Thursday, June 23, 2011

Visions/Mtazamo -- June 21, 2011





MY DREAM/Gerry Bukini (the Anonymous Poet)


My dream, I dream
The beginning
Inception
No theme, no frame
The beginning
With no perception
Paradox
Paralyze my imaginary world
Running on every imaginary hall
Wonderland incisors
Causing my brain seizures
Half sane, half amnesia
Scared of these freaky militia
Or chasing thy geishas

Now dream turns to a new dream
Fantasy
Swimming on cream
Dream and a dream
Dream while dreaming
Dream I want to live in
On mine, yours and thems
Soon it tickles my skin
I’m in a new world
No…old world
Which was meant to be real
Where there are things you can feel
But none of them can heal
Or take me to my mesmerized hill
Like my dream healed
New world
Old world
I feel old
Back to carrying my heavy loads
Take me back to my dream


DEATH OF SAID THE POET/Said Suleiman

In my wet eyes
filled with non-stop tears
in a bloody, horrifying vision
I can see a ghost-like figure
with all his killing tools
facing me with all his might
while I’m laying there helplessly
eager to slaughter me mercilessly
as if I’m butcher’s commodity
to be marketed on Sunday morning
Staring at me, the ghost-like figure
his eyes, the product of fire
blinding my eyes
so that I can’t see the prevailing evils
his voice, an example of thunder
deafening my ears
so that I can’t hear of the cheating-speeches
his blow on my head, a bang of falling tree
destroying my wits
so that I can’t challenge the brutes
his sword, as sharp as lion’s teeth
chopping my tongue
so that I can’t talk of liberation
his strength, as powerful as tsunami blow
controls my arms
so that I can’t write criticisms
his hundreds claws, tear into my throat
terminate my soul
so that I can perish while attempting
But the spirit of the brave
changes the bloody, horrifying vision
into promising and likely-to-change vision
for instead of perishing while attempting
I shall live while succeeding!

I THOUGHT I SAW YOU/Eleanor Griplas

I thought I saw you
It was just a glance
A brief moment in a host of visions
- just a chance
But I thought I saw you

Was it a vision of you?
A trick of the light
Or the light playing tricks
with my mind or my sight.
But I thought I saw you

I want to see you
Maybe even need to
when you want something enough,
can you make it come true?
But I thought I saw you

In my mind’s eye
Is that where you stay
Hiding out in the depths of my head
 in an abstract world that's not far away
but I thought I saw you

You have no now
no future, just a past
Memories stay strong and clear
my visions of you will stay to the last
But i thought I saw you

Does it matter
Do we have to be sure
Should the uncertainty worry me
Between fact and fiction the distinction is poor
But I know I saw you...

And I smiled.

VISIONS OF BEAUTY/Thomas Green

Visions of beauty
Are subjective you see.
Could be a man who truly looks like a lawyer
He could fit the bill, and beautiful be.

Depends on your perspective
The strength of young adulthood in his veins
That look of power in his square jaw
Could be, he should be so vain.

With perfect smile , perfect nose,
perfect lips, perfect skin,
Oh such perfection one knows
 inspires awe,
His lean strong adult body
My case he will certainly win.

From another perspective
The young woman be fair
Her perfect skin and youth project her
As something special without compare.

Her plump lips are all the fashion
She definitely can turn one’s eye.
Would that she were beside me
Her sweet appearance, I  cannot deny.

She be like her soft silken dress
As it slides ever so softly by and by
That silky soft softness
across her youthful toned thighs.

How can one woman so beautiful
Be mine and only mine.
She might could pull the wool
Over my dumb-stricken eyes

Hardly true
Unbelievably true
It could be one, could be two

Now perspective one must choose
My one , not two beautiful visions
Which one should they be?
YOU be the one true vision of beauty
 by my side, we shall always be.        


SOOTHSAYERS SAY…/Thomas Green

The end of days is upon us
The world as we know it must end
Many soothsayers say and repeat thus
Our pitiful end is just around the bend.

They say as they drone from their pulpits
They broadcast on their radio shows
Yes, they write it in the Newspapers
 It must be true! It’s on TV don’t you know.

Charles Manson was about Helter Skelter
Racial strife and cataclysm rattled their minds
For some there was no safe shelter
From drugged-up murderers stalking in time.

Remember that poor group in Uganda
Believed in the Ten Commandments of God
Their leaders trapped them with propaganda
Locked them in a church fire where they did meet God.

Now Jim Jones was a hell of a speaker
To Guyana’s dense jungle they fled
Where they practiced a new social order
Congressman Ryan came, to Jim Jones’s dread

Here drink KOOL AID from this beaker
A concoction of obvious dread
900 or so died a death none more bleaker
Their new world order certainly dead.

Nostradamus  gave us written predictions
Of future visions he decidedly saw
Supposedly a prophecy nonfiction
To be believed as truth without flaw

Interpreters translate his works with conviction
predictions they ultimately redraw
persuading us to believe without contradiction
What they say Nostradamus wrote and saw.

We tend to believe what we read on thin pages
Newsprint columns describe what say sages.
A nonfiction or two
might offer us clues
To what to believe from those long past ages.

Religious books contain truth in abundance
How to and not to proceed with our lives
But with grain of salt I myself will I take them
As pure truth over ages survived.

It could be the today,
It could be tomorrow
What soothsayers say? Don’t matter a bit
They deceive us with their cataclysmic sorrow.

NGAZI MIA: BODY BUILDING AT THE HINDU CREMATORIUM/Amanda Leigh Lichtenstein
One hundred steps up and down
The body burned or built
To meet the demands of the hour
Gods of muscle, Gods of death
Perfecting form, destroying it
All in a day’s breath.

The body muscled, sundrenched
The body fragile, pruned
One hundred steps up and down
Wearing Adidas gear or death gown
Push-uppers pushing up against
The rusted metal rods of death’s bed,
Black coal scattered beneath,
Just steps away from the ocean’s mouth
Open wide, to swallow us whole.

There, among ashes scattered, little boys’ bodies glisten
In shiny wet blankets of ocean wave, heads bobbing,
Eyes wide, screeching with delight. Their friends
Are the crows, perched at death’s cliff, cawing
Like cantors, early evening blues.
Twilight rushes in, their skin
Saturate with living, vitamined
and grinning with the day’s luscious rays.

Hard to imagine this place
Where local boys headstand and cartwheel
Down those one hundred steps,
While others, wrapped in prayer shawls
Go down and never return, souls set free
To reach for farther shores, soul set free
From the desire to be strong.

Hidden in the trees, behind the crematorium’s
Rusted metal gates, Om shanti shanti
One hundred steps up and around
Jogging ocean side and then back up
Through lush green leaves.

Stretching, karate-chopping, leg-lifting
Head-standing, hand-standing, running
Against each wave, or towards it,
Diving, swimming, leaping, splashing
Life in all its forms,

Mastering the form
That will eventually fail us,
Or will we fail our form?

Here it is, life pushing back against death,
The muscled nexus, fire and breath, bone and skin:
Faith as flesh exercising its right
To press against the cracked stone of reality:

That our muscles bloom and atrophy,
Our minds, neurological kitchens,
Flicker on high and simmer low.
Our hearts, not unlike red kites
Tied to their arterial strings,
Just one day let us go,
Carrying us from one life
To the next.