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Friday, November 27, 2015

not yet 



not yet my child
no dolls, new dress,
just plain water, spoiled bread
in our empty fridge

a thread and needle kit
you do not belong
in a world of despair
of things not meant to be.

skip a rope, jump to ten
drink some juice, a potionful.
no blood lost, she went
to a medical man. decision hers,
the guilt we share, not yet
my child, not yet

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Monday, October 12, 2015

Hell's Sentinel 

six magenta eyes
on three heads
a single serpent tail.
firm and resolute,
stands guard
lets no one pass
to or from Hades’ lair.

 three heads has Cerberus
each view from a different angle
do what you like in front of this beast
surely it shall never miss
tiniest gesture - a nudge, a dance
smitten smile, or even just a frown

three perspectives
from this monster come
you may do one thing
 but your acts betray
your inner motives,
vil or otherwise.


 it does not care
what you think it is
a friend or a foe
a master or a slave.
but what matters for sure
is that once you’re locked
inside the lair
there’s no way out
but burn in hell's eternal flame.


rolly

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Friday, October 09, 2015

My Portrait 



If you are to paint my portrait
Make one when I was young
With mane that grew  down to my shoulders
not this thin, two-toned hair on my bald crown

If you are to paint my portrait
Make one when I was young
When every day’s an adventure
everything seen was new to my sight

If you intend to paint my portrait
Flatter me with my youth forever gone
Not this wrinkled skin
Each fold a dead weight to the years
With every crease, a pain

If you need to paint my portrait
See me with your young eyes
Not through my blurry eyes
Distorted by sins seen in countless nights.

rolly

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Tuesday, September 02, 2014

She Cried 

The choir boys sung and the church bells rung  
A tear for every heave and every sigh,  
With a lump on her throat, she cried, she cried     

How the girl wished she could’ve stopped her tongue 
If only she knew she could’ve tried, yes, tried           
The choir boys sung and the church bells rung 
  A tear for every heave and every sigh,        

Now all that is left are kind words unsung    
In her bosom they shall bitterly hide,            
There is nobody else to chide, yes, chide     
The choir boys sung and the church bells rung   
A tear for every heave and every sigh,
With a lump on her throat, she cried, she cried      




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Tuesday, December 10, 2013

Yolanda 

Lucky. That was what I was.
Or so I thought.
I met a tormented woman
possessed, a hungry lion
who has stalked for weeks,
salivating, expecting,
ready to devour an innocent prey.
Even the mighty sun
cowered in fear and hid
among the clouds.

Lucky. That was what I was.
Or so I thought.
I had a stable crown
above my head,
thick barriers to shield me from her wrath
wrought from years of neglect.
But I miscalculated her strength.
When she unleashed her fury,
no roof was strong enough.
Glass shattered and flung like bullets.
Trees older than time were uprooted
with every uttered curse.
Thick walls began to wail
and crumble to pieces
as she lashed her tongue.

Lucky. That was what I was
Or so I thought.
I was several stories high,
far from the clutches of her arms.
Until her pregnant waters surged,
ready to purge whatever was in its path.
Birthing waves upon waves
that crept like a sickle would
unwanted weed
until there was nowhere to go
but the guts where my city lies.

Lucky. That was what I was.
Or so I thought.
Like a mother avenging a slain child.
She spared no one! Men, women, children.
Strong, weak, wicked and the meek.
I grabbed a post as the waters
rushed to where I was.
Unlike Noah fighting a tumultuous storm,
I couldn’t save anybody but myself.

Lucky. That was what I was.
Or so I thought.
I was caught in raging waters
that ate, consumed everything.
I caught all the debris earth had to throw away.
I was battered and wounded.
I did not surrender.

When her fury subsided,
I stepped on muddy ground
only to find men and women
strewn and sprawled lifeless.
I heard moans and screams
of healthy men now limbless.
A woman screamed her child’s name,
man grieved for her dead wife
and a child cried for parents
nowhere to be found.
It was then I knew what I was.
Lucky!

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Wednesday, November 06, 2013

A Child Rhymes 

One, two, tie my shoe
good shoes are for 
a chosen few

Three, four, shut the door
trap all blessings and throw them
on the floor

Five, six, pick up sticks
whip the voodoo man and fix
tangled web of lies and poo poo mix
his amazing bag of tricks

seven, eight, no one's straight
it seems we'll be alone at heaven's gate
judgment day, I cannot wait
greedy politicians took the bait

nine, ten, a big fat hen
is all I need to show you then
the bunch we call august men
a plague of piggy thieves 
wallow in a pen

rolly

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Tuesday, July 31, 2012

MASTER PLAN
 


A can of oranges is nothing
but oranges in a can.
There are no apples,
bananas or prunes,
not tomatoes 
or even potatoes 
picked  in the early 
days of June.

That is the master plan. 

They say that no one
can bear fruit but of his own kind
for after all, a grape shall not grow
from a different twine.
Nothing good shall come out 
Of the bad.

That is the master plan.

And so a man of crime
cannot sire a holy one
nor a woman vile 
produce a saintly nun. 
For that has always been
the master plan.

But whose may I ask?
What have I done
to be cursed or blessed
by seeds I know not?
Who willed that nothing good
can come out of the bad?
Paper comes out of wood
fine silk from tiny worms.
Cyrano makes words sing
in spite of a nose that stings

What plan is there except one
created by fools.
I know there is no such master plan!

rolly



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