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Storyteller

Such is love

Walking in a torrential downpour of fire

Carried away by an arctic undertow

Walking on dry land with muddy feet

Falling asleep in your dreams

Sleeping to escape your nightmares

Leaping with faith crash landing on reality

Falling in love, but only fell into hate

Following the heart, but the heart took a wrong turn.

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Storyteller

Where We Were

The explosions grew louder and more frequent; that was the angriest sound I had ever heard. Villagers ran up and down the street, their lives even more uncertain than when the communists attacked. Members of the People’s Revolutionary Army used anti-aircraft guns to defend the airport. A couple of the paratroopers disintegrated in midair, their bodies exploding like fireworks, but there were no bright colours. I left the window with my heart beating so hard I thought it would explode. I ran back into the house and turned on the radio. The announcers frantically shouted for the islanders to pick up arms and defend their country. I was confused, wondering if I should go to the front lines, or just let the warmongers murder each other. After all, this was my island, my forefathers had fought to free the slaves on this very ground. Why should I let these outsiders occupy my homeland? After five minutes of the announcer’s erratic talking, a Bob Marley song, “Ambush in the Night” was played. To this day that same song plays in my dreams over and over again. The young announcer’s voice shook as he began talking again, sometimes struggling to get the words out. Suddenly, his voice was replaced by the annoying sound of static; then the radio went silent. I sat there for a moment not knowing what to do. Then I heard a loud explosion and our brick and mortar houses shook. I jumped like someone had poked me with a nail, and ran to the front yard. A puff of smoke bellowed into the air beyond the lush green hill, top to the left of my house. It was then that I realized that the explosion had come from the direction of the radio station Then as if with a predetermined purpose, I got up and walked into the house, went to my bedroom, and retrieved my Red Bear-made pistol. Now you may wonder where I got the weapon. Well the government wanted a militia, and they got one – lots of islanders with guns. I checked the chamber to make sure there was a full clip, then reached into my dresser and got a few extra rounds. I walked down the street, my eyes scanning the rows of houses, anticipating any attackers. Trucks loaded with people’s revolutionary soldiers raced by, creating a gray cloud of dust that covered the village. Young men and women clenched their AK-47 rifles, some screaming at me to join them in the defense of the island. I shook my head; poor bloody souls were off to fight a war they could not win. I ran my finger along the smooth metal edge of the pistol. You can’t imagine the false sense of safety I felt with that bloody thing stuck in my waistband. I did not know what I was going to do, but I was becoming angry. First we had to endure the rule of the Union Jack. Then the Red Bears came with their inadequate ideology, brainwashed the population into believing they had a chance to determine their own destiny. Here I was, locked in this battle, confused, frustrated and scared. It did not help knowing that lives were being lost all because we were just a pawn in the destructive cold war. Now the invaders were here claiming to save us from certain destruction. I remember thinking was this not destruction I was witnessing at their hands.

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Storyteller

Bob Marley Saw Me Through.

During the first few hours of the intervention (invasion), while we still had control of the radio station, this song was played over and over, still listen to it today.

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POEMS Storyteller

Where War Lives

In the crevices of a consciences

In the hearts of foolish men

In the trigger fingers of uncertainty

In the boots of frightened young men

In fields of foxholes

In a humanity afraid of what is different

In the souls of the uninformed

In history repeating

In the eyes of the beholder

In broken dreams

In the mouth of sooth Sayers

In promises kept and broken

In the lives of the less fortunate

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POEMS Storyteller

Loneliness

The ocean without salt

Air without oxygen

A ballerina without toes

Ice cream without the cream

Love without the passion

Sleep without rest

War without hate

Politics without the lies

Religion without spirituality

laughter without happiness

serenity without peace

A heart without a heartbeat

Everything with nothing

 

 

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Storyteller

From the new project Disorganized crime

                There was silence; the television was still on despite its fall. Its silver light flickered on the green walls sending partial shadows of chairs, tables and the two men throbbing across the walls. The attacker continued talking; Nelson slowly got to his feet and almost fell over but steadied himself. There was a knife on the floor, so he picked it up and crept towards his attacker.

                “You mean this is a free one………….. I don’t know, he was here, I messed him up……….. Am going to need help moving this one,” he stopped talking, Nelson was over him now, and he placed the knife against the man’s throat.

                “Who the hell are you?” Nelson asks, he heard his attacker’s heart pounding, felt the knife move as the man swallowed.

                “Take it easy buddy, am just doing my job,” the man said, his voice a horse whisper. Nelson pressed the knife against the man’s throat; felt the man’s his esophagus move against the steel blade again. There was a wine bottle sitting on the only table left standing, Nelson picked it up and hit the man over the head , he fell sideways onto the couch, the cell phone still in his hand, Nelson picked it up,

                “Who is this?” He asked his voice still a whisper, his throat burned when she swallowed,

                “Who the hell is this?” The voice responded. Nelson cleared his throat.                

               “It’s the man you just tried to have killed.” Nelson tried to shout, but only managed to sound like he had laryngitis,

                “I don’t know you, what the hell is your name and where is my man?” The voice screamed back,

                “Oh he is fine, just taking a little nap, who are you working for, did the commander hire you?” Nelson demanded,

                “What the hell are you talking about, all I know is you are one dead nigger when I get hold of you!” the voice screamed.

                “You don’t have to tell me anything, your man will give me the details, I will find out who you are, and when I do, you will wish you never met me.”

                “Who the hell do you think you are, you don’t threaten me you little shit, I could have your balls served to the pigeons in the park, do you know who I am?” The voice screamed. Nelson chuckled then said,

                “No I don’t know who you are, why don’t you tell me,” He waited.

“Do you think am an idiot, screw you,” the voice screamed. Nelson dropped the phone and turned to his attacker, the man stirred a little, his green shirt bright against the black leather couch, his dark stone washed jeans spotted with blood, his eyelids fluttered a little, his facial expression that of a baby who just woke up from a nap. The voice on the phone was screaming so Nelson reached down, picked up the phone and turned it off. He went to his closet and retrieved a handcuff; thank god his last roommate was a kinky bastard. He returned to the living room and handcuffed the attacker to the large mahogany center table. The man’s sandy blond hair was caked to his forehead, as a mixture of sweat and blood rolled down his head, and settled just above his eyes. The man opened his eyes and looked at Nelson,

                “Who are you and who sent you?” Nelson asked, the man did not answer, his blue eyes cold, and his blond eyebrows translucent against his pale white skin.

                “Who sent you?” Nelson insisted, slapping the man on his head blood flew in every direction, fell to the ground, creating nail head size polka dots on the cream coloured carpet. The attacker spat at Nelson, the white and red froth landed on his chest then dropped onto the leather couch.

                “Are you sure this is the way you want to play this game?” Nelson asked grabbing the man’s throat, he gasped for breath, his blue eyes growing bigger as if they would pop out of their sockets. Nelson let go of his throat,

                “I will get it out of you. You will tell me what I want to know even if it means cutting you up piece by piece.” Nelson said and looked around for his cellphone but could not find it; the house phone lay in pieces next to the television, so he began to walk to the kitchen,

                “You are nothing but a nasty immigrant you have no power, when my people get hold of you will wish you had died in your filthy country.” The man shouted, Nelson stopped, turned around walked over to the man and punched him in the face, he fell backwards hitting the floor hard. Nelson spat at the man then turned and walked to the kitchen, he was thinking that he had to get help; he picked up the phone and called his friend,

                “Hey Trevor, I need your help man, I have to store something away.” He said, waited for a second then said.

                “Thanks man.” Then hung up, he walked back to the living room, the attacker was trying to sit up so Nelson punched him in the jaw and the man flopped back onto the couch.

 

                                                        ******************      

A sprawling mansion three stories high, a green well-manicured lawn with ancient like Roman statues placed tragically across it, a marble pond with fishes splashing about, and a waterfall cascading out of a stones drain. In the back of the house was a horse farm beautiful stallions ran free in the field behind the house; trees lined the boundary, giving shade to most of the yard. There were other animals on the compound, lamas, peacocks, sheep and goats, the place looked like the Ringling Brothers was about to do a show. A burly man in a tan Toyota drove up, and parked in the front of the house. He walked up to the big wooden door, that door was about twelve feet tall; he opened it and went inside.

                The floor of the large hall was covered with Middle Eastern rugs all the way to the other room, white walls that seemed to be fifty feet tall, to the left, an eloquently furnished living room, cream coloured couch and love seat, fifty two inch television, and a large fire place on the far side of the room. Straight ahead form the front door was a stairway, it seemed to go up for miles, like the stairway to heaven; its gold plated railings disappeared into the second floor. A crystal chandelier hung in the middle of the foyer glittered, as light from the open door shined on it. The burly man turned right and walked into the den.

                A distinguished looking gentleman sat at a desk at the back of the room, he was about fifty, and his hair was grey on the sides, and it was combed perfectly, as a matter of fact he looked like a statesman, like he belonged in the oval office. The burly man walked in and the distinguished man looked up, his feet on a chair behind the desk, his Italian made shoes shined in the dark, his blue eyes were cold and lifeless, just like a politician.

                “What is it Ramon?” he asked, his voice a husky growl, Ramon started talking, but a girl no more than eight years old ran by outside the door chasing a cream coloured poodle, Ramon shook his head, this house had more animals than the African Jungle. Ramon reached over and closed the door; his big meaty hands looked like it could crush a man’s skull.        

                “Well?” The man in the suit asked, his dead eyes shifted a little,

“Have you heard from The Exterminator?” he asked. Ramon shifted from one leg to the next as if afraid to answer, but before he did the phone rang, the man in the suit answered,

                “Hello.” Then he waited. “Is it done?” Ramon was rocking from one foot to the next.

                ”Big nigger what big nigger?” He listened.

                “I know what you should do, clean the shit up and get back with me.”………. a puzzled look covered the man in the suit face.

                “Of course it was the right apartment; you are the one that fucked up.”……….

                “What the fuck is going on there, hello, hello.” He listened; a look of angry replaced the puzzled expression.

“Who the hell is this?” He screamed

                I don’t know you, what the hell is your name, and where the hell is my man?” The man said then waited.

                “You are one dead monkey,” The man in the suit was really angry now, his face was so red he looked like a volcano about to explode.

                “Who the hell do you think you are, you don’t threaten me I could have your balls fed to the fishes!” The man screamed spit flying out his mouth. He listened for a second then shouted,

                “Hello, Hello.”

Ramon stood looking at Vince, his eyes did not look dead anymore, they light up anytime he got angry, wanted someone dead, or when he gets the news that they were dead.

Categories
POEMS Storyteller

Randon Thoughts 1

I am walking on air, like a man with stilts but without the stilts

I am sitting in space on a raincloud with a storm in my heart

I am lusting for forgiveness, my indiscretions running like hot lava

I am surfing on a shooting star, dark moon cover my shameless soul

I am longing for love, my foolish imagination drifts away with butterflies on fire

I am searching for the right words to say, ideas float above me like birds without wings

I am spouting lyrics, they hurt like thorns without points

I am riding waves, never touching the water

I am romancing the calm before the storm

I am parasailing on a moonbeam

I am hating for the love of the human race

 

 

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Pics with verse Storyteller

The Garden

The Garden

Just me and you in a garden for two, a moment for two, a lifetime for two.
Forever we walk, here and there, there and now, yesterday and tomorrow
Just before judgment, right after we walk on fire,
Right before the hate, somewhere in the middle of love ever after

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POEMS Storyteller

I Wish (1983)

I Wish (1983)

I wish I was the one who painted those clouds
Then I would paint a distinct pattern everyday
I wish I could huff and puff and move those clouds
Then I would blow them over warring nations
And its beauty will make them stop and look on in wonder
And I will paint everyday, and they will stop and watch everyday
Until they forget their war
Until they forget their hate
Until they realize they were not killing systems
For the only ones dying are human beings

Categories
Parts Dirty Immigrant Storyteller

A Nightmare

The night before we left for The Wild and Wonderful City, I had one of the most vivid nightmares I’d had since coming to this country. All the stress from moving to another strange place did not help. I was homesick and wanted to be around people from my island simply because I knew only they would understand the images in my head. I was restless that night but somehow fell asleep.

I walked into the concrete building. My legs were shaking so hard I stumbled and almost fell. Smoke filled the room, causing my eyes to sting. Gunshots and explosions rocked the structure as the battle raged outside. Tears rolled down my face and I wiped my eyes with my fingers, but that made them burn even more. I walked further into the room, my chest burning, my skin tingling. I thought I saw someone move and I almost fainted with fear. Suddenly, it was quiet, and I heard myself breathing, the sound echoing in my head. I thought I saw someone move again, so I stopped and looked around. I took a step, my boots sliding on the floor. I thought I had stepped on a rock so I bent over and picked it up. I almost passed out when I realized I had picked up a severed finger and immediately froze as a cold breeze whipped through the room, clearing the smoke. I looked around the room, my vision still blurred. Body parts covered the walls of the room; fingers, toes and raw flesh dripped off of the ceilings. There was a body laying against the wall in a corner, the young man holding his stomach. Its contents spilled out, some of it lying on his lap. In the mush of flesh lying on the ground, I saw boot prints made by retreating soldiers. The walls were crying, blood draining onto the floor.

The stench of blood and rotting flesh burned my nostrils as hundreds of flies buzzed around, the sound resonating in my mind. Rats scurried around my feet. Some stopped to bite at my boots, so I took a step, trying to get away from them, but only managed to slip and fall. The rats scattered in every direction, snarling as if infected by rabies. I lay there for a second, blood and pieces of mashed flesh soaked into my shirt. I pushed myself up with my hands, worms crawling up my arms. My hands slipped and I landed face first into the mess. The rats were not affected by the commotion I made; they were too busy feasting on the body parts.

I got to my feet just as a group of soldiers charged into the room shooting, so I dove to the floor trying to avoid being shot. A soldier fell next to me, a gaping hole where his nose used to be. Blood squirted out of the wound, landing on my face. It was warm and tasted salty. I sprung to my feet and began running. I did not care where I was going; I just wanted to escape. I saw a wall in front of me and tried to stop, but the floor was too slick. Just before impact, a dark hole appeared and I fell through. There was no light at the bottom; it was so peaceful.