Long Must(a) Poems
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Whatever happened with Bob Dylan and the Nobel Prize?
I remember it vaguely, for I was sailing afar
There was no response when the announcement was made
Just silence, with the door left ajar
Bob won the Prize in 2016
Or so they said up in Sweden
But where was Bob when the announcement was read?
Was he laying down on his big brass bed?
Would he ever respond to that which was said?
Or was he just blowin’ in the wind
The time clicked on, for days and weeks, but still no answer came.
How many days must a board wait long, before the prize be claimed?
His clothes were dirty, his hands were clean
He was the best thing we’d ever seen
Perhaps he was down in New Orleans
But hardly a word was framed
He had to perform, or lecture it’s called
To claim the booty that accompanied
The prize itself, a $900K bounty
Which required a song and his company
Bob was the first songwriter it seems
To receive the prestigious award
But the ceremony took place in a private affair
And they said that Bob appeared bored
He finally replied in a letter
And basically said there were better, than he
He claims he shouldn’t have ever been one
To stand with the literature giants who’d come
Before him, like Hemingway, Kipling, and Shaw
His songs weren’t the same, that’s just what he saw
He thought he was more like Shakespeare
who was often concerned
with matters like craft, crowds, and crowns
For he was a playwright and wanted to know
If the people were there from all of the towns
Not whether his words were of literary note
But where would he find a skull he could tote
For what is an artist, can it truly be known?
Perhaps not in his time for the artist alone
But the academy didn’t agree with his words
In fact they felt like this was absurd, for they saw
One who “created poetic expressions
within the great American song tradition”
And wanted to show that his compilation
Of songs were important to all generations!
And so, Bob Dylan won the prize
And I for one am glad
For his words are poetic and awesome in size
Although often they happen to criticize
The ones who are trying to politicize
The people are crying and along with their cries
“The times, they are a changin’”
Yes, “the times, they are a changin’”
--All my writings are at mraymus.medium.com
EXCUSE ME!!!!
Do you not see me
standing before you?
Do you not realize that I,
a black woman had a life
that mattered too?
The black woman appears to be
the best kept secret in death
being wiped from the face of the earth
where many won’t remember
our names or know of our existence
When black girls vanish
the only way anyone knows is
through the newsfeed of social media
when white girls vanish
the news media makes sure
the world is notified
while paying no attention
to the clues of plasma
footsteps we leave behind
Many ignore the crimson bleed
of life that seeped
from the opening of the
slashed throat racism made
leaving us to become
the mutilated corpse lying
on the ground society
relentlessly steps over
We’re viewed as a nothing gender
Melanated race of women
often deemed as bothersome or angry
The bellows of our spirits
are discombobulated
as we quickly become
shadows of unrecognized Queens
we are being killed in alarming masses
and all you can say is we must of had it coming
Black women are the givers of the
black lives that are supposed to matter
still we are looked upon
as the doormat placed at
the bottom of the totem pole
you seem to enjoy wiping your feet on
When it comes to black men,
you are seen and heard,
be it good bad or indifferent
but how high must a black woman jump
in order to be seen
how loud must a black woman shout
in order to be heard
Better yet
how many black women need to
be annihilated before our lives
are mourned and celebrated
Brothers, are you willing to
stand up to protect us, even if it's
your fellow brother we need
to be protected from
Our life and death must not be in vain
So what will you do in order change it
Remember,
black women marched for you
don’t you think it's time you march for us?
We are forced into invisibility
like the remnants of
Sandra Bland’s disparity
that was swept under the rug
and lifeless body of Kanika Jenkins
they shoved into a refrigerated coffin
Nia Wilson’s memory they washed away
along with her blood that stained the platform
of a Bay Area Transit Station
or Breonna Taylor and Atatiana Jefferson's peace
they fatally laid to rest in the confines
of their own home
I will forever remember their names...will you??
We are not going to hell
Tell the preacher man
To be upright with his words
Cos we are not the reason
Why tomorrow looks red
We did not create the monster on the hills
Either did we set the fire with the steel birds
We never made up the suffering we face
Neither did we want a troublesome land
For too long we voted for
Peace love prosperity progress and care
We were innocent of the lies from strange men
Men whose action are far from their words
Days after days our life's remain unchanged
Our stories remains the same
Despite how much good we are to the law
So tell the preacher man
To say the truth to power cos
We are not going to hell
We are the ones beaten
Black and blue
We are the victims of lies
So please when you preach
Tell God how much we suffer cos
There's no better hell
Than the ghetto life's in the third world
So please tell the preacher man
that when we die
We are not going to hell
We are not going to hell
There must be a heaven
For an African child
Whose life on earth bleeds with pains
Just for a mere basic survival
Yes there must be a paradise
For the innocent whose life were
Wasted just for greed and hatred
There must be a better rest for the brave
Whose life was cut short by evil
So tell the preacher man that
There is no hell for an African child
Cos we are already existing in one
We are already burning on earth
We've lost our valuable to hunters
Lost our dignity to the west
Left our spirituality to an idol
We are naked to the world
Despite our input to nature
Our troubles never change
And there is no better hell
we can burn no more
So tell the preacher man
To be upright with his words
Cos after this longs years of slavery
After this longs time of suffering
After facing the worlds isolation
Sorry mr preacher man
Their must a heaven
for an African child cos
We are not going to hell
We are the ones beaten
Black and blue
We are the victims of lies
So please when you preach
Tell God how much we suffer cos
There's no better hell
Than the ghetto life's in the third world
So please tell the preacher man
that when we die
We are not going to hell
Oh! Let’s engage in jocund races, in trips to jovial and exotic places!
Let us run bold into a bush with prickly needles. My! How lush would be These pranks and
plays. Now off we race! Well then, it’s high time we let Our spirits free of nines or tens of
obligations. It’s high time we have Spread our wings, and with a mischief’s twinkle fled the heath
of Mundane home. Look now! There is something in the distance. What? What? Let’s see… A
labyrinth, so intricate- with curious and wild places.
Come on now, let’s explore. I’ve got a map; yet even with one, a daring
Individual can get lost. Pray let’s talk sense. You know, before a traveler Engages in a
dangerous sport, he must a map full well explore. Here, Stands a mansion, if form it has- well,
of some sort at least. Near it,
Despite, a million rooms, is a big garden. What a bother! It is obstructed By a long spiked fence
with nails. Look now, hence, I think we should
Cross from the back, if chance would kindly let us that. I had fresh hopes At first, but then, as
the punctual clock tic-tacked the time, I felt that I
Do not have mettle strong that could last an entire lifetime as had Beowulf’s and millions of other
knights’. Yet, still I am quite fond of wild Adventure. In any age-old, new, one can engage in
blissful sport.
I can’t disclaim that. Oh, my! But, look, what now awaits us! I am quite Frightened, are you not?
Look at the lonely library where perhaps,
Corpses of some ghosts may brew an evil spell, and then enchant us two.
Then we are dead, then nothing will us save again. Ascend the stairs. A Few flights, then in the
thousandth room we stand. What’s in the room?
A darkness strange. I hear some movement, and my ear, some hissing, strikes. Then a roar so
rare me to a shiver brings…This is some
Strange beast, who has a treasure for many years now concealed. He is in Rage. Now this is
the end of our adventures strange. Away I must now go. We race now swiftly, but the creature
us gloomy follows. Then a sword, My bold companion draws into the heart…O! Hero! Let us go
away,
It’s dark…Away we fly, until home warm we find. With a sigh, we say, “Now rest we can. We are
so tired!!”
Form:
Ajuga, will be a must, a blue beauty that blows in the wind.
Bellflowers, charming and faithful and lovely, of course I must have
Candy Tufts from gardens of long gone, enchanting. And mother's favourite,
Daylilies, in a rainbow of colors, Delphinium and Daffodils also, so dramatic.
Evening Primrose along the fence will create quite a stir, and on the porch
False Watercress spilling out of a container, and then old dependable,
Geraniums and Glory In The Snow, I love my dreamy dream of spring flowers.
Hyacinths, scented jewels of color sparkle in my garden, along with
Iris Reticulata, an early spring treasure, it will be a wonderful place.
Jacob's Ladder, with blue-purple blooms, mingle with Johnny-Jump-Ups.
Kalmia Latifolia, pure white blooms, related to the laurel family.
Lily-of-the Valley, so sweet and fragrant, how could I forget you and,
Meadow Rue, a lavender wave in the wind, and anther old dependable,
Nasturium, a gardeners dream and it is also edible. Oh my list is long!
Oriental Poppy, was there ever a more heavenly gift from God, except maybe
Pasque Flower, unfolding from beneath the snow, and those Pansies and Petunias!
Queen Anne's Lace, so pretty is her lacework, did you know ishe is a wild carrot?
Rosemary, with a scented pretty flower, like dew in the morning is a must, as is
Sage, that billowy haze of lavender, pushing away the rainbow Snapdragons.
Thrift, delightful vintage touch to my rock garden in the shade, sweet the tulips too.
Umbrella Magnolia growing in the garden corner, with creamy white blooms, and
Vinca Periwinkle with lovely blue flowers, friends to Violet and Viola.
Wall Flowers, who love the sun, drooping with snow cap jewels, oh over there
Xenia's blooming in marine colors, so unique. And here a childhood love,
Yellow Anemone, aka Buttercup, who does not love Buttercup?
Zinnia, friend of Sunflower, elegant and colorful, nods. Must this dream end!
________________________________
April 13, 2016
Poetry/Abecedarian/In My "Dreamy" Spring Garden
Copyright Protected, ID 16-777-564-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
How many times must a scripture be read to us?
So many ways they suck em in to follow and trust.
We're led to believe that heaven is made of gold.
I say heaven is without don't trust what they`ve sold.
The purest of hate, most evil is Wiccan turned catholic black in red.
The weak, the blind, the burning glazed in dread.
All sheep follow the next, like that life of a drone.
The simple mind cannot help itself if it`s left all alone.
The priest, the pope, the father's, and every single bishop.
A fact them fu*kers spread suffering, I've had enough.
No longer can I just sit and have faith in a holy religion.
There's one thing I know, and that`s they have never given...
A holy father, or a graceful joyous place.
My mind expansion is like that of cosmic outer space.
Misplaced every single person that I loved that has died.
I know cuz I've tried, and tried and have only cried.
Most times I was wretched in my life.
But I was awakened so I'd realize such strife.
How many fathers would kill their own son with such brutal torture just to be a God.
Surely you must find this interesting, wicked, and odd.
You should look harder when there's much more mayhem.
Why do you continually contribute and constantly pay him?
The same song for 7411 years.
Is so weird, as the sight of the Seer`s
How many times can the same story be the savior of man.
Every age span gives life the same fu*king hand.
I've been to the place of my real grace,
It is not what you think.
It took lots of time,
It tore the deepest of pain.
For me to vomit the master of the my insane.
Took it all in then realized my misguided path of destruction.
They perform black magic under these cathedrals of corruption.
It was me who was wrong to have been so disarrayed.
Where was your God each and every time a child or woman was betrayed.
By a church of child molesters and the torturous murders of women throughout it`s entire existence,
There`s an absence of god`s love and his power he displayed Egypt, no interjections like exodus with no interference nor his holy assistance .
In the morning a lion rises from its sleep
Concerned by thousand images of restless dreams
It roars in search of his own image as it is seen in a puddle of muddy water
Tirelessly he roams until midday Sun grazes its gracefulness upon his face
He is lost in its beauty
Paralyzed by the chaos of things that burden a day
On a midday Sun a lazy elephant threads upon the Earth with a heavy footsteps
Non-important things become life threatening
He wrinkles his eyes as he has lost sight of wide landscapes
Where is he threading towards?
There is a monkey pulling on his tail, ever restless
In the hot charred earth one can see footsteps that leave no shadow
One big, one small, intertwined
If I does not see carefully
Footsteps seem to lose their differentiation in the infinite footsteps layed upon ground of the Earth
Differentiate! How hollow those footsteps seem
How brittle those shadows must be!
A great bird rises in the dusk and to great heights he flies
Now the footsteps are but paths, and paths are but a curvatures imprinted on landscape
Smiling, he feels the wind in his wings
And he speeds ever closer to the Sun
Free, between Sun and Earth
Everything lost its meaning
What is true in this world?
Milion crystal lights appear in the night sky
Serene, they shower those who are lost
The world is now theirs
Made up of the Sun and the Earth,
Of day and night and things usefull and those not so
A wanderer can find that all the paths are but one path
Repeated endlessly in a Great dance of eternal things
Day, night, night and day
Molecules speeding around a core
As much as light shines around a saint
Night, day, day and night
Space widens and time slows
Now is all-time
Endless in its dance
How far must wanderer wander
And how long must a seeker seek
Is light endless or does darkness devour it in the end?
When you hear no-sound
Hear then how light shines
Lion, elephant, monkey and falcon
They dance their own dance
Day, night, Sun and stars
In a dance of eternal things
Tearing a poem in two, ripping a part an entire idea
insanity or ingenious, unthinkable or approved, forbidden
who knows
One important question: is traitor now the title I bear
a traitor to myself, betrayer to everything I stand up for
a traitor to the millions of poets out there, betrayer to the art
God, don't let it be; I can't lose the vent
which brings me fresh air
Poetry is all I know, the life I live
I couldn't escape, runaway if I tried; exile would prove unbearable
but the difference, there is none
My exile om social distortion reigns every single day
between the moments I feel I could write forever
to the moments when I'm running on an empty tank
Machines, I hollowly laugh at how heavily I've depended
upon the resource
to manipulate my thoughts to fall in line like soldiers
instead of having enough trust and faith
to build upon my own legacy with my own ability
My words, now, are enormous, pointless sedatives
a lullaby for even myself, not even getting past the fourth word
The edge, the drive, the fire contained in my liberal lyrics
flushed out, extinguished once again
Shamefully, it's one more thing I've watched
slip through my fingers like sand
I was once a man of black and white
who created an entire galaxy filled with a multitude of color
Could it be, the world stole my skin while I was in slumber
WHY MUST A PRICE BE SETTLED FOR AN OUNCE OF...
oh, just for an ounce of happiness...selfishly for me
My face to the sky, wondering why
I turn my back to the clouds, buried face down in grass
Breathe in for today, scream for tomorrow
catching myself praying for a sparring match with fate
to prove I can change myself into something positive
though it casts me down as pessimistic
I'm honestly so sick of this...reached my wits end
No surrender, surrender but maybe I just need to fall apart
I already feel possessed by a broken mess
a shadow of myself
The truth is waiting to be uncovered
What will be discovered
I don't know
In a winter chorus, autumn’s rouge and sallow shed.
Their shuffle settles loamy dregs of timber lords.
As they await the hurling puff to haply brush the forest floor,
of what to grace their lot, they’ve lack. No praise up-whirls.
All we born, as such, descend, as severed from an high accord.
Then swept to shadowed crags, the dreams of day retire.
With hardened creeds to surly shelter us beneath their stale lore,
the burly breeze to heft comes seldom to inspire.
But note the gust that swaggers brazing licks. Proud trunks in swaths it leaves.
The tongue to pummel trees, the tunnel breath, rolls through us.
The nostril flume imbibes this ghost, the same who, wrapped in thunder, looms.
There stirs incessantly the So and Hum, the chant by which we move.
Now when the clearings and the coasts show nowhere crowd nor cross of deer,
all the same, the hunt, there seems, a trail ‘s taking.
And one’s wile, self-avowed, is from that faithless rut to veer.
Stray the path, would he, which he the wolf is breaking.
Yet hear! The faintest ting and slightest twitch received command.
To cosmic tenor, resound seasons with their forms.
The chief of words holds still the ages in a solitary day.
The less are strung to sentence nature to her norms.
Transfixed whilst in the lunar gaze, a deathlike swoon stars wield.
Sonic relevance will seize in dins and swirls.
As planes celestial pivot lives by this unheard, odd eloquence,
there must a whisper be, recanting etheric grooves.
For contentment covets smiles from the jowls of astral frill,
when the way has winter whited to no end.
Will not the stellar figures, sought and viewed, resolve the brisk enthrall?
They must revolve with summer’s patterns to portend.
But with the cold, the heaven’s clearest churn in crystals.
The night is smeared in depths, occult by frigid flow.
Yet the utterance to shift the morning twilight’s brightest stars
lies silence hedged with the chime of flakes of snow.
ANDREW’S PLAID
Oh Please Oh Please, Oh is it So?
Make him Stand, make him Grow.
To What end do They come,
And to what end do They Go!
Looking High and Low for Your Kingdom.
Indeed looking, very High and very Low.
In Weakness and in Health
Those Which are Poor will be Rich.
But Those which are Rich will be Richer.
So the Poor become Rich
And the Modest become Poorer.
Why, then, Modesty should we seek!
Never again will Trust live Free.
For it is in the Unknown that lies All.
Secrets of the Universe.
If well Known fact, they were,
No more would this place need to Be.
If this place is no longer, then;
Where shall we Stand and where shall we Grow!
Why must a Bird accomplish a Chore?
Why must a tree branch Crack,
And a Leaf fall.
No reason, For it all.
Fear of God
For what might He do to Us
Or what might He help on Us!
Nothing is Known.
Hence, we name it Unknown.
Should this Universe be written
In the book of the unknown,
For that is its true Nature?
Or Should it be written in the book of Joy.
So that the Ones can live in happiness
And in Freedom and without Fear of the Truth.
To live without fear of the Truth
Is something that should be able to be done.
Many people so, do this.
I cannot. I life in a place of Great fear. Of wonder, of thought, of preparation, of awaiting. Of Evasion. Of Madness. Of Skill and Talent and love and ecstasy. Of research, of Knowledge. Of untaskfullness, of disdain.
Of hate of the mundane and the useless.
Why Oh, must it be done?
For practice? What about hate?
What about fury?
Will this experience I gain from this,
Be able to counter this!
I Have not thought about this.
Quickly though, the answer seems like
No! -
Hate for it!
Hate for its father, hate for its family,
hate for its existence, Although necessary,
It is not Me.
It was not made by people like me.
It is not a tool I will use.
Ever.