Long Be born Poems
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I fell asleep in my chair
I awoke and a room full of smiling women
Looked at me
With Death’s Stare
I asked myself
Am I dreaming?
What are these women scheming?
I fear my mind these women soon will be reaming
What made me dream this way?
My boss yelled at me today
Too much work stress
My brain abscess
Heart and soul in distress
I heard on TV there are more men than women
Women dying and killed in record numbers
Female Final Slumber
Male Violence
Men creating
Female Silence
I looked back at the Cabal of Ladies
I fear I have a room at
The Hotel Hades
Their smiles gone
The room suddenly burst into flames
The women screamed out in pain
Their anguished cries driving me insane
I fell to my knees
I begged them for a Quick Death
They said after I listen to how they all died
Maybe then I could take my last breath
One was stoned
One was beheaded
One was strangled
One was burnt alive
One was led to a cliff and forced to dive
She did not survive
There is no Honor in killing
All the women committed the same sin
Wanting to be free
Male driven Female Genocide for centuries
Still going on
Way too long
All the men swore to love and protect these women
Fathers, Husbands, Brothers, Sons, Friends and Lovers all lied
Allah Cried
Love Denied
Evil dark music filled the room
Flames Rising
Tribal Trance Treat
Tantric Drum Beat
The women danced
I was entranced
Satan and Jesus
Came in the room
They approached the women
And both told The Flock they are
The One
Follow me to Eternal Fun
All the women laughed and turned away
From their Saviour
These women no longer crave
Male Behaviour
Then out of the Flames
I was approached by
The Head Dame
My Dead Mother aflame
Smoldering in front of me
My Beloved Mother said to me
Son you don’t have much time
It’s true you never committed female crime
You never got out of line
Why don’t you write a rhyme
Tell all men of future women yet to come
They need to be free
And will not be Men’s Property
These unborn women will demand to experience life
Free from Male Strife
And be warned
If Male Violence continues against women
And Men refuse to change
Then one day all the women will be gone
They will refuse to be born
Men will no longer be turned on
This will signal
Man’s Final Dawn
Girl are born. But not every time they are lucky enough to live. Many a times they are killed by their families who were expecting a boy child.
This poem captures dreams of a girl child. Her dream revolves around getting love, affection, acceptance from her parents but these dreams can never be fulfilled. Her destiny has something else in store for her.
Poem – My stupid little Dreams.
(Some dreams are never meant to be fulfilled)
My dream is to be born cuddling in my mother’s arms and staring in her eyes,
My dream is spending my childhood hopping in my father’s lap,
My father tickling me until I cry out of joy,
My dream is feeling my mother’s soft tender lips, as she kisses me wishing me
goodnight,
My dream is enjoying weekends hopping on my father’s back;
As he play a horse and I a brave knight,
My dream is to fall down, bruise my leg and watch my mother rushing out for me,
My dream is spending endless nights sitting beside my father,
His hands coiled around my neck, re-living my favorite bedtime stories,
My dream is treading on roads shimmering with sun rays escaping from canopy of trees that leads nowhere,
My dream is racing down endless streets crowded with people; teeming with life;
Happiness, fervor and excitement spread everywhere,
My dream is to live, prosper and watch all these and thousand other dreams come true,
But I won’t live long enough, so bye-bye dreams; I bid you adieu,
I have committed a sin, as grave as a crime,
My family needed a boy, but I am born a girl child,
My dreams, my wishes will stay alive with me till I am in my mother’s womb,
Seconds after I am born; they will travel with me to my final destination – my own personal tomb.
If born; No respect, no acceptance would have been the saga of my life,
Thanks to my father, he saved me, by taking my life.
No time for my dreams, I died paying for my sins,
Once born; I was send on a long vacation in some local dustbin.
I was born like a flower that could bloom and thrive
But I was plucked as a bud, never allowed to ripe,
Not only me there are thousands more lying in rains,
Moaning in pain, their blood gushing down the drains,
No more dreams, no more wishes just one cry,
O God! It’s enough. Please no more girl child.
It’s the same everyday
The same wind, the same lush
The same whisper, the same tale
Yet, in the mist that blows
Through the sunlit meadows
I hear the same voice
Echoed different
Each time.
As my gazes fall
From the subtle ocean floating overhead
Carrying its tiny islands
To the coasts near the tangible oceans
There’s the wonder on him
Who let’s me stand.
There’s the thunders, Earth echoes
Through its hollow corridors;
And the storm it carries
Wanting to put everything in motion
It screams, and screams
It doesn’t know why,
As its voice, silence its ears, but others.
There’s the turmoil
It wishes to understand
So he shook the ground
That refused to let him
Stand his ground
The earthquakes with their heavy blow
It was its breakdowns.
The fear, now replaced with anger
Wants to have peace
He decides to unleash
Not wanting to care
But to let the land burn;
Volcanoes were made
When it had its meltdowns.
As the torment inside him grew
He tormented the world, he nurtured.
Threw his tantrums
As cyclones and tsunamis.
Like a human, Like a child.
Still, it has the tranquility,
I often wondered how it kept;
With all the commotion, he caused
And the ones, they brought.
I admire the seasons it bring
The summer, when it felt the warmth;
Warmth of the sun
And the chuckles of the new born green.
The spring, when it felt the love;
From the giggles overheard
Near the fresh flower bed
To the wisdom bestowed to the sages
By the Himalayan mountain ranges
With their long white beard,
Love was heard.
And then,
Came the autumn, when it retreats
To find the love within, engraved within.
To find it’s gemstone,
To reach it’s milestone.
Soon the wind arrives with its spikes
Now the nature retreats,
A different way.
It hikes the earlier Santa Claus-ed mountains
To heal himself, for the next year.
I admire the seasons it bring
The wind, the rain
It learnt to unwind it’s tantrum
In the solitude,
In the same solitude
It offered to the seekers.
It learnt to deal with his surges
Deal with himself.
Like a human. Like an adult.
Yet, it acts like a child
Every now and then
And a few other times.
It has flaws, but it grows
It lives to be born again
And born, to live again.
Different, each time.
A human contained in the nature,
A nature contained within a human.
The rain keeps coming,
Masking tears of despair, and rivers of agony
Seem in no hurry to crest
In this orb that is my world, I stand in frozen animation
As I listen to the venom of tangled tongues and crooked lips
Then hear the critique of the man in the street
I stop to analyze and find that nothing is said, just a horde
Of ghastly lies
My heart grows heavy, and my chest tightens.
As anger builds, my lungs feel the fire of the now forsaking
Breath, the pain is real,
And I contemplate my fate
In this world of mine
The sun is sad and the moon weeps,
And the walls inch closer.
As my neck plays a melody of twisting knots, my shoulders
Feel as if stomped by the passion of a flamenco dance.
As my temples lament the torment of this harrowing crescendo.
From a place called malice and rage, hate and contempt
Send bouquets,
But in the glory of this floral splendor, lies deceit,
The bewitching fragrance of the day.
And serpents of a human Ilk, their minds filled with disdain and
Spite, come to feed upon my life,
As their minions nibble,
I question my sanity
In this world of mine
Is the theatre of suffering,
Where shadows of rage cloak, a dominion of corruption,
And evil keeps a watchful eye,
And vultures with hearts bitter and cold, stalk,
As if waiting for a carrion to be born, that a feast may begin.
And in this presence of immorality,
Void is the integrity of soul.
As I listen to the wind, I hear the voice of purpose,
And in the verses of the night, Is the message of the day
And the lessons taught,
Are real
In this world of mine
As this deluge of decadence baths a candid soul,
I strive to be freed, from the afflictions
Of being.
And amid the craving for contentment, I beg,
For deliverance,
And rest my fate at the foot of the mountain, for there
Lies truth.
In my meditation, eager I am to see behind the light
And reconnect with the presence within,
For it is there that I hear the sunshine in your voice,
And see the laughter in your eyes.
It is there that courage is present, and I am fraught with the
Effervescence of your smile,
And your face is vibrant
And passion enriches me,
And I, am reborn
In this world of mine
Earl S. Jackson
July 2014
Copyright © 2014 Earl S. Jackson, all rights reserved.
I feel that I am gone
I feel around the sun
I feel God has no plan
I feel the stars shall fall
I feel I'll break away
I feel I'll touch the earth
I feel I'll rip my shirt
I feel that I shall kneel
Concerning all that’s lost
Let pride find his own way
I guess I'll sing a song
I guess the time has come
I guess I'll pick this dust
I guess I'll kiss the soil
I guess it's time to weep
My tears shall cleanse the world
Let all those that have seen
Let them cry out in grief
Let them sing my chorus
Sometimes I am insane
So why then son why now
Why now do you resist
Since when have you first thought
Thought this is all a waste
I am I was I will
I am the son of sun
I was the kin of moon
I will be seen by all
They all will see the moon
They all will praise the sun
They all will hear my voice
They all shall chant my name
A kneeling man shall seek
A kneeling man shall see
A kneeling man shall find
What we all seek to say
A kneeling man shall hear
A song the moon shall play
A kneeling man shall know
What brought this world to dust
So why then now I ask
Why now do you see fit
Why lust for what can kill
Are you so ignorant?
It’s sad the way you speak
It’s sad to see your eyes
You’ll rip what you will sow
This aint the script to write
Who asked for you to speak
Who asked for your input
This knife that’s in my hand
Shall change the world you know
But son my name is moon
Your kin though you are man
I’ve watched as you have knelt
Just stand remove remorse
This world’s not yours to take
We’ve lost so many years
This world is all that’s left
To right the wrongs we did
Your pride will end us all
Don’t turn your back to me
I’ve watched you while you slept
My blood runs through your veins
Just hear me out will you
You’ll scorch the very earth
The sun won’t be so pleased
You’ll sign your life away
Collating ones own worth
A better man you’ll be
The world shall seek you out
A hero will be born
Let anger wash away
The song I sing to you
Will bring you peace inside
Will heal the wounds you have
Now wait just one more thing
The knife, just leave it here
A pen you might just need
Go teach them all you know
You know now what to say
You’ll say it everywhere
You sing with me you will
We’ll sing the song of words
By A Godlo
Seventy thousand years and we are still fighting over religion.... Not the best
image to hold anything up to and then praise
I can only tell u pieces of this mystery my soul tells me again and again
Of why the world is like this
Revolving around the truth of four sentences
Three planes of existence
One prophet here to become a god and be come like a conductor of an intricate
train set
I have witnessed beauty turn ugly in time
And summers go cold in the winter
And as my godmother creatively throws me away to remind me I'm truly not
human
I look toward the telepathic dreams I have of giants
to rediscover the driving force
As to why we are trying to hunt down men overseas working to revolutionize their
backyards
That they have spent living centuries of terror in
Backed into a corner of horror and mental anguish and pain
Where all they could do out of survival was rise against
Even if it meant with equal force of carrying a gun
Jesus spent 3 days in hell
struck a deal with the devil
I spent centuries there to crawl from that nightmare to be born into this one
To find the footsteps and pieces of the shattered veil of ignorance being bliss
I believe I am more of a hero for being more of a man for taking my punishment
I didn’t deserve
For a test he failed
That turned my joke into hell and blackmailed a favorite angel
to come to this earth to try to understand man's plan to fix whatever the prophet
that is there between the lines of destiny
predicted pulling strings wove and his vengeance struck down
70 thousand years of betray al and punishment
Living in a dark place amongst all of this god’s pain of paranoia and mental
anguish I thought was mine
To realize the prophet full well knew this destiny was coming
and all he could do was cry
Now living in this s earth of oxymoron’s and questions and hunting shadows and
footsteps asking questions myself and finding answers I’m learning to read
between the lines
3 days is easy of a punishment you don’t deserve for a test of betrayal where as
a favorite angel punished for an eternity for god's will to become an actor is an
enlightenment only the prophet with his four demons can fully comprehend how
to mend
She did not choose to be sick,
to be admitted in that hospital,
to be in pain that wont go away,
to live a life in that wheel chair.
He did not choose to be blind,
to use that walking stick,
to not see light,
Or the bright morning sun,
and the colours of the rainbow,
the Thika super-highway,
Or the famous Niagra falls.
He did not choose to sleep hungry,
to miss meals,
to see his daughter sleep hungry,
His wife somehow angry,
at the world so unfair,
NO, he didn't choose.
She did not choose to be orphan,
not to have a mum she can make proud,
not to have a daddy she can run to,
if she could,
she could turn back time,
and death would not snatch them from her,
she could talk to angel of death,
convince him to let them live.
She did not choose to get rained on,
to sleep outside on,
verandahs in town,
she had no option,
the streets are her only home,
She has known all her life,
She would love to sleep in a house,
a place to call home,
Oh yes she would.
He did not choose to be born,
without both hands,
without both feet,
with a condition of the heart,
that makes him hurt,
because he has forever been,
On some medication.
NO, he didn't choose.
He did not choose,
to get an accident,
that left him completely paralysed,
that he can't move or talk,
he can't play or walk,
He can't run or jog,
NO, he didn't choose,
But YOU,
have a house, a home,
You probably have a mum and dad,
what will it take to appreciate them,
and be grateful they are alive??
You have eyes,
You can read a poem,
See sun shine,
See rainbow,
Watch movie,
It's not just ordinary,
It's miracle.
Do you give thanks,
for the little thing you have??
Do you take time to notice,
how blessed you are??
Do you give thanks,
because you have ten fingers???
Someone out there has none,
and don't just assume,
it can't happen to you too.
Do you give thanks because,
you can breath with ease??
Someone out there has been in hospital,
the last 8 months,
WHY?? Because they can't breath,
that biological act you probably take for granted.
Do you thank God because,
you have eye-brows and eye-lashes??
Finger-nails and hair??
Do you realize that someone out there doesn't??
Don't just take it for granted
Be a blessing to those who didn't have a choice,
We are in this journey together,
and
Every day IS a miracle,
This is a reminder,
Never take anything for granted.
It's true that I was in town
When the trumpet sound
And soldiers came down
Spilling like ants on the ground:
Heralding the royal feast!
The Gods have had their seats
To celebrate the poet from the east
Whose lyrical prowess beats
The best they've ever heard.
It is heavenly inspired:
The lines of this bard,
His hands neither slack nor feel tired.
Here, the bard comes
Clothed in divine grace!
Let the trumpet sound; beat the drums
Let the world seek his face
For he has the power to heal.
His lines drew angels down
And make kings to kneel.
Let him have his prized crown.
Such is the power of poetry,
It is universal; devoid of bigotry.
It is the king's treasure,
It is a soldier's pleasure.
In that stately estate,
In that heavenly state,
Only to the brave
Would the sky be a grave.
It's true that everyone would die
Someday, that is why
If ever the poet should die;
Let his pen ascend to the sky,
Let heaven and earth mourn,
Let their tears turn to blood;
Let the graceful muses mourn,
Let their tears cause a flood
For the loss is without measure.
But there's end to every beginning
That's why the poet we should treasure
So that if he dies, he dies smiling.
Let the fire from his pen burn
First, in the heart of men
Then to the streets let its face turn,
Let it scorch the land till when
It has reached the palace and its tower
There too let it burn and smoke;
Let it bring every knee under its power,
Let it bring every neck under its yoke.
Such is the power of poetry,
It is universal; devoid of bigotry.
It is the king's treasure,
It is a soldier's pleasure.
In that stately estate,
In that heavenly state,
Only to the brave
Would the sky be a grave.
It's true that poets can be made
As much as they can be born,
There are those who trade in charade;
Who cannot our admiration won.
Behold the ancient bard!
Behold, in the morning he rises
With his book and ink in hand;
As sparkles flash from his eyes.
When in early morning birds are yet mute,
His countenance is always plain
He does not argue nor refute
But undisturbed he always remain!
In the abode of the poet
There is grandeur and majesty
Befitting a grand laureate poet
And a monument of modesty;
He is the poet at heaven's gate
Who have ran a fine race
He will never be late
He holds the ace.
The future won’t arrive with trumpets—
no brass echo to herald salvation,
no golden scroll unrolled beneath a bleeding sun.
It will leak,
like soft radiation through the seams of our sleep,
like forgotten news,
scrolling endlessly
on a screen no one is watching.
It begins now—
in the blinkless eye of the surveillance bee,
the hum of servers beneath a monastery,
the last human artisan
training a machine to imitate his flaw.
You’ll know it not by shock,
but by substitution.
Paper becomes pulse.
Pulse becomes code.
Code becomes command.
And command becomes silence.
Children will be born
with their names chosen by polling algorithms,
their dreams shaped by trending searches,
their lullabies curated
by nostalgia engines
that remember the smell of a mother's milk
better than she does.
We will speak less.
Words will decay into tags,
syllables shaved thin for speed.
Poets will be relics—
their verses fed to machines
to train a better algorithm for heartbreak.
And God—
He will still exist,
but buried beneath
a stack of Terms and Conditions.
You may click “I agree”
to access divine grace.
Heaven will have a two-step verification.
There will be beauty still—
but filtered,
monetized,
optimized for engagement.
A sunset will mean nothing
unless enough strangers
press the heart.
We will not wage wars with weapons,
but with bandwidth.
A nation may fall
because someone whispered
the wrong idea
into the wrong server at 3 a.m.
But listen:
there will also be
moments.
Resistances
that do not make headlines.
A blind man learning Braille
from a hologram of his late wife.
A child growing tomatoes
on Martian dust,
singing to them
because no one told her not to.
There will be
a final poet.
He may live in a cave,
or on the edge of a server farm,
tapping rhythms into stone
or quantum keys,
writing in languages
long abandoned by commerce.
And when the last god blinks
from the neural sky—
when the last AI falls silent,
having failed to understand
why a tear fell
during a kiss—
he will remain.
In his blood:
syntax.
In his breath:
rebellion.
In his silence:
a future worth dreaming.
Because the future has no eyelids—
but we do.
And in the darkness between blinks,
the soul still speaks,
quiet,
glorious,
human.
The rule of a legend is, that it is possibly true but there is not ever enough proof, yet I heard from a friend, that dozens of children have died and
many others, at the Thousand Steps to the Mississippi in Clinton, Iowa.
A place, where Stone Face was worshiped, for he watched over the area and the tribes. Over time, legends change and rearrange but they are usually strange, so why should this one be any different. Nathaniel Hawthorne wrote of a prophecy, about a great stone face, and that a man was to be born in his image.
I’m reminding everyone, that there are the steps, and there is a silhouette,
of a man dressed in stone. This story comes from a friend of a friend.
A young boy, who was not afraid at all, of the stories, begins his descent,
on the Thousand Step stairway. Step after step, to the river below,
walking alone, as the storm clouds cover the sun and the woods,
become dark.The boy’s imagination has begun to run away,
and then behind him, he hears click, click but he is a smart boy and
reminds himself. It is just a stick falling, from a tree,
so he continues downward.There are now, many steps behind him and
many more, before him. He comes to a stone bridge,
where he looks over the edge. When swoosh! A covey of black crows fly up,
almost hitting in the face, causing him to slip but as the imagination goes,
there is always something, lying beneath. Upon catching his balance,
realizing they had not come, for his soul the boy moves on.
Suddenly he hears a strange moan and tries to blame this, on the wind coming,
across the mighty river but to be sure, he runs a little bit.
When lightning strikes and from the light, he sees a silhouette of a man.
Stopping in his steps, He notices, that he cannot move or speak but
only groan. The boy has becomes stone and the path is, like some
Medusan pathway. We all have seen faces in stone and in other things,
therefore the moral of this story is you should always be wary,
of where you step!