Originally posted on Dear Kitty. Some blog:
When United States Vice President Joseph Biden spoke about links between the Turkish government and ISIS terrorism, he did not commit a ‘gaffe’, whatever establishment media pundits say. For one moment, rare for establishment politicians, Biden told the truth.
From daily The Morning Star in Britain:
British prisoners handed to Isis
The Times newspaper claims Shabazz Suleman, 18, from Buckinghamshire, and another 26-year-old Briton are among as many as 180 fighters traded with Isis to secure the release of Turkish consular staff.
View original 15 more words
r a i n r a i n a i n r a i r r i n r a i n r a i r a i n r a i n r a i n r a i r a i n r a i r a i n r a i n r a i r a i n r a i n a i n r a i r a i n r a i n r a i a i n r a i n r a a i n r a i r a i n r a i r a i n r a i n r a i n r a i n r a i n a i n r a i n r i n r a i n r a i r a i n r a i n r a i n r a i r a i n r a i r a i n r a i n r puddle puddle puddle puddle puddle puddle puddle puddle puddle puddle puddle puddle puddle puddle
only, maybe, every
I think of how
u s e d t o p l a y t h e p i a n o
as the sun
in raindrops of time
A flower of a smile reaching deep
A memory of fish and chips trees wrapped in newspaper leaves
The curves in the sand dunes
the waves when you bathe
And your coffee on my lips, when you walk away again
For beauty is the sky, the goodbye, the flame in a story we let melt.
kiss from black widow
jungle begins to spin
Visit my main blog http://gypsy-in-you.blogspot.fi/
lips like that won’t shatter glass
lips like that will get stuck to your ass
slipping and sliding down a mine
tumbling and wondering if you’ll stop this time
serve me pennies serve me pills
serve me a manner of different ills
hide me safely in the dark
cushion me with your glossy smile
a luxuriant version of a holy kiss
I’ve really come to say
is as from today
your childhood’s closed
all your memories
will be locked up
melting on my tongue
a devil’s brew never to return
so you wasted the most precious in you
the freshest, flashest, the best of you
and your lips will never shatter the glass
and all the bottles are still there
and the pills with no name
hidden in your underwear
of all things to lose
and remember of none
youth seems the one
that hurts the most
for devil you came
in such a good disguise
with your enchanting
s m i l e
“I will teach you all my secrets, all my wisdom I will give to you. I will teach you Tengriism and shamanism.”
watch the eagle
He observed the frontier; his frontier, with scanning eyes, tired gloves holding the reins, but a heart still burning a fire of pride. With his back arched straight, muscles taut, he turned his horse gently. Just then he thought he heard a sound, and hand on saddle, twisted and glanced across into the mist. Not a troublesome sound. Not a clearly definable sound, more of a ‘twang!’ and a slight ‘woosh!’ And only once, no more. He relaxed. The arrow sped across the prairie, grass blades neatly carved in split seconds by glinting tip, before thudding, hard, into his chest.
This story is 99W exactly.
Thanks to Rochelle! Picture this week by Erin Leary
in a charming old bistrot
in the time it took to taste my tea
whirl the leaves
a newspaper in front of me
and find out
Ghandi’s son raped his eight
year old girl
its fashionable to not talk about such things
at a restaurant with such fine trimmings
such richness of discussion
coy eye blinks, a-flutter above tilted cup
but I saw his letter to his son
where he talked about what horror had been done
and the pain of an eight year old daughter
so in the time it took
to put down my tea
my faith in the world dissolved around me
and my sympathy for various vagrancies
I became a murderer in my heart
and passed you the milk
I ordered you a cupcake
and pondered on fate
for if Ghandi’s son can commit such a murder
then anyone can do asunder to another
and most likely will
let the ravens come
let them smile as they pick the flesh
from the battlefield
whisper to you?
image courtesy of Irina Serban
like a flapjack bought at a highway store
undressed from plastic on a flat top
and ejected at a reststop
I found freedom to cruise
crushed by second hand truckers on table tops
numbed by the candy I had to suck
leftover from someone’s pockets
I had to choose
barefoot on route 66
if I make it to the west coast
before 5 o’clock
you can have my ass
San Fransisco’s Golden Gate
on the back of a Harley Davidson
or maybe it was all a dream
flushed down a toilet at the rest stop
another coffee at the counter
another evening wasted almost masturbated
in this small town that’s just a dot
on a map at an old egg yoke pitstop
“…..And remember, just don’t smile
Change your shirt, ’cause tonight we got style…”
What pathos, the epitome of delusion. ‘Meeting Across The River,’ by Bruce Springsteen is the Great American novel, and a must as accompaniment to Kerouac’s haiku below. When you listen , click here to read the lyrics, simply…wonderful.
So the task today set by Chevrefeuille at Carpe Diem is to use the haiku below by Kerouac to spur one to write one in similar tone, mood and spirit.
Neons, Chinese restaurants
coming on -
Girls come by shades
This is a haiku from a man who has been there. I can imagine the slow strobe effect of the neon lights painting the different women with different colours as they drift into the bar from the street. It brings to mind one of my favourite places when I lived in Bahrain, the Seashell Hotel, owned by the Bahraini prime minister, and in fact a brothel. The women who worked there were from Thailand, the bar staff from the Philippines and the waitresses from Ethiopia. I worked in Saudi Arabia at the time but came across the causeway most nights, driving on a road I have learnt is statistically the most dangerous in the world. We saw it all, I mean all on that road. I used to dress as an Uzbek in those days, with a ornate skull cap, as the terrorists were out and about in Saudi Arabia, dressing up as police and setting up roadblocks to find westerners. But I trusted the Saudis, implicitly, and knew if they ever heard of any danger they would discreetly tell me.
My Texan colleague next to me when I drove used to dress as a Saudi, until our Saudi friends told us there was no way he could be mistaken for a Saudi, even from a distance sitting in a car. For a Texan he was quite deadpan, and after a dangerous morning drive in the mist, which needless to say caused its fair share of accidents, we were driving back at high speed as one did. The highway arched around a long corner.
“Watch the dead guy,” he said evenly, as we came around the bend in the four lane highway.
“Yeah,” I said.
An accident had just happened, and someone had been ejected from one of the cars. We raced by, on to the border, not blinking an eyelid, the Texan drifting back to sleep. Those were the days.
At the Seashell I would smile with the charming hard-working, underpaid Ethiopian waitresses and wait for the woman I shared a flat with, Pray Wa, to finish working, then would cook her breakfast before falling asleep.
“How many more breakfasts ’till I get a free night?” I would laugh from the kitchen.
“Many, many more,” she would shout back in an ongoing joke that would shock friends and relatives.
neon lights change colour
her face goes red, blue, then yellow
-inside she stays the same
The topic today is ‘stone.’ For me that brings back a few seconds from active days, and is just the right post to dedicate to Jimi Hendrix, and here’s why; but first, we need the lights,sound and atmosphere of his magestral Like a Rolling Stone.
Man did he influence my young days. When we went climbing in Chamonix on rock faces throughout the valley, it was his music blasting from the stereo strategically placed at the bottom of the rock.
And one day it sorta all came together. How could I ever forget when I was king, just for a smattering of seconds? I was there, grappling with the rock face, three points of contact with the rock, and reaching up for a hold, a crack in the rock to get my fingers through, as that great song was blasting up from below, and then suddenly it happened: I lost interest in gravity, so in tune was I with my surroundings, and I felt anything was possible, that no conscious force was needed to stay against the rock, and no force was pulling my weight downwards.
I carried on, slowly understanding what subconscious meditation might mean, that such meditation absolutely must involve movement, nature and a challenge to face. At that moment, when all is aligned, you can roll up a mountain.
scrambling up the rockface
I never knew I’d write a haiku
about that haiku moment
three cherry blossoms
barely cover your modesty
ah! what joy in spring!
A cloud of poison
Didn’t hide the sun
Invisible to us
But not our organs
Twenty eight years ago today
The cloud came our way
They called it a nuclear disaster
When an explosion rocked the reactor
And these days the lichen is still poisoned
And years of babies stillborn
Figures hard to fathom
Cause governments still hide them
The Finnish government changed criteria for deformations
The Belorussian one reminds us of 3 million starved under Stalin
The Russian government is just Putin
But people are still dying
Thousands of children sick for all their lives
Living in institutions
As a result of that explosion
In reactor four in Ukraine
The largest amount of radioactivity ever released
But still thousands of times less
Than the bomb tests
In the Pacific Ocean….
The Chernobyl nuclear power disaster that contributed to the end of the Soviet Union is twenty seven million tears old today….
Aye well, there I was, in Nagyatad, early 1990s, trying to do something for the Bosnian refugees. Nagytad, a town in southern Hungary, bordering Croatia and near Bosnia, and where busloads of Bosnian refugees were sent. Anti-tourists, staring from bus windows, not in shock, not in boredom, not in anything actually. War survivors are just like you and me, and are not a special breed of kittens needing petting, or incapables needing shouted at to stand in line. But one of the penchants of our western world is organisation and efficiency, so they do get shouted at, and organised. But what is almost worse is the sentimentality that afflicts many. And refugees make ideal people to coo at.
In Nagyatad new arrivals were locked in a cage for a week or two. The UN supplied finances to pay doctors to check for illnesses and disease, but the greedy Hungarians pocketed the cash and put new refugees in cages to see if any disease developed. If not they were chucked into the dorms or sent to the dark corridors of the psychiatric wing, in this ex-Soviet military camp with radioactive grounds and tiled paintings of tanks firing emblazoned on walls.
I befriended a young blond woman who lived in one of the cages, a few days before I left. It was a strange friendship, her, bubbly, glad to be alive, in fetching red polkadotted dress, about to suffer her breakdown, and me, absurdly and stoically upset, knowing more details about her family in Bosnia than her.
when I think of her
I hope she is free now
in all ways
Ye gods, what a difficult prompt, that others will as usual take in their stride! I saw some beautiful haiku in yesterday’s prompt, here (Maniparna), here (Gillena) and here (Celestine). But also here (Ese) and many more…
‘Photographing’ seems tough. What clever imagery could we evoke? Striking the right balance in a haiku is difficult, and I think I’m going to find a vintage Japanese photograph to sprinkle with words.
a dream makes me