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Let's all sing a song and celebrate our Jester tb!

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  • Let's all sing a song and celebrate our Jester tb!

    TRAVAILS OF A LEAF



    A leaf fell from the Iroko tree

    Heading ever closer to the waiting jaws of the rodent

    Slavering fangs

    A fearful portent

    Causing the fruit of Ceres, to cry out for mercy



    Wretched involute of green

    Teased by the cruel laws of Newton

    Sailing ever closer into the triangle

    Triangle? O yea, a triangle

    Of Calcium, HCl, and Ptyalin



    At last judgment was made in Zion

    A reprieve was granted for the Herbaceous

    Angel Ramnicol dispatched the wind Clophe

    To bear greenness from the abyss of pink.



    ON THE BANKS OF THE TIGRIS



    They have erected a monument

    On the banks of the Tigris

    Your gray obelisk O folly

    Pierces the desert sky

    Your ziggurat have they erected

    In your honor O foolishness



    In your quest for the black milk

    Flowing beneath Al Sabah's golden sands

    You let the ravager into your own home

    O son of Babylon



    They have erected a monument

    On the banks of the Tigris

    Does a dwarf seize meat,

    grasped firmly in a giant's fist?

    Does folly push the rat,

    to wage war on the cat?



    You forgot the man who fed you bread

    In the conflict with Persia

    Or did you enjoy his loaves so much

    You desired them all



    They have erected a monument

    On the banks of the Tigris

    Does a man seek the wine of Fame

    only to drink the bile of shame?

    Does a Lion seek his power

    in the furnace of a fire



    I praise you for your miracles

    For turning the bride to a widow

    You have transformed a promising vineyard

    To a wasteland fruiting sorrows



    They have erected a monument

    On the banks of the Tigris

    Did you seek the throne of all Arabs?

    Only to cripple the throne of your saber?

    Did you not look beyond the shadow

    to sight the substance above?



    Today fierce winds bend the desert palm

    Blown from the north and south

    You reply with showers of napalm

    Proving you have learnt nothing



    They have erected a monument

    On the banks of the Tigris

    Did you eye the fat of invasion,

    only to find the bones of reparation?

    Did a thief bungle his plan of robbery?

    Only to find himself a victim of robbery?



    Today you queue for food

    at the blue and white gates you scorned

    Now that the blistering western wind

    has pried loose your deathlike grip



    They have erected a monument

    on the banks of the Tigris

    Your monument indeed O folly

    is spread red on desert sands



    Why should your countenance smoke?

    When you hear my song

    You let the ravager into your own home

    O son of Babylon


    * Dedicated to those lives needlessly sacrificed in the gulf war.


    CHALLENGING WASTELANDS



    Once again

    I seek my vision

    on the wide plains

    of pulpy trees



    In the inky path

    traced by my traversing

    across the empty desert plain

    I come closer

    Ever closer

    To elusive Ifa



    I read out your hidden tracks

    In my own colored tracks

    Etched out

    On the pristine surface

    Of the wilderness

    of papyrus



    Ifa:

    Oracular Ifa

    You are the destination

    The precious elixir

    Sought after by many pilgrims

    Riding weeping javelins

    Leaving the marks

    of their teary passing

    On the face of the blank veldt



    At last

    We find you Ifa

    in the arrival of restless verse

    In the map of her Mariner's journey

    Across the placid lake

    Your beautifying vision

    Lies therein revealed

    To dazzle the joyous eyes

    of your faithful pilgrims



    *Dedicated to those who create beauty, wielding the quill and pot of colored fluid.



    VERSES FROM A SINGING TREE



    I caught a verse

    from a singing tree

    So said the silvery crescent

    to the breezy king



    It sang of events

    In the sad country

    Of how they throttled their conscience

    Killed the nine dissenting



    Nine great children,

    on the tenth of the eleventh

    Died the day wickedness

    donned the garb of truth



    On that day my silver crescent turned red

    As the red earth turned blue

    Poisoned by the perverse madness

    Vile injustice brews



    What is this madness?

    That befouls our fair land

    Murdered our little Poet,

    for saying, waste not my land



    For crying, waste not the earth

    For crying, rob not my land

    For saying give us a fair share

    of nature's gift from the past



    So they had to shut his mouth

    They had to stop his quest

    They had to block the path

    of these restless men



    But how do you stop, the demanding man,

    When his cause, is only just and fair?

    You discredit with a charge of murder

    You bury both man and cause in death



    Thus was born they idea crude

    In the minds of barbarous men

    To frame little Ken, with gallant crew

    Ruining them all through courts perverse

    So came onto stage the courts for Kangaroos

    A drama of lies and senselessness

    Hurled crew of nine at hangman's noose

    To satiate the blood lust, of perverse men



    We watched the corrupter work, with Horror, with Chill,

    Chill at the perversion of justice's realm

    A new age of the witch hunt, is born to kill

    All who dare oppose the Tyrant's quest.



    TO A SON OF AZANIA



    Faithful black acolyte

    Of the temple of Hippocrates

    You were schooled

    in the wisdom of healing

    To husband earthen vines



    Yet

    You became

    Much more than that

    Uche!

    Falcon!

    that perched on the crimson bough

    You became

    much more than that



    You became doctor

    Of our souls

    You bound our wounds

    With the liniment of hope

    Stanching the flow

    of our despair


    You offered us remedies

    The pill

    of non-violent confrontation

    The injection

    of black consciousness

    The serum

    of our past history



    You gave us

    new garments of dignity

    And put into our eyes

    The ointment of hope



    You diagnosed with boldness

    New leprosy on Robben

    You prescribed the cure

    A miraculous cure

    The sacred balm

    Of justice



    I speak of you

    Biko!

    Spirit of the ripe palm nut

    In your sad passing

    You gave us oil

    Sweet red oil

    Of our coming victory



    They said

    You were just a Kaffir

    You were

    Just a lying Tortoise

    A miserable Lizard

    With his portion

    in the dust



    Yet

    You became

    Much more than that

    Uche!

    Falcon!

    that perched on the crimson bough

    You became

    Much more than that.



    *Dedicated to our beloved hero, Steve Biko; Hero of Azania. Who poured out his crimson breath, to water our orchard of Liberty.
    *Uche: (Yala word for Falcon)



    MEDITATION



    Wind

    Blow me to the land

    Where the air is never jostled



    Thought

    Elevate me to the place

    Where all gray cells sleep

    Take me to the world

    Where rain falls without water



    Take me where

    All senses coalesce in the vortex



    Where

    I see with my ears

    I hear with my nose

    I smell with my eyes

    The veil of Maya is rent

    And Uhu at last

    Flies free.


    *Maya: (Hindu goddess of illusion)
    *Uhu: (Yala word for spirit.)

  • #2
    TRAVAILS OF A LEAF



    A leaf fell from the Iroko tree

    Heading ever closer to the waiting jaws of the rodent

    Slavering fangs

    A fearful portent

    Causing the fruit of Ceres, to cry out for mercy



    Wretched involute of green

    Teased by the cruel laws of Newton

    Sailing ever closer into the triangle

    Triangle? O yea, a triangle

    Of Calcium, HCl, and Ptyalin



    At last judgment was made in Zion

    A reprieve was granted for the Herbaceous

    Angel Ramnicol dispatched the wind Clophe

    To bear greenness from the abyss of pink.



    ON THE BANKS OF THE TIGRIS



    They have erected a monument

    On the banks of the Tigris

    Your gray obelisk O folly

    Pierces the desert sky

    Your ziggurat have they erected

    In your honor O foolishness



    In your quest for the black milk

    Flowing beneath Al Sabah's golden sands

    You let the ravager into your own home

    O son of Babylon



    They have erected a monument

    On the banks of the Tigris

    Does a dwarf seize meat,

    grasped firmly in a giant's fist?

    Does folly push the rat,

    to wage war on the cat?



    You forgot the man who fed you bread

    In the conflict with Persia

    Or did you enjoy his loaves so much

    You desired them all



    They have erected a monument

    On the banks of the Tigris

    Does a man seek the wine of Fame

    only to drink the bile of shame?

    Does a Lion seek his power

    in the furnace of a fire



    I praise you for your miracles

    For turning the bride to a widow

    You have transformed a promising vineyard

    To a wasteland fruiting sorrows



    They have erected a monument

    On the banks of the Tigris

    Did you seek the throne of all Arabs?

    Only to cripple the throne of your saber?

    Did you not look beyond the shadow

    to sight the substance above?



    Today fierce winds bend the desert palm

    Blown from the north and south

    You reply with showers of napalm

    Proving you have learnt nothing



    They have erected a monument

    On the banks of the Tigris

    Did you eye the fat of invasion,

    only to find the bones of reparation?

    Did a thief bungle his plan of robbery?

    Only to find himself a victim of robbery?



    Today you queue for food

    at the blue and white gates you scorned

    Now that the blistering western wind

    has pried loose your deathlike grip



    They have erected a monument

    on the banks of the Tigris

    Your monument indeed O folly

    is spread red on desert sands



    Why should your countenance smoke?

    When you hear my song

    You let the ravager into your own home

    O son of Babylon


    * Dedicated to those lives needlessly sacrificed in the gulf war.


    CHALLENGING WASTELANDS



    Once again

    I seek my vision

    on the wide plains

    of pulpy trees



    In the inky path

    traced by my traversing

    across the empty desert plain

    I come closer

    Ever closer

    To elusive Ifa



    I read out your hidden tracks

    In my own colored tracks

    Etched out

    On the pristine surface

    Of the wilderness

    of papyrus



    Ifa:

    Oracular Ifa

    You are the destination

    The precious elixir

    Sought after by many pilgrims

    Riding weeping javelins

    Leaving the marks

    of their teary passing

    On the face of the blank veldt



    At last

    We find you Ifa

    in the arrival of restless verse

    In the map of her Mariner's journey

    Across the placid lake

    Your beautifying vision

    Lies therein revealed

    To dazzle the joyous eyes

    of your faithful pilgrims



    *Dedicated to those who create beauty, wielding the quill and pot of colored fluid.



    VERSES FROM A SINGING TREE



    I caught a verse

    from a singing tree

    So said the silvery crescent

    to the breezy king



    It sang of events

    In the sad country

    Of how they throttled their conscience

    Killed the nine dissenting



    Nine great children,

    on the tenth of the eleventh

    Died the day wickedness

    donned the garb of truth



    On that day my silver crescent turned red

    As the red earth turned blue

    Poisoned by the perverse madness

    Vile injustice brews



    What is this madness?

    That befouls our fair land

    Murdered our little Poet,

    for saying, waste not my land



    For crying, waste not the earth

    For crying, rob not my land

    For saying give us a fair share

    of nature's gift from the past



    So they had to shut his mouth

    They had to stop his quest

    They had to block the path

    of these restless men



    But how do you stop, the demanding man,

    When his cause, is only just and fair?

    You discredit with a charge of murder

    You bury both man and cause in death



    Thus was born they idea crude

    In the minds of barbarous men

    To frame little Ken, with gallant crew

    Ruining them all through courts perverse

    So came onto stage the courts for Kangaroos

    A drama of lies and senselessness

    Hurled crew of nine at hangman's noose

    To satiate the blood lust, of perverse men



    We watched the corrupter work, with Horror, with Chill,

    Chill at the perversion of justice's realm

    A new age of the witch hunt, is born to kill

    All who dare oppose the Tyrant's quest.



    TO A SON OF AZANIA



    Faithful black acolyte

    Of the temple of Hippocrates

    You were schooled

    in the wisdom of healing

    To husband earthen vines



    Yet

    You became

    Much more than that

    Uche!

    Falcon!

    that perched on the crimson bough

    You became

    much more than that



    You became doctor

    Of our souls

    You bound our wounds

    With the liniment of hope

    Stanching the flow

    of our despair


    You offered us remedies

    The pill

    of non-violent confrontation

    The injection

    of black consciousness

    The serum

    of our past history



    You gave us

    new garments of dignity

    And put into our eyes

    The ointment of hope



    You diagnosed with boldness

    New leprosy on Robben

    You prescribed the cure

    A miraculous cure

    The sacred balm

    Of justice



    I speak of you

    Biko!

    Spirit of the ripe palm nut

    In your sad passing

    You gave us oil

    Sweet red oil

    Of our coming victory



    They said

    You were just a Kaffir

    You were

    Just a lying Tortoise

    A miserable Lizard

    With his portion

    in the dust



    Yet

    You became

    Much more than that

    Uche!

    Falcon!

    that perched on the crimson bough

    You became

    Much more than that.



    *Dedicated to our beloved hero, Steve Biko; Hero of Azania. Who poured out his crimson breath, to water our orchard of Liberty.
    *Uche: (Yala word for Falcon)



    MEDITATION



    Wind

    Blow me to the land

    Where the air is never jostled



    Thought

    Elevate me to the place

    Where all gray cells sleep

    Take me to the world

    Where rain falls without water



    Take me where

    All senses coalesce in the vortex



    Where

    I see with my ears

    I hear with my nose

    I smell with my eyes

    The veil of Maya is rent

    And Uhu at last

    Flies free.


    *Maya: (Hindu goddess of illusion)
    *Uhu: (Yala word for spirit.)

    Comment


    • #3
      Hey, Joo, where are you from? Did you write this yourself, or are you quoting another poet? Kind of interesting.

      Comment


      • #4
        Yes Guest.

        I was the mere vessel used by others in the "Golden temple of Wisom" to initially receive this words in our world.

        Yet no artist, should ever claim title to their work. In this light, they are not my poetry even though I wrote them.

        I remain a humble recipient of impressions that flew into my mind, borne on the celestial winds that blow from "Goloka Varndavana".

        It's good that you find them interesting. They may be horrible, terrible and nasty as brainless tb, USANY and Linda seem to think. The reader has a right to make a judgement!

        But I remain the faithful scribe and sadly I must afflict them with my so-called horrible poetry, just as they afflict me with their disgusting anti immigrant chauvinism!

        Do share some of your poetry with me, or that of any other artist/s you find worthy. I will appreciate that very much and maybe the above-mentioned three fools will gain some benefit, that will take their silly no-minds of hurting people for a change.

        Comment

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