Jan 9, 2018

Torch

1 comment

An image so symbolic- A beacon of freedom to All those who from afar Have come to terms with How beautiful and noble It would be to Willingly feel the Warmth of their Boiling blood as it spills And fills the Streets with a crimson sea To die while raising a fist Shouting out against oppression Standing against injustice All the while Dreaming of freedom Some meet their fate With a passion in their core A flame that burns Into the night Like lady liberty's torch While some lay in those Endless crimson street seas Others through their sacrifices Quietly flee under the Cover of night's Star spangled skies With dry lips and tired feet Their hopes kept warm by Dreams of that undying flame North-star of immigrants Torch of lady liberty Fuels their will to endure An age old vision Drawing them in To walk the paths of Purple mountains majesty Only to end their journey Listening to a Symphony of insults Working forty eight Hours a day Fourteen days a week A dream deceased Fear of being cast out Justifies their willing Societal disappearance as They now walk silently Amongst the invisible Afraid of even asking For a helping hand Illnesses of those Young and old alike Go untreated as Acceptance of inhumanity Becomes a singular reality So now what of that torch They ask themselves Today its flame seems A mere spark in comparison to The wildfire burning within The citizens, the bureaucrats, and The politicians whom So conveniently forgot They too come from A long line of immigrants Who arrived here with the Very same hopes and dreams Yet they are only spoken of When wolves in suits Put on their brightest of smiles and With false promises Of immigration reform Gather that much needed Latino vote Which strengthens their campaigns Earning them a position Of privilege They sit behind Solid cherry oak desks Leaving the immigrant On a never ending campaign Of tending to the fields Laying tile, repairing roofs, Landscaping the lawn, and Washing the windows of High rise buildings Suspended, peering in From the outside Looking into the offices whom Provide those very Goods and services That will never Be of any benefit To the invisible families Those souls run out of time Overworked and underpaid Marginalized and demoralized They die silently Looking beyond the pasture Still believing the flame of Lady liberty's torch Would remember them As it did others who Dared risk it all For a dream.......

 

Jan 10, 2018

Very moving to the soul. Nicely penned!

New Posts
  • SILENCE WITHOUT; TURMOIL WITHIN The rage of the many failed promises Expectations gone awry Stillborn dreams battered and trampled Fires within consumed with the thought ‘I can be more’ ‘I am more’ Endless waits for new springs, new dawns Hopings, longings, thirstings, needings Hearts parched for lack of passion No streams, no rivers, no seas, no lakes No satiation for my empty soul Endless numbing days of familiar toil The same empty tasks again and again Till weary, torn, bedraggled forlorn Despaired of hope awaiting the end Emptiness within hopelessness without But of trouble there is no end Man is born for trouble Hounding him with despair and struggle Till the empty shell is lowered to the grave And the permanent silence remains By Faminu Imabong
  • We’ve entered a foggy time Where only the insane are truly free Politicians thrive With agendas where their brains should be. Where “dialogue” is shouted curses Wielded like dull-edged swords And our defense against this loud banality Our faces sunken into phones, terminally bored. We no longer slouch towards Bethlehem But think its existence is just fake news. The truth is no longer a solid thing But a clay molded with our views. I’ll not try to do what Didion did, I’ve neither the competence nor the need To walk around in different shoes In glasses smoked with weed. I’ll just erode in peace here dark While the world in every direction implodes to dust. The red of it not iron-based – Eternal quiet the only end to our distrust.
  • Etréstles asks oblation to the unfortunate of the World .. he asks to give his offering House that is not his house, to synchronize your departure to be in the company of Solitude, He does not have his sacred Cemetery before leaving for Nineveh ... He has disappointed himself of the Archpriest of Ayia Lavra for his strong telluric pains in his marble abdomen ... The holy oil that furrowed his forehead, furrowed his soul he has not recognized himself when his own umbilical nap has flourished a wafer of the Messiah who has traveled alongside him by the pavilions of Messolonghi in clarions rubies .. My father Staktos; come, I have not yet received the indulgence of abandoning what is not abandoned, I need to hear your voice from my sixth reincarnation playing on the roads of the oracles that illuminate the world, which is yours and the Messiah Choir on the Magdala heavens . Father I have not yet gone, and so many lives I have lived to see your distant face on grass barley resembling your breaths of late sunny spring celestial sermon sermons. But this time I want to cheer you beyond the imagination of eclectic anemia, with the aching pain descending through my impure heart. Nothing torments me more than to move away from the hells that do not know that I run through the prairies towards you without getting tired, imagining that I will fall into the neglect of your forgetfulness. I quickly lose my Laud from my right arm as a short-handed little fish, to commit the indiscretion of anticipating me to worship you with my dislocated left arm that carries the Harp from Lethe confiscated from Euterpe. Harmony that ignores Dinora in the false forests of Messolonghi in flames. You are my cobble who pierces the cries of my crucified hands, timbers of lymph incense next to the sweetness of your words that grew green in my dreams. Challenge with this interloquy of your incandescent soul, this is how The Last Temptation of Etrestles begins with its bleeding fingers, in the inflexible forgiveness of praising all those who want to dance with the mothers of the Shadows; that Staktos is his father, before reviving him and resuscitating him in his exodus to Nineveh, land hunched over by the Host, tortuous and artificial light shone from the recklessness of him who will make him sleep through the desert of life in farewell fantasies. Winds are felt singing whistles of hydrogen sulphide rocking from the edge of the cliff of the cloud, to fall on the shoulders of the timid death, False Blood, clumsy blood to wash my feet on Virgo and Jupiter in the sand. . Father, in purgatory, make the sounds of the new dawn without any detail or gesture of repentance. Thus Etrestles receives the Eucharistic host offering in his holy mouth and runs down the corridors of the great mysteries of the Nothing of good spirit of all Mantle. To be continue…
About Us
Contact us
FOLLOW US
  • Wix Twitter page
  • Instagram Social Icon
  • Wix Facebook page
  • YouTube Social  Icon
Subscribe to Realistic Poetry today! 
1 Offical Member gif gold1m.png

© 2019 Realistic Poetry International LLC  D & C Inspiration

0