Young women give me back my heart
We were both walking down the aisle
(In a supermarket not a church)
I caught a glimpse of that sweet smile
Those brown eyes and black hair
I didn’t mean to stare
(but it was a volatile heart moment)
With you and me there
Passion spreads like a Molotov cocktail
Fires spread across my heart
The face of Venus, the space between us
Closes as I get closer to your grocery cart
I drop a note and get your attention
And say “Excuse me is this yours Miss”
On down the aisle and looking back at each other
(We are in a moment like this)
The note reads:
I am so glad you took my note
I wasn’t sure how to get it through
I am glad (though spontaneously)
(As summer winds gust) to have met you
ICE TO FRENCH LADY:
Show us your papers
Don’t tell us your story
Shut up!
Both hands up
What’s that flame?
A Molotov cocktail?
Get off your pedestal
And get in the car!
We don’t need no stinkin’ warrant
Get the pepper spray!
Ariana nodded, tremolo fingers,
and they ran across the killing field,
watching the steel-toed kite ascend—
a fleeting instant of triumph in the vacuum.
Josh scoffed as it dipped,
both caught in the pull of the abyss,
falling but not landing.
They took turns gliding it,
Bald headed eagles filling the air,
until it sank into the seabeds,
the depth charge igniting underground.
“Let’s see who can jump the highest,”
Ariana said, voice light but steady,
aiming to beat his rebound.
Josh clapped, mocking her.
“Ready to launch?” he asked,
handing her the Molotov cocktail.
His grandfather attacked mine
to remove him from land that grandpa had bought
Oozing hatred from deep in his gut
he'd force grandpa off of land that he sought
Then his father attacked mine
with molotov cocktails, homemade bombs
I asked my father, why not strike back
my dad was silent, a good answer he lacked
Now the grandson attacks me, ever more viciously
Yet the world shrugs it off, doesn't seem to see...
But when my family's attacked, when I strike back at terror
~ Why is it I, the Israeli, who's always in error?!
I grieve for those in Ukraine
Who woke up one day to find
The wolf at the door.
They do not fold,
They fight with everything in their arsenal.
Molotov cocktails, grandmothers with weapons,
Those brave enough to stand in front of tanks
All are images that will stay with me.
Their leader fights among them,
Proud Ukrainian man with a family of his own
His rallying cry is heard round the world; he fights for his country.
Hunt the wolf; end his reign of terror.
Catch the wolf in a trap, and let him wither and die.
grandma makes
molotov cocktail
freedom fights
with action
profanity in Ukraine
warm heart on warpath
3/1/2022
Give Me A Shadorma
Sponsor: Sotto Poet
If you want to take a trip to the moon,
you won't make it in a hot air balloon.
Where education is concerned, you didn't go far.
No, you can't order a Molotov Cocktail in a bar.
Kurt turned his white daddy in
for going to Washington
January 6 at the President's request
Kurt heeded the call, full of zeal and zest...
Amanda turned her black daddy in too
A Molotov cocktail he threw
At a white police officer in Portland
Unarmed and undermanned
Now Kurt's daddy's in jail
Amanda's is out with no bail
And that is the end of this
'With Liberty and Justice for All' tale
____________________________________
Note: Names have been changed to protect
all the parties involved.
Off to college he'd gone
a cheerful, optimistic fellow
laidback, easygoing, mellow
not one to boom or to bellow
But the folks there taught him
to be ashamed of his privilege
That due to his fair white skin
the college had let him in
They told him that his part-time job
served the corrupt capitalist mob
that he should get out there and protest
with all the strength he possessed
So he turned against the 'system'
rejected those who would kiss him
learned to make a Molotov cocktail
targeted a cop; now he's in jail
Yes, off to college he'd gone
a cheerful, optimistic fellow
He'll return home a bitter young man
robbed of hope ~ no future, no plan
I must admit I do enjoy watching the country unravel at times
That's what spices up a mundane life
makes us appreciate calmer times.
How I do enjoy watching the uncoiling mayhem
Martin Luther Kings and Drama queens
trying to ignite a darker form of change
(passive resistance and civil disobedience be damned).
How I do enjoy watching the uncoiling mayhem,
a combat sport at its very finest.
A twitchy thin blue battle line versus
a pulsing cluster of malcontents...
A mixologist's dream:
tumblers of tear gas
Molotov on the rocks
pockets of flaming shots -
Goblets of salt-rimmed shattering glass -
whirling cherry bombs and baton.
Wrestling matches-naval shots and Bloody Mary lips.
The Blue Man Group atop Battle horses
sirens and flares inter-coursing...
Wish I had the balls to join in the fun.
But I do the next best thing,
steer my recliner straight into the fracas.
Run, run, run from the outbreak of quaking terror,
but where can you go or hide because it's not done.
Trapped, in bitter anguish, hands cuffed behind your back,
it’s taken your pride, you'll remember forever.
The locust has been released from its amber cage,
reproducing, scatter millions, killing slowly
igniting a Molotov cocktail round beings
with its infected poison sting convulsing rage.
People are feeling pain from the quaking terror.
3/19/2020
Some say don't fear while others fret
On all of the happenings
We've struck a match to our past
"Now the house we've built is burning"
Our forefathers built with blood, sweat, and tears
The foundation we have here
Well into two hundred years
"What lessons are we learning"
The contract in which they wrote down
Constitutes sacred ground
Flick the Bic and burn it down
"Not worried over who we're hurting"
Generations yet to come
What will we be teaching them
That hard work makes great kindling
"Does anyone else find that disturbing"
Overtime it was bound to run its course
Now we know why Miss Liberty carries a torch
We tossed a molotov cocktail onto our own front porch
"Now the house we've built is burning
She had serious anger issues,
a walking time-bomb set to explode
Only took one untoward look
to make her lose all self-control
Sent her careening down the path
of a bleak penitentiary life
Another not-at-home mother
Another absentee wife
So what became of the husband you ask
Her ten-year sparring partner
On the first anniversary of
when her fiery blast went off
He was drunk driving ninety —
a blazing vehicular Molotov
Crash ... burn ... black hearst
When she heard news of his death,
she mourned him with a curse
So what became of the kids you ask
Five children left home alone
Got buried beneath the emotional rubble,
their innocence vaporized ... pppfftt!! ... gone
They were children conceived in make-up lust,
between rounds of fights royale
They were children raised in abject neglect,
destined to only experience living hell
They were children born without hope,
they were children born in the graveyard cell
They were children already dead,
lo, before their first breath was ever exhaled
-----------------------------------------------------
The Day the Drum Died/Dedicated to The Watts Drum Circle
It's festival time!...Congeros!...Timbaleros!...Same place same time
The Villager Caller is on the scene looking and waiting to do his thing
Start with a calypso rhythm...tap... tap...tap..tap...tap...tap...
One arrives with nothing but his pride
Another one comes with no drum...Then another but his ego won't let him
inside
The sacred drum circle in Watts once thrived...Every drum every color and
size...
Tumbas...Quintos...Djembes and Talking Drums too!!
What caused all this creative energy to subside?
Why slap these drums anyway?
This is a legacy of our African Ancestors
A commemoration of 1965 when Molotov cocktails flew by
Not Mongo! Not Berretto!...Get real and get down...
Otherwise, the generation to come will remember us and sing a sad song
called...The Day the Drum Died
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