Three Poems

Posted on 6th August 2014 in Poetry, Reflections

by H. Gibrain


The resistance was fierce
the jews
and ingenious
their networks of tunnels
their stores of of weapons
the underdog
damned to extermination
and fighting till the end
honor, dignity, pride, life – actually


Hamas puts bombs in babies heads when they’re born
in case your american misslies can’t find them
everyone wants them dead for their own right reasons
lest they grow up to become poets, mothers, lovers


the resistance was fierce
the jews
muslims, christians
the indigenous
fighting for life, actually
in their networks of tunnels
weapon caches strategically placed


Zionist implants unimprovised explosive devices
in the heads of their aliyah children
right of return to hellacious lands
where love had her first fight
and will die fighting
licking the luscious last drops of blood
from the mosque floor
breathing in the last ashes of the dead
jews, muslims, christians
poets, mothers, lovers


the only thing
I have from you
is this sliver of the reflection of your face
in this chard of the mirror
from your bedroom


Pre-Occupation of the Heart IV

Posted on 22nd May 2014 in Poetry

by H. Gibrain
for Fidaa


I am not afraid of your guns
I know they are only loaded with flowers
aim them at me and fire away

those tear gas canisters are loaded
with the saline suffering of your ancestors
give them to me, I will heal them

your check points I know
they are there to protect me from myself
lest I lose my mind and forget how to love like you did

your warships and missiles
have killed my sweet child and proud father
now you are safe poor thing go back to your hate bubble

and laugh and sing and dance while you can
when you wake up your dream will be more than you can bear
you will turn to stone then crumble to dust
and I will sweep up after you

The Gods are Tired

Posted on 9th April 2014 in music, Poetry, Reflections
by h. Gibrain


the sky is tired

your resilience

earth shattering

exhausting the heavens


the walls are tired

standing so long

family of stones

daughters of suns


the streets are tired

wearied feet of soldiers

exhausted from humiliating

honor and soil


the lands are tired

heard it all before

the occupation, assassinations

summary executions


the mothers are tired

children arrested and tortured

their crime



the bullets are

tired of being fired

sky rife with tears

air ripe with jasmine


the gods are tired

Allah wrestling Yahweh

for a dose of heaven on

a small piece of desert wasteland

Little Sips of Love

Posted on 9th March 2014 in Poetry

there is no word in any language
for the way the words
everything is sacred
out of your lips
as I drank ice from your mouth
on top of me

something between a whisper
a moan a stutter of your heart
like your are riding to a wild death
the path of closest approach
to ecstatic beautality

and poetry of course
complete with
fully orchestrated
signopated muscle twerks
the ring finger neurotically
in spasm like cymbal
left hand clawing at my chest
like a cat weening
the milk it never got

you hips and vagina
sliding across mine
like the bassoon and double bass
keeping a low profile
under the unwinding
of the violence pizzicato
played by your hair

and the poetry of course
you whisper into my ear
about your visions
of fire, destruction, rain
cities caving in on themselves
the mutiny of feral animals
reclaiming terra nullius

red sky and black skin
finding their way back
to suns to make new life
in the next trilenium
fucking god themself
come down to clean up the mess
start all over again

as I slide out from
into you and under you
for a new position in the sky
in each others gravitation field
ellipses eclipsing lips and asses
swimming in sweat
sperm and leucorrhoea
as the orchestra winds down
the poetry deflates
beneath your panting
and we all go home

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Lunchtime on the Playground of Our Commonalities

Posted on 19th May 2012 in Peace, Poetry, Self Determination
“Don’t take my love for you personally” — Polish Proverb

You’ve all heard about the “Falafel Stand in No Man’s Land,” of course. Certainly, it highlights the irony of war. Such things do take place during war when people will take little breaks from fighting to smoke opium, masturbate, medibate, and even kill some more; Such things do take place on both sides of Terra Nullius (No Man’s Land). That is, in their hatred, both sides are the same. In the way they masturbate, both sides are the same. There are cultural differences in toilet paper, no doubt, like sheet size and overall accepted textures, but toilet paper  serves the same function across conflict boundaries.

The irony runs deep. Our most fundamental needs as human beings, our commonalities, are a cause for struggle. How do we transform competition for provision of our human needs into cooperation for the provision of our human needs. Yo, I’m not just talking about food, clothing, shelter, sex, drugs, and rock and roll. We have spiritual needs. We humans have emotional needs. Human beings have psychological and psychical needs as well.

Still, we can do much better than cooperation. We can actually have fun hanging out together in between the bullets and the bombs,  the fists and the knives. Yes, it can be like recess – with the broken monkey bars, the tire swings, the cigarette butts from last nights hoodlums – during Lunchtime in elementary school before our egos are developed enough to take our differences to war.

And why not learn to play nicely together since we all need the same things? Well, it has to do with desire and expectation of course. That is where the struggle comes from. Maybe it is true that the tapeworm in your gut actually pulls the trigger, or the spirochete in your mitochondria deludes you into thinking you’re in love. More likely, it is the self love/loathe — you know, when your self hatred cultivates narcissistic asshole behavior, apathy, and/or  self-deprecation — which prevents us from seeing self as other, gears us towards exploitation of others as we try to control them; steal their resources to acquire our desires (not mutually beneficial) not our human needs  ( “They” could be a person, place or thing).

Of course, what I am suggesting is the Unified Field Theory of Human Endeavors – that which draws us to the Playground of our Human Needs. It requires a transformation of our core temperament with the intention of transcending the border between self and other. Perhaps when the human population was approximately 18 it was not such a difficult task to perform.

Yet, even the internal workings of a persons fwang can, and often do, cause conflict. When our emotional, physical, sexual, psychological, psychical, and spiritual needs are not thoroughly understood – that is, when our internal states are not clearly defined and in resonance with our  core temperament- there exists a fertile ground for conflict. Toss into that internal mix the external forces of 7 billion people working towards the same thing among the external forces of economy, environment, politic, media, and other socal influences and you are left with a highly complicated system in which there is a great deal of friction and uncontrolled oscillations.

In the language of Natural Philosophy this dynamic is  considered to be a ‘many body problem’ for which there is no exact solution. However, this does not mean an empirical solution can not be expressed. That is, the way we live can be transformed – through a series of practices and rituals – to unravel our fwang and re-ravel it with a new formulation more in resonance with our original instructions – this time derived from our practices and spiritual advisers who will prompt us towards expressing who we are supposed to be. This guidance and practice, along with the tools of non-violence and conflict transformation, will instruct us in a way that we can learn to play nicely among the commonalities of our human needs.


From the Polish Book of the Dead and Other Drunk Incantations


Bardzo VII


bardzo zimna
we carried our corpses
a flute a guitar a violin an accordian
and a case of vodka
accomplanied by
a dancer a trickster a warrior a crier
cursing along the backroads of the nowe miasto
to where
we once gathered to play
our love songs
after the invasion
and the next
to the places our father’s
fought to their deaths
to play for them
to drink for them
to sing to them
to smoke their last cigarettes
until we were drunk
hurled on the ground
our cold red faces pressed against
white crystals formed around
the edges of bootprints in the mud
sleeping as they do
a few meters underground
buried by decades of war
covered by the new world order
and a fresh layer of snow
Now mostly sober
we carry our corpses back
from the Cytadela
half pickled half fermented
gathering unearthed ordinance
and dislodged shrapnel
to place inside the violin’s F-hole
drop into the sound hole of your guitar
jam into the end of her flute
pierce the trickster’s accordian
and ram down our throats
until there is no memory of the fighting
save the muted sounds of instruments
doing their dirty work

© Adam Roufberg