoiled
Not a care in the world but inside was turmoil
Heard neighborhood whispers
Because of nine older sisters
Must be effeminate but their accusations I foiled
There once was a teacher called Marty
Who taught each class as if it was a big party.
With a sax he explained he was jazzy
If there was doubt he would get sassy.
His style had students in the palm of his hand
Like a party of people vibing off a rock band.
Oh it didn't stop there
As he explained grammar without care
Students came from far and wide
They forked out a hefty travel fare
Marty's originality brought them there.
He was warm and compassionate
It was evidenced in his nature
With gestures somewhat effeminate.
Immediatly they twigged he's special
Unlocking their world understand the ethical.
Marty didn't care what other people thought
So get just taught and taught and taught
Each day the same way "English let's play!"
To have Marty is what the language sought.
Starting line she stands
arms around her self
frail, shy, reserved
personage -misplaced soul
appearing unsure
surrounded uniformly by
uniformed male jocks
parading runners physique
matched shorts to tank tops
exclaiming deeds of glory past
prancing, pensive
solders psyching for battle
starting gun
a contest
transformation
shy lady's personage evolving
metamorphic, graceful in flight
emerging determined
single mind set
running machine
male scalps bloody on trail
competition incarnate
Finish line
emerging shy
effeminate
Ann
Elaina
Vicky
male eyes nervous
admiration
mixed feelings
new reality.
Eskil Anderson
In my quiet time I meditate!
In my happy mood I appreciate
God's love ever unceasing
His mercies ever enduring!
In my joyful mood I celebrate!
In my thankful mood I enumerate
God's love and kindness
Abiding in us in their fullness!
In my time of trouble I demonstrate
In my time of persecution I remonstrate
God's love and goodness
Abiding in us in their wholeness!
From God's love nothing can us separate!
Good or bad times are too effeminate
God's love is forever sure
Dwelling in all who trust in him!
Related Poems