Out There' And In Number
There are those who believe,
They can do as they please.
Even expressing disrespect,
In everything they do...
That might cause others to get upset.
And expect these people do,
To be forgiven.
After an apology has been delivered.
With attempts to blame...
Every aspect of their nonsense,
On a childhood lived.
This explanation may include...
Negligent parents.
Or an overprotective smothering done.
Or pets that created their allergies.
Or...
Ancestors who infected the family bloodline,
By not using Food and Drug Administration approved...
Pesticides,
On homegrown vegetables.
And this left a scar that tormented,
By the acknowledgement...
Of those vegetable not being totally fresh and organic.
Hey...
These folks are 'out there'.
And in number!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Haunted By My Own
Haunted by my own.
Haunted by a bloodline...
My ancestors have sewn.
And I confess...
My obsession to do my best!
This wont leave me alone.
I feel I am here,
To make their voices known.
I can not neglect a moment of respect.
To be perceived as a disrespect.
I must protect and protest indignities!
Haunted by my own.
Haunted by a bloodline...
My ancestors have sewn.
And I confess...
The challenge to please them,
Leaves me restless to achieve.
To heights of a success...
That will have all believe I have succeeded.
And my ancestors can attest,
I have done them well!
Although my haunting will continue,
Since they and I are not quite through...
To convince with proof what I am here to do!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Nonsense Is Just What It Is
Some folks are quick to say,
They meant no harm by their intentions.
And if harm was done...
An apology is extended.
I have a problem with that!
Since I know for a fact...
Few people sleep walk unconsciously.
Those who are conscious,
Know exactly what they do!
To who, why and for what reasons!
The rest of that nonsense is just what it is!
Pure BS!
People make mistakes!
And even those are consciously made.
Folks just don't like the exposure of being caught.
Believing it is easy to excuse what they do.
Like a ritual or a tradition of sorts.
An act is committed; an apology is given.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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What Difference Does That Make?
What can anyone say to another,
When opportunities to have meaningful conversations...
Have been skipped to compare one's appearance,
To relatives, neighbors, pets and meaningless nonsense.
People have done this,
And for years make claims what they know.
When in actuality they know not a thing.
Not about the people they talk about or the surroundings.
And these are the folks who are expressing disbelief.
Whether it is about something done or what has been achieved,
Right next door.
Or the kind of lifestyle a relative lives and not one perceived.
There are people who have complete conversations,
Discussing other people they have yet to meet.
And when they see them in the streets they give them attitude.
Without one word ever shared or a hand extended to greet.
What can anyone say to another,
When opportunities to have meaningful conversations...
Have been skipped to compare one's appearance,
To relatives, neighbors, pets and meaningless nonsense.
'Hello.
I'd like to introduce myself...
Since no one else has done it.
And I don't want to be like them.
I'd like to establish a process,
That has a start that progesses to a middle...
And grows to produce positivity that never ends.'
~You know I know you.
Stop playing around.~
'What's my real name?
Not my nickname.'
~What difference does that make?
We still gon' be related.
What's your real name anyway?
I never knew that.~
'And you say you know me?
How? '
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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My Cheeks Do Not Turn
Returning back what I get,
Seems to offend the ones...
Who possess selective memories kept,
In their archives of thoughtless actions.
To conveniently forget as is often done,
By those who have a knack...
To excuse everything they do,
On the dysfunctions of their childhood.
And this 'defect' is fed to THEIR children,
To accept as a custom as a family heirloom given.
You do me...
You will get done!
That's it!
I apologize for the detour.
But that's how it is.
And always there is a parent to blame,
Who either smothered them with strictness...
Or did not supply them with enough love.
However,
My empathy given does not extend to include...
Forgiveness to anyone wishing to use me,
To later express a pathetic childhood lived.
I don't carry around a box of tissue.
Detour number two...
I am into Brahms and Beethoven.
And a little Mozart.
But sobbing tears with strings,
To crescendo gradually in the background...
As one attempts to defend what they've done?
No!
I am not a part of that audience.
Especially when one has aged with maturity OR not,
To be held accountable for those misdeeds...
Consciously done to others to do to forget.
You do me...
You will get done!
That's it!
My cheeks do not turn.
But I am told I walk with a switch,
By those who mistake my proudness for something else.
And I don't spend time looking at myself from behind.
Even if I could do it I wouldn't.
My footsteps and eyes are focused forward.
Obviously some have their eyes fixed elsewhere.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Every Aspect of Their Lives Has Been Colorized
Shot, maimed.
Dragged from behind trucks.
And swung randomly from trees.
That is the visual...
I get from 'those' people.
And with me it sticks.
From me it wont leave.
And I remember Katrina,
When these same people...
Were calling 'my' people refugees.
As if they weren't the immigrants...
On land their ancestors illegally stole.
From those who are native!
To instigate intimidation and disrespect.
And I've been told I carry an embitteredness.
I've been told by those I carry a chip on my shoulder,
That I should address.
I've been 'called' and told many things...
By those folks who will not confess,
If it wasn't for people of color...
They would find it difficult to feed themselves.
Or be able to protest,
Whatever those interests are...
They have to defend and protect.
Since every aspect of their lives has been colorized.
And maybe that's why their 'greatness'
IS apparently on the waning side!
And they walk around envious, insecure, unhappy and upset!
Yet...
If it wasn't for those of color,
Their achievements would not have been their best.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Please stay away, our people have to survive!
A curd woman carries a pot of yogurt that drips on her moon forehead
The crystal white droplets drench the old soul, shouts, "yogurt,
Fresh yogurt, churned butter, anyone wants to buy? ",
Vegetable man pushes his cart, full of colorful vitamin vegetables,
Shouts as usual, "Vegetable, Vegetable, Green vegetables".
Fruits seller and fish monger carry their bounties in the baskets,
Pots, pans, spoons and brooms are sold on streets,
Sweat, tear, longing and desperation in discreet,
What place do the multinational whole sale retailer hit,
On the soil of poor people, where people live as dogs and cats.
Please stay away from us and we are not the good market,
as the habit of descendant will not let you see the profit.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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Can't You Take A Joke?
You have defamed my character.
Ruined my reputation.
Had your associates burn down my home,
Torch my car...
My only means of transportation.
You have gotten me fired.
Created division among my family and friends.
And you expect your public apology,
To be effective enough to heal my wounds.
Many of which will stay with me...
For the rest of my life!
'I don't know why you are taking this,
So personally.
I did say I was joking.
And even if I influence 'millions' on a daily basis...
With a destroying of whom I please,
Why on Earth have you become so upset?
Can't you take a joke?
Lighten up.
At least space has been provided for you,
On a local homeless shelter.
AND, at the taxpayers' expense.
You people...
Seem always to find time to whine,
About the smallest thing.'
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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When, in Actuality...
If one has spent,
A lifetime of feeding upon nonsense...
With an unquestioned defending of it,
Difficult will it be...
To free one from such a mindset,
Of restricted limitations...
That does not afford one,
Eye opening and boundless visions...
Expanding one's consciousness.
Especially,
When there has been an enforcement to label...
Those around one,
As weirdos, misfits and freaks.
The very ones they have been taught to despise,
With a disrespect that is complete.
When,
In actuality...
These are the people who are 'not' in desperate need,
To change their lives.
When,
In actuality...
People like this long ago ostracized,
May have been the ones criticized...
However,
Reality has always been a consciousness for them lived.
And not one attempted to hide.
And today,
Those now found crying with tear duct swollen eyes...
Have too late awakened to realize,
Every known aspect of their lives...
Has been totally based upon manipulation.
And a deception of beliefs...
That has thrived upon platforms of lies and denials.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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0011 Scrubbing Carrots
Every Friday, a happy smiling man
who says he’s a mixture of Spain, Trinidad and England
delivers a bag of organic vegetables
and a bag of organic fruit, and
it’s a bit like a child’s Christmas bran-tub adventure –
some strange vegetables I’ve never seen before
and would never have dared to buy;
or eat, if I found them growing in the garden…
but it’s worth it for the carrots alone –
they taste, well, OK, like carrots used to taste..
and each week, they come from a different grower, so
they arrive clean and smooth one week,
clotted with earth another, but
as Rilke might say, rich with carrot-ness..
and I clean them with a respect which they
and the sheer living greenness of the greens
and other vegetables naturally demand of me
so that vegetable-cleaning
which used to be a chore done with attention
only at half strength, is now something more -
and in this mood, almost overlooked small great miracles of life
just happen of themselves –
two weeks ago, I watched amazed
as my two hands of themselves
devised a new way of cleaning carrots –
the hands reversed their roles: left hand
now held the scouring pad, diagonally,
and the right hand spiralled the carrot
in the pad… and lo! those etched horizontal lines
of dirt were perfectly removed..
and the isness of the carrot
and the isness of its servant
were together one silent song
where, it seemed,
the forgotten met the remembered
and rejoiced.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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When I Discovered My Given Name
When I discovered my given name 'is' Lawrence...
(Named after my father.
Who on 'his' birth certificate says Lawrence 'A'.
And I'm suppose to be a junior with no 'A' attached.
Go figure!)
...and not 'Larry' as I am still called by family members,
And very close friends.
People who 'knew' me became upset,
When I began calling myself 'Lawrence'.
Saying I thought I was better than the others.
And that I was not 'real' OR down-to-Earth!
'Does this sound a bit crazed?
I wanted to call myself by my 'real' name...
And folks who didn't have my name,
Became upset!
Pure insanity...
Isn't it? '
There's more...
But my parents did not name me Larry.
They named me Lawrence.
And my father everyone called Lawrence...
Decided he was going to be called 'Larry'.
I'm not going to say he was a jealous man.
That's a different story!
And I decided to become as REAL as possible!
Even adopting an African name, Suhuba...
Of the Yoruban language.
Meaning 'laurel' or of the Sun.
And 'that' made some folks furious.
Family members became outraged...
Because I sought 'identity'.
And I was accused of wanting to be 'white'.
These are the same folks who call for unity of all kinds!
But they don't know 'who' they are to unify.
And 'why' or for what!
That's how ignorant some environments,
And the people can be!
Divided into segments of conditioned realities.
God bless 'em!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Only to Reveal the Real Deal
Take an accumulation,
Of acts of disrespect performed...
Over a period of years.
Add to that blatant deceit,
To which one attempts to keep discreet.
And minus from that,
An overwhelming patience.
If anyone should say,
They have no idea...
Why someone from them,
Has taken a patience away?
They have been totally into themselves.
And to label someone within listening distance,
As 'crazy' for what they've done.
To those tiring of giving empathy to this,
Repetitious nonsense...
Is only to reveal the real deal.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Victim of a Premature Death
Parents absent from the act,
Who expect their children...
To reflect their best efforts yet.
Teach what they get!
Whether it is disrespect,
Or prisons visits.
A return on their investments,
Should not upset.
Or a knock on the door,
From a policeman who regrets...
To announce a child,
Has become victim of a premature death.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Deeply Hidden Masquerades
My mission is not to bump them from top tier.
My crusade is to expand what's here to flourish.
How can that be done in discouragement?
How can anyone expect,
Other than shallowness and disrespect...
When getting on the receiving end,
Another whoa and whimper delivered.
I am not accepting anymore gifts like that,
Sent to surprise and motivate my anger!
My ancestors presence is everywhere.
And a sense of a flawed communication...
Is slowly lifting a veil up and away,
From frustrating times
Of unknown disguises...
And deeply hidden masquerades!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Chubby Mugs
A little wide in the rear,
With beliefs that eating anything...
Is endearing!
And to do this and feel entitled?
Clearly mentally and physically,
Handicapped...
Are these folks who do that.
Although those who choose,
To be politcally correct...
May become upset by others expressing,
Their direct assessments.
That seem harsh and openly stated,
With a degree of disrespect.
However,
The ones with their chubby mugs...
Are offensive to the eyes.
As well as to those who are health consciously wise.
If people are adding pounds their bodies don't need,
Who pays for this...
Ultimately?
You and me.
We have to step aside to have these FAT folks,
Accomodated unnecessarily!
And there are already enough excuses made,
To raise and pocket taxes!
A little wide in the rear,
With beliefs that eating anything...
Is something to be endeared?
And to do this and be entitled too?
At 'my' expense?
As if looking like a bloated float,
Is something to prove?
With a diminishing of what I value?
And that is my good sense...
I had to experience with my 'own' ignorance?
I simply do not think so!
Living waddling like this,
Is not the right way to go!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A vegetable garden in the beginning looks so promising and then after all little by little it grows nothing but vegetables, nothing, nothing but vegetables.
quote by Gertrude Stein
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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For any wrong happening, do not run to your gods, blame yourself
A childhood friend of mine
Seemingly very much devoted
To the faith his family belonged
Never missed a day
To visit the places of worship
In our big town
Never missed a day
To complete the
Daily rituals with which
He was baptized long back
Fled the town overnight
In search of earning opportunities
Went abroad
Got a job
Things did not end there
Convenience and comfort made him
Change his faith
Got married to a woman
Of a different faith
And settled there
Unaware of these his parents
Went ahead for his marital alliance
Which he also accepted
Got second time married
Without disclosing his earlier wedding
In all his traditional ways
Expressing devotion to all gods
Of his original faith
Through the second marriage
He was blessed with twins
When everything came to light
His parents were turned practically mad
Who, otherwise, were an enthusiastic couple
And his second wife
Fell seriously ill, not terminally,
But beyond recovery
His twins are now practically parentless
And in shattered childhood
I was induced to ask the gods of these faiths
As to what were their roles
When this person kept his faiths
They looked at each other for a while
And both said in chorus
You only have created us
And you only have decorated us with powers
But, you would never ask for
Correct help or guidance
You would act on impulses
And on the demands of your sensual pleasures
If anything goes wrong
You would look at us
Seeking reasons and explanations for the mishap
For any wrong happening
Do not run to your gods
Blame yourself
poem by Bashyam Narayanan
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Allergies
Maladies
Melodies
Allergies to dust and grain
Maladies
Remedies
Still these allergies remain
My hand cant touch a guitar string
My fingers just burn and ache
My head intercedes with my bodily needs
And my body wont give it a break
My heart can stand a disaster
My heart can take a disgrace
But my heart is allergic
To the women I love
And its changing the shape of my face
Allergies
Allergies
Somethings living on my skin
Doctor please
Doctor please
Open up its me again
I go to a famous physician
I sleep in the local hotel
From what I can see of the people like me
We get better
But we never get well
So I ask myself this question
Its a question I often repeat
Where do allergies go
When its after a show
And they want to get something to eat?
Allergies
Allergies
Somethings living on my skin
Doctor please
Doctor please
Open up its me again
Maladies
Melodies
Allergies to dust and grain
Maladies
Remedies
Still these allergies remain
song performed by by Paul Simon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Expect a Sudden Awakening
While folks were concerned about being politically correct,
And expressing proper etiquette...
They were being ripped off by professional crooks.
With slick wardrobes and fresh faced looks.
And being lied to by elected officials,
While degradation was being marketed on airwave stations.
And sold to appease to all on their TVs!
The best of crimes found their way on bookshelves.
By authors who renounced their misdeeds,
With confessions of how they made millions...
As inside traders doing stints on Wall Street.
And thieves became praised by every child exposed.
While designers of decadence,
Produced their logos and symbols on expensive clothes.
And those who wished to do the right thing...
Became disrespected,
Because they weren't in debt...
Chasing the American Dream.
Now that everyone seems to be in 'hock'...
There are calls from the government that this greed has to stop!
But a way of life that has been perfected to seduce...
Has reduced truth and reality into insignificance.
While those who fed the addictions now dreaded...
Expect a sudden awakening of many without common sense.
And a miracle that will restore their shores,
From the hands of foreign investors...
Collecting every dime that is spent!
This is not incompetence.
This is stupidity and madness at its best.
And...
Signed, sealed, delivered
As approved!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Unified By Their Nonsense Making
When people become offended,
By someone expressing an identity...
There is an acceptance of an unconsciousness,
That has become collectively defended,
By overwhelming ignorance.
And no one has to go to a mall,
To shop for the proof of the evidence.
A blindness is preferred by those following,
As if addicted sheep...
Down a road where the process of thinking,
Independently or not...
Is regarded as a threat to those easily upset,
By those they overhear communicating...
With a maturity expressed.
And not a sign of an argument building up,
Between them addressed with...
The spewing of cuss words heard.
This is a dangerous environment,
For anyone with intelligence to live in!
People with intelligence are suspicious,
Of making attempts to be 'better'...
Than everyone else.
Especially those,
Who prefer to live their lives...
Down to Earth and as foolishly as possible.
When people become offended,
By someone expressing an identity...
As a choice of one attempting to think,
With common sense...
Is not a recommendation,
For anyone choosing to separate themselves...
With a maturity,
From this kind of accepted behavior...
Chosen by those unified by their nonsense making,
And faithfully tied to rituals...
They neither understand nor respect with depth.
'If it was good enough for my mama and her mama...
And those 'mamas' known before that,
Well...
It is good enough for me!
And I will take that with two hamhocks,
Yams dripping with butter and gravy smothered chops.'
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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What It Takes to Lead
Can one completely lost of wit,
Be held accountable...
For not having an independent thought,
At all.
Everyone born...
Isn't always guaranteed,
Common sense.
And those ignorantly involved in 'their' nonsense,
Have not a clue they are not well.
Even a barrage of thrown hints,
Would go left unaddressed.
Those folks are focused on their greed.
With a twisted ego to keep them fixed.
Can one completely lost of wit,
Be held accountable...
For not having an independent thought,
At all.
'Good question.
I can't answer it.
The next one plays basketball.
And his wife takes no nonsense.
I think we all are in for quite a surprise.
These new folks are totally awake!
And they know what it takes to lead! '
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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