Long Guerilla Poems
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You can't imagine what its like to march on a sacred city,
to plunder and pulverize a Peoples' promise to Deity,
demolishing centuries of lavish labor, wasting offspring of ancient heredity,
destroying flesh, scriptures and stone with a savage Roman military synergy,
a discipline determined in it's destruction of dissention, inspired by ancestral victory,
politics was not our purview, methodical punishment was our specialty,
We were War's royalty, we were Legio XV Apollonaris,
monsters of Mars, messengers of Apollo, the juggernaut of Jupiter,
along with 11 other Legions led by General Titus, 60, 000 cuts of glory we stood,
for 3 and a half years we fought through Jewish guerilla ambush
asymetrical urban warfare welting our progress like a pirate pestilence
district after district, hell spell after hell spell we bled with chilled maneuver,
the Zealots were pyromaniacs, burnt sacraficers, their zeal and our bodies zesty wood,
in the Kidron Valley they flooded the streets " knee high " with oiled water
as the Cohorts waded through the lanes leery, a torch was tossed, flames rose in rush
240 men perished like spazing stars trapped in a box, our grief agape with a horrified crush,
as reprimand, Titus made the Legate sit in a tent with his chopped off ring finger
smoldering like hot sand in the hand of a marooned man aware of error in his plan,
the insurgents had men we called Fox Tails, desperate demons who knew how Hell began,
as a skirmish succumbed to our skill and number they would run into apartments,
dragging the fury of our blades into rooms of Hades revenge, these were fire entrapments,
the buildings would blaze like windowed volcanos, screams salting us with panic linger,
It was not uncommon to discover a missing Brother Legionary
castrated, and decapitated with a headedless eagle carved upon his chest,
don't speak to me about morals and mercy for I have seen and dealt the damage of rude death
hate becomes your Father, vengence your Mother, aggravated murder your cause
when everything you revere and fear merge to make a leviathen of life,
the " Chosen People " of God became the chosen target of annihilation,
Mount Moriah, mansion of Yahweh the Pariah would become capital of Divine crucifixion,
J.A.B.
This poem has been entered into the Roman Legion Contest
to honor Ancient Rome and the Poet who sponsored this historical subject.
We'd made a dawn start that day, following in his footsteps, as
apparently Jesus used to get up early.
Our group had gathered for a reading, and to pray, along with
fruit and cereals our first staples of the day.
The good Lord had gifted us a painted morning of Coeruleum blue,
and a warm spiced breeze flossed my smile.
I turned and watched the city for a while.
Amidst the pink and beige jigsaw of the old city, the Dome of the rock
had caught the morning rays and was now bragging about it,
shamelessly blinging,
competing with the shouts of Minarets
and Church bells ringing.
Few things can compete with an Israel morning, but you did.
Perched like an Owl on a low wall, cross-legged, your head moved
from side to side, scanning the mount, sharing our glass,
drinking the moment.
You wore white cotton, an arm hung with beads, an evil eye bracelet
and what looked like a Kara, glistening.
Styled by the Gods, with three quarters of a straw hat
wedged in the bricks.
And then I found myself before you,
Lord knows how, and I was trying to remember how my mouth worked.
Your head cocked to one side you watched me for a while
then nodded me a soft hello, and finished with a smile.
Ice broken, we gathered intelligence- you, a 'gap year Guerilla'
on a global reconnaissance , armed with just a shoulder bag and a credit card.
Me, a lapsed Catholic with an empty soul, seeking a childhood faith long discarded.
A shout from the tour guide burst our intimate bubble and I retreated,
backwards, gesturing, as if in the presence of a Shah.
She waved back, almost lost her balance, and a gust of wind would
have placed her gently among the sleeping of the Kidron
if she hadn't grabbed her hat.
And that was that.
I went back to the wall that evening, and the following morning,
I don't know why- she'd be bathed in the rose of Petra by then.
For a short time I was bereft, and stood, fittingly, before the
Basilica of the Agony, and then sat on our wall,
to watch the chosen wake up.
I think my soul woke a little, just then.
For God had left me with a little bit of love.
Unrequited, but worth hanging on to ,
worth building on.
It's been thirty five years, and in those occasional quiet places
I still think of you
For contest 'Love in a far off place', sponsored by Frank Herrera
22nd July 2015
Voices from the ashes
I
Note that I was murdered to have risen transformed
Note that my flesh and blood was readily made dust
Note that my bones and skeletons got incriminated
Note that my impetuous voice echoe from the ashes
Note how I was silenced... to have risen transformed
Note how I struggled: from the liberational coercion
Note how I triumphed over the sceptre and bayonets
Note how I gamed over the war sceneries impeccably
II
Note that I was flawless, efficient, resilient, competent
Note that my energies were sapped during the event
Note that my knee crawled from valley to valley deep
Note that my aim was for the betterment of the kins
Note how I was enslaved* before and fought swiftly
Note how I become a guerilla in motherland, savage
Note how I raptured apart the foes and the schemes
Note how I became violent and vigilant in my domain
III
Note that I was a victor before I got engraved deeply
Note that my wrath did grew with the evolution peak
Note that my beloved comrade back stabbed his own
Note that my bornes has risen the ashes mold vessels
And let my long gone blood reflow from the pool of
That Impetuous distant rivers, and rekindle the lost
Blazing flames of the Chimurenga wars... Magamba
Josiah Tongogara the barracks named after decades
IV
Denote when I rise from the ashes I votes mercilessly
Denote when my passions gather I will spit of venom
Denote when my strengths grew I will fight back fists
Denote when my courage reverberates I will burst out
Denote when I become potent, I will reign over again
Denote when I am with the mighty I will aside favours
Denote when I reign the Augustus house it will report
Denote when I speak order will reign, reconstructions
V
Denote how the muddled economy will reboot again
Denote how the incubators of corruption will vanish
Denote how the lost zealous and confidence bestow
Denote how the ills and evils will be driven to extinct
Denote how the brothers will cheer from the drums
Denote how the sisters will break a leg to Jerusalem
Denote how the fathers will fail conscience off brew
Denote how the mothers will pail the yeild in joyous.
a ghost haunts the country of Laos
sieving through jungles
crackling twigs because
it has not yet died
beware of it
the one who drags one foot
while the other rots 20 feet away
shoes made of cast metal
footprints ever so present
in night fall
imprints of bomb shells in mud fields
a phantom roams
plains in Laos
hide your children
its breath reeks of agent orange
its shouts
dynamite flames that dusts away human bones
and bamboo baskets
a stench of wheezing willing to fold
curl
leaves and skins of families who
who hide in forest
till their flesh shrivels
like the lungs of many dead soldiers
the fissures of its face
exposes land mines
crooning a song of torment
through throats of civilians fleeing
on the hair of this
wicket phantom
its hair droops the length
of the Ho Chi Minh trail
hear its whispers
it also cries
moans of a past that begs
to be remembered
clawing trees to spell out its name
the ghost wails pain
filters itself everywhere
whimpering
peeling steal and lead
by the millions
what remains become chains
that burrow into earth
by cluster bombs
big bombs
B-52 bombers dropping
in its tons of U.S. congress approval
in ink
an old friend still alive and well
and under moonlight
refugees run
only to meet more trouble
in camps
they desire to break away
from this ghost and its name
and no one recalls its name
of this
ghoul who rages through
the country of
Laos
melting tendons and flesh
this ghost hungers
for humans
screeching napalm gas on
palms of
guerilla soldiers
american soldiers
and vietcong alike
death does not even remember its name
beware but
tell your children
light the candles and the
incense
the ghost drifts because
no one wants to
know about its name
The Secret War
put this crying soul
of secret history
to rest
recognize
its name
bless this curse
that wants to
name
all the people
it claims
and they too
will remain alive
like mines beneath the soil
seeds of calamity
Form:
I had pondered over complaining about my life yet again
Filling up this pages with idle talk
Sharing past and present experiences
Politicizing my perception of reality
Writing about friends i had failed...
Relationships i had lost
And opportunities i had taken for granted
Then i remembered
Somewhere out there in the world
Not far from our borders,in the lands of syria and south sudan
Innocent people are surviving under appalling conditions
In spaces that undermine their humanity
Deprived off a normal existance
With no roof over their heads
No place to call home
The lucky sleeping in abundant buildings
As they have fled their villages over night
Attempting to outrun guerilla wars
They are innocent civillians, caught in the firing line
Seeing starved brown babies
Going for days with no food nor water
With their bulged mulnutritioned tummies
Seeing the unlucky...forced into manhood
As they get made into child soldiers
Dying on the way to seeking freedom
Their childhood stolen from underneath
We have heard...as far away bystanders
Of their 'sneaking' under our fenced and guarded borders
Seeking for refuge
In the unknown lands,to find a better tomorrow
What will become of them?
The thought of their plight tortures the soul of the viewer
As we watch their lives play out on our tv screens
The shock on our faces is temporary
As we share their lives in documentaries
Their whole lives scripted into 120hours
Their history formulated into screen shots
Our greatest nightmares is their everyday reality
As we ponder over our political future
We fear that we can turn into the next zimbabwe
Yet,they have nothing left to fear
As they have experienced rape,beating and gun shots
We cry for them from our posh homes
Yet,we do nothing to improve their conditions
Imagined as victims of circumstances
In an empathetic world
Coming to realise...that my reality is propably what they inspire to
Wood chew believe aye took stock...?
Upon a whim, an endeavor
arose to communicate
cumulative key whatchamacallit,
yea...nuggets o' wisdom, asper
about yours truly no reason, nor
rhyme unwinding, tooling sputtering
most vexing mystery more
baffling than any whodunnit,
asper in this ole rattle trap to whit,
which drab filler hoop fully doth newt
induce thee to vomit
while this true bore doer sits here twit
tilling thumbs, one doubting Thomas
addresses, (albeit favoring abridged titbit
alphabetized list), I attempt (collusion
gluten, GMO free), aye solicit
motley fool, not to accrue superprofit
unbiased worded atypical, bohemian
rhapsodizing non mercurial portrait
most challenged since umpteenth orbit
whiling away this last May 2019 Tuesday
around nearest star circle game
impossible mission exit
or at least until after exhausting
without courting death
senescence to delimit.
ME? ANTI THE FOLLOWING::>
aggression, alcohol, apartheid, authoritarianism,
billboard, bureaucratic, censorship, church,
cigarette, anticlericalism, anticolonialism,
commercialism, communism, conglomerate,
conventional, corporate, corruption,
counterfeiting, crime, cruelty, cult, defamation,
diarrheal, dogmatic, dumping, elitism,
establishmentarianism, fascism,
fashion, formalist, fraud, fur, guerilla, gun,
hierarchical, hijack, hunter, king, illiterate,
litter, lynching, macho, materialism, militarism,
miscegenation, monarchical, monopolist,
mosquito, nationalist, nepotism, noise, nuclear,
obesity, pesticide, plague, pollution, poverty,
racist, racketeering, rape, religion, revolutionary,
riot, royalist, sexist, shoplifting, slavery, smog,
smoker, smuggling, snob, subversive, tax,
terrorist, theft, tobacco, totalitarian, violence,
vivisectionist, welfare.
What About You?
(when living nightmare pierced real time
thus engendering the following rhyme)
adrenaline powered stealth bomb blast
with the noggin of this, ah... ur... bane chap,
which debilitating anxiety doth outlast
means to cope (thunder and dumb struck)
with stranger mental things
at expressed vertigo, nausea, racing heartbeat
ogres recreated tormented, torpedoed, tortured
most decades from my yesteryear,
which aye presumed long passed.
now, within my head "guerilla"
warring faction
lobs a grenade followed by "bombs away"
broadside finding this body electric doing
a kamikaze nosedive into sick bay
where major organs suffer direct hit
analogous to a giant fist
smashing pumpkins,
sans thine flesh as if clay,
which psychic sortie plagues my ability
to function reduced
tub bing bedridden one day
approximately one week ago
from this thirtieth of April
tooth house sand ate teen gray
ting, grinding, and grounding with figurative
threshing blades employed
to winnow chaff from hay
literally crushing willpower,
where invisible jaws
of sharpened steel interlay
atop pulling stalwart garrison strafed,
(akin to a crash test dummy) named Jay
Walking to become blindsided
obliterating every last trace to stay alive
hence, this emergency transmission,
viz this bloke communicating
desperate plaintive wail,
that I haint okay
with plea PLEASE HELP
this tortured soul on verge pray
begging tubby rescued before drowning
like a panicky gull clay pigeon,
and buoy albatross
strangling me far distant from any quay
quickly sinking spirits,
abducted via fiendish runaway!
You can't imagine what it's like to march on a sacred city,
to plunder and pulverize a Peoples' physical promise to a Deity,
demolishing centuries of lavish labor,
wasting offspring of ancient heredity,
destroying flesh, scripture and stone
with a savage Roman military synergy,
a discipline determined in it's destruction of dissension
inspired by ancestral victory,
politics was not our purview,
methodical punishment was our specialty,
We were War's royalty,
we were Legio XV Apollonaris
monsters of Mars, messengers of Apollo,
the juggernaut of Jupiter,
along with 11 other legions led by General Titus
60,000 cuts of glory we stood,
for 3 and a half years we fought through the Jewish guerilla ambush
asymmetrical urban warfare welting our progress
like a pirate pestilence,
district after district, hell spell after hell spell we bled with chilled maneuver,
the Zealots were pyromaniacs, burnt sacrificers
their zeal and our bodies zesty wood,
in the Kidron Valley they flooded the streets ankle high with oiled water
as the Cohorts waded through the lanes leery
a torch was tossed,
flames rose in a rush,
240 men perished like spazing stars trapped in a box,
our grief agape with horrified crush,
as reprimand, Titus made the Legate sit in a tent
with his chopped off ring finger
smoldering like hot sand in the hand of a marooned man
aware of error in his ill plan,
the insurgents had men we called fox tails,
desperate demons who knew how Hell began,
as a skirmish succumbed to our skill and number
they would run into apartments
dragging the fury of our blades into rooms of Hades revenge,
these were fire entrapments,
the buildings would blaze like windowed volcanos
screams salting us with panic linger,
J.A.B.
See the crimson sunset seething against the white
Cloud scant of history, a blazing fire
In the salt sea of my veins, dark shade in the night,
Voiceless and invisible, my desire
To be began in her mantled shame, in her cry
For descendants to raise justice plea to the sky
And so in the month when Caesar was to die, I
Bloodied already from mother's womb came
Shouting through the unshaven forest a life cry
Combating the crude stigma on our name
Grandmother, warrior queen, I left the cage
That made my father polite in his native rage.
And here among the stolen emblems of our past
Rude-boy, guerilla-radical I come
To the dark, crouched neath pillars of grief, sound the blast
And tell my Goliath that this freedom
Will not be shackled, whipped, restrained, it's absolute:
The recovery of manhood, mortal pride ... loot.
Too long on bended knees my people walked in shame
On roads their forebears built with blood, no schools
To raise their status from the prison bars. Lame
Of ego, bereft of claim ... they made rules
We had no power to amend, the weight of state
Despite, rested heavily ... burdening our fate.
So I now shaken from childhood squalor and rag
With vehement wonder have turned the page
To history's jubilation against the race logged
Fore their scholars' gloating eyes, and wage
My war to bring some conscience to the shining hilt
Where sinners unrepentant tremble at their guilt.
O hear me, black as Marcus Maroon dream, I am
Not the one to carry any cross, I
Am too young to die ... shuddering... a bleatless lamb
My heart may hide where the wanton winds sigh
Look for me in the Orisha's moon ... my mission
In latent storms endures, rending thy transgression
Our fortified camp is well out of range of arrow, or gun shot, except the rear flank,
of course the Shoshone are reputed to be deficient in firearms
but are expert in hand weapons and guerilla tactics,
its a gamble, but we must seek to establish identity and intent
I'm taking a recon group of twelve into the valley
we're spread out to mitigate the impact of ambush
remaining close to the brush and treelines
the interior of the mountains look like the inside of deep candle wells
and we are the flame that attracts attention,
I see three people by a popping creek,
its a girl child, a teenage girl and an old woman with baskets picking grapes,
for an instant I think of the mythological Fates, have we been plucked and cut,
signaling for Drouillard, I procure a mirror, a comb and other small trinkets
to offer as gifts, and I'm rolling up my deerskin sleeve to show I am a White Man,
tactfully I step out of the snowberry thickets unarmed
pleading repeatedly the Shoshone phrase I've learnt from Sacagawea,
" Ta ba bone...Ta ba bone...Ta ba bone..."
the child has immediately wrapped herself around the old woman's leg
the teen has scampered like a doe in silent terror
looking back at me with eyes of screaming innocence, mouth crying open,
the woman is standing frozen with a face of defense
and from her beaded belt unsheathes a carbonized dagger,
Drouillard comes out gently doing his best with the speech and sign language
as I go on one knee showing the gifts, thank Deity they calm, smile, and accept,
we have convinced them to lead us to the village
the woman has persuaded the teen, named Maraseca to rejoin and receive the mirror,
J.A.B.