Practicing Life

Practicing Life

I’ve been given eyes to see the world
I’ve been given a chest to fill with air
I’ve been given a heart to love
And a sense of awareness to enjoy it all

And yet I find myself sometimes
As lifeless as a rock
Blinded, choked, aching
Yearning to be free

A throbbing heart,
A set of eyes,
A rhythmic breath
And a sense of existence
Do not need practice
And yet I find myself
A complete amateur in life.


bohemiaspeaks.com

Stardust

Stardust

If words are made from stardust
Then every thing I’ve ever said
Is made from light,
Even the bad.

If people are made from stardust,
Then every person I’ve ever met
Is made in heaven
Even my enemies.

If worlds are made from stardust,
Then we all are born
In outer space
Even the ones among us 
that lack imagination.

So how best to explore the cosmos?
When here, 
In this big blue planet of ours:
Are a million galaxies to explore.

Lost in Time

And then those times
Where life like pleasant clouds
Softly moving through the sky
Without a chartered course
Yet never lost to gazers
from below
And then those times
Where life like wine
Poured into glasses
Red and ripe with zeal
Making us soft at head
Yet never foolish
In our choices
And then those times
Where dreamy Sunday afternoons
Ending with a setting sun
Perched atop a golden gleaming sea
Are simple yet magnificent
Without the need
for audience
And then those times
Where magic lost
Inside our hearts
Is filled with madness
Roaming like a ceiling fan
Only to find ourselves
Where everything began
And then those times
Where life has passed us by
Measured by our memories
Smiles and loves and cries
And then those times
Where life content with what
we have become
Heavy oak trees
Rooted in the ground
Still reaching up
Trying trying trying
To be free
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bohemiaspeaks.com

Wildfire Love

my_soul_is_on_fire_by_supermalade-d3dqc01

Love is
The most powerful
force
on the face of
this earth
Binds us together,
breaks us apart
Like the crackling wildfire
Burning through
Forest land
Melting sky with earth
Trees with flowers
Predator with prey
Into a winged
pitch black
amber butterfly
Set free
Gently floating
Above a brazen inferno
Immune to its raging heat
Aloof
Searching for a new place
To call home
To rest
To breathe
To mend
what has been broken
Yes,
when the summer blaze
subsides
There is autumn
And a long cold winter
But then again
there’s spring. :)

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bohemiaspeaks.com

The Irony of Every Beautiful Thing

Let me write now alive and well
Roaming in my thoughts
Like I have never roamed before
My heart in pain and soul in anguish
Freed
From all the hubris and make belief
I bear the coldness
of my naked solitude with pride
I will not budge,
I will not hide
But  I ask myself:
What difference could I have made?
She’s like a broken water fountain
On a warm day
The thirsty stand in line to take a sip
But all that she can serve them are her tears
And as I stand in line and wait my turn
I’m writing these few lines
To keep me company
I’ll never have her
Although we could have had the world
That’s just the irony of every beautiful thing
It’s always at a distance,
fleeting, beyond reach
But no
I will not budge
I will not hide
I’ll stand under the scorching sun for days
Until her tears and mine
Pour their way into a stream
And share some journey
Towards a setting sun

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bohemiaspeaks.com

Footprints

foot_print_by_krakhan

I walk barefoot,
Not because I’m naked
Nor poor
Nor in need of shoes
But because I’m curious
To feel and reconnect
With clay beneath my feet
And muddy fields
To voyage through
A forgotten world
That’s right beneath our feet.

Now, we walk barefoot
Together
Fields a bit more green to touch
And as the blades of grass
caress our heels,
the sunshine rains
between our toes.
I feel I know you more.
We dance
I witness all your life
Your past and present
and what’s to come,
As your feet sway gently
across the floor.

And in the morning,
Our hearts still cold
From the loneliness of night
But our feet are bare
and slightly touching
anticipating another day
Making shapes,
telling stories,
and leaving footprints
on our way.

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bohemiaspeaks.com
(Adapted from my post on October 18, 2013)

True Poetry is Lived

A poem is a state of mind that manifests itself through words. But what is poetry worth if we lack the boldness to make those words manifest through our actions everyday. If every blogger on the planet acted on the beauty of their words, we would live in paradise.

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bohemiaspeaks.com

The Lone Traveller

I travel the world in metal birds
Wings roaring fire and steam
Lift me high above the clouds
And when I land in some place far away
I ask myself if it is night or day
My heart eclipsed by neon lights
Luring strangers passing by
I claim a vacant room and call it home,
– (For now).
I see the sunlight
Bursting through the hotel curtains
But never seem to have the time
To step inside the sun
And as the world slowly burns itself to sleep
I know my place among the stars
Drifting in my thoughts
To where it’s cold and gray
That solitude of foreign land
That never seems enough
To make you stay
Yet is enough to make you hopeful
For just another day

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bohemiaspeaks.com

Seasons of Decay

000001

A withering apple tree
Will ripen with the days,
And share its fruity love
With bees and mocking jays.

In snowfall there is hope,
For those of us who roam
The footprints of a deer
Will always point towards home

And scorching suns may turn
A sandy shore to coal,
But wavy seas will rise
To soothe our aching soles.

Those seasons of decay
Will always end in May
And every broken heart,
Will mend itself with clay.

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bohemiaspeaks.com

Metal Bird

Metal bird
Fly with me
Above the clouds
Take me home
To where the eagles nest
Take me there
With feathers made of steel
Take me back in time
So that this cage
Can sleep again
In mountains, hills
And rivers
Scattered like my heart
A thousand pieces
In a land that I call home
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Canon AE-1 Film Camera / Frankfurt, Germany (May 2015)

History of a Banjo: From African Folk to Bluegrass

0153800-R2-025-11
Georgetown, District of Columbia / April 2015

An African New World invention combining the best of both European and African elements, early banjos made their way across the ocean to an unwelcoming land. In their new home these musical machines unleashed an exotic power that soon became commonplace (ever heard Cotton-eye Joe?). In their transformation from crude tribal lutes to engines of a new folk culture, Banjos laid testament to the magical influence of music. Captors’ hearts were unwittingly captivated and legions of haters were defeated with song. Today the Banjo is relegated to halls of fame as this painful past is dusted under the rug of time and as new Banjo’s leave their mark in history.

Detailed information about the history of the Banjo here:
http://www.musicfolk.com/docs/Features/Feature_Banjo.htm

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bohemiaspeaks.com

Nature is the Greatest Technologist

bionic manNature is technology
Design is divination
And all our man-made toys
Piggyback on creation
From Eden’s luscious gardens
To the Apple of Francisco
Idols still erected
Some rain-dance others disco
Yet people like a cancer
Spreading with a jitter
Hard-wiring the universe
From Mr. Morse to Twitter
And every tool is searching
For a righteous hands’ command
Our greatest foe –
Our only ally
Depending on where you stand

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bohemiaspeaks.com

Shiva & Ganga: A Poem about the Ganges River

Holy_bath_by_JuliZib

Mischievous diva
Plant your tentacles here
Let rivers part their way
And deltas break the earth
Into a thousand rings
Muddy emotions
Resting on the sand
Damp with barren colors
Yet fertile in the sun
Cast your infinite hairline
Into these oceans deep
Quench the thirst
Of salty reefs
Inundate mountains
Soften their peaks
Before they rise
From valleys unseen
And when the sky goes dark
What difference does it make
To moonlit horizons
Where clouds and water meet
There is your home
Where form can take no shape
But love
Where dreams take refuge
From dusk till dawn

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The Ganges River is commonly referred to as Ganga in various Hindi dialects. The river enjoys a rich mythological significance. For many Hindus, the Ganges signifies one of the many stories of creation comparable to what is commonly known in the west as the story of Noah’s arc.

bohemiaspeaks.com

Broken Brown: America who’s to blame?

©2014 Manumax
©2014 Manumax

Sometimes a few words, meaningless in and of themselves, and loosely scattered can say much more about a thing than all the monographs and manuscripts in the world. Racism in America is like a bunch of mirrors pointing at each other.  The more you try to see yourself, the more you see a million other selves. Your race, your bank account, your God, where you’re from, your parents, your values, your clothes, your accent, your role models all caught up in an infinite visual prism glistening on network TV. You lean to the left, and they all lean with you. You look away and who knows who looks back.

Broken Brown
Lying down
Joins his people
In the ground
Shoulders touching
Sirens sound
Marching onward
For his town!
Mothers worry
Sisters cry
Fathers suffer
Brothers die
Nations color
Outside the line
Children colored
With shades of crime
Crayons never
Tell a lie
Guilty people
Seldom cry
Drawing pictures
In their heads
Who’s to blame
You or I?
Who’s to blame,
Broken Brown.

Join the conversation

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bohemiaspeaks.com

The Demise of Concrete Legends

Protests in Tijuana, Mexico, against the new president, Photo Credits  UrielReyes
Photo Credits UrielReyes 2013 (Protests in Tijuana, Mexico)

Lamps shining steadily
Casting shadows
Into darkness
Tasteful words
Still wet
Sprayed in red
Thoughts void
Timeless
Floating freely
Bones forged
With bars
Bolted doorways
Hiding yesterday
Walls trapped
Inside their concrete skin
Shedding truths
Cities bustling
Above their rubble
Revolutions peeking
Through imaginary keyholes
Welcoming tomorrow

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Istanbul Enterprising

Panorama of Istanbul

Can you smell the dawn
Grazing along the surface
Of the foamy sea
Can you feel the breeze
Push against your face
And fill your lungs
With endless love
Can you hear the morning prayer
Echoing through the city’s stones
Silent sponges, hardened memories
Can you see the seamstress enterprising
The baker smiling
As she tosses life between her palms
Can you taste the sweetness
Of an innocent hope
And steadfast faith
Staring the centuries in the eyes
Without budging
In the sea
In the air
In the people of this place
A testament to god’s magnifecence
And his eternal grace

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Sand Castles – Excerpt from Andalusia

sand_by_balakov-d7b70ia

“The history of this world has unfolded from a stone cast many times into the sea only to find its way to shore again until the world in its entirety was filled with endless grains of sand each speaking of an age and time that once befell. What stories can we learn from playing with the sand. What stories can we tell from drawing shapes in dust and molding castles, moats, and gates with towers high. For sand is the essence of life. In every grain we can hear the cries of the millions that have perished before us and in every grain the joyous laughter of the millions that will be born. Cordoba was no ordinary sand castle in the playground of this world.”

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I am currently working on a new book that tells the story of Cordoba an ancient city in medieval Spain. Cordoba has so much to teach us about coexistence, tolerenace and love. Yet it remains forgotten in our modern accounts of history. More than 1000 years ago and for a brief hundred years or so, it was the largest and most extravagant city in the world where people from all walks of life lived together in harmony – until Cordoba was destroyed. I hope to share with you some bits and pieces of the story along the way.

Words

goodbye_v_by_moosiatko-d5kx8lq

And never
Would I have thought
That we would share
Those words
From all the words
That we have shared
And not
Only a few
To mark the end
As they depart
Into that haze
Above my thoughts
I greet your words
With rain
To fall upon
A different land
To meet again
Endless conversations
From the sky
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jungle mungle

Jungle Poem

That longing
Slowly dying
At the bottom
Of your chest
You can feel its heartbeat
Faintly throbbing
Rising every morning
With you
Still awake
For years
Like a school of daisies
Waiting innocently
For the sun
To shine
Feeding from
The coldeness of
The earth
Taking refuge in a soil
Roughened by the days
Each grain of sand
A thousand years of memory
Stale waters
Soaking roots
Soggy pores
Sleepy buds
Blossoming peacefully
Only when its time
Beyond the stories
Of this world
Transcendent is
That uncivilized passion
That raw melancholy
That natural desire
To expand
Germinating in every grain
Of pollen
That instictual love
That beauty
That currency of existence
Ethereal
Swaying beneath
Our ignorant eyes

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The Witch of Monterrey

Witch

The children gathered by her side, that gray haired lady spoke above the sound of crackling firewood. And as her squeaky voice filled up the room, a solemn silence creeped forward from the dark. Our shadows cast upon the wall, it seemed that we were stuck between two worlds. Unable to escape this mesmerizing tale, our ears were captive to her lips that somehow softened as we listened more. With every word her youthful countenance unmasked, fluttering in the paleness of the flames. She spoke:

It is in grief
That we bond
And in happiness
That we disperse
So question
Every time you smile
Are you happy
Or sad?
The anomaly of life
Is this
Billions wired to
A painful smile
Fighting to conceal
Their inner fears
And happiness
Becomes an act
of solidarity
Forged by the flaws
Of self-fullfilment
Who would want
To live alone
in this cold world?
We’ve flipped the dials
To choose a life of smiles
Interrupted by a thousand tears
And nothing is
Nor ever will be
What it seems

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The Monster of Trans-Siberia

Image

A humiliation I can’t describe. That monster that can hide inside the carelessness of those we cherish most. A trans-Siberian railway roaring with emotion never stops. In nature bound to locomotive paths of steel. Tearing at the tracks below its feet, stacks of metal longing to be scratched. Mine is a life of stations in the distance seen. Stations fleeting bidding their farewells ahead of time. Stations bleeding with contempt of what they are. Stations whistling signaling the advent of a purge. And as the passengers stand their turn, a trans-Siberian monster preps it’s appetite. Feeding off mementos of a clueless throng. Feeding off their love and hope and dignity. Feeding off their memories so that we can live in peace. And prosper on what they have to leave behind. Before our train arrives.

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The Morning Showers of Bethlehem

Bethlehem-southwest

I float and fall into the morning showers of Bethlehem. And nest myself like mist on every blade of grass divine. Crawl into the olive trees and soak into their barks and leaves, a thousand years of memories with every harvest and every savored meal. A drop of water, wiping faces blank. Dripping windowsills, rinsing stains of yesterday for us to see our home before it wakes. And after sunrise, a sparkling tapestry revealed across the land. A town reborn, sprinkled with a sense of ease. A joy so damp, you can taste it. A belonging blood can never wash away. For everyone to cherish and for no one to claim. This is my home. That’s all that matters. Whatever you call it, is just a name.

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The Broken Hourglass

The Broken HourglassI see this castle here
Water flowing
Above the sand
Greatness down
To the very last
Golden grain
Time is flowing
Underneath my feet
Waves dancing
With the sandy shores
And even the sharpest rocks
Lose their temperament
And become glossy
Like the sea
An eternal patience
Eating slowly from the land
From our homes
From our lives
From our dreams
Testifying to a universal truth
That nothing is what it seems
The world is a broken hourglass
And we are just its means
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bohemiaspeaks.com/about

Let There be Winter in the Land of Apartheid

Let the Winter Come poem

Let the winter come
Let the storms hit bay
Let there be no innocence
In the month of may
Let the bleeding cry
And the darkness reign
Let the cold take every heart
A thousand years of pain
Let the fields go bare
Let the hungry die
Let there be no stars above
To guide a moonless sky
Let the music play
And the artists paint
Let there be a time for us
To cherish every saint
Let the singers sing
And the writers write
Let them make a meaning of
These tragedies in sight
And why were those words ever said
Let there be a light
What good has light brought to this world
When all we’ve done is fight

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bohemiaspeaks.com/about

in memory of Nelson Mandela

Mental Entrepreneurship and the End of History

color_dust_i_by_artviveslidia-d6djg7z
Lídia Vives (photography owner)

Winter is at our doorsteps. Trees turning a raunchy gold setting all their leaves afloat. Free salads showering through the air. This is no golden shower, for all those trying to picture something nice? No. But ease your mind and you can see an alternative truth to that which is presented.

Our brain is no muscle, but like a muscle feels. Its churning up there day and night, neurons like soviet era assembly lines working across the clock for a greater cause. It comes in handy to have a brain. Even more in handy these days when its actually working. But sometimes using that brain or being mindful means letting go, sizing down, laying off some people in that cerebral factory of yours.

We are all born as mental entrepreneurs, tasked to bring order to our faculties upstairs. We choose drugs, alcohol, sex, aggression to cut down on unwanted staff. We choose art, love, hope and compassion to bring our ranks in order and keep morale high. And all the world is churning in this unreal space. An industrial revolution of desires. An invisible war of nervous impulses. From control economies to economies of control, what difference does it make. Flyers, banners, slogans, ads, rhetorical conversations interacting across a space of minds.

And all we need to realize is that everything is packaged in our skulls. Quite the image if you could see it. This economy of the physical world, this marketplace of ideas, its happenings and fate are attached to our mental sweatshops. Cooperatives, lobbies, unions of contemplating states formed between our friends, in our community and across the world.

Point is, life is a state of mind and those minds are ours to oversee. Despite the dawn of liberal age, relics of a darker past stand still and unchanged. With empty humanism and fake notions of self determination we are forced to live. The machinery of our desires unrefined and geared towards our own self destruction. To make things right, calm your thoughts and treat your workers well. All it takes is a bit of faith, persistence and imagination to build the ideal home. And Mr. Francis, history by no means at all has ended!

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Innovation for Iraq: Making Poetry Reality

iraq_hope_by_engmna-d3dhwuu

I am becoming more inclined to share more of myself on this blog. Especially with all the great support and words of encouragement from many of you. I will no longer hide behind my poetry or mask the messages so that I can satisfy the hubris of being shared.

Today I’d like to share a video of a team that works in the World Bank and that’s trying to start a website like Kickstarter in Iraq. The project will allow young students and NGO members to get funding for any crazy project they may have. People that have dreams can actually make them come true.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CeqMNAHSvJw&feature=youtu.be

There is no mobile internet in Iraq. There is no online banking. By using simple text messages, this project solves that issue. People with ideas post projects on a website. In return people that want to donate text a special code on their mobile phones and a small amount of money is taken out of their phone credit and transferred to that project’s fund.

Just by sharing the video and showing your support, this team could get $68,000 from the World Bank to fund the project.  A simple idea that could possibly really make a difference.

A poem is a state of mind that manifests itself through words. But what is poetry if we lack the boldness to make those words manifest through our everyday actions.

Love you all,

JK

When Adam Blogged the Taste of Mortal Sin

would_you_like_to_be_immortal__by_STLUKA

Sun melts sky
Burning curtains
All that’s left
Are sprinkled stars
Across a day
Called night

Twinkling truths
Sexless constants
There is no black or white
In light
There is no darkness
There is no bright

My home this world
And all it’s living things my life
Your face is all I see
Your eyes a gateway
To a better world
A better self

I learn to lose that self
And join this greater good
I smile and laugh and cry
And hurt and live
Until my every moment
Is an act of love

And like a sunset there
Lifts a dawn
In some place else
I want my soul
To lift this world
Towards the sky

So that we melt togehter
Into that burning truth
And join the stars
Making concious love
Freed from tasteless
Immortality

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Footprints: Would you have ever thought?

Image

I walk barefoot, this urge I have so strong. Not because I’m naked nor poor nor in need of shoes. But because I’m curious. To feel and reconnect. From asphalt sidewalks to muddy fields of grass. A voyage through the unforeseen, that’s seen. And we all wonder, why the poor are seen.

We walk barefoot. And as the blades of grass caress our heels, the sunshine rains between our toes. I feel I know you more. Back home we dance. I witness all your life. Your past and present and what’s to come, as you sway your feet across the floor.

And in the morning, our feet cold from loneliness are touching slightly. We’ve left the world behind. We’ve left the places. We’ve left time itself. A sobering stillness melting from below. Bare feet touching anticipating another day.

No words are needed. No sounds. No smiles.  We mold our dreams from clay. Making shapes, telling stories, and painting footprints on our way.

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http://bohemiaspeaks.com/about/

Reflections of a Failed Writer

gxl_513e6307-a728-4dbc-9112-4f860aa613db

I by no means whatsoever claim nor ever will that what I write has any special significance or inherent value to anyone but myself. I do not claim nor ever will that I am a uniquely talented writer and do not really think so. However, after recently attempting to publish some of my poems in the form of an E-Book and failing to attract that much interest from the world I realized that most writers these days and people in general are constantly thriving for the approval of others and for some sort of recognition or appreciation for what they deem so great and worthy to share.

The bottom line is that throughout history the greatest artistic creations were rarely recognized or appreciated only to be picked up many years later by revisionists – analyzed and dissected. Added to that of course, is the great amount of competition writers are forced to acclimate themselves with these days in the realm of publishing.

I found myself thriving to craft my work and package it in a way that would sell to the average buyer on a virtual store that sifts through hundreds of book covers. Consumerism is eating away from our ability to share valuable information. Consumerism has made our minds more geared towards idiosyncratic gratification that is not in line at all with the difficult and sometimes unpleasant messages that result from inspiring works of art.

So a creative mind today is faced with two options. Either go rogue and write without caring about being recognized – and recognition here (for the record) is for the sake of sharing and not vanity – or allow yourself to compromise the quality of your message in return for higher chances of dissemination. Packaging, toning down, addressing certain issue areas and styles, digital marketing, graphic design, keywords, hash tags, artistic approaches,  trending genres etc. are all noble ways to reach a wider audience.

However, is there a way to maintain that raw message resulting from pure inspiration and that desire to share with as many people as possible? No, and that has become clear to me now. There is no value judgement in this statement. Those who wish to reach a mass quickly and effectively have every right to do so. I do not think that the quality or value of their messages are less relevant or of inferior quality. But I do think that true and raw inspiration cannot be packaged and disseminated widely at the click of a button. It needs time to mature and slowly grow organically into the everyday lives of people.

That said, after more than 2 years I’ve decided to refrain from publishing and turn this blog into a virtual scrapbook in which I share any message I feel I need to share, any poem or couplet, any prose or thought or image. A virtual scrapbook of a person that honestly and earnestly appreciates beauty and longs for inspiration in a world that is in dire need of both.

Love,

J.K.

The Anatomy of War

cold_as_ice_by_andrevomberg-d31k9g3

Does it end here?
Or begin
Bubble gum
Without a flavor
In my mouth
But I still chew
As I clean my gun
Same flavor on repeat

Planes revving
Rockets loading
Ships aligned
Seagulls waiting for their cue
Distant sirens
Executions in the dozen
Dusty roads empty
Throbbing cities silenced

This ancient place
Once so green and lively
Disconnected from its course
In history
Foreign thoughts
Values foreign to our ways
Occupation, bloodshed, wars
Dictators, mullahs, crazy clerics
Oil, gas, Jerusalem
Crimes of conviction and interest
Intertwined

Let us rest
Let us be
Let us live
There must be something
Fundamental, wrong
With this world
That so much hate and chaos
Can materialize
In this space and time
As if the universe
Churns its problems
And spits them in our mouths

So much commotion in a simple grain of sand
Blown across the world
Prompters, cameras, media lights
Particles colliding, merging, separating
In cyberspace
Sub-atomic wars every day
In cable lines and simple air
But all we see are dunes of sand
And huffed up speeches
So much commotion everywhere

In this world
Of material form
How can we be so beautiful?
When we’re condemned
To this commotion
Invisible disorder
Inside the fabric of our universe
And so we kill and rape and fuck
Bound by creative chaos
Until we die
Until we’ve been replaced
In sandy dunes
A few oases
Can never make a home

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Poem 105

Dialogues on a Boat Ride

Dialogues on a Boat Ride

What’s that on your hand?
Too long a story to be shared
Longer than a boat ride then?
I don’t know where to start
Where does your heart take you?
Everywhere
But now its hovering around your lips
Its floating around the crevices of your smile
Trying to understand
The stories behind that pensive look
Shrewd remarks
Laughing but shy
Humming but not carefree
Who are you stranger?
I’ve told so many lies
I feel I know you well
Have we met before?
Impossible
Why are we so different then?
I could never tell
Are you afraid of water?
It’s cold and I am tired
But yet we are so young
What’s your name again?
No need
How could we sometimes feel
So connected, just for a bit
And never have the courage
To ask for more?
Accustomed to being who we are
And with who we usually are with
I may have met my soul mate
We may have shared
So many early morning laughs
But now that’s just another story
To be told
Thought about at night
When reflecting about the day
As I’m getting old
And nearer to the bay

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Poem 104

Crosswalks

 chinatown_crosswalk_by_toko-d4e3fzd

Sidewalk cliffs
Beauty bounded
But smiling still
Her fingers wrap around
A cigarette
Her phone pulled out
From skinny jeans
Pockets ripped
I can see her skin
She takes a call
And walks on still
She looks both ways
And falls away
Forever

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Poem 103

Rendez-Vous

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It’s sobering when sitting by your side
A heavy presence laid upon my heart
Just like a whistling kettle I am free
To drink the fire of our love at start
Then burn inside consumed with my own doubts
Until I spit it out so uselessly
An old affair with passion and some clout
Is nothing but hot air before a tea

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Poem 102

A Strawberry Melancholia

I slide through this world
Just like that jam dripping
From edges of the jar
After breakfast
On cold kitchen tops
Turned up side down
Sticking to what I know
Falling reluctantly
Towards a frying pan
Watered down
Evaporated all around the room
Until I smell of everything
And everything smells of me

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Friends, I have no idea how to continue this blog, this experiment, after creating 100 characters/100 poems. I have decided to practice free-writing for some time. Hope you enjoy it as much as I do. Peace and love to all.

The Author of Bohemiaspeaks: Poem Number 100

Bohemia speaks
With every breath
Transforming the world
But not just with its poetry
Like toilet paper
Wipe and flush away
But physically, physiologically
Because everything is connected

Bohemia speaks about
An ancient practice
By Tibetan monks
Where one is brave enough
To inhale
All the hurting
In this world
And to exhale love
Compassion, peace and harmony

Bohemia speaks
And asks this question,
Are you brave enough
To take part
In this experiment?
Are you brave enough
To internalize
The outside world
And transform it
Transform with it
Into something beautiful?

Bohemia speaks about
Trying to view the world
Through the eyes
Of different people
Random people
And trying to make sense
Of all this craziness
Bohemia speaks
And so should you

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Character: 100/100

1 year, 7 months, 28 days and I have finally completed a 100 poem adventure to create an army of characters with hope that some of this poetry may have touched the life of someone or at least painted a small smile on their face.

Something even crazier and more exciting is coming up! Bohemia has spoken but is nowhere near shutting up! Oh and that’s me in the panda hat, withstanding the cold of Beijing for Chinese New Year 2011. Peace.

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The Locksmith: You Say You’re Hard to Get?

The Locksmith

I would go through
Arithmetic lengths
To twist the collar-bone
Above your heart
And mold it into
The cage it truly is
Put you on display
That all the people
That pass you by
Are warned by
Dangers of proximity
And to that cage
A magic iron lock
Without a key
An incarnation of
Your anomaly
A hundred heroes
Knocking at your door
You turn them into thieves as
They fret to pick your lock
You victimize yourself
For being hard to get
Not knowing that a cage
Without a key
Is not in fact a cage
But rather just
A guarded empty box
And that is what
You’ll always be to me
You say you’re hard to get?
I say you’re just a slut

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Character: 99/100
To all the dudes out there that struggle with hearts of certain divas.
– 2years, approaching 100/100! Thinking about what’s next! Much love.

The Bachelor: Casual Fucks in the Universe of Infinity

The Bachelor

This lonesome hunger
Ploughing through my veins
Marks a turn in mind
Towards the inner-self
The fear of living
With no sense of life
Feeding off the flesh of night
Until the game is bear and bone
And every other day
Just like the one before
An empty skirmish
For the reckless soul
So much excitement
In my thoughtless deeds
More like the comfort of necessities
But nothing seems to stick for long
A woman, maybe,
A queen of queens
Sent to me from the unforeseen
But am I ready to receive?
Am I ready to believe?
That beauty
Can be maintained
In partnership
With some woman of my dreams
Or will I keep on feeding
Off the crumbs
That mark the path
Ordained for us to meet
Until my hunger drives me
In this labyrinth of desire
Across my lifetimes
Towards an end
That’s destined to complete

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Character: 98/100
To everyone that’s lost in life. Lost in robotic routines. Satisfied and happy but looking for so much more.

The Linguist: Secret Garden of the Unspoken

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A word
Ageing in my lips
Uttered softly
Carried by the wind
Across the world
Diffusing into every soul
And heart
Melting with remorse
That it was spoken
A secret broken
A gentle invitation
Into hanging gardens
On clouds surreal
Above the skies
A land where speech
Is not required
A place where words are chosen
Faithfully every year
Strawberry trees
Slowly grown
Slowly picked
Slowly savored
On silent banquets
For the deaf and dumb
Sprinkled across the skies
Like rain
Shared with all the ramblers
Let them ramble
A word
A gateway towards that paradise
Consumed by its existence
In watery mouths with chewing gum
Until it disappears

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Character: 97/100
To all the people that appreciate the power of words, the magic of speech and the gift of human interaction. To all the people that know when to speak and when not to.

The Physiotherapist: A Fighter’s Mantra

poetry

I love you
More than the bonds of love
Can handle
Crutches made for giant hearts
Taking us afar
Sharing shoulders
Chests apart
But one emotion
A mystic sneezes rain
A vagrant breathes adventure
But on this chair
Forever
We can dream about the
Roads we never took
And picture stories of our life
Stories we could never realize
Everyday a different ending
Everyday a new beginning
Changed, maimed, marred
But more complete
More connected
An eternal bond
Between our broken selves
Stitching light into the unforeseen
A path for us to follow in dark times
A fighter’s mantra
For Siamese beginnings

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Character: 96/100
To all the people out there fighting to become their better self, I have no right to assume your pain but hope to share the joy of your recovery.

The Schizophrenic: I am Real

photo (6)

Words a million words
Callous judgments breaking skin
Numbers peeling lemon trees
Desires fading by the day
Citric scents
Carried through the universe
Trailed by constellations
Tracing crevices
In the way we interact
You will never know me
But I am real
All our senses
Geared in this conspiracy
Will keep us close
And take us far away

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Character: 95/100

The Calligrapher: I Read You

Image

Characters scattered
Across her face
Constant strokes of beauty
Alphabets divine
Telling stories
Tales of love
And heartbreak
With every squint
And smile
A million words
Never said
Silenced by the kindness
Of a heart
In never-ending anticipation

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Character: 94/100

The Gardener: Spring is Here

The Gardener
Spring is here
Every blossoming tree
Breathes your name
Whispering a quick excitement
Through the air
Painting daisies shy
Weaving them into a crown
Strokes of color
Lead my way
Towards your room
Behind those cherry trees
An empty hammock
Swaying with my memories
Eternal springtime
Here for me
And for all the world

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Character: 93/100

The Bus Driver: 36 to Victoria

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There she is
All I can see
Across this bus
A crooked nose
Pointing out a masterpiece
Her eyes so blue
And lashes honey blonde
Fingers crafted
Like the twigs
Of Avalon
Dicing through her curly hair
Shaping galaxies far away
Bumpy roads ahead
Simple smiles
Are all I need
On my way
To trust in life
To trust in purpose
To trust in goodness
On this very day

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Character: 92/100

The Florist: Violet Monologues

ImageLet there be light
I need not say
And in my longing
Here in this pot
Eternal days
Shed nighttimes
Curtains pulled away
Every morning
Making room for life
In worlds of sunshine
We don’t need the light
The day will come
And with it all the world
Growing, changing
Into a joyous thing
Blossoming with the seasons
No desire
But to be
And in that being
Endless room
Widening by the day

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Character: 91/100

The Exhibitionist: Mardi Gras

1965cae62100dd3581cb2e8ffb457273-d3j4pitCovered underneath
The mantle of desire
Naked truths
Pursued by only those
Brave enough to rid themselves
Of clothes
Nothing there
But nature
Have you ever scorned a tree?
All their layered garments
Made to conceal
Hypocrisies
Made to repress desires
To establish social order
Human kingdoms
Ravaging, pillaging
Raping, murdering
Stealing
Let me say this now
And hear it clear
I see so much more justice
Between the animals
Why are we so attached
To these repressive notions
When a thousand civil years
Have proved them wrong
This is a dog eat dog world
After all
So let’s just strip
And be the dogs we are
Its much more pleasant
In the summer too

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Character: 90/100

The Hooligan: An Ode to our Fuckin’ State

to be read in an Irish accent (preferably when intoxicated)

Fuck this twatImage
Opinionated asswipe
Stuffed with plastic whistles
That referee needs some stylish lovin’
A backrub by my uncle Sam
Or brawl with aunty Guinevere
It’s anarchy that we divide
Amongst our organized conjunction here
Fearless champions
Of every cause
And with our footsteps
Stadiums rumble
Bobbies tiptoe shy and clean
More like tiny boobies
On a teen
They cannot feed the crowds
Fuck the rules
We play to win, no hesitation
And in our bigotry
We survive
Don’t blame us, blame the world
For being such a place
That leaves no room
For compromise
In violence
Our children thrive
Against the world of rubber balls
Not the ones beneath our hinds
But those out there
On fields so green
Of that beloved land
That we’ve no choice
But to call home
Serve and protect
Until we’re seen

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Character: 89/100
Bobbies is slang for police, boobies is slang for.. well, you know what

The Perfumer: What is Love

ImageLove is a memory
Waiting to bloom
Love is a fragrance
That flatters the moon
A beauty residing
In provocative scents
Leaving a trail
Shaping events
Love is remembrance
Carved in a smell
A coded desire
Dressed in a fume
A placid experience
An olfactory womb
Fertile with pleasure
Love is perfume

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Character: 88/100