Come on big men of the world
You that owe the power
You have already had much money
To move on soldiers
You have already had much gold
To feel stronger
You have already had luxury palaces
To live comfortably safer in
And fields, ground, soil, trees,
Rivers, lakes and seas.
You have taken in everything your eyes can see to the horizon.
But do you really believe that your power will last forever?
Don’t you remember Ramses the Third,
Cyrus of Persia,
Babylonian King Nebuchadnezzar
Alexander the Great,
the emperor Augustus
and all the kings of the past up to Napoleon?
You’re now inventing new richness made of nothing
You’re exploiting the soil under its surface
And even you’re searching for more in the universe
Still cheating the poor!
Listen to the voice of the poet men of power:
don’t never forget
for whom God created all the things of the world!
Tim Horton, Tim Janis
Kofi Annan, In a scaffold that knots a shoeless
You are mincing me on a cutting board, these days
In pounds per pounding heart , with knives and bleesed hone
You were a father's lump and a mother's grace
And slowly in your ladder you learned to term these as art
Not those in Those Winter Sundays.
What did you do with that wooden frame?
Did you find the tree in ancestry?
In a writer's studio
Yes even without an autobiography
Surname, on a Harlem street, for one , Lucy Heo?
She is on learner's permit
Dreaming in off white in a bloodshed
That paid housekeeping in Ramses Two.
For a resume in pre-positioning Curator
Which rub will call prophecies of Moses through optical fiber
In Tele-communication.
For an analog togetherness, long gone, scare-crow , coo!
to exhibit digital exit, incognito, too.
From the far-flung reaches of the Sahel,
Where the sun kisses the earth and sets,
The land of Zulu, Opobo, Musa, and Mandela,
Home to Cleopatra and Ramses,
I bathe in the dunes of the Sahara,
Walking the path of the Masai Mara,
Climbing Kilimanjaro, swimming Oya and Osun,
All the way to the banks of the Nile.
I’m an Oba , a lost one in the wilderness of monumental slayer
I’m a man, a lion in the scorching Savannah
I’m a liar, living in Denial
In denial,
I rise, as the sun rises,
To live, as the lion lives,
To roar, as the earth roars,
To be free, as the Sahara is free.
You walk up to the microphone,
it is one of those old-time microphones
that almost hides the face behind it.
We celebrate ‘me’ like Walt the poet did.
I speak for you from behind a curtain
in the land of Ozymandias.
We are ruby slippers
worn by Ramses II who knew
the sum of one.
Percy Bysshe was an odd fish
but the point is not moot,
we are the root language - all of us
coming after the Word.
Behind that overly large microphone
all becomes a poem spoke by a seer,
she foretells of things to come through song.
Michelangelo high up in the gods
paints what he hears;
we who listen share
mystery books with each other.
Blind Roy O, sung for everyone
‘Only the Lonely’ can predict
what everyone knows already.
MARS...
The Shaman and the Planet Mars,
Gazing in wonder amid the stars,
Arms raised in worship,
Universe the Navajo church,
Ancient marvels to behold,
The human race timeless and old,
From Mars to Earth,
Did spaceships give berth?
Ramses' face on Mars,
Pondering Ptolemies from afar.
The Shaman honour singing,
Future and past aligning,
Gazing in wonder amid the stars,
The Shaman and Planet Mars.
My favorite star
on the darkest sky.
Your light is coming to me
throught abrest of times
and cold distances,
measured by milleniums
of light years travell.
Yes, what is have seen right now
and inspared me
had belonged to ancian times,
when lived Ramses and Nefertary.
But why the star
so impressed me
and I am not beliving
that what I have seen and felt
came to me from dead far distance?
Becouse love as a thought
break out all the basic phisic laws,
she has primerily occupaed all
around us,
she was really was born with uneverse
from hottest point.
So our feels have conquered this world instantly and comletely
and do not respect the dictats of times and spaces.
That's why
when I look for you
my heart know you feel me
that I love you
right now.
That is exact truly fact
according with quantum theory
and I prowe it soon,
my dear bright star.
At the rise of the sun-
I saw a flower stretch long,
Her vein glows,
And her barge of charms violently grows.
Shiny is the face
That allures Antony to its rays.
For her juicy nectar,
Pests gather.
In the community of her peers-
Her beauty is their fears.
As her skin’s opulence-
Transcends the rainbows
Caesar ticks for her intelligence,
Ptolemy sighs for her magnificence.
Like stars her grandness brightens
And infinitely heightens
Ramses II in his stance saw none,
Even Olympus in it majesty harboured none.
A type known to caterpillars,
But a kind kept from locusts.
Season of Olympus’ gate.
TRYING TO REVISE FOR ANCIENT HISTORY EXAM
What if Darius had beaten Alexander?
The outcome would have been a mystery
Such supposing makes me wonder
About the blank unwritten pages of history
Scan the book and each dog-eared leaf
Try to recall why some words are yellow
Search the notes in my untidy sheaf
I’m a casual-sower/chaotic-harvester fellow
I should have gone over the Romans again of course
And maybe studied the maps
Oh, what about those Greeks and their wooden horse?
Or the burning of Troy perhaps?
Seeds of war, four horsemen strewn -
Ramses and Moses full of anger and rage -
Tomorrow begin their battle at nine, but at noon
Defeat is written across my blank page.
HOAR FROST
Multi-fingered trees drowned in the mist
Mist like the cold hand of death coming to Ramses
Last night’s mist - purifying spirit
Enveloping all in the frost
Like a well-tended graveyard
Dead, silent, nothing moves
The ugly old dead trees - and
The lovely young live trees
Are levelled, enveloped,
Masked in a white shroud
Each tree - asleep, dead
Recreated in white
Born again of water and Holy Spirit
Ready to enter the kingdom of heaven.
All souls look alike
All the trees look alike
New souls reborn sinless
Souls of trees waiting
These ghost trees are not real trees
Their previous life forgotten, bees and pollen
All sensual feeling numbed
Their tree souls purified
Pure innocence - sin free
Prepared for tree heaven
Cold joy of heaven
Ah….the forgotten delights
Of being a larch or elder or oak.
The warmly imperfect summer life
a grandfather clock in the corner of the
room turns its grayhead and sounds.
it is the hour of salt... it is the hour of aged reason.
and i have lost all affection for the sweet naval of
oranges, which clamor one on top of another
on the kitchen table.
perhaps if i was an expressionist
i would express in driest terms the preservation
of ramses II, or the way of the fermented dill
pickles in the back of my refrigerator.
it is the hour of the second cup of coffee,
it is the hour of the coptic eulogy, and i am
as horus or osiris in the twelfth dynasty
at midnight.
now in the kitchen three chairs sit crookedly
next to me. with crystaline hands i gather
upon the table morton salt from the cupboard
and pour it into a gray dispenser.
i set it next to the fruit bowl with ornate
green vines drawn along the sides of it.
but it is the dried antiquities of cumin and
saffron that i seek.
i seek the harbinger of life after life.
but all i have is a 15 jar tiered spice
rack sitting on a shelf across the room
and a little less time.
While the moon shines bright o’er the Sphinx
In a land of sand so far
A pharaoh holds his dying son
While praying to a star
He challenged the word presented him
His feelings never bent
Upon him then a curse was placed
As death to the son was sent
The first born child was marked with death
As a result of his father’s denial
Had the pharaoh heeded the word
No death would be on the Nile
But, alas, he hadn’t, many had died
As a result of his own ignorance
Lives could have been spared, had he listened
And bowed to His magnificence
I look at my brother and what do I see?
I see big cheeks and a jolly smile
Innocence and curiosity tammed and wild
I see a strong man to be
one that could rewrite all the books of history
I see a stature so grand in scale
that he could build a empire as large as the grandest tale
I see strength, convicition along with unmeasurable compassion
but if crossed a fury that resides that would make mighy men come down
crashing
I see a man that will love his kids and wife
he will rule with a pen, and a double edged knife
When I look at my Brother I see a king
One who I would be glad to kneel before My brother's keeper I sing
I love him because I know he loves me
but more importantly he loves the world you see
My job is too never let that go away,
my job is too make him remember who and what we are every day
We are kings and queens, but sometimes we forget we have that trait
Cleopatra, nefertiti, Hannibal, Tutankamun, and Ramses (the Great)
It is time to remember that before it is too late
When you look at your Brother what do you see?
Hopefully you see what I see, A king to be.
in this small village,
we have but one diner
I've sampled their menu before
and have but one complaint
the toast they serve with breakfast
seems like it came from bread
baked at the time of Ramses II
I wonder if I'm crazy,
It seems as though I am
I'm puzzled by so many things
Like what makes grape jelly
different from grape jam?
Or how anyone could have such low self-esteem,
To let their dumb commercials run
Are we to follow the dinosaurs?
And disappear beneath the sun?
Or how I could be so brain-dead
To find in my refrig,
Some food from the time
of the reign of Ramses,
How could I be so dumb?
The very thought, it scares me,
Makes my mind go numb.
Everything I buy or own,
I seem to lose real quick,
Is there a brain tumor inside me?
Or am I just mentally sick?
Too caught up in great thoughts?
Or just too gosh darn thick?
Sometimes I I find I wander
Into a room, and can't remember why
Is this for people normal?
Or did my brain just fry?
I guess there's no good reason,
To worry about things like this,
Sometimes your brain's on target
Sometimes it just can't help but miss.
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