Long Detestable Poems
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Rolled out of bed
Kissed the woman I wed
Made sure the dog was fed
Then strolled over to visit Farmer Fred
Fred I said, “Charlie Kirk is dead!”
Freds eyes glistened, and his face turned red
He grabbed his bible and from it he read
(Jeremiah 5:21)
Hear this, You foolish and senseless people,
Who have eyes but do not see,
Who have ears but do not hear:
He paused a moment, scratched his head
Flipped some pages, continuing he read
(Revelation 21:8)
But as for the cowardly, the faithless, the detestable,
As for murderers, the sexually immoral, sorcerers, idolators
And all liars, their portion will be in the lake that burns
With fire and sulfur, which is the second death.
He closed his bible and bowed his head
This was the prayer that Fred said
Dear God,
Please open our eyes so we might see
Please open our ears so we might hear
Grant us the courage and faith to stand against
Murderers, sorcerers, idolators, and liars
Free our land from sexual immorality
Keep us from being detestable in your eyes
Provide us wisdom so we might discern and test
The spirits that come to us in our day
Teach us how to recognize good fruit
For grapes are not gathered from thorns
Or figs from thistles
I ask this in the name of our Lord and Savior
Jesus Christ
Amen
I stared at Fred just for awhile
Then I inquired with a smile
The political divide in our country is wide
Both sides accuse the other of lies
“It’s hateful to disagree with me”
Is the mantra I so often see
Which side is right and which is wrong?
How are we to all get along?
Fred flashed me his famous wink of the eye
Then he made this cryptic reply
Peoples minds have to change
Everyone thinks they know who’s to blame
Here is a test one might apply
If you found when you read this epistle
It made your mind begin to bristle
You are the problem and you need to change
You are the one whose mind is deranged
The deceiver of man is your greatest fan
For he is guiding your political plan
at the beginning earth was a place uninhabitable
to any living thing, it was nothing but a furiously
burning wandering fireball in an immeasurable open space
while wandering in space,
however, hit by the meteoric showers, bumped into planetoids,
and from its own gravity the earth gradually lost its surface heat
and became a gigantic piece of rock covered with the great many wrinkles
in order to survive,
the living thing cannot afford to lose time any more in this darkness of unknown beginning or inconceivable end, it must find a place to settle and bring new life
into the world,
came and clung to the surface of the rock and struggled to hold onto it
one day, when a cry of pitiable life tore the standstill time into pieces
because it was unable to bear the time that is infinitely quiescent any longer,
it echoed in the space and returned to earth as a dim light
in that light the sighs of the living thing heaped up high
and became air, in that gleam the tears of the animated thing
came together and became waters
when water swelled to overflow it became lakes, rivers and seas
and when air became heavier it raised itself to a wind,
and when wind passed through the surface of earth
it turned into vales, hills and clouds
life began with great struggles and confirmed by quickening
in the darkness and echoing heartrending cry, though grew while calling the sea
a mother and the mountain a father, and conceived meaning of lots of phenomena:
why the rivers flow and clouds drift, dews on the grasses
change into fogs and finally dissipate,
the stars come to visit the lakes
and kiss to form ripples at night
the seed of arrogance grew in the heart of this creature
spreading rapidly among the creatures living in the surface of the earth
and when his arrogance reached to the heaven, the creatures threw stones
in the seas, set fires on mountains, while boasting with those words:
“we conquered world, the world is under our feet”
hence the earth surged by a raging water,
and the windstorm rose to shake the rocks in the mountains violently
nonetheless, the creature did not introspect
his own detestable deeds but continuously acted
in a lordly manner throwing his chest out as before,
though enjoying saying this favorite phrase:
“this age is a corrupted age! this age is a degenerate age!”
Tommy Cannon was the visionary artist:
curious, rebellious and reticent,
with every brush-stroke of colors too bold:
created an innovative painting of his real world...
Many thought he was incongruous
with a name that spelled defiance,
and shine he did to dazzle everyone with truth,
but this young life ended at thirty-two...
" Zero Hero " was painted with virtual whim
for a detestable and shameless Native American
anti-hero, and heroes aren't villains, but that grim
told much about his attitude and ego that brought scorn...
Tommy Cannon was the visionary artist:
congenially connecting past and present,
and his vibrant voice still seems to resonate
to our present day through his superb work...
Entered in Abe Lopez's Native American Ekphrasis
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Those who stretched out their chests like lions
in front of the pipes of guns are now the kings of highways.
Those who died helplessly jumping into the gape of the invading shark
are now alive in the din and bustle of life.
And those who escaped hiding themselves into the darkness
of their cunning are now mere oblivion,
mere broken graveyard surrounded by dreary emptiness.
Actually those who have learnt to contempt the eyes of vulture
have the right of living only.
Only those who have learnt like pincers to uproot the poisonous teeth of cobra have the right of love.
Those who know how to show thumb to the carnivorous animals
have the right of life.
Freedom and sovereignty are only for those who have learnt to play with life like chopper and spear
and who have learnt to shed one river blood
for flowers and poems,
for man and soil.
Behold, those who were alive are now mere ghosts
having died and got rotten utterly.
But those who sacrificed their lives in the inflame of love
are now reigning in the realm of life.
Truly the detestable death of man is in his foolish living;
life is only in war and death.
Rather than the light of the day
why does the owl soar in the darkened night sky?
Does the owl soar in the darkened night sky
avoiding dazzling daylight because it’s painful
to watch the terribly misshapen humans
creeping on the earth to find their place?
Or because it’s so pitiful to watch the ugly disfigured humans
struggling to embrace one another in order to lessen the pain
in place of the hardship that makes the day?
Otherwise, there would be no reason for the owl to soar
in the nocturnal air in a time like the exhausted souls roaming
on the path called oblivion to shake the detestable notions off
from their weary shoulders that they collected and carrying
after a day of long and hard labor under the burning sun.
It’s indeed thoughtful of the owl if that is the case,
but it really a piece of shattered long-cherished desire
that naive souls hang onto, the other desire that won’t
be realized as before.
For an opportunity comes in the alley of a difficult life
not only one step behind but visiting after it becomes
totally useless as always, the noncommittal hour arrives here
as the owl gets on the sunset glow to the way where a day hurriedly
moves forward because a day is too short to conclude as a day.
Is that why Minerva’s owl
soars in the darkening sky that sinks deeper in the night air?
Quote from Hegel, cf: The Owl of Minerva takes flight only as the dusk begins to fall
WILL HIS MAJESTY BECOME EXTINCT
Poachers arrive in scores of ten,
Made up of brutal, evil men,
Their strength lies in their guns and nets,
They have already placed their bets,
As to how they will be rewarded,
For slaying this King,
Will it be dollars or diamonds,
That bling?
Poachers take the lions bones,
Skins and head,
For unsubstantiated notions,
They are used as potions,
Which are sold for a ridiculous price,
And of course a dead lion in tact,
With his head,
Is the ultimate prize..
Wealthy greedy men,
Have also developed this yen
To hunt lions,
Farms are set up for financial gain,
Churning millions of dollars,
Due to this detestable game!
These loathsome
People put their trophy,
On show for all to see,
How brave they appear to be.
This horrendous cowardly act,
Is a very sad fact,
That we are on the brink,
Of our majestic lions,
Becoming extinct!
In this groaning wreck we dare to call a country,
the destroyers still walk among us, unashamed.
Babangida once swaggered in khaki terror,
his iron fist crushing tomorrow before it could breathe.
He ruled as tyrant, blind to every future seed,
power in his palms, yet the nation he bled and looted dry.
A servant for a season, he and his circle served only themselves,
then retired to stolen mansions, fat on the marrow of the land.
He hounded honest tongues to the gallows for daring to speak truth,
while arrogance dripped from his lips like poisoned honey.
Millions he impoverished, helpless souls left to rot,
their dreams ground into dust beneath military boots.
“Maradona” they called him, but never a name of honor,
only a slick trickster dribbling the people’s hope into oblivion.
Now he bows his gray head in the quiet shame of Minna,
too afraid to flee the Nigeria he helped murder,
where criminals like him are strangely shielded by the same broken law.
Destruction has not paid its dividend; the ruin stares back at him daily.
He dares not walk the streets his regime never bothered to pave,
among the multitudes he defrauded and left in chains of want.
Men without vision, who stalled a giant with guns,
turned promise into mockery, greatness into jest.
Obstructers became our leaders through the barrel’s threat,
institutionalizing corruption like a dark, evil genius.
Systemic failure took root, and still it spreads its venom
in this same mess we stubbornly call a country.
Babangida, where are the guns that once ruined us all?
Are you happy now in your twilight silence?
Can you stroll freely among the ghosts of those you killed,
or do their shadows still whisper your name in the night?
Boneheaded barrack boys, drunk on docile masses,
apprentices without brains, idols of every profligate thief.
Generalissimo of morons, bearing arms against hope itself,
you looted the Gulf windfall and left us beggars in our own house.
Detestable men and their fickle friends, protected still by guns,
afflict this land till this very day.
In this groaning wreck, this mess we dare to call a country,
the destroyers live on, and the wound festers.
That moment made ink gush from my deep soul,
"The violet voice of a vocal vice, gentle warmth of hazel rays..."
Crush my arm—for you are the verve of the eternal lover,
An unusual home for lips that whisper ancient secrets.
Dance along the abyss and glimpse an awkward smile,
Perhaps I am lucid—you will let eternities slip gently!
Your shades envelop me here, in unfathomable depths,
Step over this meander and you will find me near your heart.
I just dropped a pen, a symbol of my boundless longing,
Let my beautiful friend lead you to my bittersweet melancholy:
Quiet yet sad; a lover's soul lost in time,
Forgetting these verses is a detestable curse, a burning pain.
Forever, do not let go, for I will be carried on lower paths,
Let me borrow your spirit—to remember past legends.
Here, words are shadows of unfulfilled desires,
A story is born between the lines, a call of the wandering heart.
In the depth of each verse hides a world of secret dreams,
Where love and loss dance in an eternal and enchanted waltz,
Under the starry sky of our forgotten dreams, still flickering,
And thus, the journey continues through the labyrinth of the tireless soul.
Every curve hides a secret, a hope, a living memory,
Time stops and becomes a silent witness to our story,
A love that transcends words, living in our vibrant depths,
Let yourself be carried by the wave of this poem, a river of pure emotions.
Flow through the heart's bed, where every drop is a tear of longing,
Every verse a bridge to infinity, to the eternity of undying love,
The bridge that connects our souls, a path to eternal light,
A song of longing that echoes in the night's silence, a whisper of love.
339.
The Retake of Snow Queen
Gone! The boy is gone! This cannot be!
That little creature's presence makes me happy
Now the ice castle is already dark & empty
You, nasty girl, return the boy! Come back here!
Winds of four directions – Boreas, Notus, Eurus, Zephyr
Blow with might and bring back my dear!
Oh obedient gusts, don't let them go! Don't make me fail!
Accompany them my tornado, cyclone, storm & hail
Give out your full blast from head to tail
Oh how dare that detestable lass again is trying
To conjure her cheap sorcery for another shameless fighting
We will give her what she wants! I am craving!...
Craving to crush that petite parasite so bold
Who dared to fight & defeat my army so cold
Trespass my palace and snatch the boy I hold
Die Gerda! You're finished! Embrace your death in our final fight!
Face now my force in its fullest might
Witness the Retake of Snow Queen of my boy of delight!
-02/18/2015
(Dumarao)
*Opposite Endings Collection
We lost our “UMOJA”, the basic concept and core value of our being “We, therefore, I am”, at the time of our history that began some 300 years ago. We didn’t step on the soil of New World with a dream like many others, but hauled on the ground like a cargo as merchandise. We were each treated individually as a unit but not tied as a family or group bonded together by the same dialect.
Misery was the food we’d been feeding to fill our empty stomach, agony was the water we’d been drinking to quench our thirst, depth of our footmarks were the weights we’d been carrying, our lives were trial after trial of thorny path. No matter how hard we worked, our baskets were empty. No matter how much we labored, returns of our toils were unbearable lashes. No matter how humbly we begged and ardently prayed, God always turned His face away from us.
But all those detestable days are gone as second millennium faded away. Shackles of curse are removed from our neck and wrists. Our burdens are removed from our back. The reward of our day’s of labor is reasonable wage. Why don’t we embrace one another with joy because only thing remain is our determination.
As daybreak sun is rising from yonder horizon, our darkest day has passed; for daybreak light is brighter than ever and pleasant as spring breath, we have good reason to celebrate for a moment. Nevertheless, don’t prolong the time of festival because it may make you stray from reality and to dwell in farfetched world.
As long as you don’t fold the wings but spread wide and keep flapping them, though sometimes encountering high wind, you can fly higher than the highest ridges of a mountain. If you keep swimming upstream, though you may confront falls and rapids, you’ll come to your old home where your parents risked their lives to spawn and enable you to hatch from an egg one day, and rejoice overflowing water in the ocean to gladden your life. If you dart with a swift gallop not abandoning tomorrow’s dream, no matter how immeasurably vast is the wilderness, you’ll reach the horizon before sun sinks into the other side of the world.
It’s the time to restore our “UMOJA” a laudable custom once we lost during our darkest days, recover “UMOJA” our ancestral heritage the good moral standard to sustain “I as us.”