Long poem by
Demetrios Trifiatis | Details |
WE ARE BROTHERS
Don’t look at me as though I am an alien or stranger,
Don’t let the dagger of antipathy fly out of your eyes,
I am your neighbor!
Don’t call me foe, antagonist or rival,
Don’t roll up your mistrustful sleeves to have a fight,
I am your friend!
Don’t hold this murderous weapon in your kind hand,
Don’t deny me the right to work, to eat, to live,
I am your BROTHER!
If destiny willed me to be born on this side of the
If my parents wished me these clothes to wear
And taught me their own dances,
Do we have to be adversaries?
If fate desired me to speak this foreign tongue,
And the color of my skin to be different than yours,
Do we have to be competitors?
If necessity decided in this country, in the North,
or South, or East, or West to live,
Do we have to be opponents?
If I believe in Jesus, Jehovah, Krishna, Buddha,
Brahma or Allah,
If this is my philosophy, my tradition, my history
and my culture,
Do we have to be enemies?
NO! A million times NO!
Please, look at me with new eyes and through away
your injurious prejudices,
What do you see but a person like you who wants,
Desires and hopes the same things in life:
Happiness, family, well-being, a home, some friends,
Look! I walk, I talk, I eat, I sleep, I dream, I laugh and
I cry, just like you,
I’m born, I grow up, I learn, I suffer, I bleed and
I die, just like you,
I’m a father, a mother, a brother, a sister, a son, a daughter,
Just like you,
You see, we are alike, we are the same, we are
Listen to me my neighbor, my friend, my ally,
I am telling you the truth:
We are victims of schemes well- planned in advance,
By deceitful, evil-hearted men who wished,
Your distraction and mine,
They: masters of savage forgery, dividers
Have tricked us throughout history with
And with treacherous stories, these intellectually impotent
Have instilled tons of poison in your heart and
Thus, by cultivating hatred, bitterness and
Managed to shape us to ruthless foes, to merciless enemies,
To cruel animals,
Please, listen to me! It is true! We are
Let us, therefore, with irresistible will cross all frontier
That the past has erected between us, thus making divisions
Let us, with supreme power, break the bonds of history,
Religion and culture and run into each- others arms,
Let us uproot, from our tormented hearts, thorny mistrust
That was planted there thousands of years ago,
Let us seize ammunition from distractive hatred
And make war capitulate,
Let us sink the cholera of bitterness in the affectionate sea
Of universal brotherhood and finally,
Let us unite and march to higher claims, to incomparable glory,
Where peace can blossom today,
Thus, both of us my brother, AT LAST! Will go to sleep,
Fearless of each other tonight!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
08 June 2013
Long poem by
Magnus Nwagu Amudi Esq | Details |
The year that is about to make its last appearance
before it dies and is buried to be only given a place
in the history of our existence has brought ?e joy,
l° shall therefore, out of obligation rather than
leisure acknowledge its fairness and generosity. It
began on a high as l° aimed to make it through the
Bar exams and to be successfully called to the
Nigerian Bar. This singular goal, controlled all
others and made them seem less important. In the
end, the story ended greatly, we all do love happy
endings, l° am a Barrister and Solicitor of the
Supreme Court of Nigeria. To God be the glory.
Yet, the most important aspect of the year wasn't
the fact that l° became a Barrister, rather, it is the
fact that through the demanding and rough
journey of reaching and achieving that goal, along
came people of great personality, people l° knew
had the character to spur you on and literally uplift
you both psychologically and in every other positive
way possible. For the first time in my life, l° was
opened to the richness of the earth's diversity, both
in religion as well as in culture. l° even spoke new
languages and danced to new tunes. l° was given a
new eyes, l° did see the world from another
perspective, it was thrilling and l° came to see the
blessing in the cultural and ethnic differences. But,
the crux of the essay being friendship.
The year 2012, gave ?e the most supportive,
reliable and cheerful individuals to work and also
relax with. These people not withstanding their
different social, religious and academic background
did with ease find a common ground and built a
strong fold for friendship. There were moments no
doubt during the year when it would have been
quite impossible to move ahead without the
support and undying motivation of these
individuals, as l° do stand at this bridge, about to
cross to the other end of the journey, l° would take
a few minutes to say a very hearty thank you to all
of you. From my parents, without whom there will
be no Barrister attached to my name, words fail
?e. l° do say a big thank you. To my siblings who
went out of their own financial obligations to
support ?e through the difficult but productive
year, l° am ever indebted to all of you jointly and
severally. For a friend like no other, master
Chinasa Orji, let your heart desires become reality
unto you bro and the same gratitude goes to the
entire Orji family. l° will now try as much as l° can,
to mention a few of those whose friendship,
alleviated the burden of the journey through 2012,
and l° say the list is not quite chronological, l° just
add to it as l° do remember, these persons include
but not restricted to:
1. Mazi Ezegamba Esq.
2. Mr. Frank Somto Esq. (Ajo anu)
3. Okpara Chinedu Esq.
4. Mallam Abubakar Lawal EsQ
5. Mr. Yage Bamiyi Esq.
6. Adesola Adelusi Esq. (Miss)
7. Amarachi Esq.
8. Tony Amaechi Ojukwu (Esq. )
9. Sir Nnanna JOJ Oketa (Esq).
10. Richard Bassey Iyaha (Esq.) - God bless you
11. Chinelo Ogbozor Esq.
12. Churchill Udedibor Esq.
13. Henry Onugwu Esq.
14. Forster Eneh Esq.
15. Kingsley Chime Esq.
16. Mr Magnus Akabueze
17. Emmanuela Oraegbu Esq.
18. Nonso Nzedebe Esq.
19. Orji Ukah Agwu Esq.
20. Chinedu Ezeokoronkwo Esq.
21. Emmanuel Okoroji Esq.
23. Onyinye Nnorom Esq.
24. John Daramola Esq.
25. Chisom Nnabuife Esq.
26. Ebikaboere Abiri Esq.
27. Tobi Esq. - Mi consigliere
28. Michael Dokpesi. Esq.
29. Mr Idowu
30. Mr. Majemite Emoubonovie Esq. - very
31. Mr. Samson Itodo Esq
32. Muna Nweke
33. Da silva Joy
34. Kingsley Uwakwe Esq.
36. Kaobi Esq.
37. Chinwe Ozobu Esq.
38. Ifesi Udeh Esq.
39. Ihezi Okeafor
40. Ezekiel Egbo
41. Chima obiEze Esq.
42. ID Kabasa - my esteemed barber
43. Mary Alice Simms
44. Victor Mok Esq.
45. Bukky Esq.
46. Josh Olomo Esq.
47. Edosa Esq.
48. Detola Esq.
49. Bassey Bassey Esq.
50. Sammy Udoh. Esq.
51. Sabastine Udoh Esq.
52. Iyke Ananuba Esq.
53. Kingston Esq.
55. Victor Idiong Esq.
56. Mariam Ekenimoh Esq.
These and many more people that l° can't put all
here for the lack of time and to make it less boring
to read really and honestly contributed to my
success in making this year count and l° pray that
the year we are about to witness and explore will
bring us more reasons to celebrate, love and
Do have a great NEW YEAR.
Long poem by
Caleb Smith | Details |
Other than the image of my father looking up to the trees, most of the hunt leading
up to my test, is a fog. I do know that he had killed several squirrels that day,
because it was my job to follow along, pick them up, and stuff them in his vest.
I was fairly content to do just that. My clear recollection of the hunt begins with
us spotting a big fox squirrel high up in a tree. It was either too far or too protected
for a clear shot, so we made an attempt to get closer. Keep in mind, these aren't
city squirrels, folks. When a critter around here spots a man in the woods, it runs
for its life. This guy was no exception, and he high-tailed it through the tops,
jumping from tree to tree. We chased him into an area where the ground was
thick with thorn bushes and vines ... a thicket. At some point, my dad became
tangled and hung in the thorns. I came up beside him to help, but he only brushed
me off and handed me his gun.
That was quite a moment for me. When my fingers wrapped around that old
shotgun, I felt like a man. Now, that might sound ridiculous to some of you, but
it wasn't the fact that I was holding a gun that made me feel that way. I'd held
and fired quite a few guns by the time I was seven. It was the fact that I was
holding my dad's gun ... my grandfather's gun, and I knew what he meant for me
to do with it. But ...I just stared at it.
"Well go on! Go get that sucker," is what he said to me.
And so I went. To be honest, I was terrified. I remember that very clearly. I was
terrified that I would lose the squirrel, or worse, miss it, and have to come back in
shame. So, I held nothing back. I tore through those thorns like an angry bear,
and they tore back at me. My arms, hands, and face were all scratches and cuts
before the ordeal was over. The whole time, I did what I’d been taught.
“Mind your feet, but keep your eyes up,” he would have told me.
I must have chased that darn squirrel through half a mile of thicket, toting that
old gun, before I had a clear shot. I’ll never forget … the limbs stopped shaking,
and there he was, running around the trunk of a huge red oak. Lucky for me, he
stopped on my side to chance a look at the hunter. I was so tired by now that
when I raised the gun, I could barely hold it up. It heaved up and down with my
chest while I desperately tried to find him in my sights. Again, like I’d been
taught, I took in a deep breath and let it out slow. I saw orange hair, and I fired.
When I picked myself up off the ground, I was shaky and my head was
pounding. The percussion had knocked me flat. But there he was. Old Mr. Fox
squirrel was dead at the base of the old red oak. So, I sat down with my back
against the tree, put my dad’s gun in my lap, and cried. It was the first time I’d
ever killed an animal for food, and the first time I’d ever killed any creature
outside of a snake or two … and maybe an unlucky bird who got in the way
of my slingshot. It was also the first and only time I ever cried after a kill.
I reckon I was partly sad about taking a life, and partly glad that it was all over.
I was tired, bleeding, and still a little rocked from the shot. My dad had put a
lot on a little guy’s shoulders.
But as soon as I saw him walking up, all that emotion turned into pride. He
was smiling, and I knew he was proud of me. I stood and held my kill up by
the tail to show him. I remember how he clapped me on the back and said,
“Man! You got im’ didn’t cha?”
My father, a man of few words, and fewer compliments, had just made me
more proud than I had ever been … and possibly ever would be until my own
children were born. The hunt was over, but I didn’t follow him out of the woods
that day. We walked side by side.
I’m sure many of you think that seven is far too young to be introduced to
firearms, and maybe it is. But it’s part of our culture here … it’s as simple as
that. Many children learn to hunt at a very young age.
My dad bought me my own shotgun that following Christmas …a single shot
4-10. My son hunts with it now, and it sits in my gun safe right next the old 16
gauge, among others. My son, Cade, never got to see the Black Lake Woods.
They were gone not long after he was born, and I can only tell him stories
about them. It’s possible that my father knew exactly what he was doing that
day. There’s a part of me that thinks he meant to get tangled up in those
vines. Though …I’ve never asked him, and I reckon I never will.
Long poem by
Funom Makama | Details |
a new hiding place
the grass cutters
not taking advantage
is deemed extremely
Taking note of the
lady who seems
and protected by her
beauty and charisma
is a situation meant
for me to act upon
With my courage, her
I sit on the
and reciprocate her
"Your fixed focus on
means you are all
I needed some
to keep this hard to
rooted to my
"But your moving
feet and gentle
shows you need
"Well! You may be
My gaze never left
her blue eyes
as this ravishing
to tarnish my
"What brings a
to a place like
Nature came to my
as what arrived was
vegetables and fish.
or is it just
As the Cheetah waits
to pounce on its
so I am. Waiting for
the right time to
"Your short phrase
remind me of a
"Thanks, but who was
Now in a welcomed
with the precious
gift of liberty and
the bee is about to
dance with the rest
in their honey comb.
"My first Love but
no more"....... I
It seems the path
chosen is right
what is left is for
us to walk through
Nothing else, just
walk, walk and walk.
"She developed the
"Just that! She's
worth a second
if she's as tough as
the Jew"..... She
Can the dog ever be
the king of the
can the bamboo boast
of deeper roots to
That's me! Sitting
all of Nature's
"Oh my dear! That
"Really? Tell me
As my Tongue wags my
brain remained blank
with its sensors
"Are you saying she
should be quick to
anger ?.... I
"You mean the Jews
are quick to
The more the talk
the more her
A pleasure to behold
and an experience to
"Yes and also very
My mouth speaks of
to an Angel who
seems so human
while the mind is
already in full
of this being so
unfamiliar but dear.
"I was once given
with two $4 bills
in a Jewish
Then the Jews are
Feeling already in
the promise land,
I drink its milk
and lick its honey
"the deed always
speak for the
"But it's still an
and not all may be
A little current
then passes through
my head stimulating
to seal this
"Forget about those
What if I say we
Impressed by her
which is not
to gorgeouses of her
I pulled the gear
awaiting the motion
"After such an
you say no? Are you
"No! But I am a Jew
and one of those
I stay inanimate,
lifeless and dumb,
while she laughs
which increases the
cutting me piece by
piece in the inside.
Long poem by
Leon Enriquez | Details |
China Tour Diary Moment #3
Paradise on earth: Himalayan range;
A phenomenon carved by elements;
Here magic gives birth to ways that seem strange;
A place where lessons of soul mark movement.
Our tour coach winds round the mountain terrain;
Drive on man-made roads and excitement here;
High above the ground, feel Spirit's refrain;
See wonder purge loads as soul knows fond cheer.
Feel the calm ambience on this grand vista;
Our tour group enroute with highway mileage;
Notice a radiance beyond agenda;
Shangri-la calls out in hidden lineage.
Four hours on-the-road with punctuated stops:
And then our eyes sight the Himalayas;
Cold air sifts heat load as bones feel cold mop;
There's a mystic light that comes in layers.
I feel the splendour of an unseen touch;
There is a measure of peace that surrounds;
I sense a grandeur, an aura as such;
There is calm treasure in Tibetian grounds.
Now I start to know why I've always felt
The allure that calls me to this strange place;
No logic can show the knowing that melts;
Understanding frees reason with sure grace.
Mister Mao's China annexed old Tibet;
The surge of new change has come to this land;
Modern agendas have altered mindsets;
Now ancient and strange meet a reformed blend.
Here, the ancient lores permeate the culture;
Ways of new and old mix and mingle free;
Yet yarns from before linger to nurture;
The life streams unfold in primal beauty.
There is a certain atmosphere serene;
An unspoken feel, an unseen presence;
How can I contain what words find extreme;
Beyond mere goodwill, a visage transient.
Perhaps my musings are self-engendered;
Still, I sense a touch beyond description;
I wrestle feelings to learn things tender;
A pulse and a nudge hints contemplation.
Herein I realise a man's life reveals
Moments and outcomes as change casts a light;
Heed glimpse beyond eyes that grace now fulfills;
A certain light sums splendour beyond sight.
Tibet weaves a charm with calm caresses;
The land breathes and tells in soul vibrations;
Grazing grounds and farms, and homestead houses;
On stillness I dwell in meditation.
We check a road map that cites agenda;
Stroll through ancient grounds to match new-found sights;
Climb a hundred steps to a pagoda;
We greet lost and found in the midday light.
Capture a brief stay with silent prayer;
Walk through temple hall as icons preside;
Allow heart to stray with true wayfarer;
Feel calmness mingle as silence provides.
The day follows swift in twists and turns here;
A sojourn that sends us deeper within;
Here we turn the cliff and help our hearts steer;
The bold homeward trend to moments unseen.
Mountains and valleys loom in pleasant sight;
A personal space between man and grace;
Joy fills the alleys with spring time delights;
Notice time and place reveal a sure pace.
The song of the wind can be heard howling;
No human voice can imitate this poise;
It comes yet unseen to groom brief stirrings;
Touch can thus rejoice with soul's preferred choice.
In the new dawning, we tour the vast park;
Take a coach upwards, climb the mountain road;
Then hike surroundings to sightsee our marks;
We circle towards where the end unloads.
Yet, brisk as we come, too soon we depart;
The sun plunges slow as coach speeds away;
Awareness now sums in soul, mind and heart;
No words can frame glow that settles our stay.
As our day retires, we find fruitful rest;
There is a feeling of a day well-spent;
Gratitude fuels fire as sleep cultures fest;
Sunset concealing as cold winds attend.
Tomorrow we take the road somewhere far;
This feeling of calm will bless our journey;
Movement surely makes spring time moments star;
Spirit's healing balm soothes pulse and sets free.
Beyond time and space, a continuum strange;
Know then that love dwells within and around;
Greet soul face-to-face in full depth and range;
Allow poise to tell fond joy that peace grounds.
28 May 2014
(Note: Written in China, Shangri-la, Tibet on Monday 26 May.)
Long poem by
Vee Bdosa | Details |
THE DEATH OF TUTANKHAMEN
The king is dead--and layed within his place,
and night has fallen as it did before,
within his tomb he hides his golden face
and waits to live and breath and love once more;
a grain of sand will last as long has he--
young man--did they not tell you in your youth
That time will fade away, and secretly,
while you await, to feel and know the truth?
And Tutankhamen, time will not reveal
the secrets of the past, they fade away--
and all the things you long to know and feel
are gone before they see the light of day.
How old are you, young man, four thousand years--
or just as old as all our hopes and fears?
You're just as old, I guess, as any dream
and just as far away as space permits,
improvident sometimes, and yet we seem
agglomerated to a life that fits--
We come and go--in circumspectful daze--
disgruntled in our youth, and growing old,
and never seem to see the proper ways
and disinclined to hear the things we're told--
exhonerating all that we have known,
who take until there's nothing left to give,
for life is just a path that we have flown,
from other dreams, where other dreamers live.
This mass we call "myself" will soon return
to heaven space, or maybe it will burn.
The power in us all is dominant--
just as the time of Tutankhamens womb,
from birth we go through life--intransigent
and hope the best will be beyond the tomb.
We hope that space is part of better things
just as belief--in Akhen Atens day,
we feel the same as did Egyptian kings
who looked at life as where they'd choose to stay;
exacerbated, as we live and grow,
to better space, than what we have and feel,
and though it's part of life we do not know--
it's just as dear--and just as harsh and real.
How old are we? Not one could estimate,
and if they did, they'd tilt the hands of fate.
The pylon gates that lead to peace of mind
are open to the ones who search at night,
but truth in life is sometimes hard to find
and pyramids block out the glow of light--
while deep below--mastabas hold the past
and keep it safe--from any mortal eyes--
with stores of grain--while sun gods gold and cast,
stare into space--where only darkness lies--
and Tutankhamens silence is a thing
to last five thousand years of growing old,
at best--his wish was but to be the king
within a life that's cast and locked in gold--
and Akhen Aten knows he is okay
that's why he will not lead his soul astray
but Akhen Aten hides his face at night--
and southern breezes cool the scorching air,
and any sound is whispered soft and light--
because there's no one list'ning anywhere;
nomadic tribes have perched upon his rock,
and never knew that Tutankhamen hears--
each sound of life--each key that could unlock
his mortal soul--if they would use their ears,
if they would see--the sun god is a friend,
and leads to light, where Tutankhamen sleeps,
how many minds would see his mortal end--
is not his death--though in our mind it creeps--
and takes away the youth of ev'ry man
and sends it to the time where time began;
How old are you--young man--why do you stare?
The world awaits for you to raise your soul--
though fettered to the wind--and ev'rywhere,
in time a dream will make you free and whole--
to walk again--the Valley of the Kings
and ride upon the waters of the Nile--
where spirits bathe, and Nephritite sings,
the secrets of the past--for yet a while,
the world is obdurate of any scheme,
that brings new life--once death has made its' call
though greater men than you--have known this dream,
not one still hides behind his secret wall--
and no remains--stay hidden to the past--
if golden chains are known to hold them fast.
© ron Wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
Long poem by
Matt Ancient | Details |
(A SHORT COMMENTARY ON THE 21ST CENTURY CIVILIZATION)
This story goes on to throw light on the 21st century civilization. And in that political era, the religious and political atrocities, which ended up as the back bone of social injustice, inequalities, war crimes against humanity etc. As in the Arab world an Islamist extremist rose to devour blood, killing thousands in the mane of God and prophecy, so many innocent people which died, losing their homes, friends and families all is due to wrong leadership.The rich wasted their time and money to see people to die, rather than to provide better education, jobs, health facilities to improve the life's of people. The same influence held people against their will, especially women and children were forbidden from what they perceive to be their destiny. Since ones religion which is backed by political atrocities will not permit them to independent and live their life as they want it or live a free people. People were persuaded or manipulated to become serial killers and suicide bombers all in the name of religious and political atrocities, this done through the influence of the so called rich and vulnerable in society.Whiles politically Democracy was ignored by such leadership because they were selfish and arrogant. There was still stupid monarchs and dictators which no one dares to criticizes nor say anything about them. These so called leaders created enemies out of brothers and sisters, so that they fight among themselves. Instead of educating them and helping them to live a free and a happy world, in other words wrong leadership brought all these problems. On the other hand, in the western world of which the same religious and political atrocities also influenced war crimes, social injustice, inequalities, racism and so on. These so called leaders who pretended to be the protectors of the human world, were devouring blood and killing thousands, innocent people lost their families, homes and life's. False allegation were raised on opposition factions in the other part of world that they were manufacturing weapons of mass destruction which was not true. In view of this, these so called leaders, false fully and forcefully invaded cities and nations for their own selfish reasons and innocent people has to die all because of these atrocities. It was also difficult for the media to criticize the so called monarchs who were still in Europe, these so called western leaders formed collusion in other to topple up leadership in the Arab world, Latin America, Asia and in Africa, as a result so many people has to die for so many wrong reasons that no media wanted explanation from no body. As a result of this, there were terrorist who rose destroying properties, organizations etc. The implications of this was a serous economic crises, the rise of unemployment, sickness, diseases, disabilities and so on. Also economically, there was corruption, discrimination and partiality. Institutions which were established for the well being of the entire human world was monopolized, in other world it benefited other and other it did not. like the world had special nations he gives loans and help but others needed to borrow with higher interest rate which they could not afford.Moreover these comes with signing of false policies which may against ones culture or objectives. So the rich was getting richer and the poor, poorer. Crime rate, economic crises, illiteracy rate etc, so people will do all they can to survive. And at the end excellent excuses were given in other to justify these atrocities.
BY: Matt Ancient
Long poem by
lucky okoedion | Details |
They are not being marginalized again;
impostors disguising with bleached faces,
noses made up to fit up to other races,
hair fried and stretched in beautiful shame,
and tongues twisted and roasted in cultural chains -
Distinguished eye-sores of social disdain,
and heads bowed awkwardly in intellectual refrain.
Yes, we are the they;
the dislocated impostors,
the dying survivors,
the iron rusting at bay:
We are not being marginalized again,
else it would have now been the right time
to compose a cry
again, or a lamentation to be sung by a frightened race.
No, it’s not as you may think. No!
It’s not a harsh tone,
you should know.
For to change is like to crack a bone,
something like doing a deep probe.
And with apologies I could say again,
we are the dislocated impostors,
and it won’t be an insult or rail,
since I’m part of the they,
and I can’t insult myself, no gain.
And now is not the time of composing a cry or izobo
but the time of composing a koboko
to probe deep into our bones
and force the phobia of our culture-sense to die
to avail us of the dwarf-walking self and pride.
We need such, if you like, call it necessary insults
to repent and make necessary u-turns
and produce tides-turning results,
to escape the irreparable black-burns
of a trans-generational insult:
If you don’t produce results, you can’t refuse insults.
Yes, we are the dislocated impostors
disguising around with bleached faces,
hair fried and stretched in beautiful shame,
tongues twisted and roasted in cultural chains,
heads bowed awkwardly in intellectual refrain –
elites with bastard successors.
Bastardy provoking as it comes, let’s close our eyes
to swallow this only medicine-hope of the painful taste
of what we’ve made of ourselves –
a foul-odor name far from chaste,
well-earned reputation far from wise,
a history not worthy of bookshelves –
Rock-bottom cultural impostors.
and now we’ve abandoned ourselves
at the middle of nowhere,
freaks of foreign stuffs,
dislocated yet puffed up,
gasping for air,
like a fish cast out of water.
And every day we go to worship
at church or
or at juju shrine,
but to seek answers that won’t stress us,
that would massage us,
and lacerate us.
Not the answers that God would give,
that would exercise us.
But that which will make us feel comfortable
at the status-quot.
And as we strut back home
and see our family roofs leaking,
our family walls riddled,
our family fences cracked,
our family barns plundered
because we abandoned our cultural habitat,
and gasp helplessly in foreign habitat,
lost at the middle of nowhere,
then our neighbors point at the collapse,
but we shake our heads,
not because we know not what to do
but that we do not what we know
and know not what we are.
Hence we live in the baseless world called momentary,
enjoying away in the microcosm called survival,
far-removed from the promise called success,
like social bastards,
and political impostors.
And we were told
“look, your house is crumbling!”
“but we can still manage to eat, drink and feast.”
“besides, God says it’s well with us.”
izobo : a Nigerian word for sacrifices at roadsides, river sides e.t.c to appease the gods or to cast a spell.
koboko : a Nigerian word for a long whip made of leather/ the tail of an animal.
juju : a nigerian word for an idol.
Long poem by
Kelly Crenshaw | Details |
I'm 51 today.
51 tomorrow, yay
Was 51 yesterday.
52 is months away,
And yes I'm thankful.
Although it's not my real birthday,
It kinda is in a certain way.
I'm still alive another day.
I had the notion to celebrate.
And be thankful.
Though it's not a holiday.
Thanksgiving has come and gone away,
I'm just alive today.
For that I'm thankful.
Honestly, I am not just trying to make these lines rhyme,
Or reflect upon the deep sublime.
I'm just grateful today to be alive.
I mean really thankful.
I'm not trying to wow you with philosophy,
Or impress you with theology.
It matters not at all to me.
I just feel thankful.
So tonight I take a walk outside,
I look up into the endless sky and then I breathe.
I breathe in deep,
And I say thank you.
And maybe not just to Who you think,
Man let's throw in the kitchen sink,
And include all who've touched my life, to whom I'm thankful.
Some of you I'm glad you're gone,
Frankly you stayed a bit too long
And some you the grave stole far too soon,
And yet I'm still thankful.
Today the living and the dead
You've both been right up inside my head,
And synergized this verbal thread.
For that I'm thankful.
I close my eyes and think of Tim, named David right there toward the end.
I always smile when I think of him,
And now I listen
I heard a siren going by,
I wonder who and wonder why,
Was it a wreck, did someone die?
Yet still I listen.
Neighbors dogs are going wild.
Was that the laughter of a child.
Seems like I can hear for miles.
Still I listen.
I hear the hi-way roar of cars.
Tho I have never heard the stars
Is there really life on Mars?
Shhh brain please shut up and listen!
The soft night whispers in my ears.
Pressing through my random fears,
I stand amazed at what I hear.
And now I wonder.
I open up my eyes and see as I feel this winter breeze
The silhouette of leafless trees.
I stand in wonder
Then I wonder about the first man to ever be,
Or the first time he looked up to see
The Milky Way the galaxies.
Did he wonder?
I wonder what he did
How he loved how he lived.
If he ever lost a friend?
Man oh man I wonder.
Was he the first to dig a grave?
How it sounded if he prayed?
How he fought?
How he played?
If that man could see us all today,
What would he say I wonder?
In ways was he a lot like me?
Did he sometimes fear what he could not see?
Did he create unseen walls
I stand and wonder.
Did he ever hurt the ones he loved?
Did life convince him not to trust?
My great grandfather lived
My DNA is shared with him.
I wonder how we are the same,
And I don't even know his name.
Still I wonder.
Will my great grand kids know my name?
Will it even matter who's to say?
Will they look up in wonder?
Will they listen?
Will they be thankful?
Not much I can leave to them
That would matter too much in the end.
I suppose the primal hope in man
Is the hope I hope lives on in them
I hope they wonder. About the universe.
I hope they listen. To life's unspoken verse.
I hope they're thankful. Even in midst of deepest hurts.
I hope they're thankful.
I hope they listen.
I hope they wonder.
And no matter what life hands them,
I hope they hope.
Long poem by
Andrea Dietrich | Details |
When I think of India, I think of dark eyed beauties,
their foreheads painted with decorative red dots,
and I see them moving deliciously in beautiful bright costumes
as bangles dangle from their slender wrists.
When I think of India, I think of a culture steeped in history and tradition:
folkloric music, myths, and dance, and the influence of the Hindu religion.
I visualize the rich and poor alike bathing themselves in a river called Ganges.
I see an olden time when mighty elephants, colorfully decorated,
carried men atop their backs on elegant elephant seats,
and I recall pictures in my geography studies of the white sacred cows
freely roaming the narrow streets of Delhi.
I recall a novel I read: Rudyard Kipling’s engrossing tale of a jungle boy
and also other novels depicting a clash of cultures
as the British imposed their rules on Indian society.
I think of current movies showing the seedy side of India
such as one named Slumdog Millionaire and a movie to contrast it,
the romantic Bollywood delight named JabTak Hai Jaan.
Furthermore, I recall the grace and good nature of the Indian people
depicted in a film called The Best Ever Exotic Marigold Hotel.
When I think of India, I think of the Taj Mahal, Kama Sutra, and curry,
and also I recall horrible stories of Bride burnings now banned and by contrast,
the good works of Mother Teresa, who labored there among the poor, and
I think of the man who is probably the most recognized by Americans
as a good and strong example of leadership: Mahatma Ghandi.
All these things are the sum of what I have learned about India in my lifetime.
But what do I really know of India?
What I have learned recently relates to poets I have come to know at this website
and who have shown me through their poetry and their communication with me,
a more personal side of the Indian people that I never used to know.
Through the poetry of Ravindra I have learned the love of an Indian for his heritage
and how he emulates his father‘s work through beautiful translations.
From poets like BL and Jag, I’ve learned more about
the deep and philosophical nature of the Indian poet!
Through great friendships with people like Kashinath, Yesha and Yasmin, and Guatami
I have come to learn about the actual personalities of dear Indian people
whose life experiences, struggles and desires are not so different from my own,
and also I am able to enjoy their eloquent words as they describe
their own emotions, passions, and love of nature through their poetry.
Perhaps their culture adds a flavoring to their words and phrases
that is a bit different from my own,
but in the end, we are all alike beneath the skin.
Whether from India or any other country, we are, all of us,
becoming a part of a global community
in which our differing backgrounds can be accepted
and even better - celebrated!
Thank you I say to all my poet friends whose words enrich my life,
but in particular, today I thank my friends from India,
for helping me to really see how beautiful you are
and to understand your country better through knowing YOU.