Tag Archives: poetry


Along the green shores of a golden coast rests the dreams of generations
That once sought fortune and prosperity in a land far from the old world.
Enclosed by mountains of gold and deserts scorched by Death,
the cost of these pursuits were ever endearing toils
– wondrous as it was.
Poor men hastened to make their claims;
Rich men took the liberty of forming their vision of a paradisal republic.
California, a haven for the wide eyed warriors and desperado vagabonds, reserves a special place in the hearts of lovers of life and all that is sacred in the eyes of it’s beholder.
When the blues catch us off guard and are unforgiving,
Look west and fly the winds of the zephyr;
So far away for the meek of soul,
it lies deep in the hearts of the gypsy-minded.

By Mensur Gjonbalaj
May 4, 2015


So You Want To Be A Writer – Charles Bukowski


Charles Bukowski

A poem by one of my favorite poets, Charles Bukowski.

So You Want To Be A Writer

if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
if you’re trying to write like somebody
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you’re not ready.

don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
over your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.


by Charles Bukowski

Behind These Bloody Eyes


No War for Our Children 

Behind These Bloody Eyes

How many days go by
Without a word of solace?
Everyday people die,
Yet we hear no condolence.
Is our blood worth anything to you
Or is it just like the water you drink.
What is the matter with all of you?
Do any of you have a mind to think?

Innocent people are dying,
As the world stares.
Their bodies are on the floor, lying.
And I don’t believe that anybody cares!
About our strife or what is right.
“There are two stories here,” so they say,
But little do they know about my life,
For all they do is walk away.

My father works hard for peace,
While my mother cries
Over the death of her niece
Who died because of your lies!
My brother struggles to keep his cool
As he passes through checkpoints
On his way to school.
Is none of this cruel?

I stay up every night deep in thought:

Thinking of a better life, a less morbid world.

But these are the evils that terror wrought;

Dreams of peace and happiness brought to a stall.

Deep in my heart I believe in the power of love

And find solace in the stars floating in the sky above.

Yet I drown every night from sullen, heavy cries.

When will the world see what lies behind these bloody eyes?


Written by Mensur Gjonbalaj

For the People of Palestine and All the Oppressed Peoples of Earth.

Written June 21, 2010

For Malcolm X


Malcolm X

A poem for Malcolm X written by Margaret Walker.

For Malcolm X

All you violated ones with gentle hearts;
You violent dreamers whose cries shout heartbreak;
Whose voices echo clamors of our cool capers,
And whose black faces have hollowed pits for eyes.
All you gambling sons and hooked children and bowery bums
Hating white devils and black bourgeoisie,
Thumbing your noses at your burning red suns,
Gather round this coffin and mourn your dying swan.


Snow-white moslem head-dress around a dead black face!
Beautiful were your sand-papering words against our skins!
Our blood and water pour from your flowing wounds.
You have cut open our breasts and dug scalpels in our brains.
When and Where will another come to take your holy place?
Old man mumbling in his dotage, crying child, unborn?
by Margaret Walker

Something Old, Nothing New


Inner Self

Something Old, Nothing New

sniffing a line
downing red wine
taking a puff
of some fine Cuban
and rocking
my leather and denim

this is how I roll
pimping as I stroll
up and down
the avenue
Same old me,
something old
but nothing new

By Mensur Gjonbalaj
February 18, 2016

Struggle of Self



Struggle of Self

I fight as I journey
through the roads
that lead me
to the destination
I must end at.
Destiny cannot be fought,
even though it is unknown.
What I fight is my ego
as it talks me into giving up:
Never quit, never give in.
March on ’til the battle
is over and the war is won.

By Mensur Gjonbalaj
Written March 6, 2013

Lullaby of An Insomniac



Lullaby of An Insomniac

When the dreams don’t come in sleep,
They find alternatives in which to creep,
Heavenly choirs and infernal chants,
Sublime philosophy and senseless rants.
Let the old familiar landscapes,
Rock under our delusional escapes, Telephone lines set on mystic fire, Tunnels in broad pavement quagmires.
A maternal voice whose voice is,
Only as real as my imagination is, Soothes my mind as I rinse and repeat,
The cycles of the industrial beat.
But in dark corners of my eyes,
That’s where the wraiths lie,
Guiding me off the roads and paths,
Into mortal accidents and traps.
So ingest the lucid caffeine dream,
In shots, carbonation and cream,
They will keep the nightmares at bay,
Until the night gives in to day.
Amidst the fingers of rosy dawn,
We still find the strength to go on, For families and self we go to bed,
And in two hours raise new our heads.
Welcome us back to our realities
With exhausto-phrenic tendencies, Deprived yet still so strong,
In our fractured minds and song.

By a friend who wishes to remain anonymous
February 12, 2016