Long Samir Poems
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I should really be writing my essay (due tomorrow!) but I can't have this poem stand here
under my name without some well due editing. I would remove it but I feel like I have not
given the idea a fair amount of my effort.
Let me tell you the story of the man who wared with time
Let me tell you of the lying man who thought himself free from fate's monotonous rhyme:
This lying man would not a true story tell
To the masses: tales of himself in a regal crown he would sell
And they would ask: How come you here, great king?
And he would weave tales of abandoning his office for a woman's ring
Some would jeer and others cheer
But always he would smile ear to ear
At time in its grandeur he would leer
To priests he would lament of his heinous crimes, to never repeat them he swore
Begging their pity and reveling in the new skin he wore
So why, you may ask, does the liar lie of heinous acts
When he could lie of owning the grandest tracts?
And the snake of snakes would slither its tongue
And shed its skin, a coat in its closet so neatly hung
It would tell you a million tales, not one of them true
And never itself shed in any hue
For the flesh beneath may be soft and fickle
But the skin above is always rough and brittle
The flesh beneath once shed, would still the beating of his heart
The skin above once shed, would instill in his life immortality, the one true art
And always the happiest man alive he would be
Living the lives of any man his mind could see
And so the lying man would not a true story tell
The lying man would lie till the day he fell
That day the king of kings dies
The day the criminal meets his demise
While the lying man that was lives on in every story
As friends and foe would debate the king's glory
All the while the lying man that is sinks deeper into his grave
And that priest would remember a criminal who only mercy did he crave
And that coat of skins would weaken and tumble
The skins within gone brittle and begun to crumble
As the lying man that was, flesh and vulnerability, decays
All those skins he left behind, time will one day erase.
And so lying man, you had smiled in the face of time,
Done no great dead but steal what was theirs and mine
You had fallen thinking you had bested the clock
When only you had deafened yourself to the echo of tick tock
© Samir Georges
2010
The Philosopher is a single long poem, I apologize for the inconvenience of splitting it
into 2 parts.
He pushes aside the weathered curtain
The colourless tub, the bland tiles, his grey glazed sight
He looks over his shoulder and invites her into his mental fortress
The King philosopher’s decreed writer
Her sole existence is to write his thoughts and greatness as the ideas arise from the
ashes in
the furnace of his mind
Invisible revolutionary phoenixes, a wonder never seen
The writer is a woman, beautiful, his fantasies rule with an iron hammer
He feels nothing for the imaginary woman
His dreams told of respect, of falling in love in its truest form:
The caesarean of his mind, and she would fall in love with the thought burning society
within
So she sat there, somewhere, laptop in hand
The philosopher closes the curtain, undresses, the water is warm
It caresses him like no lover ever has
Unlocks the rusting, fading Iron Gate within, this water that stirs the slumbering giant
within
his flesh
He closes his fragmented eyes
The distorted images disappear and his mind kisses his wounds better
He sighs
In his mind she waits behind the curtain, it must be awkward
He does not smile, but his lips part, and he sighs the heat away
The water cools
The philosopher sits
The small tub is a tight fit, he looks down
The flaws of man so bare before him
He sees them in many a light, riddled with the protruding edges of perception
He tucks his fragmented eyes away
The philosopher looks down on the folds of his flesh again
The hair, the child of nature and god, an unholy affair
His hand runs over his thigh, the meaningless hair, the soft fat
His fragmented eyes see the flaws of society
A misguided shamble of enterprises, the idea of destiny a delusion
His misty eyes see a cripple
He dictates his poem
She writes
He looks up at the curtain, the veil separating him from humility
And he sees its transparency
He sees the inadequacy of definition, of documenting his emotion and the ideas of his
furnace
He realizes the chaos of his being
He looks down again
He sees a handsome man
Thin, fit, comfortable sitting in the tub
Society in acceptance of itself and the reality of its situation, a philosophical utopia
And behind that lie, he still sees a cripple
© Samir Georges 2009
The grey boy wrinkles in the hands of greater things, wrinkles up like paper, Hands on
knees and knees on chin, the wrinkled boy trembles in the hand of his mind. The room is
dark, there is no light, and all he sees are shades of grey, his body of grey, the curtains
grey, the wooden door dripping grey, and then he notices: the red water beneath him. And
it makes him shiver. He hears them. Outside; He hears the pitter patter, the barefoot
running, the echoing laughter, and the feel of a cold breeze rushing down a hall. They
remind him of his past, running down the hall to his father’s room, and when the pitter
patter of feet stops he knows the child has fallen, the laughter is the father, the breeze is the
swinging of the child in the air, the whimper is his own, in this dark grey room; He lifts his
knees higher. Uncomfortable as the red pool grows around him, He knows it shouldn’t
grow, he wonders why, whimpers in the dark, and wonders why.
The cold creeps up and he shivers, his teeth chatter away at the night and his knees
knock heads in comfort; The pitter patter of feet comes closer, the wrinkled boy sways to the
ground, A grey feather stained in red. Wracking sobs pump grey into his once rosy
cheeks; The pitter patter turns to thunder. It rumbles down the hall, rumbles to his room;
It rumbles and he shivers and the growing pool of red ripples; He sees his distorted
reflection in the red: “Why am I grey?” He shivers again, he whimpers, tired of shivering
and the cold and the grey and wanting the red to go away. And yet he waits, shivers and
dreads, and the thunder grows louder yet. His gaze fixes on the door as the thunder comes
churning through. His eyes shut down, his knees lock up, and he trembles in the moment.
But as he yields open his eyes, the grey world melts away to the thunder of light, and he
forgets all colors dark or red. All he sees is a little boy, in his father’s arms, and he
remembers the car and the road, the sirens and the screams, and he smiles, thinking of
the laughing and racing of the pitter patter, and wonders why he was so afraid.
© Samir Georges
2010
A mountain of grounded rock reaching to the skies
A rabbit burying into a whole
A pig building a house of straw
Why, concrete little pig, brick and sweat
A tree, untrimmed and ungainly
Buzzing insects, foaming with diseases and the chance of death
A mound of sand
A sand castle
A poor sign of engineering
Yet fit for a queen
Build straight pathways, not curving halls little ant
Your purpose is there, it s your efficiency that is in question
Take note from the concrete, the velvet and the vibrating
The ironman working the ironworks in the ironmine
Purpose, purpose, purpose
He earns her iron dollar
They raise their iron children
Time rusts their flawed iron hearts
The silver tongued king rules his copper minded people
The golden patience of time rules the silver tongued king
The velvet soft lover wrestles with the friction of passion
The ninety nine year old Nazi is killed for his crimes
The copper minded populace cheers
Some shed fake diamond tears
And we spin our web of lies
Our empire of cobwebs, time formed truths
Threatened by the subtle breeze of our patient host
True diamond patience of Earth
So the philosopher asks
Riddles with himself
Earth hast no purpose but to be
And to be without purpose is not our way
Yet we unfurl our carpet in its chambers of torrents
And build our houses of straw, and build our mountains of steel
And we expect to persevere
So this purposeless world
Moulded of chance and mutation
It sits by, without reasons to impede
It sits by, as time hammers at its walls, a purposeless measure, the ticking of a clock
The clock ticks, yet the batteries have long passed, the maker long dead
Still we build; a raging force in the calm of chaos
The solidarity of this fortress called earth, the permanence of its chaos
Is challenged by a rusty blade
The blade rises against the mountain, no eyes to see the foolishness of its act
Its precise slashes chipping away at the uneven granite
The blade chips, the dead clock ticks
The mountain sits
© Samir Georges 2009
The land of white
Home of Ahiram your ancient king
You, who grows cedars in her back yard
You, who raised millions of children
Whether they did you harm
Or left you blind
Your door was always open, and your yard was always green
Loubnan, you are not my country
You are not a landscape of cedars and mountains
You
You are a patch of soil
The same patch
The one beneath my face when I fell
When the taste of blood trickled down my throat
But always a drop escaped, and landed on your rugged surface
Your tested and scarred surface
And when I sweat, of toil and pain
When I run from your invaders
My sweat trickles into my lips
And I taste the pain I endure
And always
A drop escapes
And on your cheek it lands
That rugged surface of root ridden soil
But you do not wipe your cheek of my blood and sweat
With it
You build us mountains
Crystal white beacons of your fortitude
With it
You grow us cedars
Vivid green emblems of your prosperity
And when your foe would bring his fist and thunder
Crush your mountains and burn your trees
Always, whether we ran
Left you alone and blind
Or stood, made you hopeful and proud
Always of our sweat and blood
You made us roses
Roses to place on our dead
The dead we burry under the shade of your Cedars
Under the protection of your Mountains
My Loubnan
My patch of soil
You are still not my country
No
Because my country is not a patch of soil
Not without someone to work it
A farmer to work your land
Not without your people to stand proud with you
My country
Is nothing without her children
Without her fruit
Without her cedars and mountains
Her running rivers, the tears she sheds at our turmoil
But whether fists come crashing down on us
Or thunder shatters our hopes
We will always work the land that raised us
We will always be One country
One nation
Of mountains and cedars
Of hope and pride
We will always be
Loubnan
Oh, if only fiction was as real as hope
© Samir Georges
2009
Ignorance
I wish you would afflict me till the end of time
Ignorance you’re a petty thief that steels only what she wants
For what you can’t feel you deny
What you can’t see you will not seek
Your epic simplicity draws me closer
Yet reality holds me back
Is it irony?
That knowledge might cure you but can never substitute you?
We may live our lives in ignorance but no one has truly lived their life in knowledge
For no knowledge is complete
Anything beyond these five senses that guide us cannot exist
For you will it not
This love that makes us lust
This anger that makes us hate
Feelings are jagged surfaces that may not slide upon each other
Our mortal existence together causes a friction of contradiction
Ignorant is he
Who knows not the sting of a bee
Or the scent of a rose
Or the prick of its thorns
The kiss of a lover
The sight of a hummingbird’s hover
Yet he desires not these things, for to his sorry soul they do not exist
Can you imagine? Or begin to perceive?
Not knowing death or suffering beyond the borders of your home?
Or hatred and racism never having existed
Then again, that sweet soft touch of your lover
That sense of accomplishment after you relinquish aid
Are the pros and cons of life not what it’s all about?
A plain canvas is no painting to gaze at in awe
But the detail of this globe we call Earth
The knowledge that we thirst for
The feelings we lust for
All those road bumps and challenges we defeat
Ignorance
I ask myself if you’re worth the sacrifice
It seems simplicity is a dead age
This world is worth much more than the other cheek
These people that die and those that lie
The time will come when the pieces of the puzzle will settle in place
Soon another earthquake shall come along and shake it once more
And as always those whom defy you shall prove their worth
Ignorance, dear love, we must part.
© Samir Georges
2005
(I'm really sorry if I left your name off, but I tried to do
all the premium members I could imagine plus the
non-premiums with whom I regularly communicate.
If you are not here, I'm just not seeing you around!)
Adeleke and Amy, Andrew, Audrey, Barbara, Brian, Carol, Caroline, Carolyn,
Carrie,
Caryl, Catie, Cecil, Celene, Charles, Connie, Constance, Chris, Dane Ann,
Daniel, Danielle, Daver, David, Deb, Diamond, Doris, Dr. Ram, Highlander,
Elaine, Emily, Faleshia, Farah, Francine, Frank, Gareth, Gerard, Gert, Grace, Joyce,
H.G. Iolanda, Irma, James, Janette, Jared, Jerri, Jessica, Jimmy, Joe, John, john, Joseph,
Karen, Karla, Katherine, Kimberly, Kristen, Larry, Laura, Linda, Lynette, Mac, Margaret,
Marie, Matthew, Max, Michael, Mitch, Moonbee, Nathan, Nick, Nikko, Paula,
P.D., Phyllis, Ralph, Raul, Ravindra, Rhoda, Robb, Robert, Rueben, Samir, Sara
Sean, Sheol, Sharon, Stephanie, Tavarus, Tim, Tirzah, Travis, Virginia, and Wilma
are poets looking great
forward and
- backward -
and forward
great looking poets are
Wilma and Virginia, Travis, Tirzah, Tim, Tavarus, Stephanie, Sharon, Sheol, Sean,
Sara, Samir, Rueben, Robert, Robb, Rhoda, Ravindra, Raul, Ralph, Phyllis, P.D,
Paula, Nikko, Nick, Nathan, Moonbee, Mitch, Michael, Max, Matthew, Marie,
Margaret, Mac, Llynette, Linda, Laura, larry, Kristen, Kimberly, Katherine, Karla, Karen,
Joseph, john, John, Joe, Jimmy, Jessica, Jerri, Jared, Janette, James, Irma, Iolanda, H.G,
Joyce, Grace, Gert, Gerard, Gareth, Frank, Francine, Farah, Faleshia, Emily, Elaine,
Highlander, Dr. Ram, Doris, Diamond, Deb, David, Daver, Danielle, Daniel,
Dane Ann, Chris, Constance, Connie, Charles, Celene, Cecil, Catie, Caryl,
Carrie, Carolyn, Caroline, Carol, Brian, Barbara, Audrey, Andrew, Amy and
Adeleke
For The Palindrome Contest: Sponsored by Jared Pickett
Throwing back the sun light to shower the world
Skin stretched out as much as possible, trying to flood the universe with his infinite cheer
Little feat scurry around, little hands wave up and down
Seeking more, finding an earth ready and welcoming
The air they breathe, the wind they feel
Laughs back at the
m as they cheer in joy
It tickles them when they trip
But they always rise back again; they always want to run again, they never think they’d fall
again
And even if they do, the wind will always carry them back up
They cry, each tear falls down and echoes through the soft earth they tread on
Tears of joy, tears that sprout around them a garden of happiness, a garden of warmth
Warmth that seeps in all around them, warmth that beats away the shivers and lets them
snuggle to sleep
As they frolic and play, a shadowy mist creeps in, white as their glistening teeth
A rugged mist with age worn eyes and an experience gnarled touch
As the mist rolls through the gardens that engulf them, that warmth they emitted turns
menacingly cold
The garden their tears had sprouted wilts and decays, weeds and thorns rise up to trip them
and prick them
The wind is angered; it blows through the mist, but as it soars down to defend its charge
It turns out of the mist a haunted demon
And batters them with hail and rain
It roars them to tears, tears of fear and pain
The air is filled with dust, they choke and cough and no one is there to help
The earth shuts its doors to the horror it sees
Little feat pound at the earth in frustration, little hands grow claws and rip at their assailants
Smiles turn into grins as they relieve their anger
Their fangs concealed, they shut out any sunlight and cheer that they once wielded
Corrupted dark.
© Samir Georges
2008
I was arriving home one night
The smell of smoke clinging to my shirt
The laughs at the café humming around my ears
The sky above, a homely grey
I looked up at the sky, something I should do more often
But my gaze kept climbing and straining
Picks in hand, over and over, almost draining
Held back by a concrete behemoth
On all three sides of my limited vision
All I saw was wall
My claustrophobic heart scrambled away from these encroaching giants
I forced my eyes against the dread, they whimpered, I felt the same
Up, and up, rolling up, gravity cringed, still I looked
And all I saw was wall
All kinds of painted wall
Red, orange, brown
Grey
Grey skies
Magnetic flesh, my eyes guzzling in the grayness, like starved infants at their mothers breast
My heart slowed, the hum of the café carried away in the breeze
Echo of laughter
Grey skies
Then and there I happened upon a realization
I was as far away from Earth as I could ever be standing there on that artificial blanket of tar
The funny thing about assumptions you see
Is that they seem so right
The feeling of discovery, some coveted grand mystery
Then that dreadful moment of enlightenment, the proclamation of self doubt
The moment that some unnamed flock of white bird
Charges through my faulty reasoning
Streaking across Grey skies
And just at that very same moment, squinting
Drinking in the white mass of life fleeing my stare
On that dark, humid night
The echo of laughter still in the air, clinging to my shirt, muddled in smoke
Choking my sense of belonging, I knew exactly
Where I was
© Samir Georges
2009
We await her arrival
Our maiden of secrecy
Cherished by the stars
Whored by the moon
We wait for her day and night
Our hearts flutter into specs of cherished dust
As they escape from us in every cherished breath
As they embrace us once more as we draw them back in
The sensation
This sensation that stings our eyes, draws our lids, draws our sight
Draws our thoughts
Inwardly, into our mind, as we fall back upon a cloud mattress
It embraces us, envelops us form within
She who inspires each breath
We wait for her in every wisp of night air
With every breath we let stray
Our hearts are rebuilt of hope
Hope that she would come, carried by our true heart, through our lungs
To meet us upon our cushion of clouds
With every breath we retake
Hope is shattered
As quickly as it is gone, as surely as our next breath
As surely as the next moment of our existence
Our life
Hope returns
We fall in trance
Our maiden, hidden in her caves
Drunken sleep takes her away
The world our maker
Whisks her into his forays
The swirling dusk, a grey breeze in the darkness
We are left behind, in the dark
Our desperate eyes cling to the distance
A spot light speaks to our sight
She is around the corner it says
This want from within
Inspires each breath, as we race to meet the light
As it inches ever away, we pound through the dark, panting
And we collide into her
In the cool night air
We close our eyes
She is there
Within
Our minds can picture nothing else, our eyes smile
Our lips quiver
With every breath.
© Samir Georges
2008