- Who is Rayn Roberts?
- How Good Was Dylan Thomas?
- Step into History
- The Restorer of the Thomas House, Geoff Haden
- Dylan Thomas, Poet
- Poetry & Tales by Dylan Thomas
When I cut my hair
grows back again–
Aren’t for friends
While living a summer in South Carolina, I absorbed the local accent and diction of the people, especially the country folk and wanted to record it in some way, so I wrote this poem by listening first then writing it into a suitable form. Listening, not just writing, is what Poetry is all about, you know.
In a Piedmont Eatery…
Nothin’ apple ’bout apple jam
Peaches ain’t no size this year
The major’s took to drink again
What’s the Reverend gonna do,
What’s he gonna do.
Two eggs up straight for Helen, Sam
Mo Jo’s back in town I hear
Been no rain since God knows when
Got ta cut the corn crop down
Got ta cut it down.
No tellin’ when the strike will end
Or if Union boys are gonna win
They shut down all the mills they say
Just ain’t no work ’round here no more
Ain’t no more work ’round here.
Got not idea how long it’s been
Since Mrs. Jeffery had them twins
I’m told she’s comin’ on ok
This last two makes that family nine
Makes them Jefferys nine.
It cost you for the third refill
Sixty cents a pound these days
They had a frost down in Brazil
Sure got us in a squeeze, you know
Sure got us in a bind.
for Kelli Parrish
I found you gone when I arrived
The grey Buddha in your garden covered with black dirt
Made me remember
When he attained enlightenment
Buddha touched the earth declaring, “By this sign I bear witness.”
In a Buddha’s eyes
All things are pure
Still tradition has a power and Tibetan traditions states
A Buddha must be elevated
Above the ground.
I turned a white flower pot over, set Buddha on top
Surrounded him with bougainvillia, offered for luck
The nickel I found
On your front step
Then in the high noon Christmas sun I waited
While at my feet, a fly feasted on the feces of a dog…
A cat…. perhaps a raccoon?
And it occurred to me
One minute, one discovery after another
Buddha and Jesus wanted the same for all: truth freedom peace
And their greatest gift, a mind of love, even for a fly.
Truth Is a Rock in Jerusalem
a bullet shot
at Muslim men
Jewish men rocking at the Wailing Wall
driven into working men–
Israel is a den of thieves
Radical Jewish Terrorists
Pushing into Al-Haram Al-Sharif
Taking Arab land
Calling it settlement when the truth
Is anything but settled–
We know the Dome of the Rock
The Temple Mount are holy
But are they
When bullets fly within?
Separate when mixed
And a rock is just a stone until we make it holy:
Housed in a mosque, hurled in a riot, one meant to kill, the other to inspire.
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Where do the children play? How will they feel when they are men?
May there be Peace in Jerusalem and the Middle East
It is possible to be gay and Christian.
It’s also possible to believe in God and science.
It is possible to be pro-choice and anti-abortion.
It is equally possible to be a feminist and love and respect men.
It’s possible to have privilege and be discriminated against
To be poor and have a rich life
To not have a job and have money (legal good money).
It is possible to be anti guns and still believe in the right to defend one’s self, family and property.
It’s possible to be anti-war and pro-military.
It is possible to be anti-Trump and pro-America.
It is possible to love thy neighbor and despise his actions.
It is possible to advocate Black Lives Matter and pro-police.
It is possible to not have an education and be brilliant.
It is possible to be Muslim and also suffer at the hands of terrorists.
It is possible to be a non-American fighting for the American dream.
It is possible to be different and the same.
We are all walking contradictions
of what normal looks like. Let humanity and love win.
(Poetic form by Rayn Roberts / Author is ANON, but encouraging you to copy/paste/share if you want it.)
I cannot commit my poems to memory, cannot trust a machine
That is failing as I speak to you.
The poems belong to the page and to you,
Let them do their work in your heart–
Each night I close my eyes, I die.
Each day I wake, I am born again.
I am dancing with Death, my beautiful silent partner.
He knows the dance of life better than I
Each step before we take it.
I go out to visit my mother, the sea
I give her my sadness, love and longing, she listens.
She rewards me with a blue pearl, salt and light
She says, “Dance with grace my son, I am with you.”
Looking up, my vision blurs, the sky is as blue as the night black.
Looking down I am blinded by darkness.
I look left and right, I see all dancing with death.
It it the truth of my life– In a dream
I fly over the ocean to Spain, I am in the ring with the bull.
I look up, there is only blue, I look down there is only death.
It is the truth of my life. I look left and right
Spin my red cape, la capa, shouting at the bull
Quisas estoy loco, loco al bailar con tigo!
No me mires, eschucha a mi corozon.
Que hay musica profunda, musica trajica.
Es la verdad de mi vida, la verdad de vida.
Death takes even the truth we find in life.
Matador of words, I hope to charm him with poems
Dancing in dreams of a dream…
Hey, hey, toro! I kneel before the bull, “Come on!
Come kill me. Do it quickly.” He rakes the dirt with a hoof
I rise, the sky is as red as blood, “Toro! Toro! Listo!”
I drive the long blade in: Estoca completa, pero nunca puedo matar al Toro.
Animal rights activists claim bullfighting is a cruel or barbarous blood sport, in which the bull suffers severe stress and a slow, torturous death. A number of animal rights or animal welfare activist groups such as Antitauromaquia and StopOurShame undertake anti-bullfighting actions in Spain and other countries.
Photo: “Ghosts of Seville” by Rayn Roberts.