Long Equatorial Poems
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I am reading
"Democracy in Black"
by Eddie S. Glaude, Jr.
but continue reconstructing this title
"Hypocrisy in Only White."
Because
when I let my memory
look back to my own self-interests in history
as archaeological digging and prying and discovery,
adventure and curiosity
of my internal ecological development,
I reweave back
through still on-going matriarchal lines
that include,
are shared with,
anyone capable of reading
and comprehending
these words of regenerating memory.
Back
to darker
denser
richer genes and memes
of cooperative to still thrive today,
saving competitions for survival moments.
Back to
better to prey together
side by side
as neanderthal brothers and sisters
than to grow predative
against each other.
This Golden Rule
of dark Afro-Eurasian
equatorial resonant depth
of historical origin
in normative play
at least until we substitute capitalism's
supremacist agendas
for rationalism's ego-ecocentric
reweaving memory
of this original Earth Mom
magical and mysterious
then worshiped and danced
ritualed and cooperative ownership co-governing,
then more modern radical eccentricities
forgetting our shared matriarchal
regenetic
memory of dualdark
hypocrisies of merely white inferiority
complexes
disease
dissonance
despair of remaining fully
who we together are,
where we have been
predating history
where we could return
each morning
with greatest polyphonic joy.
To paraphrase David Holmgren
(Permaculture, p. 113)
Containers were one essential organic innovation
necessary for this cooperative agrarian revolution.
Opportunities to refill organically produced bodies
are enormous
transitioning into recycling energy descent
for shared cooperative memory.
Reimaging full organic containers
is far better than sending us
away and down and out for recycling.
Most official ecopolitical waste reduction strategies
place little emphasis
on organic reuse refilling re-educating
deep ecologically learning containers,
or confuse WinWin refueling,
reweaving,
with capitalism's WinLose recycling,
switching productive containers
into merely consuming eventual empties,
bleached-out white-washed faded hypocrisies
of purest supremacy against nothing
deeply densely
richly resonantly valued.
...This happened when we were undergrads,
but then in his graduate studies
when he was working towards a career
that was entwined with biology,
he was working with a group that sought
to raise up the national IQ,
and then Charlie, as he often did,
offered an ‘unapproved’ point-of-view.
He said, “I think it won’t come about,
since we always revert to the mean,
and IQ may be tied to ancestry,
for a century that has been seen:
A ninety IQ in Serbia,
but one hundred up in Great Britain,
Equatorial Guinea…sixty,
the high eighties if you’re a Kenyan.
Even in countries where people mix
we continue to see the same trend,
and I think it’s foolish to ignore
these facts when we’re pursuing our ends.
Education has been tried for years,
and has had but minimal effect,
evolution has molded our brains,
should this not help us guide our next steps?
A person who knows their shortcomings
can seek out a way to go around,
a person who thinks they’re smart when they’re not
is only going to be ground down.”
So his partners screamed bloody murder,
and then demanded that he be gone,
they yelled at him, “You’re friggin’ crazy!”
He said, “Maybe…but I am not wrong.”
Yes, I remember Charlie from school,
since memory is all that’s left now,
see Charlie was killed six months ago,
when out running errands in his town.
He got caught in an ANTIFA ‘protest,’
was shot when he tried to drive away,
4chan managed to find his killer,
he’s in prison now, fearful of rape.
I guess the man got what he deserved,
but Charlie was right about one more thing,
no media cared about his death,
‘wrong narratives’ need no reporting.
I didn’t understand it back them,
but today, in my early thirties,
I’m staring to see that my old friend
was blessed and cursed by what he could see.
Feminism has hurt our families,
and parenting is the cornerstone,
we’re not blank slates, we’ve all been dealt hands
that we must play, unique and our own.
I still hesitate to speak of it,
fearing hatred from the angry throng,
but how does one live hiding from truth?
It scares me that Charlie wasn’t wrong.
The colored pains are carved onto the back of my ancestors’ history.
My oppressors see my Africanness as a curse,
the rotten fruit of savagery, slavery, and the barbarity of colonization.
The blackness of my skin has made me a suspect since the cotton fields.
I am from the cradle of humanity.
I grew up in a colonial trading post.
My homeland never had factories that manufactured weapons of war,
yet I know how to handle a Kalashnikov like those child soldiers.
My first shock: an infant, cut to pieces and stuffed in a sack hanging from a palm tree.
After the colonial massacres, dead cities to soften the cruelty of a bloodthirsty dictatorship.
I share the same convictions as those independence fighters
that the general’s colonial army labeled as “rebels.”
I am neither a suburban kid nor a ghetto dweller.
I took my first steps in a shantytown of Equatorial Africa.
Some cross the Mediterranean toward the Western tyranny of misery,
while others choose the illicit path to shine in the gloomy cells of capitalism,
lit by the flashing lights of the “Republic of Enlightenment” slavers.
These Western impostors treat Africa like an open-air dump,
while their neo-colonial military bases protect the safety of multinational corporations
that have been savagely plundering Africa’s wealth for centuries.
They finance Islamic terrorist groups so that African dictators
can sing the globalist symphonies of Western democracy.
I am a Sub-Saharan animist like the first pharaohs.
I remember the massacre of the Amerindians
when I see African Americans filling the prisons of a nation born from genocide.
My holy land is Africa.
I will never submit to the negrophobic laws
of supremacists indoctrinated with the vile delusions of the Third Reich.
I remember Pope Nicholas V’s papal bull
when I see the Catholic Church meddling in the political affairs
of Africa’s banana republics.
Slave blood in my veins,
in my heart too much pain, only love, no hate.
My conscience has never been chained.
My criminal record remains spotless,
like the orifices of the Christ’s own mother.
born under the sea, an irresistible force
two bodies reluctantly embrace, shunting, shifting, tectonic drifting
alongside the southern Iapetus Ocean
equatorial deep-time child of Laurentia and Avalonia
journey northward, surfacing, submerging
surfing the waves again, a colder Hibernian dalliance
precariously perched on Eurasian plate
old bedrock confused, youthful erosion above the ancient order
darkness entombed around channelled winter light
early New Grange civilisation, the Boyne valley before the blood
river mouth vikings, raiding, assimilating
birth of the coming capital, eastern stronghold, Baile Atha Cliath
chain-mail Norman conquerors castle-building
appointing pious supplicants with sword, cloth, crook and cross
wholly unholy alliances unravel
rival hierarchies sharing ill-gotten earthly reward from overseas
saintliness, brutality, men and women
expanding Christendom, pagan kingdoms adjusting to defeat
Patrick, Brigid, Columba, Columbanus
Irish civilising roman catholic conduits, Dalriata to Lindisfarne
outreaching, a strand of Irish character
yet to encounter future revisionary metaphysical thought
protestant rebellion, mainland overspill
praying elites competing, preying on the island's god-fearing people
avian watchers on Skellig pinnacles
warm ocean currents well-up, catching the southwestern gale
enduring the ill-will of nature and man
supplanting, subjugating, saving souls, the power of might and fear
treachery within or well beyond the pale
fair and dark hair, ginger genetics existing on the edge of life
tossed thin people hanging on, many leaving
scraping blighted ground, returning to the sea, promise of the unknown
For milliards of tough years
You have stood in our midst
Unperturbed, indomitable
And you have enticed the rain
And it has showered our fields
Our ridges and verdant plains
And filled not only our rivers
But our streams and rivulets
And much else of our realm
For milliards of long years!
When the first rays of the sun
Gently slap your sleepy face
Urging you to part your garment
Of white and grey and sometimes
Darker cumulo-nimbus colours
Do you ever shy away and turn
As though from a sight unloved
Or summon your three peaks
To hide you from the earliest
Touch of a brand new dawn?
When I think of your numerous sacred grooves
When I dream of your twenty or so glacial tarns
When I fathom your five thousand metre height
And this right on the path of the equatorial sun
I am deeply humbled and promptly reminded
That the God of my people and of our cousins
Dwells up there untroubled by the elements
I am reminded, too, of the elephant highways
Which traverse our ridges on the way north-east
To the warmer grasslands of Nyambene Hills
I dare not look up to you
Without plenty of gratitude
I dare not hide my shy face
Without plenty of ingratitude
For I know and all of us know
That you have been our dear
And most beloved benefactor
That has withheld not a thing
That has stood by the people
Beyond measure, beyond all
Thank you for your tears
Thank you for your prayers
Thank you for your ice and snow
Thank you for your rivers and rivulets
And thank you, too, for your love
For the men and women galore
All children of all races and hue
Who inhabit for the time being
Limbs of your most splendid
And most bountiful slopes!
Yikes, aside from mental
health re: psychotherapy,
which haint the worse
cyst phase of being
objectionably being called "old man",
this poem doth tack
toward the no body,
and will address
no illusory (no
app for) pretensions
alluding to verse,
the slow-mo ravages
of aging, evincing
and inching into
solid AARP universe
suddenly (moon if fish int lee)
impinges on endurance
even crimping poetic
raptures tubby terse
though (oh my this
muttering ole hound) chronologically
traversing that arbitrary, elliptically,
and imaginary Maginot line
i.e. almost three score year,
thy esprit de corps unlike
complaining crotchety curmudgeon
folks living here
Highland Manor situated
in Schwenksville, Pennsylvania,
not much older
than me do daily air
lamentations kvetching even
on days pitch perfect and clear
find some bugaboo to gripe about
which dispositions hardly
makes them endear
ring at least to myself,
a baby boomer
(lix orbitz licked) gear
ring up to enter
sixth decade of life,
when a tell tale battle
of the bulge paunch
finds mine equatorial zone
somewhat flabby, a mockery
of washboard blubbery
abdominal sculpted tone
engirdled with loathsome
ample "NON FAKE"
lovely jowly handles
which I hate, though
human flesh naturally prone
to the lowest point of resistance,
and finds these
lovely bones to groan.
The Illuminated Muse
by
Ingrid Showalter Swift
You light up the circuits of my psyche with lexis
vibrate within me
daze me
sway me without weight or measure
I breath in the misted air of salt and gesture
and in it you lie in wait
You fill my cells
with oxygen and mercury
the temperature rises
my bearings drop
my center settle casts away
to an island of green palm breezes
waves of art washing…poetry like walk way stones laid and lead ...before me
and I am the eel in the sea
the elk on the prairie
I am an elephant
tusks and trunk held high to sky
baroque-ing out my demands to the dusted waterless ways of the Serengeti
Rise up in me…as the ground rises before the tectonic hand of God
Rise up in me atomic
Equatorial in clime
Tornatonic in impact
I am ferocious
in my thirst
Run me down with your intent
annihilate all argument
and end the war between us
forever
for you are simply
a blue sapphire flickering in the firelight
Tumbling blue hues in a washer of stone
Flares of luminosity…raking the sky to a plunderous pink
a radiance
like an alien ball in the forest
…illuminati imaginations....
trailing sparklings that follow the fairies into the dark wood
You are warm milk
into which I fall
to the creamy center
float on clouded dark dreams
chewy and sweet
the toffee reminiscence
of….morning coffee…and black birds in flight
and you are the birth of child
in the hands of heaven
you are everything arcane ...nubile and blessed and damned at once
and you alone drive my pen
to wagon wheel and weltings center
Lost and found
Santa Claus;
Stuck in chimney
~~~~~~~~~
Holiday moods
Shopping sprees;
Love feels unloved
~~~~~~~~~
Nice gift wraps
Costly purchases;
Absent heart
~~~~~~~~~
Booze and buzz
Too much fuss;
Christmassy detours
~~~~~~~~~
King of Love
Waits outside knocking;
Unnoticed alone
~~~~~~~~~
Who are you?
Yeshua or Christ:
Excuse for Christmas
~~~~~~~~~
Choirs sing
People entertained;
Ritual celebration
~~~~~~~~~
Town decked
Christmas moods jingle;
Fake snowy winter
~~~~~~~~~
Equatorial Xmas
Too much commotion;
Buying and selling
~~~~~~~~~
O Great Spirit:
We call upon You;
Bring Christmas back
~~~~~~~~~
May your days
Be merry and bright;
Start with true heart
~~~~~~~~~
Let us pray:
For world peace,
Piece by piece
~~~~~~~~~
Let peace begin
Right from each heart;
Let hatred end
~~~~~~~~~
Peace on earth
Goodwill to men;
Christ's Love now heals
~~~~~~~~~
Thank You dear God
For all things good;
Love understood
~~~~~~~~~
Year-end blessings
To one and all;
Death to all hatred
~~~~~~~~~
My Christmas wish
To my fellow men:
Peace and Love and Joy
~~~~~~~~~
And when I pray
Let my heart find soul;
Dwell only on love
~~~~~~~~~
Dear Father of all:
Help us to know You
Through loving-kindness
~~~~~~~~~
Gratitude speaks
Love embraces;
It is as it should be
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
03 December 2015
Singapore
I look back to the halcyon days
When Mrs Johnson,
A comely widow, ran fruitful
Errands for the new railway, and for
Our undeveloped district.
A frail, little maid in green cardigan
And sable wool hat for new mourners,
She read the New Testament
With zest, from Matthew to Revelation.
And she battled with the stress of inheritance
At the foot of her husband’s death in a
Civil war.
Her only son had died in civil stress. . .
Before then,
She was a merry image of festal seasons,
Full of godly gap-toothed mirth.
Her inheritance, from the ceremony of death,
Were mere effigies
With hearts of calumny —like cruel
Neighbours who gossip from dawn
To dusk, speaking no iota of truth in
January, nor bearing good witness in
December.
Among them?
Divorces, viragoes, astute harlots, and
Celebrated proprietors of bordellos.
Mrs Johnson laments the presence
Of a blinding yellow equatorial sun.
Says she, ”Misery in equator courses
Across the waist of here;
Stress and agony have built adobes
Among us,
And the Harmattan has departed with her
Cold . . .”
In the pall of this agony,
Snakes!
Now, shadows of floods rise high,
Like the tsunamis of restless Asia,
The height of disconsolate mountains.
Grey elephants trumpet in trepidation
Sallow, ululating leopards break the skins of
Their drums while summoning their kinsmen
For a hurried parley before the sun sinks . . .
Poor Mrs Johnson is in the midst of it all —
Like an eye in its own storm!
A special little whale,
Born in the dark depths of the ocean.
An abnormality, random variable, first of its kind.
A soft blue blob,
Looking for a home.
Warm ocean currents with the softness of spring
The blooming corals of youth
The merpeople proposing with blinding seashells
The pleasant brilliance of the ocean exploding
A bomb of colour.
The baby whale's heart was sky blue and free.
It wailed in happiness for its bright future - 52Hz.
A soft blue blob,
Looking for a home.
Scorching fire from the equatorial waters
Taught it to survive in the harsh world.
It earnt its battle scars.
Yet, as always, it was alone.
The baby whale roared in anger
and perhaps,
on a more subconscious level,
loneliness - 52Hz
A soft blue blob,
Looking for a home.
Autumn, the season of heartbreak.
The dejected blob had grown older and more
forlorn.
The coral path of love,
Painted in the colours of the sunset.
A lively orange ending in a sad, coffee brown.
Sadness at 52Hz.
A soft blue blob,
Looking for a home.
The coldness from the northern ice caps
numbed the beating of its heart.
A monotonous life in black and white
- Mostly white.
It would have frozen its tear tracks
But then, can one really cry in an ocean?
... - 52Hz
Time had left behind a dejected blob.
Giving up, it let its weight drag its soul
down into the dark ocean floors from which it was born,
its eyes like the burning embers of coal.
That was when it saw
Another. :)