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poetry

Satish Verma, 18 february 2014

COMFORT IN HOBBLING HOME

Washed by tears, the flame kindled again.
Crimson magma was quick to engulf
the drops on forehead. Fired from close range
the bullets opened the bloodgates in quick succession.
It should not have happened!
Therefore the journey resumes outside the good
or the evil. The rdx bombs are found at
your doorsteps and you watch helplessly the
murder on dining table.
Are you safe in linens of truth? The lip
gloss of diplomacy will work? The sea
was turbulent and a hijacked trawler was left
on waves with the shot body of captain.
Your hands are trembling on the knobs without
doors. Through the death I perceive a
child crying in the arms of a sobbing galaxy.
There were needles on the road and our
soles were bleeding.

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 17 february 2014

TOXIC

A toxic tongue laps the ocean
and fish goes to sleep at bottom.
I do not know from where to start.
A distraught candle flickers.
The blast victim was pregnant and
the foetal head got severed off in womb.

There were big holes in intelligence.
Raw fledgling. The evil existed
in every room. I was not able
to open a single door.

Because they were blind,
taking roots in soil of ancestral graves
on the name of god,
throwing blue stars
in the eyes of believers.

Satish Verma

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Kemms, 16 february 2014

Working One's Ass Off

Work a bit longer
Don't go home yet
There's nobody there
Nobody's waiting for you
We already have a lot
We even want more
So work a bit longer
For our economy

We'll pay you
Your hard work
Not nearly equal
To your effort
But work a bit longer
Nobody's waiting for you
As abundance's waiting for us
Only that matters

You have two jobs
And third and fourth sometimes
Not much free time
Not much money
It makes us happy
Loaded with plenty
You will always work
And never be happy

So work a bit longer
Marry the routine
Of endless torture
We'll pay you
With grey skin
Broken mind
Lonely nights
Only us matters ...

number of comments: 1 | rating: 3 | detail

Satish Verma, 16 february 2014

MY TABOO

Hollyhocks will not let me go;
hold my hands.
Shying away
they were turning to ashes.

In the night, wisteria
emanates a hungry cry.
Though wind had announced
sun has not kept the promise.

I gasp for the body silver
like ancient lust,
pure and paranoid –
asking for the head of a spider.

This non-violent resistance
seeks more space to pasteurize
the beautiful milk in gold containers.
A passion flower was going to melt.

Satish Verma

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jimmymac, 15 february 2014

5 Pointz

we wuz celebratin
40 years of Hip Hop
at 5 Pointz

dashing tags
reclaiming the
lost land

speaking for a
community of peeps
routed from their
last stand

making statements
about remembering

tellin stories
about ourselves

giving the drab
dead industrial
sarcophagi a
a face lift

freeing the
entombed
mummies
to let em
walk with
the living
again

seein things
in a new light

reciting our
biographies

writing an epic
autobiography

splashed across
3D murals

spoken in the
lexicon of
gobsmack
multicolored
neon graffiti

testifying to
the ages with
our urban
hieroglyphs

the symbols of
life in the hood
may history be our
witness to aromas
rising from cracked
pavements teaming
with bodegas,
public projects and
store front fantasies
played out in all its
grueling detail
on the corner of
walk don’t walk

them snaps
real down home
expressions
of real people

until some
capitalist
douchebag

his pockets filled
with low interest
money

whitewashed
it away

he thinks he
owns the
5 Pointz

he thinks
he can
erase our
memories
with a gallon of
Sherwin Williams

he thinks
he owns our
perdido
graffito

and is well
in his rights
to launder our
epiphanies over
with the bland
tag of privilege
he thinks his
dollar bills
can buy

we raised this
place from
the dead

that old warehouse
where men and women
once earned a paycheck
was murdered by
Michael Milken
and his posse of well
heeled predators
busy leveraging
livelihoods by
offshoring them
to Third World
plantations
transforming
the natives into
wage slaves
tagging this
strange alchemy
progress

now this
latest incarnation of
Morley’s Ghost stalking
Bloomberg’s Metropolis
haunts the neighborhoods
with a wrecking ball
of entitlement

razing our hood
to build soulless
high rises where
they'll warehouse
dead people
ginned up
on pilates,
chai tea and
elevating
themselves
through life
scoring the
latest fab
yoga gear
on the
urban outfitters
website

the frackers
are gobbling
the land

strip miners are
gnashing away
at the mountains

now the predators
are eating our art

always famished
never satiated
the beast gnaws
away at its
kill scattering
the bones of
of the living

but this
half assed
midnight
whitewash
will never stand

already images
of the holy ghosts
scrawled onto
the Wailing Walls
of 5 Pointz are
bleeding through
the veneer of a
landlords greed

and as the
future tenants
of the proposed
highrise columbarium
snooze away the night
dreaming of leading roles
in star studded schemes

we’ll be taggin
the streets
reciting our
righteous presence
until our last dying
aerosol breath
escapes our
paint stained
hands

Public Enemy:
Fight the Power

Oakland
11/20/13
jbm

http://nypost.com/2013/11/20/5-pointz-fans-try-to-retag-legendary-graffiti-building/

number of comments: 1 | rating: 2 | detail

jimmymac, 15 february 2014

Madiba

it is said that
a prophet finds no honor
in his own country

hard truths
boldly spoken
are received as a
wretched cacophony
threatening to melt
the caked wax
blocking the closed
intolerant ears of
intransigence

Madiba
once found no
personhood
in his homeland

his people driven
from their land
by Voortrekkers

snortling Boers
gobbling the land
uprooting native
people from villages
they had occupied
since the dawn
of time

spilling Zulu blood
into roiling rivers
of conquest

meeting peaceful
petitions of the
aggrieved with
Sharpsville bullets
splattering
the blood of
innocents onto
hardscrabble roads

redressing crimes
against the victims
by corralling them into
denuded Bantustans
where rivers do not
flow, grass never grows,
game cannot graze;
only the dust doth blow

riddling the captives
with torments of
Transvaal Apartheid,
mocking the speakers
of mother tongues with
the fained eloquence
of bastardized Afrikaans

the dominion of the
oppressors, sanctioned
and affirmed by exiling
a people from their land,
outlawing their language,
dividing the nations into
a fallacy of separate
destinies where a forgetful
history blessed with amnesia
will anoint the conquerors
with the spoils of abundance
stolen from the vanquished

Madiba spoke of these things
and was awarded a prison
cell for twenty seven years

but the hostages of
a conquerors justice
remained destined
to be freed by the arrival
of an accepted truth
set free by the very words
prophetically spoken

prisons cannot contain truth
steel bars cannot imprison
the idea of divine justice

it slips through the smallest openings
like a wafting fragrance of the first day of spring

it saws away at the rust strewn steel bars
like the surest movement of a master carpenter’s arm

it melts the thickest links of iron chains
in the fiery forges that burn in the hearts
of all freedom loving people

the truth of justice
is born and takes flight
on the wings of history
covering the globes
cardinal ordinates

nesting in the most
humble villages
and mean estates
on God’s good earth

truth and reconciliation
can never be separated
planted together to grow
healthy nations and
communities of
trust and restoration

Madiba, you always
found honor with
the salt of the earth
the children of light
who seek to dispel
the darkness of
acrimony and
domination

we continue to
walk your way
guided by your
prophetic visions
we take the first steps
asking liberators to join
with oppressors, pairing
in a magnanimous walk
along wholesome pathways
perceiving the buena vistas
of reconciled communities
firmly established
on foundations
of peace, equality
and justice for all citizens

I caught a fleeting glimpse of Madiba
as he rolled by in the Canyon of Heros
showered under a June blizzard of confetti
and a resounding acclimation of love.

I was a plebe inhabiting a lower floor
Broadway office, yet my station blessedly
brought me closer to Madiba. As he passed
I was moved by his miraculous smile and felt
the colossal reverberations of his waving arm
triumphantly hailing the sweet freedom of
liberation all hostages of feigned justice
exude in the vindication of divine justice
enraptured in the joy of affirmed truth.

Dearest Madiba
we are enriched
and blessed for
the time you walked
among us.

You fought
the good fight
my brother.

Rest easy
for we shall resume
the climb to
the next mountaintop.

Well done Madiba
Godspeed

Rolihlahla “Nelson” Mandela
7/18/18 - 12/5/13

Ladysmith Black Mombazo
How Long

Oakland
12/6/13
jbm

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jimmymac, 15 february 2014

Happy Birthday Jean-Paul Sartre

reveling in the unity of contradiction
the omnipresence of disjunction
the opaqueness of transparency
the anarchy of governance

the unknowableness of the zeitgeist
the banality of chiqueness
the slavery of fashion
kinda like being a hipster in Brooklyn

with no conscience of consciousness
or is it no consciousness of conscience?
one is a statement the other a dumb question
seeking an intelligent answer

truly the tragedy of comedy
or is it the comedy of tragedy?

enough of these silly questions....

why don't it just fall apart?
how does it stay together?

accessorize smartly
tight ensem
put together
right

Music Selection:
Jimi Hendrix
ifasixwas9

Oakland
6/21/13
jbm

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Len Gesinski, 15 february 2014

bez światła

bez światła(no light)----for T.I.

words and language
without sentiment
the raging
of internal fires
Oh, to hear the echoes
of just how dark emptiness…actually sounds
desperately reaching
only to always
fall just short…
attempting to
fill the void
left from/by
damaged yesterdays
interrupted dreams
warped reality
hurtful memories
hurt, where only love once should….
…could
might…
have been
damning realization
cutting into now…of this moment

I
see the darkness
far deep
beyond your eyes
I
sense the void
where your heart….
once was
and
all is explained

bez światła©Leonard.C. Gesinski All Rights Reserved(10/24/2013)

http://leng64.wordpress.com

number of comments: 3 | rating: 3 | detail

Len Gesinski, 15 february 2014

Moonbeams

Moonbeams
For "Shifted By the Moon" Theme

dancing the dance
harlequin strut it just might appear to be
the keener eye
noticing the finer details, it’s all in the repetitions
simplicity in rhythms
eventually resting in the confluence
casting thine spell
reducing our human inhibitions
dancing and twirling
blinded and deafened in our spellbound glory
antipathy all vanquished
nakedness finally revealing
nomads
we all really are
one and the same
under the moonlight

Moonbeamsalternate©Leonard.C. Gesinski All Rights Reserved(01/29/2014)
http://leng64.wordpress.com/2014/01/29/moonbeams/

number of comments: 0 | rating: 4 | detail

Satish Verma, 15 february 2014

MEDALS AND AWARDS

In a school of murder a hub of
terror survives.
An acid attack on face
captures the contradictions of first nervous countdown.

Step aside my truth, my tears
are under siege. The schizophrenic
will draw a landscape
of falling earth.

Tonight a visual poem will come alive
on a dirty screen of life.
Words were written like mercy
on the hands.

Why the face wears no smile?
Hard core pornography of blueberries survives
amidst the shooting and explosions.
The nymphs were waiting in the heaven!

Satish Verma

number of comments: 0 | rating: 0 | detail

10 - 30 - 100

Latest items:

poetry

COMFORT IN HOBBLING HOME

TOXIC

Working One's Ass Off

MY TABOO

5 Pointz

Madiba

Happy Birthday Jean-Paul Sartre

bez światła

Moonbeams

MEDALS AND AWARDS

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