Out comes the storm
In a galloping parade
Of silver and iron
Honour masking the greed of men
In the rattling and dim wilderness
The rituals and the songs
Are ready to be extinguished
By those who rule over gods
And then a fatal sob
Pierces through the still ether
And the keepsakes of ages
Are washed away in a river the colour of blood
- A paradise is lost
And she dashed out of that darkness
Leaving behind her potions
And the archeology of knowledge
Clotted with blood of the wise and the heathen
Sacrificed onto an unfaithful god
On top of a sun-brimming temple
But the men came for her
As they always do
Filled with lust and rage
Gnawing, ripping, mutilating
That dark sacred flesh
Discarded on the wet ground
And she strode deeper and deeper
The wild one of her tribe
With only traces of echoes
Of the only voices she had known
But there are no voices here
They remain only as effigies
On dirty marble of the victors
- Silencio.
Oh Almighty God
end this genocide on Gaza
move demons away
Al Juman style haiku © 1/12/2025
hate is an internal cry
burning salt drips of anger
steaming for justice
Al Juman style haiku © 1/12/2025
marauding foxes
mutilating fruit
minutemen mischief-makers
marching upon us
pick our pockets
laugh at our loss
“No mangoes for sale”
maimed, mangled, mashed
sweetness shamed
to death
ants and gnats feasting
off illicit mango chutney
sly scamps
evade
like Bolt-pace
their intake
of fruit sugars
insufficient for catching
robust diabetes
enfeebling the fiends
abducting limbs, or a pedactyl
soulful eyes stare with jeers
sailing
mimicking
bold breezes
through the trees
as I could never
in the canopy of my Caribbean youth
under mother's God-eye
girls outclimbed me
wearing puffy petticoats
and cumbersome cornrows
to perpetrate petite thefts
of mangoes
They gave our children mind altering
poisonous drugs to eat,
and we said thank you.
They gave our children excessive violence
and sadistic sex films to see,
and we said thank you.
They performed mutilating surgery
on our children’s' genitals, and we said
thank you.
They turned public education into
propaganda and indoctrination,
they blasphemed God and Faith,
they took away our free speech,
took away our free and fair elections,
murdered children about to be born,
telling us to bend over again
this next election --
thank you
thank you
thank you
thank you
thank you
thank you.........................................
The aging street mourns its faded splendor.
It remembers having red tulips and roses
in manicured, fertilized, emerald lawns
in community yards lining its borders.
But neighborhoods gradually decayed,
and nobody’s planted flowers in years.
The asphalt’s once-black fresh-tar patina
is now gray and chockfull of countless cracks.
In those rifts grow rows of feral weeds
that no person planted or wanted.
Rooted in forgotten fissures of the world,
weeds lift their hearts and heads toward the sky.
Survivors of severe environments,
baked by blazing sun, infrequently watered,
deprived of easy access to nourishing soil,
and squashed by droves of mutilating tires.
Yet, still the stalwart weeds survive,
paragons of beautiful resilience.
Glamorous, fragile flowers are transient.
Plain, ordinary weeds are forever.
For humans who feel our messy lives
are more like run-over weeds than roses,
weeds’ wild fortitude foreshadows
an unexpected, untamed eternity.
The spring of healing has its own anthem,
It takes the sand and the sun to mold an ornament of time,
Glaring upon the moving mirror that floats on cold water,
Blinded by a blaze set by the sins that made silent quivers run through the chambers of this once upon a time frozen heart,
Lightnings that run through the roof of these forsaken memories,
What is it about pain that makes evils seem soothe,
That makes wicked wounds under broken bruises,
No one mentioned how mending too can be mutilating,
How the unforgiving frosts crack and pierce through the lungs,
How igniting the sky full of light takes a sigh of ethereal lanterns,
Yet they come with a handful of sorrows and compassion,
Drawn from a dream to wish upon the moon that sparkles for a night of bliss,
Let us be amongst the hope once again,
alone as a whole,
The glistening gold in autumn,
The deepest line in kohl,
Forever we can be the ocean that flow,
Without a prey nor predator,
Just the living and the specs of salt.
The folded corners and wrinkled pages
of catalogs that were tattered and ripped
From the first of October until late in December
we drooled,
we fawned,
we lusted,
we swooned and giggled
mutilating each page
until the pictures faded.
Sears and Roebuck,
Monkey Wards
JC Penny’s,
Macy’s, Mattingly’s, K-mart.
Our wish list grew long
more than one sheet could hold
tears welled up with each toy crossed out.
Until the list was whittle down
Though the likelihood of getting any was nill.
But still
That’s why we called it the book of wishes.
If wants and wishes were hugs and kisses
There would be no need
to thumb through the pictures
and dream.
Perhaps imagination was the best Christmas gift
The 70's brought a wake-up call, embracing some needed change.
Some women with unwanted pregnancies were self-mutilating, so insane.
It seems we are now regressing like a patient who's demented.
Why would a women's right to choose now be legally circumvented?
Too many women lost their lives in a blood bath so obscene.
Botched coat hanger abortions and
other unsafe means.
Do you hear their voices?
Can you count their screams?
We have learned nothing, or so it seems.
Too many women's lives ended tragically.
Where are their death statistics?
Are we too blind to see?
God help a nation that forgets it's own history.
Juan tells you he is an immigrant, northern mexico
that he learned to speak english in iowa
and these coupled are the reason
Juan's accent is different
Juan is not mexican
Juan lives in fear of americans
Juan in america is a raghead
a camel jockey, sand
this is not unique to america
the world is filled with such
infidel, hymie, gentile, untouchable
the word hardly matters
the effect is achieved
somewhere in the stratum
there is a lesser being
and while all are not as such
there are more than enough
to keep men such as Juan
ashamed of their heritage
the most segregated hour is 10 a.m.
on sunday morning, those easy pieties
of the church bizarre
mr. jackson sits in front of his mirror
in a prominent section of los angeles
mutilating himself into a white man
sometimes society is so successful
in its emasculation
we become our own honkey
then again, how can we be asked
to give up our
when even god seems to refuse
Phoenix 93
roving black hole
devours
a misplaced life
somewhere
in the futile fog
of wandering warfare
it's baked in the cruel cake:
an ultimate deletion
is coming for us all
with groaning glee
we scratch an incendiary itch
under the hood of
a mutilating maelstrom
where cryptic terror gushes
from loose AI cannons
I fear it all
but there's nothing
to fear but
the imperfect
storm
I believed,
I saw peace rise from the ground
breathing his disease over the world.
and love, love
danced her tune over hate
mutilating him deep into hell.
and people turned,
seeing man's true colors, praising
their countries for lasting peace.
Jesus wept.
He saw his earth unite into his dream
all men can see.
and love and peace
pledged to walk the earth carrying
their message throughout eternity.
Contemporary hunters wielding 21st century weapons of influence
Firing indiscreetly upon blindfolded hostages that double as their clients
Mutilating their customer case before gutting them with ease
once they're expendable
Feasting upon the impoverished entrails
until there is not a shred of identifiable human flesh
Disturbingly convenient as it is prevalent
Once the remains cannot be recognized as human,
there is no chance, not even a miniscule possibily, of retribution
There is no face and no conscious voice
to demand justice for countless grievances
The corpses sink into the Earth where they
are subjected to further degradation
Posthumously polluted with the toxicity emanating from murderous mouths
Beach glasses and hourglass
One of those classic ones
One step I take towards you
Two steps backward
Sun rays blinded you from me
Or me from you
Thoughts clouded my vision
Maybe a skin too nightly
Bloody insecurities mutilating
This poor soul of mine
As it writhes in hunger
Desperate to be noticed
A poem I wrote
And walked boldly up to you
Fall you did
As my words were read
On my bed I lay
A lovely dream, I sigh
Peering through my window,
I see you walk by.
Going to church,
it’s Sunday morn down south
Giddy feet youngsters
racing to the door of the temple,
having shrieks of joy erupting from their mouth
They are so glad when they get ushered in
While the solemn congregation gathers within
to hear another fiery sermon delivered
with holy conviction
It’s hot down in Alabama, Birmingham,
as the sermon heat starts to kinetically expand
Explosive words demanding social justice
Old black folk hollering: Amen, amen!
They remember
what their parents told them
about how it was back then
And the tears fall ...
as they hear the cry for change,
because nothing much has changed
Then at the rise of the Alleluia cries,
a river of tears gushes out ...
after the bomb explode
Shattering young dreams, windows
and bodies
with terrible, mutilating shrapnel
Prayers of wails without words
from a charred church service is sadly heard
Dedicated to the memory of all the victims
who died during the civil rights struggle of the 60's
This poem was inspired by the poem, “Ballad of Birmingham,”
written by the late great black poet, Dudley Randall (1901 - 2000)
Silence clung to the weeping wind,
As the people lay huddled
In the cold hands of war.
Earth torn and blood stained
Beneath weary feet.
Echoes of destruction,
Hauntingly whisper in ravaged ears,
Mutilating the souls within.
Silence wept for the casualties of war.
Fires fed by rubbled heaps,
Buildings, but skeletal remains now,
Lay etched blackened against a red, smoke filled sky.
What once was home,
Now a graveyard of flames.
War torn lands
By greed consumed.
War torn lands
With hate infused,
Humanity all but failed.
Innocence pulled apart,
Ruled by monsters with blackened hearts.
With iron will stone fists hailed down.
Silence wept as the bombs dropped,
Silence mourns pitiful cries of fear,
Silence swept over the innocent
Upon who final judge and jury fell.
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