Long poem by
Neldy Jolo | Details |
Oh well I got an angry email to begin my day
Because of my last post on the Jabidah thing yesterday
Galit sa akin but greeted me with Assalamu alaykum.
And kung personal Moro friends ko naman ito
They know I don't criticize Moro leaders
I always leave that to them to criticize their leaders
According to my friends baka nasa gubyerno or something
Next time I'll write na lang about the sea and the palm trees and the beaches
Pray and pray nalang para walang provocation
ako nga ang daming nag-message sa akin nagalit sa issue ng Sabah standoff
Ikaw pa kaya na wala namanng masama na sinabi dun
Alam mo ‘buti na lang you verbalized that kasi iniisip ko rin ‘yun
I know you have reasons and you know better kaya; I just read your posts
I don’t have to go against parties kasi both have rights
And the issue must be solved
Wala, kasi sa akin kundi independence lamang ang kailangan
May ganyan din kasing realities?
Minsan you are being asked or expected to take sides
Yes, my side is peace – with peace is independence
Yes, I heard that sa dating Jabidah Massacre celebration
Somebody said that, “Walang kapayapaan kasi walang kalayaan”
And that is very universal, kapatid.
Moro or non-Moro and writing should always geared towards humanity
That’s why for me it “anti-humanity” if you will not listen
Or suppress when somebody will talk about freedom.
That’s the problem with Filipinos, they don't listen.
Kasi the leaders may sarili ring interests.
How do you see being Filipino?
Ako, it's a cage, Filipino nationalism
Agenda ng mga oligarchs and landowners
Filipino nationalism is violence against Muslims and lumads
Kasi ‘pag ako ang tatanunginmo I will never say I am Filipino
Because Tausug it’s not a name but an identity...
I understand but kaunti na lang kayo
Ako sasabihin ko na I am a Filipino but I have reservations
When I was a teenager hindi ako tumatayo ‘pag Lupang Hinirang
ngayon tumatayo na kasi napapaaway ang mga kasama ko sa sinehan
Yes and identity should be critically assessed and examined.
Kaya if they say Filipino ang mga Tausug masakit sa aking loob
But not all, kapatid. try mo pumunta sa Manila
Yung mga Moro na malalapit sa mga institusyon ng Pilipinas
Bakit iba ang Moro at ibang ang Tausug
kaya sila naging Moro at masaya na tawaging Moro
May identity na naiiba sa Filipino
Pinag-aaralan ko rin yan and ino-observe ‘yung pag-yield sa 'Filipino'
‘Will give Filipinos a disservice
Because it is tantamount to be an accomplice to a corrupt system
And this system is the one that oppresses Muslims
At alam natin ang Tausug di lamang taga-Sulu
Pati Bisayan, Tausug din
As much as possible I am trying to make my writings 'away'
Away from Filipino nationalism
That's the right way for me and my writing
I will ask first, “How it is to be human?”
At super last na ang, “How to be a Filipino”
And the Bangsamoro struggle is the greatest critique to the violence
And failures of Filipino nationalism
Ang problema kasi kaya di successful ang Bangsamoro struggle
Dahil nagdadala sila ng pangalan na di naman originally sa kanila
How come ang pangalan ko ay Abdul sa rights
Gagamitn ko ang Juan para sa aking bayan?
Kaya war of ideas ito and alam mo naman sa akin, ‘pag ideas
And perspectives walang kompromiso and peace talks
I do not compromise my language, my craft and myself, my writing
Filipino is an imagined nation, as well as Bangsamoro
Bakit di natin magamit ang orignal nation natin
Na based sa Sulu archipelago and Mindanao
Yes, actually diyan ako papunta - papunta
Bakit hindi i-Bangsamoro-ized ang buong Filipinas?
It doesn’t mean na i-convert ang Pilipinas
But the spirit, the struggle it should mean something to Filipinos
It should kasi ang dami na nagbuwis ng buhay
Kaya ko pa na tanggapin kung Maharlika
‘Yan ang gusto kong ma-achieve: Filipinos should listen to Moros
Siyempre marami pang madidiscover along the way
Indeed. Ikaw ba ‘pag sasabahin ko na ‘Tausug’ ano ang maiisip mo?
Tausug is Moro and Moro for me is something that predates 'Filipino'
But now, I would like to know the concept of “Lupah Sug”
I want to know it, I think there are more and beyond Moro on it
Before ‘Moro’ was named to Mindanao and Sulu people
It was first name to Aceh people, Melaka, Brunei and then Manila
Sulu and Mindanao were the last places to have been called the name ‘Moro’
Sulu archipelago was united under the name Sulu archipelago
The name of people is Tausug.
Tausug is composed of different ethnics:
Arab, Banjar, Dampuan, Buranun etcetera.
The concept of Sulu as part of dar al islam
Is already a nation and state
Where the government is the people and itself headed by sultan or raja
Yes, and I would like to feel this from the ordinary Tausugs when I get there
I would like to experience this from ordinary Tausug and on from place itself.
In the hinterland of Jolo, their laws still on the ground not of Philippine law
I believe in narratives
I want to hear and feel this from the place and from the people.
And then capture it; I have these thoughts
That Lupah Sug has something that the Moro concept does not have
And it’s a bit metaphysical but sige lang.
I know my craft can capture it.
I think there is a language that can capture it
And specific craft that can carry its soul
Not fictionalize but put it in a form like a novel or a narrative
Which have their own logic and truths as crafts.
This poem is made after the conversation and sharing with Filipino writer Rogelio Braga who also serves as the editor of the poem. He is currently in Mindanao, travelling and writing; he will then proceed to Sulu Archipelago soon. 2:28PM, 19 March 2013, Facebook Chat across Sulu Sea!
Copyright © Neldy Jolo | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
john chizoba vincent | Details |
I know that even when others deceive me, you can't decieve me with your blossoming ink of truth.
Go tell them what has happened to our budget,
Tell them that our budget is missing in a broad day light, who stole it? We Are yet to know.
Tell them that the chibok girls have not return from the forest of lies.
Tell them that the president is confused in fighting corruption.
Tell them that the same looters are our ministers in the government house.
Go to the school, tell the teachers that they have lied to us.
They told us that we are the leaders of tomorrow and our hopes were lifted up, happy. Joyful. Excited.
Yet, the old men still control us like cattle in the field.
They taught us how to carry Bible on our left hands
And then, hold gun on our right hands to kill.
They taught us to keep lies on our upper teeth and
Truths on our lower teeth and deceit at the tip of the tongue.
How the weak sun smile, they shows us with laughter
How the air was inverted with a cloud of worry; they taught with a black chalk which depict darkness.
Go tell the moon that the world is not happy with it,
Why colour our world with white while we need darkness, darkness that speak honestly to humans?
Stop no where until you get to the skin of the sky,
Paint it with red and black of your tongue, humans
Don't need white sky but black and red sky.
Hurl my soul to the people of the earth, smile not!
Laugh not, pen! For the gods are blind to see your work.
Where are the gods of the land which supposed to shield us to peace?!
Where are the gods in this land?
Where is Obatala, Ogun, Amadioha, Sango, Arusi?
Where are they, my beloved pen?
It wasn't so in the beginning, no, it wasn't so in our time.
Your words is but a candle on stand with men,
You will make many blind and many loose their senses when you start with your endless talking.
What good is that to them that they live on earth?
All have sinned and you must tell them the truth,
Do not be gentle on those hard stone, honey pen.
Go! go!! Go tell them of the pains they have caused
While I remain in this darkness called bar of truth.
Hide nothing from any man or woman, understand?!
Men have chew many cud in their mouths and this had made them forget their creator's warning of love.
Hold the church at ramsom because they caused the war, religion war against one another in the church.
Tell the pastor of your observation; of his drifting off from the doctrine of God, the creator of the universe.
Ask the Imam why many are killing in his mosque,
Why many has created their own part instead of the
Path of their prophet; Mohammed, why?
Then, return to the church and ask the pastors why
Prosperity sermons is the order of the day, pretty pen;
Don't be shy and intimidated on this journey.
Many would abuse you but forth I send you not backward.
Tell the government they have done us more bad than good.
The masses are weeping at the door of their houses,
Commotion here and there in their handwritten letters
The oil they made to fight against us in an abnormal way.
Our hearts they have taken to their hearts to dine with.
When shall the call of intergrity be made to us?
When shall all return home to feast together as one family?
Tell them we see all their works to us under the sun,
Every one shall receive their reward when the time comes.
No king forever, soldier go, soldier come, barracks remain the same.
Stories foretold between my fingers are the sad ones.
Dreams made real by the stroke of a golden pen is real to the boredom of their looted ego in the world.
Blue inks manifest to change course of humankind but their dirty hearts foretold of an unchanged facts.
Red inks warn of impending wordless doom that will befall men when their hearts remain the way it is.
Black ink is the colour of their souls, black demons.
A writer's morsel is pictures in the brain of his brain.
Tell them to turn to the rhymes of their dance and watch how the beads they wear will mock them in tears.
Let your words be broken into verses so that they could understand that life wasn't to get and eat alone.
Mighty pens speak and, I know you won't disappoint me when you see their faces in the light rooms.
Do not look at their faces nor look into their eyes!
Those faces and eyes are decieving to look at.
Your languages their tongue may not understand but write it down on a white parchment paper shrivels under your bleeding body, maybe they would understand.
Words are my wealth, the wealth you really need to share with the world to know of our pains.
Journey of a pen knows no destiny nor fate of others,
They may take your words or leave them at the door of their ears but; make sure you speak what I asked you to speak to the dying world of sin.
I cannot beg the graveyard to teach men of quality of being honest but, I can only plead you to redirect their steps .
I may not have to live completely to write but this errand I sent you shall represent me long before am gone, the legacy of your message to the world shall not be wipe away nor be chased away from people's heart.
I die tomorrow but death never kill me when my words are evidence in their hearts.
(C) John chizoba vincent
Voice from Nkporo
Copyright © john chizoba vincent | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
Funom Makama | Details |
How the housefly gets attracted to organic decay
and an infant child traces the voice of its mother
are nothing compared to the intense attraction
Michelle and I possess on the guy owning not a strand of hair on his head
but is in command of all forms of feminine arousal
Our weakness was too glaring; our lust, too embarrassing
the chance to act rare and expensive we've lost.
All we've got is to dance to the tune of his authority
as he smiled and consented to our 'not so hidden' desires.
Now, he walks straight at us his every step, an additional load on me
I seem to carry the entire solar system on my chest.
My heartbeat, pulsations and breath are as loud as a live rock band
"I've never seen you here is this your first time?"......... He said
"Yeah, actually!".................. I said.
My friend and I responded simultaneously
our answers gushing out like a group of running horses,
mine seem to carry more weight as it tames any challenge from hers.
"So, how did two love Angels fall in such an unworthy place as this?"......... He said
"How unworthy?"........................................... I Said.
I've championed the game of words and emotions
and just as what inevitably defines the day is sunlight
so is my testament.
Michelle showed glimpse of disapproval to my replies
but my exclamation of her name gave adequate caution.
"yes, this place is unworthy, because I need to pass through seven Oceans
and seven hills to see someone like you"........... He said.
"Then you'll never find me there. I'm not a specie going extinct." ............................ I Said.
The gods of luck have smiled on the Lions once again
in preference to other cats.
The father of favour, shaking hands with the Eagle
while by-passing the other birds.
This is my exact situation as jealousy builds a castle in my friend's heart.
"So, what's your name, sweet damsel?"...... He said.
"Anna"........................................................ I said.
This is a familiar routine, his plan is as detectable
and as obvious as watered grass
but letting it turn green is what I must not allow
so that the security of my reputation is not compromised.
"Anna is a lovely name, do you like poker?"........ He said.
"No, I don't!"........... I said.
The looks of my friend, spoke 'awe' mine replied in aggression
then she flowed in complete understanding on its message on not acting cheap
especially to the one we've shown so much likeness.
"So what do you like?".......................He said.
"Going out to the Cinema or the beach or engaging in salsa".......................... I said.
Already scoring goals and dominating the game,
I felt my opponent was completely toothless and flattened.
But playing along is my aim to make him beg on his knees
which adds to my fame.
"Can we try any of those sooner?"......................... He said.
"How do you mean?"............................................... I said.
Another punch brings about another shield
and sometimes a strong defence feels more fulfilling than a heavy attack.
"Let's go out to the movies this night"............. He said.
"I'm busy tonight!"........................................... I said.
It feels like punishment to him but he takes it like a challenge
and this keeps me far from winning.
Being on top is my birth right and a step lower is deemed a sacrilege.
"What about going to the beach this weekend?".................. He said
"I'll be out of town"................................................................. I said.
Persistence could be rewarding but my protective walls
are just too thick for any form of penetration;
too high for any form of infiltration
and too deep for any form of condemnation.
"Then, when would you be free to teach me Salsa?"............................ He said.
"I'm not stable, neither can I determine my free time"..................... I said.
The game of attack and defense is never absolute
as the attacker may fall victim of a rare counter attack
or the defender, gets wary of his defense
with no chance to pull an offensive string.
Either, ending up as the vanquish despite the brilliant strategies being set up.
"Michelle, are you also unstable like Anna?"...... He said
"What!"............................................................... I said.
Envy plans on a historic transfer
while my friend poised not an aota of difficulty
and this makes me extremely furious.
She was just at the corner waiting for this opportunity
and even before it avails itself, she snatches it into her well guided belongings.
Looking at both in confusion and disappointment;
they share contacts and crack jokes.
"I'll give you a call this evening".................. He said
Nothing I said because now, Michelle is running the show.
Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2014
Long poem by
Goutam Hazra | Details |
Scent Of Paddy Flower
By Goutam Hazra
My father told me
I was just a boy then,
“Follow the scent of paddy flower
move with the wind it carries,
surely you will go to heaven.”
he would catch
fistful of wind
bring near to my face
“Isn’t it godly!”
Magically, opened his hand
but I never felt
what scent he meant.
Days of kind rain
“Son, see the misty wind
rushing all over the paddy field
comes every year
to drink the scent of paddy flower.”
Mere as a boy
I could see only
tides of a green plane
touching my little finger
and racing far… too far.
I would ask
“Where have they gone?”
Smiled my father
“Did not you listen,
they are going to heaven,
call the goddess then,
‘come goddess dear’
we all are ready with paddy flower.”
Curious was my face,
“Goddess will arrive smiling
her feet will be here
Seeing a pot in her hand
all those paddy flowers
delighted, will open their mouth more wider
and life will be poured…”
“Where these flowers come from?”
Remained my father smiling
speaking all his mind
looking high at sky
asked me to see there
spoke he again.
“Rain, rain, kind monsoon rain
on the first day of its shower
kind rain would ask me to come here
with bagful of paddy seeds,
‘let seeds be spread all over,
let its eternal relation with soil
be the fertilizer’
when all said is done
starts showering its kind
make visible hiding life in the abyss of seed.
Happy wind changes color
being green all around
waits for the day
when the wind would smell the scent of paddy flower.”
Days passed by,
kind rain was still in waiting
sometimes hidden beyond horizon
or simply making sun blind with its smoky face
and whenever wind said,
‘Dry I’m now’
quenched the thirst.
Someday wind played naughty with sun
asked kind rain to make it misty
and with brushes of sun rays
painted a rainbow on the face of east sky.
Wait was over
green field blossomed with flowers
and wind said,
“Fill in my heart
with scent of flower
I shall bring life…”
Happy was my father’s voice
“Rain, rain, kind monsoon rain
green wind brining life
scent of paddy flower
is made so.
Bare footed be here
print your soul
in the dust of this soil
kind rain will come
green wind being there
life will be yours
with the scent of paddy flower.”
How old was I then
nine or ten
my father looked up
up to the sky
again and again
for a month long
only to see
change of sky’s color
from the color of a summer day to a long humid night.
Dry wind cried at last
over my father’s sweating body
“Rain, rain O kind rain, where have you gone.”
One day sudden
kind rain came again.
Cried to my father
“Why no green wind came this year
to bring me here.
Desert wind why
dry my breath
seeds you have sown
how could I then
enliven with my rain.”
my father had asked the rain.
Short-lived, hurried rain could spell its last breath,
“I am not that rain
as was your friend,
I am the curse of dying forest
I am the ghost of all pollution
I am born out of acid weather…”
Who knew, it left for where?
My father cried
As kind rain left him alone
hiding in a dry wind’s bone.
My father was still
going every morning
asking the soil
if soil could alone
make the paddy flowers to be born.
Year passed by,
came back the time,
for green wind to bring kind rain.
Rain came one day.
as a cloudburst
like an unkind monster
in the life of a simple farmer?
Dumb remained my father
for days together
sad was his voice at last,
“Run away, son, run away from here,
sky rain wind
river village land;
thread of this garland
who cuts it
go, stop now there hand.”
Draught and flood,
uncertainty of life
changed my mind
as of a farmer’s son.
Books, studies and education
reasons, truth and compassion
might have had fulfilled my father’s mission.
Does not this civilization
as the products to do more production.
Run, run and run
run ahead of time
let be it, at the cost of inhaling killer tension,
stress taking over your life.
Insomnia, cholesterol or cynicism
is our success’s companion?
‘A’ is shaped as ‘B’
and ‘B’ is sold as ‘C’.
but I found the basic
what it remain
as life’s supreme conviction
‘simply a fist full of paddy
and its grain’.
Scent of life
So here, I am again
standing in front of this green plane
searching for the shadow of my father.
Green wind surrounds my existence
I can see the dance of those bunches.
My mind whispers to my ear
echoes those words of my father,
“Bare footed be here
print your soul
in the dust of this soil
rain will come
green wind being there
life will be yours
with the scent of paddy flower.”
I never felt so,
what I smell now
is the scent of paddy flower.
Copyright © Goutam Hazra | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
T Wignesan | Details |
‘ In general, quantum mechanics does not predict a single definite result for an observation. Instead, it predicts a number of different possible outcomes and tells us how likely each of these is. ‘
Which side of the Wolf-coin are we looking at
the red or the green
nothing then is certain
not even death but the life one endures
quarks protons neutrons electrons bosons
particles like men and beings in general
bathe not necessarily in the same lifeless soup
great teachers or rather teachers with great followings
those that always attract those who prefer to let others do the thinking for them
especially through transcendentally transmitted interstellar telegraphy
would want us believe
there’s just This One
and all comes and goes to That Only ONE
If only it were just as simple as that
Then what is it that This One wants
Or is It caught up in its own caveat
And must of needs come apart
on the seed that It alone plants
and do what we may
nothing goes wrong
whatever the explanation
everybody is right
right from the start
Big Bang from a tight-fisted unfurling hand
Big Crunch to a crushing tightening stranglehold
and out again
for the Brahma Day
and after aeons the Brahma Night
And at the stillstanding blackhole singularity
neither space nor time
squeezed in and out
Birth as in Death
An eventual point of total extinction
if ever there was one
Yet always the two extremes
and the ever-changing in-betweens
Matter versus Anti-Matter
Here the Yang is not lkely to be set againt the Yin
Though matter itself is neither
Is nor Is-Not-ness
And the 96% Dark Matter
And the infinite number of parallel universes
Does it really matter
‘ … if you meet your antiself, don’t shake hands !
You would both vanish in a great flash of light.’
Vanish into what
or just non-dark matter
Still the duality of matter
Still the ever-changing conundrum
Everything moves jostles couples alters reproduces destructs
‘Sex is emotion in motion.’
into thin air
and roots one here
tied to the lunar year
why should it matter
if we cannot know the reason why
ego id libido
drive faith fame femme father future
if super/alter ego connects the ego
to the collective unconscious
why drown the self in the Great Self
by wilful act
when the Ultimate One
is the sum of all the little ones
Is the Original One incapable of absorbing all the ones
each of whom must move to eat drink sleep
copulate make money grow roots in a society
get and fight to keep a job
make love marry raise children
struggle to keep one’s wife one’s children
one’s house if one can get one
one’s career one’s future
and helter-skelter race to cheat death
If it’s the self-same thing that’s being born anew
What does it matter if it keeps changing in view
Of the desperate haste with which everything
We see smell hear feel intute sense
Keeps hurtling away from the Ding an Sich
And leaves us with a parochial Milky Way
Bastardised stealthily by grandiose Andromeda
Left retrograded entwined within measely galaxy clusters
Through some trillion cataclysmic light years
What’s the impulse to keep moving
Is the yogi’s stilled-centre
The death of all action
Which cannot call for a reaction
Or is the art of keeping still
Merely the art of making belief
‘…actors act out the pun that life is the art of acting
until your performed role becomes your normal character.
Then you are safe inside your character armour.’
As soon as you have thought It out
It turns around and re-structrures Itself inside out
and you know just why
don’t you now
References to the quotations
Stephen W. Hawking, A Brief History of Time : From the Big Bang to Black Holes, London-New York, 1988.
Attributed to Mae West.
Eric N. W. Mottram, « Men & Gods : A Study of Eugene O’Neill », Encore (London), 1963.
I’m not sure the « re-structuring » bit at the end comes from
Steven Weinberg or John Gribbin, or perhaps even from Fred Allan Wolf ?
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2005 ; rev. 2012. From the collection : Poems Omega-Plus, 2005.
Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2012
Long poem by
Tyshawn Knight | Details |
Once again I tip the scale
And mutter, whoever invented it was a man from hell.
It was not a woman who created weights for size
For women can look past the outer shell
And search deep for what is inside.
Men must have their cake and eat it too…
From head to toe-perfection-from hat to shoe
I dress in all white for today I must teach Sunday school
If only a man’s heart would find my food
I can shake and bake
If only on my plate would a handsome man chance to take.
The preacher gets up on the pulpit and puts on his show
Talks about the place where adulterers must go
None of us admit he is a hypocrite as we all know
For he has slept with every woman in the front row.
But, even still my pig’s feet goes from hot to cold
No matter how many ties for him I’ve sewn.
Some women have all the luck
Others like me can’t even get a look-let alone a touch
Being me, ah yes, it is too much.
Sister “Gossip” waves her fan as I go past
“Speak out loud?” would be too much to ask.
I wonder if it is my skirt that is too tight
Or whether I will be at home alone again tonight
I wonder if whatever she says about me is worth a fight
Or is it even true and right.
I pray for her soul with all my might,
I can’t let the Devil move into my mind.
People tell me I sing like a bird
Its gospel time, time to praise the Lord with words
I walk on stage to take my turn
Hands sway from side to side and my throat burns…
But the men stare at the teenager in the short skirt
And the first lady with the red dress
My curves ripple my stomach
For I am not that blessed
I have what a man wants to hear
But to lye beside me is what they all fear.
The service offered nothing by way of encouragement.
But, I have worshiped God
Even if the day was not heaven sent
I know somehow it must be time well spent.
I kiss the little children good-bye
And pretend all is joyous on the inside.
Satin-Legs Smith walks pass the church and sighs
We all know what is on his mind
Therefore though I dream of marriage he doesn’t give me the time.
He looks at me winks and a little smile.
He would only laugh if I asked him to come eat with me
For a little while.
I hang my coat in the closet
Beside a dusty wedding dress
I was wishful thinking when I bought it.
It is four sizes to small
I had planned to shrink into it by last fall.
But, too much time passed and I can’t even return it to the mall.
I can’t bring myself to put it in the trash down the hall.
I may use it for curtains or to cover the dirt stains on my front wall.
I lay myself down to sleep
And pray to the Lord my soul to keep.
And that I do not die before love I see
It is enough to at least give me hopeful dreams.
Monday comes and I have to go off to clean
For rich white people who don’t need anything.
Except for J. Alfred Prufrock
He lives on top
Of the food chain
But he too is looking for love
We’re both the same.
He always looks at me like he has something to say
But he can’t get past his bald spot or the creases on his face.
Again I wonder should I do the flirting dance
Let him know I am available and that I can
And I will, so he will take a chance
I know he would be willing to love me still
I am not settling for second best!
He is a man!
I am a woman!
Shouldn’t we make love manifest?
I think I will give it a go
And see if I could be someone he would come to know
A fine meal some sweet potatoes and a roast
A pan of peach cobbler, such things men love the most.
I will make his house squeaky clean
Show him what he could expect if he married me.
I drive up and he is at his window
Watching his neighbors come and go
Eavesdropping on their conversations
And he is reading a book, Dante’s “Inferno”
“Is this for me?” when he sees the plate of food.
I nod yes and hope it gets him in the mood
He smiles, blushes and turns red.
All sorts of happy thoughts run through my head.
But still he only eats and does not speak
It seems the asking will be up to me.
But what do I say for I do not wish to be
Considered by him, a hussy.
I ask him if he likes the movies.
He tells me he prefers plays
“I have never been to one” I say.
“Maybe I shall take you to one someday.”
“And I will make you a German Chocolate cake.”
“I guess then it is a date.”
How should I wear my hair? Should I sport an afro?
Or get a perm? This is the time to use all those make up tips that I learned.
It seems I will feel the joy of being an Eve.
The birds are singing just for me.
The sun is shining, the flowers are blooming.
Will they be putting Prufrock on my tomb stone
If I do this right I won’t die alone…
Copyright © Tyshawn Knight | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
SILENCE ZVARAYA | Details |
It has been long,
I wish for your voice once more.
I write this letter to tell that;
Sometimes the sun does shine,
But things will never be the same.
I am still keeping your favorite suit,
Hoping that one day you will come to wear it ,
To show me how well it fits you.
I am still keeping your black shoes,
Hoping that one day you will come to wear them on ,
for that journey we had planned that day .
I am safe keeping your favorite novel.
I read it always,
And every day it is a fresh story.
I always read those letters you used to send me .
They hold a lot of memories and secrets.
You were such a naughty young man!
Every night I hold your pictures before I go to sleep .
I smile and hope that you will smile back .
With a fake smile I gaze at your empty seat .
I try to appreciate each new day.
But things are not the same anymore.
Everything pleasant I want to share it with you.
Everything good makes fonder.
Do you still remember that snake trail,
we used to amble secretly together?
It has not been used for years,
And is now hidden in tall grass.
That tree which covered us when we sang together,
died last year.
I have now figured out the right tune to that song ,
we composed together.
But will you be able to hear how well it sounds now ?
I try to sing it alone,
but it fails to burn.
Sometimes it does sound good,
but I end up crying.
I wish you were here to hear me sing well .
Yesterday I saw your friends.
They caught a big fish together,
They were all thrilled.
Peter is now able to swim.
Sam is building a new house.
By the way , they told me that your team won .
They were happy for you.
I wish you were here with them,
Boasting about how strong our love is.
Do you still remember our neighbors, Mary and John?
They did wed last month.
I couldn`t hold back my tears,
when they made their vows.
I was hurt when the bridegroom kissed the bride .
I remembered our own wedding,
Our own true vows,
That passionate kiss in front of our parents.
But now who will touch my lips?
A lot has changed on this side since you left .
New things were born.
It is now beautiful.
I try to smile but it`s hard.
I no longer watch the setting sun,
Because it refused to carry me were you are.
I no longer gaze the moon,
Because it has never told me were you are,
and how well you are coping.
I never talk to the stars,
Because they refused to bring you back to me .
Yesterday I was preparing dinner,
I did forget of your absence.
I did light candles and placed two dinner plates .
I always prepare your favorite meal,
Hoping that it will lure you back to me .
Today in the morning I called your name merrily ,
when I heard the morning bird sing .
Oh it was such a melody!
I wanted you to hear it also.
But latter I realized that you couldn`t.
I just wished you could.
You know what?
Today I am wearing your favorite pink dress.
I wish you were here to tell me how beautiful I am in it .
I know you always loved me to wear it ,
That is why I did so today.
Tomorrow is our wedding anniversary.
I am holding our wedding photos right now.
Your mother passed by.
She tries very hard to be strong,
but her eyes are always wet.
Even though she told me never to cry but to remain strong ,
She has never been the same since you left.
Last night I had a terrible dream.
I wanted something to hold to.
I ended up holding dearly to my pillow .
I wish you were......., you know,
Someone to hold,
Someone to calm me down,
Someone just beside me.
Your son is right here.
He said I should tell you that,
He loves you and he misses you.
I wish you were here to see how well he is growing ,
He would have made you proud.
He is now a big boy.
Every night I tell him our story.
I always comfort him that one day,
we will be a family once again.
He is such a marvel to watch.
He makes me smile,
But I end up crying.
Everything about him resembles you.
Every day I am with him,
he makes me remember you.
"Death is not fair my love.
Copyright © SILENCE ZVARAYA | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
J. W. Earnings | Details |
Less than 24 hours,
2016 will take over and 2015 will be broken towers
It will be remembrance in a photo shoot album
Reminders of ups and downs in the past, present and future...making us feel numb and a bread crumb on the floor, but God will beat us with everlasting life as if he's a drummer on his delicate, favorite drum
You all are smart,
Not dumb and like a drunkard on rum
Let's make good decisions and make them a master-art
Insecurities leave us feeling dumb
2 At 12,
6 New Year will begin...wow...
2 I'm so...
2 For what
6 Ahead - 2016
2 Will be
6 Of good/bad surprises...
6 Can be...I'm satisfied
2 At 12,
6 old Year will pass away...
2 I'm so...
6 afraid almost...but then
2 I hope
6 Better days, my Father
2 Will be
6 Of hugs and kisses...hmm...
6 Can be...I'm astonished!
2 At 12,
6 New Year will begin...YES!!
2 I'm so...
6 Cuz last year reflects it
6 Truth and move on from there
2 There, there...
6 worry yourself to death
7 Of miracles and curses
2 At 12,
8 New Year will begin...mhm...
2 I'm so...
9 About it, but oh well...boo, you snooze,
2 you lose
8 I feel under the weather
7 All the positive people
2 So great
6 Guys and girls are to me
At 12, A Good Year will come...fingers crossed! Hoping we haven't lost...but won with victory like champions with determination crowned on their heads that sweat the sweat of we-won, not of defeat
2 Free style
4 Much easier than
3 I will live
2 old with
2 Young heart
5 be home...with myself
6 on iPhone time...we're changed!
2 in the
2 I will
8 Something and someone more than this...
Change of character is what I need
Not arrogance or any form of greed
I need humility and confidence and so much more
I need fame and fortune, but I need God, the Father that I adore...I want friends to surround me and I want family to be around me forevermore, so I can enter through the endless possibilities and non-stop growing opportunities corridor
What's old? What's new?
It's just another year
Of cheer and tear and fear and things and people we hold on so dear...darling, I'm here and let your cheer appear and let me steer the wheel into brighter days, clearing away from the seas of sorrows on our tongues, swimming in the saliva of our sheer fear...bring your chips and beer and celebrate a New Year - that's what they say with a smile that goes ear to ear...3 cheers for a new year
Hip hip hooray
Hip hip hooray
Raise your glasses of shameless, shiny armor
Praise be to God for a successful, yet overrated 2015 year...full of glitches and error
God is here
So have no fear...
Merely, our emotions and worries are like a mirror...
Some of them reflect on other people...and influence others like a gossip that passes on to generation to generation just by a single murmur
Don't jeer at me for being the only optimistic guy here
Let's cheer together in unison and glee, some happiness and mayhem don't speak aloud in a commotion-packed crowd...be not selfishly ambitious or proud
Let's be happy and I agree...we should be overflowing with cheer
Break the dishes of our doubts and hop on Cloud 7, for we are all in the same silky, creamy cloud...a shimmering shroud that calls for us so silently loud
Lost in a multitude...feeling nude and ashamed in society's eyes that are slightly rude
2015 needs to step aside forever, starting today
2016 - the notion of it all is giving us an attitude of gratitude...amaze us with your magnifying mood
Misunderstood - aren't we all that way? Some say...we are human and we make mistakes and that's all okay...
As long as we look up to Him
As long as we repent of our past mistakes that makes our lightbulbs dim
As long as we enjoy the rest of our busy lazy lives
We will be those gaily buzzing, bedazzled bees that are in their own personal hives
It's too good to be true
A mystery without a clue
Copyright © J. W. Earnings | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Robert Ronnow | Details |
Absolute science and art of being whole
at one and under no delusion that
mankind (or nature) give a ****
whether you amount
to something or not.
nothing but matter matters, matter, content
of life (serious, love it) hate
death, for the hell of it, to
see what it's like in
the heart of
Deeper and deeper I go
but who would bother to kill me
or love me? Belonging to the drums
of wooful war I
woof and bay like
Down I go to the depths of material life
the material is spirit wrought
by the material world. The
drum and jet plane
the bird and sumac
No answer is forthcoming for the young fool
importunes to ask too frequently
the fool's question. What
is my next move. He
steps lightly and does
not seem to care
material world is reality, my friend
and sadness is the spiritual root
without which the love-nut
may be reached only
raw, where desert delights exhibit
movement in the sunlit light. Where
none find their way
without following leaders
sometimes the wrong way.
apart from the dance or the dancer who
cutting cross country laughs
at his perennial fright of being
caught outdoors, out of sight
alone with the wind and rain
for days on end
on the roof, the telephone ringing,
books getting delivered to the library free,
gratis, no fight, no love
a meager understanding
of what rolls
rolls the earth (and may sometimes rock it)
each of us achieving the gravity of a planet
and pulling the world apart with our loves.
Taking existence beyond the limits
set for it, into
We went out beyond the surf
into the adirondack of trees waiting,
wanting nothing, mountains
wanting to grow slowly.
Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Laura Breidenthal | Details |
They say the one you think of last before sleep,
Is the one you care for the most— the one you wish to hold, admire, love…
The two of us…beings of bravery,
Had labored all the night,
In harmonies livid, longing and bright…
In music so construed in golden blues…
A masterful melancholy in strange, light-stricken hues
He boldly slept, in heavy breath
As I dozed into the deafness of the demons’ wrath
I awoke, unaware of the time at hand,
As he lay there close beside me, cradled in a beat…
I sensed morning’s marvel, thought the darkness crept
Leaving me in a sinking feeling as our Prince vainly slept
And there, with the drumming of his pulse,
I began my morning song of Time,
“Oh, how alive she dares to smile,
In the crisp cradles of first thought
Time, with surging love for the dancing dial,
Melts our sleeper from the wars he fought
I tame her humbly in darkness doomed,
For I know the Lord shuns worry of loss
Unlimited life, craftily bloomed,
I dare paths to narrow, and I dare him to cross
Oh, how in sleep he refuses these dreams,
Of Time’s immense mercy and strength
How his eyes rest, in nightmarish filth it seems,
Tossing in pride, and I in faith
He lifts Time’s feathered mess
In an embrace he calls his own consolation
In his deranged, dreadful wilderness,
She waits in ardent resurrection…”
He began to groan in his sleep,
Tossing and turning…
His lids lifted, though his eyes were trapped
In a dream so unnerving and unwavering
I could do nothing but sing again…
“Wake up in the comfort of company
As she gathers the feathers you lift,
I will see too that she is smiling
In the morning mist of bliss
Let the veils of night terror arise
So I may see the life in your eyes
As the lizard on the rock bathes in warmth,
I suffer with you, saturating cold
Time offers space between,
As the trees in winter soon return to green…”
He was awake, though grimacing
Angered by my gentle push
Pissed that I sat there before him
No longer trapped in his soot…
“Time, time, time…
You’ve bored me in your rhyme, rhyme, rhyme-
Witness wretched reality, sweetheart divine-
Then we can talk about the slut you call Time!
Bitching and raving how she has bludgeoned all these men,
With the sweep of her arms, she crushes all condemned
She mocks me now, after screwing me naughty
Her feathers scattered across my body
I curse every morning I see her face
I love how she beats me, and then demands embrace
I hate her, woman, as I hate you
I lift her to throw her down,
As the cockcrows coo…
I am in Time, over Time, beyond Time
Cross in her spirit—frail in her rhyme
If your Lord has taken anxiety from your heart,
Have him take your innocence—now that is her art!”
He laughed, cackling loudly,
And the demons chiseled,
The soot on the ground grew hot and sizzled
My lips moistened with tears…
“I thought about how strangely you slept,
Even in your bitterness for dwindling Time…
In our last notes before drifting,
I thought of you,
And all the days we have left
I want you to know my light is kind,
And we can all learn in the rhythm of Time
She is very sensitive,
She weeps at every loss,
Though secretly, though in day she boldly stands
At night she lets down her hair and grieves demands
For not everyone can she save,
Truth it be, she has saved no one
But has inspired men to the end…
No one knows Time better than God
And yes, you too must know her well,
She labors as we sleep
Though she would be hesitant to tell…
She destroys…though inward she heals
She sees potential, though leaves the action
To the one who truly feels…”
“Stop singing in riddles and nonsense…” He sputtered
“If sleep is so important to you,
Why do you force me awake?”
He sat up, quaking, his anger loud
I shuttered in his presence, looking down
“Just… sing with me…..”
And we sang…
“She is cruel,
She is patient,
Living in darkness and in light,
I rest her in my trust,
And I in my ceaseless bite
I lull her,
I seduce her,
She calls me,
Time, do not forsake me now…
Let our thoughts nestle in each other’s company
With the clocks that capture us…”
At the tipping of Death’s dark chimes,
The Devil’s mouth salivated in restful rage
Copyright © Laura Breidenthal | Year Posted 2015