The wanton troopers riding by
Have shot my fawn, and it will die.
Ungentle men! They cannot thrive
To kill thee. Thou ne'er didst, alive,
Them any harm: alas nor could
Thy death yet do them any good.
I'm sure I never wished them ill,
Nor do I for all this; nor will:
But, if my simple pray'rs may yet
Prevail with Heaven to forget
I didn’t get much sleep last night
thinking about underwear
Have you ever stopped to consider
underwear in the abstract
When you really dig into it
some shocking problems are raised
Underwear is something we all have to deal with
some kind of underwear
Even Indians wear underwear
Stop, oh my friends, let us pause to weep over the remembrance of my beloved.
Here was her abode on the edge of the sandy desert between Dakhool and Howmal.
The traces of her encampment are not wholly obliterated even now.
For when the South wind blows the sand over them the North wind sweeps it away.
The courtyards and enclosures of the old home have become desolate;
The dung of the wild deer lies there thick as the seeds of pepper.
On the morning of our separation it was as if I stood in the gardens of our tribe,
Amid the acacia-shrubs where my eyes were blinded with tears by the smart from the bursting pods of colocynth.
As I lament thus in the place made desolate, my friends stop their camels;
They cry to me 'Do not die of grief; bear this sorrow patiently.'
You want to be in a gang
And shoot up everything with a bang
You say they'll have your back
But education is what you lack
Education is the key to life
And not getting stabbed with a knife
Education will lead you to great heights
And not to everyday fights
Education will help you excel
Not lead you to a county jail
Strange now to think of you, gone without corsets & eyes, while I walk on
the sunny pavement of Greenwich Village.
downtown Manhattan, clear winter noon, and I've been up all night, talking,
talking, reading the Kaddish aloud, listening to Ray Charles blues
shout blind on the phonograph
the rhythm the rhythm--and your memory in my head three years after--
And read Adonais' last triumphant stanzas aloud--wept, realizing
how we suffer--
And how Death is that remedy all singers dream of, sing, remember,
prophesy as in the Hebrew Anthem, or the Buddhist Book of An-
Cancerous urban decay…
It’s taking over my beloved city…
The politicians truly don’t care…
Collecting more taxes and sitting pretty…
The infrastructure is totally failing…
They kick the can down the road…
Our children’s children’s children…
Will be left to inherit the load…
They parked the car outside to get to her,
Put on balaclavas to attack her,
Climbed the gate they wanted her...
Tied her dogs to get to her.
They kicked the door they saw her,
She was already scared they didn't care.
One held her daughter to beat her.
Blotted blood they kicked her,
On her tummy they punched her,
Under the old oak tree...
That where you’ll find...
My hubby and me...
He went first...
I went a little later...
I choked on his meat...
He, on my tater...
'No more boarders,'
the inn keeper spewed
raising her arms in the air.
People once came to the inn in droves
because it was a quaint little structure
with flower beds surrounding it
It stood on the outskirts of town
a darling little place it was
that is until the unthinkable occurred
I've finally caught up with the cat
which has been terrorising my chicken coop.
That little black witch of a cat-
lays motionless in the sack in which I have it bound.
I'm watching it like God,
My eyes are every where
Counting the number of fallen chicks
all the pieces of drumsticks layn to waste.
I shall boil the cat in hot cooking oil and then leave it for the vultures to finish off.
No, that would be much too expensive.