Tyrone Moore's Poems


The Foundation of Dreams
By Tyrone Moore

We lie in a state of mental clay
Our life, our lies our food stamp highs
Make ignorant knights to hunt, to prey
Brothers our bones, our obverse roots, they pray
To saints, to prisoners, to ill spit prose
Adorn our pain as though a badge composed
To honored skin, and Brooklyn pros.
Write upon your heart this statement bold
With rough hewn fingers, in starch pressed clothes
To show us worthy of this war on skin
To fight... to die... to live again.
We pray to the lord of knights and balm,
To chrysanthemums, for predators calm
To share our penance with men profaned
Closed eyes do hide our secret pain
But hubris will tame the jackal's night
While drenched in fear our forged insight
Will find us fasting, poised in awe
Asserting the promise of nature's law.
We will not beg who mock our pose
Our militant stand, our serfdom pride,
Nor seek this wretch, his speech, his clothes
To bind our minds from moorish kind.
But gird our ears, our eyes, our mind
We are the scope of Gods defined
And trample those with hate enraged.
We Prophets of the sun brigade
We'll honor our skin with sacred blows
And stain their minds with crimson fear.
We'll put to flight these Djinn opposed
To poets, to prophets, to human cheer.
We'll bathe ourselves in this righteous quest
We'll delve into this pool profound
This pain, this harm, this emptiness
Will find us firm on sacred ground.
For only the orgy of honored struggle
Can cleanse the sin of servitude
Through only the cave of freedoms trouble
Can we eat this sacred food:
Oh our calloused hands
Will seek the drink of sacred malt
And find us gorged on holy lambs
Our souls at rest and liberty bought
And eyes with tears, for monsters can
Feel the pain of poets lost and
Prophets and knights whose spirits soar
The foundation of dreams, of peace, of moors.

"The Foundation of Dreams," Copyright © 2014 by Tyrone Moore
Posted October 31, 2014

Martyrs Brigade
By Tyrone Moore

Hear, O Kemet, your murdered sons, they cease!
Cry out from this wilderness of gold;
Still even those who kept your truth, so pure thrice bold,
Lie steeped among the worshippers of stars and thief
O Kemet cease not to look, account their moans!
Those who were your kin, and now whose bodies cold
Tell of a death by vermin whom bodies own
Where sons with fathers cry, their shattered bones
Martyred to the marrow, their soul and they
Awake to find heaven in earthen clay.
Their sacred blood, their names, their ashes pray
Over Indian fields, while dead they say
“The triumph of the heart makes grasses grow;
To nurse this humans species show
The triumph of the sons of perpetual night
Find truth within the noble fight.
Hungriest are those who persevere 
Who fight with courage forged in fear
With privation as their battle crest
They march against their emptiness
These hallowed men, this martyrs brigade 
Fight to starve another day
Hear their cry, their ceaseless moan 
In rhythmic urban monotone

"Martyrs Brigade," Copyright © 2012 by Tyrone Moore
Posted April 14, 2012

By Tyrone Moore

Rise you people, rise for all the world
You tall unfettered brothers, this canvass holds
Far above the cusp of hours, a trouble told,
Where deviled chimes ring to put right affair,
The uprising, formless, ghetto glare,
While muted with fear or loud with pain, your hand
A phantom, sun kissed gathers to motioned plan,
And turn to face the wicked sons,
To stand in possession of treasures won
But anger no triumph holds, nor conflict peace,
To him drowned by fear and hallowed treats,
Supple breasts well formed and quiet shade,
Cannot distill a fear to love, thus made
And entwined silence can no passions come to past,
Can still the song of air or dancing passed
Welfare lines with approaching dawn, and harness birth
The pariah, the scourge of the child of earth
Foreshadow the doom of earthly church,
It comes in miles from the child's sad lips,
To wage in battle for cargo ships
The hungry, the destitute, the one in fear
To the old women shall truth appear
We have come to where no song can sing
Nor through windows of sorrow, no fountain ring
Nor truth that presses us on, this vile thing,
To death, grows sweet with promise of eternity
Our ominous pact with the dark blue sea
Our narrowed hips, bones loose can scarcely wait
For god to bind our twisted fate
And then soul shattered peace from tours
And the uprisings, salacious fated wars
Shall listen to the stilted cries
Of young hearts sated by urban lies.

"Ghetto Uprising," Copyright © 2012 by Tyrone Moore
Posted April 12, 2012

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