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In The Midst Of All In the midst of darkness, there is light. In the midst of evil, there is virtue. Birthday Messages I WANTED TO SAY IT WITH A BUNCH OF FLOWERS A CARD WOULD HAVE SUFFICED.I WANTED TO SAY IT WITH A PACK OF SWEETS A' HI' WOULD HAVE SUFFICED. Motiff Have you ever experienced infatuation with someone you know is not a good match for you? Or how about an interesting relationship that roots itself deep in your memory.. The Game of Life When your life becomes unbearable And the light of promise ceases to glow, When all your dreams and aspirationsLie dormant on ambition's death row.When you feel that all is hopeless, Life troubles just seem to abound. Asha of Darfur [A poem with a commentary by the author] Asha of DarfurCry, cry-oh little Darfur womanFor your sister Janjaweed-[in Sudan's merciless region-who was raped to death);Where rape and death run ramped;And Asha prays the Arabs don't' hearHere sobbing little black tears??in fear she will be chained to a bedIn Darfur, by the insidious justiceOf the Arabs, who run ramped?Ah, yes! In Darfur you've guessed,It is not a crime to raped and arrested;By the very one who raped, and terrorizedYou; it is the conquest?Satan's ribs!.. To My Friend, With Love All is still; all quiet; The world seems to be at peace. My soul is singing its rhythmic melodyAnd I'm led like in a trance to write its tunes. An Old Wood Pile [a poem with notes] Old skin, once held tightAgainst her skeleton-Rose no more, just drapedLoosely over unpadded flesh;Un-tightened muscles, and tissue,Lost its courage, no-fortitude-,Gone are the days and yearsThat stood against the Indomitable elements; The skeleton, now a landmarkHidden under flesh and bloodGuts and moral fiber, backbone?Collapsed from drudgeryTime, time: cascading inside-.Bones now leaving impressionsAccepting fateLike tarnished silver!. The Poets Corner [Three Poems with a review] The Poet's Corner[Three poem/ see review of poetry under the poems]The Poets CondorThe condor fly'sAmongst the hillsIn open skiesOf San Jerrnimo,Near Huancayo?Forbidding anyTo near his path-Lest he dareTo risk a attack,Near Huancayo!.. Memoirs of a Wastelands Rim [a Poem: now in Spanish and English] Memoirs of a Wasteland's RimIt still was light when she paused at the wasteland's rim-Over, the rim rest like a sleeping brute, a wooden frameAdjacent to the blue where early stars hung like oil lampsHanging from old beams and shade?the wooden frameHer footing caught the beams, as she had fallen onto itAlone, she watched the forenoon, climbing around herA drifter woman, marked by life, and slanting dreams With appearance of hurt and molded muscle on her faceHer figure etched against the wooden frame,She tried to jump, and lost her balance, hanging like a birdNow sipping the gloom in the ledge and shattered hopesShe yielded before the sluggish advance of sunsetBlood dripped, with her dying darknessAnd a crimson moon hurled a flame acrossThe shadowy clouds, burning throughout the skyThe tormented sky above her?Crossing the valley's floor her eye gripped itRocky images, highest pointsThrusting herself up boldly from to the ledgeThe painted morning blushed over the rimHer brows and nose, face against the granite stoneMassive injuries was taking form,Her silhouette floating so indolently across the sunIt was too great a task-to die alone?she wished nowShe had not jumped?a thousand feet below, yet to go.Too much for any woman in a lost worldOut of the weak wood her mind had peace; She knew soon it would all be over-alasMute and protesting against life's uselessnessA narrow path lay below her slender bodyBetween death and attainment, a careless footThe rocks beneath her weakening, she plungedPlunged to her death, in the carving hands of the valleyThinking of it, as she fell, thinking with a smiled,Saying, looking up-dead before her echoes: 'Time is short?time is short?time is short!'When they found her, her face was unafraid of falling. San Francisco [Almost a Sonnet] (The city by the bay of Northern California, near which the Pacific Ocean resides; the year is 1967)Mid October seemed like some spring day,When through the poised waters, dry as lead, The ferry, like vague shadows that stand the dead,Slipped down the curved coast of Frisco bay,Rounded the Golden Gate,-and San Francisco lay,Before me, that gay city, pink and red,Hippies covered Haigh Asbury's homeless head,-My home, to be, I found stirring and grey.The waves busted on the wooden-sides; fishermenNearby with long necks, looked and cast again. Ole Bulky Jeeps & Paper, Ink and Rain [two Peoms] Ole Bulky JeepsThrough late summer's heatThese bulky shaped jeepsRide by house and farmCity and barn-Hungry for Spring-again, hoping to avoidThe Slipping and slidingOf winter's ice and wind?[s]Their weighty legs are dirtyFrom moving dust and rain(Here and there, everywhere)Through all kinds of terrainLike moving clouds caughtIn the foliage of the woods?They never slow down a tingThey have a duty, and give.It's part of how they live-In military-, bulky ole jeeps!. For My Mother I cannot bear to thinkof when you will be gone.I do not understandhow I will get along. Bleed now is not the time to openopen that great door againnot the time to be more tolerantnot the time to play to winnow is not the time for justiceevolution mercy choicesnot the time to pet the puppiesyipping with pathetic voicesnow is not the time for kindnessnot the time for compromisenot the time for loving blindnessnot the time to close my eyesnow for one too many peoplenot that i have gained no goodheart has sown but flesh is reapingtears to mind and wasted bloodnow my inner wolf seeks equalsonly those whose chords can howldeadly whether lone or socialdefending young or on the prowltell me not that you would dieupon the spines of my displeasurelive for me and for you will icherish each cell as if a treasureput me not inside a cagebut roam with me through snow and sunbe by my side or breathe my dustfor i shall bleed again for noneNiki LasherArtist, Writer, and Webmatronhttp://www.kthulah. The Valley Of Pain We were exiled from the Garden of Eden. Its sinless wonders nevermore to regain. Tsunami -a Poem Dedicated To Help Aid and Awareness and Encourage Future Harmony. Make Peace Not War Real Power.One Tsunami, and all our armies,Seem belittled by their wars,What Animals fled, and tribesmen read,Finally Arrives with crushing roar,Wholesale slaughter, purely by water,Makes us seem an irrelevance,Concepts of power, change by the hour,Faced with primal elements. Footprints to Mantaro Valley (a poem in Spanish and English) Footprints to Mantaro Valley(English version)In what retreat art hid?-Where falling mountains groanIn shadow and amongThe rapids of the Rio?Is not your name Mantaro Valley?Beyond the footprints of the Andes--?I can hear your voice in echoesI can hear thy voice, divinely low.I do but know thy by a glanceAs the clouds above me know? . Three Poems: The Monkey Man of Lima, Plus Two More What Hides behind the Minute?What hides behind the minute?It seems, no one really knows;How many times will we wakeup,To count the minutes gone?The rose was dead when I arrived;The sword, was rusty and dull;The window curtain was open,And there was music in the hall.Oh lovely minute, where art thou?One, is not like the other-:Whirling in an earthly orbit,As the boundless world discovers. Give Me a Lily Pad & The Continuum [two Poems] What can I do to keep this world in its orbital spin?I gave up trying to win the hearts of the many-.Throw the meat-balls against the wall, stop, stop!!Trying to make them spin, like God did in the heavens!Sexual longings-a pathway to anger and rage-Turn the page to the cheap hotels, turn the pageGive it a pathway to run, tell your friends, they've won. A Death in Cajamarca, Peru (Atahualpa, in Cajamarca ((in English and Spanish)) The Epic Poem:A Death in Cajamarca, Peru[Atahualpa, in Cajamarca]Advance: This is a version, not a translation of any kind, on the incarceration and death of Atahualpa the Inca King of the Inca Empire, in the 16th century (Peru).Atahualpa, enduring in CajamarcaGreeted by De Soto, his free friend from Spain!"Be Calm! These times will be tolerant to you. Two Poems: San Jeronimo Brook & [in English and Spanish] Fair Andes! Thy arms reach highOf iron-woven solid stoneThu art a condor to the skyOf glory hidden in thy heartSo many paths, a maze of art?In thy old, Mantaro ValleyWhere adobes, breathe and trembleBeyond your rustic shadowsThere lays the prettiest of brooksIs my heart, within its stream!My image deeply carved, rippledIn its undiluted shallow watersWaiting, just waiting for me?As it opens up, opens up my soulMy rippled soul-searching-eyes!..
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