Monday, December 29, 2014

Sand And Dust




                                                                   By Mory Keita

Sand is our deeds,
Dust our beings,
Time our nemesis,
 And the storm our bane.

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Saturday, July 27, 2013

Supreme Understanding


By Mory Keita

The horizon appears far above my head,
The sun gleams without end behind cloudy curtains
Like some eternal flame blown by an eternal being.

Beyond my sight lie comets, stars and distant galaxies.
Is it reasonable to seek things beyond one’s comprehension?
To ponder upon the unknown, the unseen?
To say, all things can be seen through the mind?

I have seen a ladder spreading from continent to continent,
I have seen all there is to be seen on earth, and I was not amazed.

Should I build a ladder spreading from earth to heaven?
Should I climb it to see the farthest corners of the universe?
Is it possible to understand the universe, to spread it across a table?

Perhaps, there is no such things as supreme understand; not in this world.

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Saturday, June 29, 2013

I Have Seen All And None


By Mory Keita

A singing bird perched on a tree,
A furious beast hurling its fury,
A burning arrow striking a corpse,
I have seen all and none.

I sit emotionless, faceless like a puppet,
Observing the moving hands of the clock,
“Damn it, too slow” my patience boils,
My thought wanders in the seven heavens.
I cry of ecstasy, dance and jump of pain.
I chuckle and sing of rage to this unruly slow clock.

I roar my fury like a lion as I see slaughters;
Each tick-tock brings back memories.
These barren memories flux through my intoxicated mind;
My speech is flame, my sight is horror.

Blind, heartless savage, why dost thou speak to me?
I am the death you fear, waiting at the corner;
I am a viper, calm as aggressive;
I am a bloodsucking mosquito,
 --Sucking the last drops of your miserable existence.

Patience, love, misery, fertility and life,
I have seen all and none.
I have seen wars in Iraq, Afghanistan and Somalia.
I have seen a people ravaged by war and famine.
I have experienced cruelty from Nazis, Slurs from ignorant folks.
I have seen terrorists plotting against peace.

I have seen all and none.
Why dost thou hate me?
I am Jew, Muslim, Christian and Buddhist.
I am Marxist, capitalist and communist.
I am black, white, Asian and Native American.
There is no mirror in my heart,
My vision is colorless, thus I do not discriminate.
Why dost thou wish to divide?

I have seen all and none.
I have seen patriots dying to preserve freedom and liberty,
I have seen selfless teachers willing to help at any moment.
I have seen mothers consoling their children, prophets of peace and love.
I have seen tenders eyes second to none.

Hatred, greed and stereotypes, do not approach my heart;
Do not corrupt my sight.



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Wednesday, December 5, 2012

Will you, my love?



     By Mory Keita

An old woman once told me,
“You'll die, boy. Do not fear the dark.
Death is nothing.
What matter is how you will be remembered, your legacy.”

I wonder, my love, will you love me?
will you love me when darkness falls upon me,
When I am cold and still like a frozen fish,
when I shall speak and sight no more?

Will you love me when I am rotten and stinky,
When maggots shall crawl in me, feast upon my flesh like crows?

when I am but dust, Then my love,
will you hold me in your wings and murmur
into my ear,“I love you.”
Feel my glacial skin against your fairness,
Press your lips against mine
And bite the dust as you now bite my lips?

Will you wait for me until the afterlife, if there is one?
Will you spend your old days reminiscing upon the springs and summer of our days?
Will you even cry for me for years or a couple of a months?
Will you remember me or fall into another lover's arms?

Then my love, What is love? what is death? why live? why love?
For love is death and death is oblivion
and in oblivion we fall.

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Tuesday, September 4, 2012

Probability and statistic for engineers and scientists



Please click on this link to download the full textbook of probability and statistics for engineers and scientists. ( It is safe, I promise.)


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Saturday, February 11, 2012

The Jerk


By Mory Keita




He is the jerk, dreams of girls.
He is the charming prince in their reveries,
The bold superman who knows how to care.
They love him because he is manly,                                                          
And he loves them because they love him.

Yeah, he is the jerk, the man.
He is the one who knows how to woo them.
He is the one who makes them cry tears of love at night.
Yeah, he is the king, the boss of their hearts.

He holds the key to the female’s heart,
And jealously keeps its secret with malice.
He walks like a star, and speaks like a dork.

Look! He is the master of the game.
The chess-player who has mastered mind-games;
Yeah, he is the jerk the best at his game.
He has learned that a girl’s heart his a chess game,
So he has become a dauntless chess player.
He deceitfully manipulates its 16 pieces like a "real man".

Sometimes, I envy the jerk and his jerky tricks;
Truly, he is a skilful master of psychology.
For, though he is a bloody manipulative “bad boy”,
He has earned the dreams of men : women’s hearts. 
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Thursday, December 29, 2011

And because Love battles


                                             
                                                                  By Pablo Neruda

And because love battles
not only in its burning agricultures
but also in the mouth of men and women,
I will finish off by taking the path away
to those who between my chest and your fragrance
want to interpose their obscure plant.

About me, nothing worse
they will tell you, my love,
than what I told you.

I lived in the prairies
before I got to know you
and I did not wait love but I was
laying in wait for and I jumped on the rose.

What more can they tell you?
I am neither good nor bad but a man,
and they will then associate the danger
of my life, which you know
and which with your passion you shared.

And good, this danger
is danger of love, of complete love
for all life,
for all lives,
and if this love brings us
the death and the prisons,
I am sure that your big eyes,
as when I kiss them,
will then close with pride,
into double pride, love,
with your pride and my pride.

But to my ears they will come before
to wear down the tour
of the sweet and hard love which binds us,
and they will say: “The one
you love,
is not a woman for you,
Why do you love her? I think
you could find one more beautiful,
more serious, more deep,
more other, you understand me, look how she’s light,
and what a head she has,
and look at how she dresses,
and etcetera and etcetera”.

And I in these lines say:
Like this I want you, love,
love, Like this I love you,
as you dress
and how your hair lifts up
and how your mouth smiles,
light as the water
of the spring upon the pure stones,
Like this I love you, beloved.

To bread I do not ask to teach me
but only not to lack during every day of life.
I don’t know anything about light, from where
it comes nor where it goes,
I only want the light to light up,
I do not ask to the night
explanations,
I wait for it and it envelops me,
And so you, bread and light
And shadow are.

You came to my life
with what you were bringing,
made
of light and bread and shadow I expected you,
and Like this I need you,
Like this I love you,
and to those who want to hear tomorrow
that which I will not tell them, let them read it here,
and let them back off today because it is early
for these arguments.

Tomorrow we will only give them
a leaf of the tree of our love, a leaf
which will fall on the earth
like if it had been made by our lips
like a kiss which falls
from our invincible heights
to show the fire and the tenderness
of a true love. 
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Tuesday, August 2, 2011

If--- A poem

               
 I am sure that the title of this poem will immediately remind the name of Rudyard Kipling to most of this blog post readers. Who is Kipling? If you wondered, is a sign of lack of general knowledge. Kipling was famous author and poet who coined the historical phrase “The White Man’s Burden" in his poem of the later name. Kipling actually won the Nobel prize in literature in 1907. This is not a post about Kipling, thought I strongly suggest you read this Wikipedia article if I have aroused your interest. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rudyard_Kipling

“If”, today’s poem, was written by the forgotten African American poet Paul Laurence Dunbar.  Dunbar was truly a creative genius though lesser known than Kipling due to racial prejudices of his time (which I will not discuss here.)   Please read this Wikipedia article about Dunbar,http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paul_Laurence_Dunbar
There are many things I could say about Dunbar, though I fear I might not be able to do him justice but his work will. Let us judge is genius by his verses.
                      


    
                       If by Paul Laurence Dunbar


IF life were but a dream, my Love,
And death the waking time;
If day had not a beam, my Love,
And night had not a rhyme, —
A barren, barren world were this
Without one saving gleam;
I'd only ask that with a kiss
You'd wake me from the dream.
If dreaming were the sum of days,
And loving were the bane;
If battling for a wreath of bays
Could soothe a heart in pain, —
I'd scorn the meed of battle's might,
All other aims above
I'd choose the human's higher right,
To suffer and to love!
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Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Page 347

                                          
                                                            By Mory Keita

             I hate boring stuffs though I am a boring guy.
 Guess I should hate myself.
I got bored and picked up a book to read, 678 pages long, and well packed.
The story was typical, boy falling for girl. I like those stories.

The boy did everything boys do to get girls attention in romance novels.
You know how it rolls. It was a coup de foudre the first time they met.
Then on page 347, the girl died.

I closed the book and found the writer’s email.
I wrote to her,
“Dear Ms. J.
 I‘ve read part of your novel and thus far I have hated everything I liked about it. Your writing is lyrical, your plot is catchy but I could not get over page 347.

The death of the girl pained me a lot. The boy worked hard to get her love and finally when he got it, the girl died. I guess you tried to mimic somehow Romeo and Juliette but Shakespeare ‘Killed’ those two at the end of the play. You killed yours at the middle, right when the reader hopes pours like water from a fountain. I do not know why you killed the girl on page 347, maybe she will return to the boy in her ghostly form or reincarnate in another girl. That is all fine but I will never be able to finish your novel after the girl’s death on page 347.

 This is no criticism of your craft (you are actually the first author I have ever emailed) your story is good but you could have ‘killed’ the girl a bit later. You could have allowed the boys efforts to come to fruition.

Best regards,
               
                Mory ”

                Ms. J replied two days later (I did not think she would pay attention my email.)
                “
                Dear Mory,
               I am glad you sent me this interesting email. Thank you for reading my novel.
Your inability to read past page 347 tells me a lot about you.  Hypothetically speaking, if you were the boy you would have been stuck there after her death. Your problem is not the book it about your emotional state…
                J”
                I leaned from reading a book something that I may have never learned about myself. Till this day I haven’t been able to read past page 347.



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Monday, July 18, 2011

Cool Kids by Mory Keita

This is based on a true talk i had with a boy yesterday.

                 Cool Kids

The boy was no shit-talker, no Casanova, no regular boy
I met him alone, on the sidewalk, throwing stone at pigeons
I said, “What you doing here, Boy.”
“Why you care anyway? I am watching birds.”
“Boy,” I sat near him, “you’re no birdwatcher, and you’re a punk.”
“Shut up.  See what you have done. She is gone!”
The boy’s eyes were damp, his eyes fixed at his ex  going with the cool kids.
“That girl?” I said
“No stupid. Birds!”
“Your eyes say the girl. You look like you’ve seen an angel.”
“She is a bitch!” the boy said.
“You mean that bird that flew away.”
“No. her.” The boy said pointing at the girl, “they all leave me anyway.”
“The bird left you because you stoned him.”
“And she left me because I am a sucker.”
“Don’t say that boy. She is a six and you are a seven. “
“Don’t Bullshit me, tall guy. I am no fool.” The boy said angrily.
“I am dead serious boy. Tall guy is a fool, but he is no liar.”
“If I’m a seven and she’s a six, why she’s going with them?”
“Boy you got no ball. I mean guts.”
“And you got them?”
“That’s out of your league, boy.” I said. “That girl is a stupid bird. Forget her.”
“She’s no stupid bird. She is smart. She makes good choice. She left because I am a loser.
I got no swagger, no money, no cool sneaker and now no girl friend.”
I patted the boy. “Boy, you and I are alike. But I am no loser and you’re no uncool boy. I like you.”
The boy look at me like my brother does sometimes when  I advise him good.
“ Boy you’re a fool like me. Fools do not give up. I am tell you a story.”
“ how a story going to help to win her back.”
“ you will see.” I said. “Once upon a time there was an old fool living in Spain. He’s name, Don Quixote. He was an old fool, a knight when there was no knight. People told him he was mad and knight are all gone. But the old fool didn’t listen to their bullshit because he was no people man and had a dream. That’s boy.”
“ and what? How’s that going to help me.”
“ I don’t know boy. I read it from a book; A good story. You make  of it what you want.”
“What do you mean?” asked the boy.
“people thinks you’re no cool, you’re a loser, boy. “ I said. “But who are they to judge who‘s cool?”
“What do you mean?”
“Boy, you’re the coolest son-of-a bitch alive not because I say so because you should think so. You got something none of these cool kids does.  Trust yourself boy. Let the girl go. She is a bird amongst millions and all birds aren’t gray.”
I said no more word and left the boy as I found him.

I hope the boy found his way. He was a good boy. I liked him.



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Thursday, July 7, 2011

Hell is a lonely place

 Charles Bukowski is the newest poet i have discovered. His poetry his eloquent and impregnated with passion. I particularly enjoy his poem, which i am posting for the day, Hell is a lonely place. I hope you enjoy each of its words as i do. The poetry is indeed sad but it's beauty is exquisite.

                                                       Hell is a lonely place
                                                                 By Charles Bukowski








he was 65, his wife was 66, had 
Alzheimer's disease. 

he had cancer of the 
mouth. 
there were 
operations, radiation 
treatments 
which decayed the bones in his 
jaw 
which then had to be 
wired. 

daily he put his wife in 
rubber diapers 
like a 
baby. 

unable to drive in his 
condition 
he had to take a taxi to 
the medical 
center, 
had difficulty speaking, 
had to 
write the directions 
down. 

on his last visit 
they informed him 
there would be another 
operation: a bit more 
left
cheek and a bit more 
tounge. 

when he returned 
he changed his wife's 
diapers 
put on the tv 
dinners, watched the 
evening news 
then went to the bedroom, got the 
gun, put it to her 
temple, fired. 

she fell to the 
left, he sat upon the 
couch 
put the gun into his 
mouth, pulled the 
trigger. 

the shots didn't arouse 
the neighbors. 

later 
the burning tv dinners 
did. 

somebody arrived, pushed 
the door open, saw 
it. 

soon 
the police arrived and 
went through their 
routine, found 
some items: 

a closed savings 
account and 
a checkbook with a 
balance of 
$1.14 
suicide, they 
deduced. 

in three weeks 
there were two 
new tenants: 
a computer engineer 
named 
Ross 
and his wife 
Anatana 
who studied 
ballet. 

they looked like another 
upwardly mobile 
pair.
 
 

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Sunday, June 26, 2011

The jerk, a poem




By Mory Keita ( This is a revised version of the previous poem.)



He is the jerk, dreams of girls.
He is the charming prince in their reveries,
The bold superman who knows how to care.
They love him because he is manly,                                                          
And he loves them because they love him.

Yeah, he is the jerk, the man.
He is the one who knows how to woo girls.
He is one who makes them cry tears of love at nights.
Yeah, he is the king, the boss of their hearts.

He holds the key to female’s hearts,
And jealously keeps its secret with malice.
He walks like a star, and speaks like a dork.

Look! He is the master of the game.
The chess-player who has mastered mind-games;
Yeah, he is the jerk the best at his game.
He has learned that a girl’s heart his a chess game,
So he has become a dauntless chess player.
He deceitfully manipulates its 16 pieces like a "real man".

Sometimes, I envy the jerk and his jerky tricks;
Truly, he is a skilful master of psychology.
For, though he is a bloody manipulative “bad boy”,
He has earned the dreams of men : women’s hearts.
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Monday, May 30, 2011

Death Song of Boromir

                                  By J.R.R Tolkien from The Lord Of The Rings

Boromir was a mighty man encompassing human both man strength and weakness. Ready this article to learn about Boromir




Aragorn:
Through Rohan over fen and field where the long grass
grows
The West Wind comes walking, and about the walls it
goes.
'What news from the West, O wandering wind, do you
bring to me tonight?
Have you seen Boromir the Tall by moon or by starlight?'
'I saw him ride over seven streams, over waters wide
and grey;
I saw him walk in empty lands, until he passed away
Into the shadows of the North. I saw him then no more.
The North Wind may have heard the horn of the son of
Denethor.'
'O Boromir! From the high walls westward I looked
afar,
But you came not from the empty lands where no men
are.'


Legolas:
From the mouths of the Sea the South Wind flies, from
the sandhills and the stones;
The wailing of the gulls it bears, and at the gate it
moans.
'What news from the South, O sighing wind, do you bring
to me at eve?
Where now is Boromir the Fair? He tarries and I grieve.'
'Ask not of me where he doth dwell -- so many bones
there lie
On the white shores and the dark shores under the
stormy sky;
So many have passed down Anduin to find the flowing
Sea.
Ask of the North Wind news of them the North Wind
sends to me!'
'O Boromir! Beyond the gate the seaward road runs
south,
But you came not with the ailing gulls from the grey
sea's mouth.'


Aragorn:
From the Gate of Kings the North Wind rides, and past
the roaring falls;
And clear and cold about the tower its loud horn calls.
'What news from the North, O mighty wind, do you
bring to me today?
What news of Boromir the Bold? For he is long away.'
'Beneath Amon Hen I heard his cry. There many foes he
fought.
His cloven shield, his broken sword, they do the water
brought.
His head so proud, his face so fair, his limbs they laid
to rest;
And Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, bore him upon its
breast.'
'O Boromir! The Tower of Guard shall ever northward
gaze
To Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, until the end of days.'

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Saturday, May 28, 2011

I am still here



Hello everyone,
        It has been about three months I have not updated the blog. Many of you may have worried. I just  want to let everyone know that i am still around.  The good news is I will shortly Begin  posting you  poems and many things we share in the Blogsphere.
     Mory
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Friday, March 4, 2011

Le poète-- Poesie

                                                            Par Mory Keita





Quand le poète  s’assoit sous  la nuit étoilée,
Les etoiles forment des constellations d’anges,
Grand créatures céleste plein de vie et d’amour,
Qui  errent  insouciamment au-delà des nuages.

Ces  créatures  errent comme des enfants dans les rues.
Ils se lancent  au-dessus des nuages comme des pigeons sur le vent,
 Tout en Chantant comme des oiseux pencher  sur  un arbre
Et  ils sourissent comme des bonhommes de neige.

A peine le poète commence-t-il à muser sur sa vie amère,
Qu’il se plonge dans les  profondes ténèbres de l’existence humaine.
Il se met à frissonner comme si frapper par un grand bise,
Ou comme une passerine effrayer par un épouvantail.

Les anges, attristés par les larmes du poète, descendent sur terre.
Ils encerclent le poète, lui couvrent avec leurs ailes comme un bébé.
Et Soudainement le froid qui froisse le cœur du poète se dissipe.

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Wednesday, March 2, 2011

When the Rose is gone

By Jalāl ad-Dīn Muḥammad Balkh ( Rumi)


When the rose is gone and the garden faded
you will no longer hear the nightingale's song.
The Beloved is all; the lover just a veil.
The Beloved is living; the lover a dead thing.
If love withholds its strengthening care,
the lover is left like a bird without care,
the lover is left like a bird without wings.
How will I be awake and aware
if the light of the Beloved is absent?
Love wills that this Word be brought forth

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Saturday, February 19, 2011

My heart is like a star

                                                      By Mory Keita





My heart is like a star, brighter that Sirius.
Its light illuminates this dull world,
Like sun shine upon us at dawn.


When my heart shall be broken,
The stars shall shatter like broken mirror
And darkness shall envelope this world.

Without my love there is no love,
Without my light there is no light,
And without light, night shall lonely sleep.
O heart, what is this world without light?

My heart is a star perched above clouds.
When the stars shall shatter, my heart shall break.
But, as long as Sirius and its companion shine,
My love shall always illuminate this dull world
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