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HYMN FOR SYRIA

2 Aug


Oh Saladin! Where are you?!
Crusaders occupy the streets of Aleppo!
Heed the calls to prayer of Ibn Asakir!
Seek the sacred Mihrab Sahaba
And repel from the walls of your Holy Sanctuary!
—–
Narrow alleys of saffron ashlars
Cobbled cardamom walnut streets of honey
Umayyad domes drape the cream horizon
As the Barada’s palm breeze serenely flows
Shem – ancient city of cities, guard your golden crown!

Damascus natives whose hands as gifts
Lift any strangers drained body to bliss
Wrapped in divine blue winged spirit
Rays of noble brotherhood
Pierce your people’s hearts.

Prayed at the temple of Baal in Palmyra
Bathed in the purple drenched night sky
Danced your crescent moon desert wild
Drank your salty wine of mist
Who stole the nights of kaleidoscopic moons?

As the legendary river cries on her sandy shores
This Euphrates Queen Of Life recites the
Tragic tales of Homs and Tremseh
These desert grains of sand sit as
Wailing scribes of the histories untold
—–
Where is the magic wind of peace?
Lost in refugee meadows of Turkish tulip madness.
Off to foreign borders, to other futures, these flowers flee!
A new life in the U.A.E. or Italy?
Mt. Qasioun reverse the tale of Cain and Abel!
—–
Oh! Great One you are being invaded!
A Contra war bleeds your veins
They have sacked your cities
Murderous mercenaries disguised as your own army
Masquerades of external treachery abound!
—–
The camouflage of media lies intended to persuade
Some shady NATO plan devised to distort
Dazed and distracted the careless world
Sips another glass of red, bread with butter
Any acid reflux?
—–
I still roam your streets in this vision of my mind
A flock of midnight butterfly’s coast through saddened air
Variegated flapping wings yield a sacred sound
Of blessed chants and courageous hymns
Their Ramadan humming infuses the air:
RESIST! RESIST! RESIST!

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Blurry Guate Snapshot

27 Dec


Meet Sandra from Antigua, who sweeps

While she speaks, 29 and widowed

Her husband shot 2 years ago

In his car while delivering electronics

From Mexico to Guatemala

She lives with her 3 children

Forgotten by her  husbands employer

See Polo, a Garifuna musician,

From Livingston, “We are not

Jamaican nor African, know your

History!” he shouts.

“No one sees Garifuna in Livingston

We have no representation,

The Latinos outnumber us.”

Watch Lorenzo an expert on every

Jungle plant and animal

Received an education up to age 10

Lived through the brutal civil war

“Man is savage, only the forests and animals have

Nobility and that is why I protect them.”

Nature: his redemption and solace.

Sit with Ronaldo, a guide in Carmelita,

“The jungle raised me” he says

“But I can’t get a job anymore as a

Jungle guide to El Mirador because I lack

A special ID no longer issued from the

Cooperative.” The cooperative- a racket,

That stole the gum, the chate, and

Now the tourism business from the locals.

Share a beer with Pedro and Carlos

Farmers from a border village town

“We take tomatoes  to Mexico

We cross without papers

we know the routes” they say

“ Once we deliver, we take a plane back”

Drug lords move faster than the Evangelicals.

Then see the two who travel

As ‘world travelers’ or tourists

They wander from Monte Rico to

Rio Dulce, Pakaya to Xela

From Ceiba forests to Tikal

And waken to the pain that has

Shaken a country – a people,

And incomprehensibly

Perceive themselves to

Have understood it all.



GLADIADOR BORGHESE

4 Nov


Black threaded roofs

Hover over this city’s streets

Rows of stalls suffocate every empty space

Transient vendors or daily squatters appear

As white hair sprouting on an aging man

Recycled yogurt plastic containers

Line the table of this cooks stall

Nopal, beef, and mushrooms tacos

Prepared for a make shift life or lunch

Green and red chile to enliven the

Senses or the suffered soul

Sit under the immense Sunday

Cathedral mass cold shadow

Of horrors long forgotten

Feel the crisp altitude breeze

Full of repressed smog resentment

Watch the Zocalo street vendors

Fearful for their livelihood

Cram goods into huge black plastic

They wrap and run

Police lights flash the horizon

Descend to metro Balderas depths

Of bent back postures,

Breath strained and half shut,

Stuffed metro riders begin a

Punk-rock slam dance in silence

Walk the neighborhood line divide

Between Roma Norte and Doctores

Sit in the Pendulum cafe and hear

The French man boast that he

Lives on the Tamaulipas of Paris.

Scalped skull morbid headlines

Blood, and bodies torn apart

That happens in the North” they say

This is Mexico City”

There is no violence here”

Except a languid one 

Perhaps a more lasting one?

Gallery

Peter Pan Petraeus

13 May

These were sculpted times

Of crafted words and powdered flat screen minds

Heart of finely chiseled plastic and

Chipped off nerve ports hammered shut

All left dulled under the plastered

Polished cyber surface.

—-

Camouflage news holds

Internet addicts hostage

Enlisted into illegal wars

Of bloody conquest, porn, lust and looting

Wars of ego, greed, and opportunity,

A black ski masque and fishnet stockings

An AK47 and Viagra

Adobe enemies – Adobe lovers

—-

U.S. corporate warlords hire

Battalions to drone over

Facebook and Twitter

Afghanistan and Pakistan

Red poppy dust settles on

Chat room dreams of opium

Russian bride delusions

—-

They sat under the moon but

It was censored black

Gazed at the heavens that

Looked like the

Inside wing of a black crow

“The Moon eloped with Mars” they said

And left us under the pronounced

Sun shadows cast over our hearts

These were times of war.

—-

Rain drops in the pools of memory

Amnesiac mud turns the water brackish

Blood, pain, disease, death,  slide under

Radioactive floating Fukushima fish forgotten

The oceans lifeless tides

Poison all it greets

Semen pangs squirt on the screen

Orgasmic masturbation is

Only permitted passion

Emotions deeper than a

Woman’s vagina are feared

Love and war come easy.

—–

Corroded Facebook mega-pixels

Transformed into a wife, lover or friend

Seekers of online intimacy embrace a mirage

Drier than the screen that embodies them

Hollow, desert, cracked, cactus romance

Stickers protrude as oasis dries.

—–

Online fools, wise misers

Hold a $100 for yourself

Don’t waste on a real date!

$40 billion a month to wage a NATO war

Don’t waste on the welfare state!

Hillary and Bernard Henri-Levy decide.

Kill Ghadaffi for his oil, water or golden dinar?

Guidance he asked from the  drunk wild night

Wandered the dark towards a cave in the hills

He threw in a stone to test its dimensions

And cupped his ears from the oracular rumbling voice:

“Fantasy Tragedy all is Trantasy

Same War Different Front”

domus aurea

30 Aug

Riding down a mountainous road

slipped and slid over the frozen Alpine

Icy, angry, barren; cold wind of rage and deception

Leaving behind the bitter harshness of the Alps

I followed the sun towards

The smooth land of the Lombards

—-

To the land of demigods; worshipers

Of fine foods, wine, women, and beauty

Down to the eternal city, center of centers

Where emperors walk disguised as Popes

And politicians fear their own crucifixion.

—-

Here where the cult of Victory is all

I rolled my heart down the Spanish Steps

Free for all – even a tourist- but it fell

Upon a local; elegant, tall, dark, and devilish

With a slight snake like walk

And fast shark eyes.

—-

As fins approached I slipped the beating red over my back,

And slid towards safety on the Palatine mound

Felt myself as Aeneas, carrying

The old frail Anchises, out of Troy.

Weary yet eager to found a new life

Between Via Veneto and Via Cavour.

—-

Passed the Forum to the Colosseum

The home to all the pigeons of Rome

They cleave to these ancient ruins,

As reincarnated emperors,

Vespasian, Nero, or Claudius?

—-

Stopped at the Santa Maria Del Popolo

Stunned under the painting of

Caravaggio’s Conversion of St Paul

The shades of chiaroscuro as stigmata

Bled tears in my eyes

His paint, drenched in the divine

—-

Hoping the heat would incinerate

My burning heart, I ran a mile

Down the banks of the Tiber

And aerated the flame,

Left the ashes on the altar of

The Ara Pacis and prayed

For eternal peace.

—-

And now light, and unburdened

I fly like the pigeons

Except I am not a reincarnated emperor

Just a lover

With a fresh new heart, that can fly

Hopefully this time…to the heavens

To that golden shelter in the sky


AKA

17 Jun

Also Known As


My lover has an ocean flooding

Through him, filling both banks

East and west of his heart, and at midnight

The descending moon dances on

The backs of wild glistening

Blue dolphins

—-

He pulls the crescent moon down

From the sky and places it in

His pocket and I can see it

From time to time

When we bobble on boats

To the gushing wind.

The wind blows through his narrow

Sculptured cobblestone hips

And I feel I could walk forever

Belted to his slippery sea sprayed slopes.

At times we stand and glance upon

His lost, flame haired love

‘Sofia’ some call her ‘Hagia’ since

She was so loyal and pure.

Even I, can sense her greatness.


And reminiscing we walk

His sculptured arms as pillars

Firmly entrenched around my waist

As he tells me of the love of Hero and Leander

Of Chalcedon, the hippodrome and

Of Meshnun and Leila.

And suddenly he turns me

Spinning under the Sufic wool of his garment

Cosmic mana fills  and I am seized by

The elaborate seductive designs

Of his arched blue kiss.

My lips reach the dome of his thoughts

Grasping towards the heavens

And towards the divine

A timeless sigh is placed upon our souls

He bows before the silence,

Towards the emptiness of the qibla

Surrounded by a bouquet of

Carpets, tiles and the One

—-

And at night his eyes like stars

Invite me to enter the galaxy of

Rhythms and otherworldly dreams

As we waltz to the sound of the ney

On Sundays he dresses in the

Iconic compassion of a passing empress,

Soft gilded purity, seen through the silver and gold

Sustaining tesserae of the Madonna

And where is the child?

He is out sailing ships in his backyard.

He strides ferrys catching disillusioned lovers.

And waits under the bridge with his nets

The cycle of souls lost, regained

The tides of love

Never easy, fair, clean or clear.

And when I stare off into his Seljuk eyes

I see the outline of his soul,

So sharp like daggers, poles, minarets

Protruding from a shoreline of undulating hills

His ‘skyline’ is more beautiful

Than the famous yellow rose itself.

—-

At night I rest my head

Against his belly, his fanning

Breath brings me sleep,

While the call to prayer awakens me

I whisper his name,

Byzantium, Constantinople, Nea Roma, Istanbul!

Groggy I try to hold him but my

Arms cant grasp him he is so vast?!

I fidget to find him, and as

I reach for his turban I fall

Out of bed

Naked , drunk and alone……yet full of awe.



Epi Oinopi Ponto

28 May

ODYSSEUS

Turquoise streaks stretch lazily along the coast

Paradisaical pools beckon an invitation to sail

In the light that shines between currents and time

Splashing, plunging into the wet Greek blue.

——

Carpets of sea floor amphorae

Woven tales of engraved

Men lost at sea, lone figures,

Shipwrecked, striding the keel,

Surviving disaster

On the wine-dark sea

—–

Calling for a hero

His spirit putatively as strong

As wine poured from the jug

And when he spoke the waves rocked

A sea foam epic echoing these heroic words:

—-

My mates were thrown from the ship,

And like sea crows they bobbed on the waves

Around the black ship, and the god

Took their homecoming from them.”

—-

And in this Odyssiodic episode,

Of drowning seas and ominous crows,

Foretells the junction between will and fate

So tenuous is the line that spares a

Life or ceases the spirits gait.

—–

It is only those who risk their

Lives on Trojan shores and

Face the Cyclops inner eye

Who know of loves loyal tides

Of beloveds burns and blinds

Whose ardent words immortalize.



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