Long poem by
Scott Howard Myers The Gypsy King | Details |
Set upon the new world stage within the burning fires of hell. Silently posed factions of the elite, suppress the true inherit of Mother Earth. The meek children bending over for millennium, taken spankings of bare bottoms, pelted slavery.
Upon entry to rule, the open stage of smoked mirrors began to reflect back upon the podium of lies. Taught by scholars from university books of political science. Fearful of leadership matching mirrored images, of false pretense, babbling rhetoric. The stirring masses of discontented, individualistic, thought of as dead - enders, trouble makers, and rebel rousers, rallied aimlessly.
With super hero, Captain Do Gooder, bleeding helpless on the floor of Wall Street. Weary lost hope combatants mustered courage, and accepted destiny. To this point, someone shouted against the wind of change. Felt by all who sensed the importance.
"To death do us part of the purpose to which we, the united, stand for justice".
The chant began, as Captain Do Gooder was dragged away, and cuffed, once bleeding helpless on the floor of Wall Street.
Damn the torpedoes. Damn the torpedoes.
Captain Do Gooder, fallen, bruised ego matching skinned knees, lays helpless. Who will save them now.
Second glances from high rise penthouses. Serving champagne and caviar. Brought iron clenched hands once hidden, to draw the stage curtain down.
With Captain Do Gooder nowhere to be found. The voice that came from pain of pupil. Born within broken dreams of promised lands. Realized nothing was coming cheap on this occupation.
The dusty streets found Captain Do Gooder aimlessly stepping against the winds of change, down Wall Street. The well-intentioned, arrested and broken spirited, lost hope of recycling any salvage rights taken from them by Metro.
Was this the end of the well thought out, pushed down occupation.
Was this the beginning, of the underground faction. Where was senior generation X hiding. Only Captain Do Gooder and the well-intentioned, world stage occupiers, hold the key to that Pandora's box of hope.
The peoples across the oceans were already springing far ahead in their own, more brutal campaign. For they had no cushion on which they were raised to kneel against. Tyranny ran over them. A lesson yet not felt, or learnt, or taught, in the new world. No chance of city mayors issuing eviction notices. Bullets, tanks and bombs were of the order. Brought down the line, traced back to the ones our United Nations to this day, refuse to acknowledge.
While leaders there home internet shop, and pump out the lies. Everyone dies.
In the heart of the continent of center, where unto which as mankind sprang forth, for its first and ever conquest.
The lights kept dim, to obscure the violent cleansing. A facade to disguise once moreover, the brutal tyranny for which the greed of the elite, control the dimmer switch. Diamonds and oil fuel the fire of war and oppression, on this stage of greed and guilt. Too far away, and too many distractions upon center stage for one to see or care. Thought and looked upon by most as racially motivated. The origins of all mankind, to be left, far too far, behind. The true forsaken people. Why is man unkind.
So..........will Captain Do Gooder raise the bar to which drinks for the house, and all around, will quench the thirst felt by ninety nine percent of the people............mother knows best.
Yet, still, self-inflicted roadblocks of appointed destiny, drop kicked long days past. Faint light shining far ahead, within the tunnel of hell, brought up to land. Firm above the depths to which it sprang. The truth of world order.
Wait......what do we see......do our closed eyes deceive our cries........................................
We see Captain Do Gooder catching second wind.
She breathes deep now and all can hear her war cry, no longer whimpering softly. As in past tense situations, given way to dazed and confused wall street *****es.
She builds momentum, as our brothers and sisters lay dying and bleeding. On the streets of some not so distant for telling, of what's to be, will never not be coming full steam ahead and plowing through the hidden agenda. One step beyond the line drawn in the sand of time, we thought would never be crossed. Give way thoughtless future tellers, and takers. Still holding firm with paper cuts, deep into the hands who printed and prepared such slave papers, kept by the elite bankers.
Captain Do Gooder returns renewed and refreshed. Our true Mother.
Captain Do Gooder feels strong, as bruised knees and scraped hands heal.
Brush of destiny sweepstakes, allots winnings of earth shaking, volcano erupting, tsunami tidal waves, with bonus draws of worldwide chaos. Future draws are to be held with worldwide winners. Grand prize, dead oceans rising.
The next generation have no fear digest writes the next chapter.
Hold the press down firmly wall street backbiting backbenchers. Drawn into the crossfire, on her mark, place the x on the next general who dares not fall into civil disobedience.
Captain Do Gooder has grown teeth, and she is biting down hard against the line to pipe riches, spoiled from her lands. Stolen from the first pilgrimage, fifteen thousand years old, lost empire.
How dare you steal from, and pollute the minds of her children. Yet old enough to drink and drug and die in war. How dare all of us.
Meanwhile back at the ranch. Captain Do Gooder hugs tight that tree of life, to which sprang all this elbow rubbing and diversion. Wall street huddles in her corner, painted red to match the lengths to which an end will surely bring to it.
Painted red for all to see.
The end to friendly letter writing, give peace a chance, make love not war, generation taking a bow, and snow birding it, to false sense of security land. Like the ostrich with its head in the sand.
Copyright © Scott Howard Myers The Gypsy King | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
Darian Rehder | Details |
The signs started in December
When she started waking up in tears each night
She was a normal girl with dark brown hair and darker brown eyes
She had plenty of friends and a loving family with just one thing missing
Days passed by and turned into weeks but only felt like a few seconds
Her life just whizzed by faster and faster until it was just a whirr in front of her eyes
Darkness filtered into her heart and mind until she didn't know if she could go on
But she had to. She couldn't let her mother and her sister drown in this same pain
She wouldn't let them.
She pushed all the darkness into the depths of her own heart
In hopes to save the hearts of the two people she had left
Because what else was there to live for now?
The rest of her world had crashed and her mother and sister was all that was left
She wouldn't let them drown in pain too.
She watched as they started to heal in her loving arms
Their hearts started to lighten up once more
But hers was just as dark as it was before
And growing darker day by day
But she wouldn't let that stop her.
Suddenly a year had passed... and then two
It only seemed like seconds to her but everyone else started moving on
Her mother and sister no longer needed her nurturing care
But she needed someone to hold on to
With nothing left for her to take control of, the dark pushed past her boundries
It found a way into her soul
Until all she could see was dark and no light
But her mother and sister were healed now
They didn't understand
The tears came back and engulfed her soul
Bit by bit until she wasn't sure why she was still alive
The grief took over like knives
Piercing her skin over and over and over
It hurt so much.
She started to wonder what it'd look like to be dead
She could see him again if she was
Wouldn't it be so much easier than having to endure this pain?
Wouldn't it be so much easier than having to live knowing she'd never see him again?
So she started to hate herself
All that negative energy was starting to take toll
Everyone around her was breathing while she suffocated more and more by the second
She wished she'd just choke already instead of living in constant pain
If no one would put her out of her misery, she'd have to do it herself
She couldn't see any light anymore
So she grabbed the pill bottle off the shelf and just hoped it wouldn't take long to die
Deep down she still had a spark of light, but she just couldn't find it
And now it was too late in her mind to change, to turn back and try to look deeper
She was done living.
That's when people started to notice that everything wasn't as peaceful as it seemed
They started to see how deeply depressed she had become
They wanted to help her see the light again before it was too late
So they sent her away to see doctors and to take pills to make everything better
It was a start.
She didn't see a change at first but suddenly she could think clearly
Maybe what they were doing was actually going to help her see the light again
Yes, she still wanted to die, but maybe that wasn't the only option anymore
They cared, and behind all their own problems they were trying to understand
They really were trying
Six months longer she would be treated and cared for
Until suddenly she was sent home from her treatment and care with a smile on her face
She had a new perspective
Someone had helped her ignite that spark in her heart until it was a glowing ember
She had been reborn
Sometimes you have to be able to experience the worst of it
To come back shining brighter than before
And if she had died that cold day in October, she wouldn't of ever seen the best of it
Or known that it would get better
and it did!
And she now sits at her laptop, with a smile on her face and warmth in her heart
It's never been an easy road and it won't ever be
But at least she knows she's lived through the worst
And it can only get better from here
So whenever she feels lonely or gets back into that dark spot again
She can look back on what she's learned and can read this poem
And remember that she survived the darkest depths of depression
And she will continue to survive it as long as she lives
Because she is stronger now than she ever was before ?
Copyright © Darian Rehder | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
evrod samuel | Details |
THE CITY AND THE STATE OF PLAY TODAY
No one worries about morals today
They follow the rules they create
So to them all is ok
Those on the outside looking in
Are the only ones feeling queasy
As avarice and selfishness triumphs
Good corporate citizens they claim to be
Industry awards abound on their walls
As thank you tokens from themselves
Yet society harbours a lot of ill-will
As it feels the often brute force of
And destroy mentality
Of people only wishing to make money
Any which way
While Using up all of society’s communal resources
The waters are forever bloody as they
Know no fraternity and would gladly
Cannibalize anyone with no influence
The ability to upend competitors
A cherished characteristic
In a bullish machismo drenched environment
Bullet proof psyches
Absorb and repel any pangs
Blocking any regulatory or chattering classes’
Attempt at nirvana and equality
They employ better paid lobbyist
So always have the upper hand
In influencing policy
The gravitational attraction of money
Towards another even bigger pot of money
Numbs any cautionary instinct
That would take a long term view
The thrill of instant riches
Overpowers common sense
And even decency
Fat cats they all wish to be
The slickness of glossy tongued lobbyist
Who spin wrongs till they become rights
Embolden oestrogen low males with no inbuilt brakes
To take risks that eventually cost them disgrace
They are champions of graft not of society
Loopholes in legislation
That were built in by too friendly politicians
Coupled with ambiguous suits and claims
Cause far reaching hardship when the good old days are long gone
The villains only muster some phantom national pride
When begging for a lighter sentence
Some are forgiven
Others fatally wounded by an unforgiving public
Lots of money can be made both legally and illegally
As one racket is closed another materialises instantly
The conveyor belt of dishonesty
Who is not David to the goliath that is money
The ethos is wealth
The acquisition and the maintaining of gains
Not often acquired through hard work
There is no limit of acceptable financial comfort
For the millionaire always wants to be a billionaire
And the mega rich super rich
Money must always be hidden from the taxman
Shareholders want tax free dividends
Investors want tax breaks for buying with other people’s money
Infrastructure and new runways must be built
But not from the pocket of those who wish it
With their hands outstretched
And always wanting more and more
From a government too eager to please
We have a tax system geared to the advantage of party donors
And non-domiciled moguls and tycoons
Who know no philanthropy unless it is tax efficient
Disadvantaging society by
Never paying their fair and moral share
The largess they reap so selfishly
They wish not to share
Wages are low
Taxes are nil
Only the investor wins as we pay his bills
Fast paced expansionist dogma
Is preached within city limits
Only the highest paid
The biggest company
The greatest profits
They are held up as ideals that all who
Wish to succeed must follow
Gunslingers they all appear to be
Rushing in to capitalize on the wanton success of their peers
The cloud of misery left behind
Is never seen for the look forward
Hindsight is never welcomed in this parasitic environment
The political will to weed out these reckless demons
Is lukewarm at best
The revolving door of government creating opportunities
For industry and industry gratefully accepting politicians post government
Ensures that self-interest is king
An economy built on flawed assumptions of wealth creation
Is one that must forever be in hyper-drive
Creating ever expanding demand and supply
That is as real as a thief’s conscience
When taking the rings off a dead persons fingers
Money must always be made for
There is no alternative
Wealth is good
Poverty to them is laziness
The city is not the heart and soul
Of the nation
It is but one player in a system skewed in its favour
We all must share in the wealth of this country
To ensure its longevity
Copyright © evrod samuel | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
curtis johnson | Details |
A Can Of Coffee
By Curtis Johnson
I do not remember telling him how his kindness to me made a major impression on my life, but I did share the same with his wife and daughter some time after his demise. Moreover, I suspect that he knew that what he did for me had a lasting impact upon my life. I have no doubt that with plan and purpose, with prayer and personal interest, Bob gifted me with a 2 pound can of ground coffee. From the beginning, I discerned that Bob was not trying to satisfy my taste for coffee. At the time, I was not a regular coffee drinker, but rather I drank coffee as a survival tool when I was a delivery driver. However, as a result of Bob’s good deed, I started to drinking coffee every morning.
I must tell you that the primary action of Bob was not about doing a good deed, but about connecting to another human being that was in many respects ‘disconnected’. Nor was the gift of coffee really about the coffee, but rather it was about reaching out to another man who at the time had very little interest in personal interaction. You see, Bob’s coffee contact with me is one of the answers to a creeping reality in our communities today. My reality of disconnection was my own response to disappointments and adversities. Our world is in a ‘major disconnect’ for its own myriad of reasons.
Blame it on the internet and cell phone if you wish; convince yourself that our culture and the millennial generation have divided and separated us from one another. Tell yourself that emails and tech messaging is the new normal. Nevertheless, may we never cease to reach out and physically touch. May we forever look people in their eyes, showing and telling them that we care.
Yes, there is a real and present need to reach out to the strangers, the visitors, the quiet and invisible ones, and the one who comes and goes, with few ever getting to know their names. May we go the extra mile to acquaint one’s self with that one who would rather not be bothered. We do not have to smother or over zealously invade their privacy, but we must respectfully find a way to enter their space.
In my case, Bob broke through the thick wall that I had built, and on which there hang an invisible sign that could be clearly read by any who dared. Sometimes, if we like Bob, would dare to read the sign but ignore its request; or if we would but pretend that we did not see the expressive face and body language which said, “Don’t bother Me”, we might just be surprised with the response we get. Love is not bound with a fear of barriers and walls. Love sees no partition that it is not willing to penetrate.
Bob was a loving conduit through which the electricity of God’s love flowed. The coffee was simply an instrument that could easily have been an invitation to dinner, a gift card from Starbucks, or a ticket to a movie. The tool is relative; it’s the conduit that really matters and makes a world of difference.
No, it was not a ‘random act of kindness’, but rather a very specific and targeted act. As a result of Bob’s one act of kindness, he opened a doorway to my heart and life that led to a wonderful, though short, friendship. There were several occasions in which Bob and I would engage in interesting conversations. As a result, I learned of Bob’s many interests and of the service station business he once owned.
I recall a story of a heat wave that hit Chicago several years ago. A number of elderly people died not only because they were without air conditioning, but because they had no one who checked on them on a regular basis. They lived alone; they died alone. This tragedy caused the city to implement a system of connecting with the elderly in ways that disallow a similar misfortune.
Bob never lived to see how I began to open up and relate to other people. It’s amazing what things can happen when we simply allow ourselves to be conduits. Bob was a conduit through which love flowed from his heart to mine. The tool was a 2 pound can of Coffee. The power of love and a can of coffee. Who knew? cj08262014
Copyright © curtis johnson | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Kim Morrison | Details |
From Pretty Pink Bows To Baby Bassinets
Well little girl you are in high water now and the sand is moving swiftly under your feet. You never expected to get pregnant at fifteen and now you are scared, confused, heartbroken, and you are lashing out at everybody because you do not know who to trust at this point in time. You do not know if even those closest to you are offering you wise words of advice, deliberate words of coercion, or self-serving suggestions. Unfortunately, not even the most well intentioned person can answer the intensely personal questions that are in front of you now, but that will not stop them from trying because even the most intelligent people in your life are often too arrogant in their own beliefs to realize that attempting to answer these kinds of questions for you is kind of like a cowboy trying to rope the wind. However, many will still try because they care about you in some way and many out of concern for you will think they have all your best interests at heart. Yes little girl there is a world of folks out there just chock full of good and bad intentions, yet few understand that the road to perdition can be paved just as well with either. You never intended to get pregnant, but you did just the same and now you are at a crossroad in your young life that even adult women have a hard time dealing with. However, despite your tender age, you are going to have to wipe the tears from your big beautiful blue eyes, find some big girl panties to put on, and sit down and render your first real adult decision on an issue that will alter the very course of your life and the lives of others, no matter what you decide.
Stop saying to yourself why me, why now because it is you and it is now. Stop thinking that you are too young to make this decision because you thought you were old enough to make the decision that put you into this situation begin with and now you have to deal with the consequences of that choice. Stop wondering what to do and thinking that your prince charming is going to walk back in your life and make this decision easier for you because he is just as worried, scared and confused as you are right now, so chances are real good that there will be no glass slipper in your story Cinderella. You can wish and hope all you want for the fairytale solution to appear in one hand, but it is all but certain that the other hand is going to get full first and you are not going to like the aroma. Some would say that you are a little girl making an adult decision, but the reality is you tossed away the little girl card the moment a real baby with real needs appeared in your dollhouse. No sweetie you are a big girl now whether you like it or not or you are ready for it or not and the situation you are dealing with is as real and emotional as it gets. Do not be over whelmed by all the advice people have offered you, but consider it all when you make your decision and pay no attention to the religious nonsense some folks like to spew because it is designed more to make you feel guilty or to scare you than to help you. The people around you, like it or not, are going to have to support your decision because it is yours to make and yours alone. Nobody can hold your hand on this one because regardless of what others might think, right or wrong, you are the one that is going to have to live with the decision you make here. This is a solitary walk on the beach moment for you and during that walk you are going to have to explore not just what is rattling around in your head, but what is down deep in your little heart because the best decisions you will ever make in your life or for your life must always come from both. One of life’s most challenging tasks is constantly trying to find the harmony between one’s head and one’s heart. Blessed are those rare few times one can turn the chaos and discordance of life into a beautiful symphony.
Copyright © Kim Morrison | Year Posted 2014
Long poem by
Scribbler Of Verses | Details |
someone always told me this with tears in her eyes...
(for Lata Sethi's late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)
a wife left South Africa in the 1960’s to join her husband
who was in exile at the time...
in 1970 the husband was sent by the African National Congress to India to be its representative there...
the husband and wife spent two years in Bombay...
one afternoon the husband fell and broke his leg...
the wife knocked on their neighbour’s door, in an apartment complex in Bombay
the neighbour was an old Punjabi lady...
the wife asked the neighbour for a doctor to see to the injured husband...
a Parsi ‘Bone-Setter’ was promptly summoned...
the husband still recalls his anxiety of seeing ‘Bone-Setter’ written on the Parsi gentleman’s bag...
by the way, the ‘Bone-Setter’ worked his ancient craft and surprisingly for the husband, his broken leg healed quite soon...
but still on that day, while the ‘Bone-Setter’ was seeing to the husband...
the wife and the old Punjabi lady from next door got to talking about this and that and where these new Indian-looking wife and husband were from as their accents were clearly not local...
the wife told the elderly Punjabi lady that the husband worked for the African National Congress of South Africa and had left to serve the ANC from exile...
and that they had left their two children behind in South Africa and that they were now essentially political refugees...
the Punjabi lady broke down and wept uncontrollably...
she told the foreign woman that she too had had to leave her home in Lahore in 1947 and flee to India with only the clothes on her back when the partition of the subcontinent took place and Pakistan was formed and at a time when Hindus from Pakistan fled to India and vice versa...
the Punjabi lady then asked the foreign woman her name...
‘Zubeida’, but you can call me ‘Zubie’...
the Punjabi woman hugged Zubie some more, and the two women, seperated by age and geography, wept, sharing a shared pain...
the Punjabi woman told Zubie that she was her ‘sister’ from that day on, and that she felt that pain of exile and forced migration and what being a refugee felt like...
Zubie and her husband Mosie became the closest of friends with the Hindu Punjabi neighbours who were kicked out of Pakistan by Muslims...
then came the time for Mosie and Zubie to leave for Delhi where the African National Congress office was based...
the elderly Punjabi lady and Mosie and Zubie said their goodbyes...
a year or two later, the elderly Punjabi lady’s daughter Lata married Ravi Sethi and the couple moved to Delhi...
the elderly Punjabi lady called Zubie and told her that her daughter was coming to Delhi to live and that she had told Lata, her daughter that she had a ‘sister’ in Delhi...
Lata and Ravi Sethi then moved to Delhi...
This was in the mid-1970’s...
Lata and Zubie became the closest of friends and that bond stayed true, and stays true till today, though Zubie is no more, and the elderly Punjabi lady is no more...
the son and the husband still have a bond with Lata and Ravi Sethi...
a bond that was forged between Hindu and Muslim and between two continents across the barriers of creed and time...
a bond strong and resilient, forged by the pain and trauma of a shared experience...
and that is why, and I shall never stop believing this, that hope shines still, for with all the talk of this and of that, and of that and of this, there will always be a simple woman, somewhere, anywhere, who would take the ‘other’ in as a sister, a fellow human...
and that is why there will always be hope...
hope in the midst of this and of that and of that and of this...
(for Lata Sethi's late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)
Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
harry horsman | Details |
Sunday morning early, five a.m to be
precise, my mind awakes, then gently succours
the body to arise from one’s mundane sleep. I
then transfer to Britain via 1ZB, listening
to the English football commentary, it’s worth
the lack of sleep. Six a.m when finished,
my jogging gear I engage, then to the streets
of Manurewa and beyond, I go to record this page.
Mahia road, with scattered glass set out
like a sculptor mad kaleidoscope, sometimes
giving the impression of an artistic master piece.
Yet! always pointing upwards, in the parks, on the
pavement, along the roadway, abundance of glass,
complemented occasionally with odd smithereens
of windscreen, to add a more neutral effect to
the greens and browns, laying in profusion there. Moving
on towards the hallow Gallagher Park, one espy two
young girls sniffing glue, like it was an art, then
pacing up and down the hedgerow as in some
hallucinogenic dilemma. Alfriston road where a
dilapidated Morris Oxford stripped of its bare
essentials, sits naked, the unscrupulous thief not
in any hurry to close the door, after his implicit
plunder. Redoubt road where two youngsters
returning from a night on the town, decide to
hit a speed limit sign, this on the easiest stretch of
the road, they had to hit it, there was nothing else
to hit. “An idea flashing through my mind, tells
me ‘These lads would be useful in a desert looking
for water’” Hollyford road where poetic scenes one
does greet, the fresh ice blue morning sky, beginning
to fashion a hint of cloud rouged in cosmetic
splendor, metropolitan Auckland spread evenly ahead,
Rangitoto Island, majestic, yet languid in a shroud of
northern mist, as one contemplates, ancient sirens beckoning
one forth, into their watery grave, for the scene is one of
conceivable beauty. But as one ventures towards the sleeping
establishment, an odious smell begins to develop, an odour
of the masses, akin to the morning after a piss up,
booze, farts, belches and spew the sudorific populous
at its worst, one could feel the stench lavishly within the breeze,
my senses begin to absorb the stimuli, my lungs the slithery ooze,
as the unseen prehensile seeps through the walls, the open widows
and chimney flues, trapped in a massive air pocket, no escape for it,
waiting for nature to absorb, as with all others that man has seen fit
to produce. Boundary road, vehicles rushing by “Thank God”
for the exhaust fumes, I hypocritically say, knowing now I was back
into civilization. Wind assisted spinning bicycle wheel, laying
where it’s unaccustomed rider had left it, no doubt glad of
the ride and probably thinking “Stuff the owner, stuff the
world,” Stuff! me if it had been any darker, I would have
fallen over the bloody thing. Soaking farm beast glaring
at me as though I’m bloody stupid, and probably right,
theirs a force situation, mine entirely voluntary. Pokekoes silently
stalking the grass verge, one of them on the roadway
never to stalk again (not in this world anyway.) But worst
aspect of all, is the transmogrified hulk that drags itself
out of the shop doorway, awakening from a stoned
related sleep, one red eye just managing
to open, trying to look into the other,
to see why it is not. Then a sudden impulse
of shame as I approach
quickly disguised, into a couldn’t care less attitude
of the hard guy he wishes he was,
one cannot be in awe or disgust,
but feel a great sorrow, surely someone loves this thing!
Someone somewhere cares. One tries to imagine
the innocence of a child babbling in it’s
cot, not a care, no poison as yet entering
it’s feeble brain. This! this transition of matter,
with the sun, rising
to serve a brand new day!!!
© Harry J Horsman
Copyright © harry horsman | Year Posted 2012
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.
Copyright © lucky okoedion | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
S.zaynub Kamoonpuri | Details |
Copyright © S.zaynub Kamoonpuri | Year Posted 2014
Long poem by
Emma Kalliway | Details |
I am not going to deny that i love my Starbucks
and im not going to deny that i think i look awesome in my leggings and ugg boots
and i am sure as hell not going to tell you that i dont have an unhealthy attachment to my iphone
and i am not going to tell you that the first thing i think of when i see a terrble storm isnt 'awww cuddle weather'
i am also going to tell you that i love my starbucks
because i was a rehearsal until 1 am last night
and im going to tell you i think i look asesome in leggings and boots
because i dont have time or energ for real cloths
and i am going to tell you that i have an unhealthy attachment to my iphone
because i have to text my father everyday t o tell him i love hime because i cant tell him in person
and i am going to tell you that the second thing i think of when i see a terrible storm is
man i sure wish i could be with my siblings they are proably freaking out
at first glance
lk all the rest of us whte chicks
i look like the average white girl
who had everything in her life handed to her
and i am not going to deny that i had everything handed o me
but whe ni say eberything i mean everthing
i dont just mean the things i want
because while i wa handed
a houses infact multiple houses to live
i was also handed
and razors i used to cut my wrists
When i was born a cacasion femail
society peggd me
and hen i grew older i foundout i was white chick
and when i grew older i thought i should probably figure out what white chicks was
so i wrote myself, or copied den societys definition of
an girl born in an urban sociaty and given countless things she is ungratefull for and oppertunities she is to stupid to take. girl who is more concerned with her apearence and what people think of her than if she is healthy or malnirshed
girl who calls herself things she so she can get complimentsbecause she relies on other approval of her to think she has self worth
and see, when i didnt fir that definition
i thought something was wrong with me
i thought wow i am relly letting society down
i thought i was different
and i was'nt
because h=there was basing my self worth on what sociaty thought of me.
see and then i learned
that different is okay
in fact better than okay
in fact different is great
in fact better than great
i have learned that different is the best!
because diversity makes things interesting
and individuality is beautifull
and expressing individuality is gorgous
and its amazing to be and love yourself
because self is the first word in
which i have learned must be based on you and not what society makes you out to be.
so i have decided
i am a white girl
i am a white chick
i am a cocasion femial
iand i am my self
and i am ot anything more
and i sure as hell am not going to ever let anything make me anything less
i love my
and i love my self!
and i feel cool for being different
and i feel great for being myself
and i feel awesome in my leggings and ugg boots
and my own in skin
becasue according to myself
shich my self worth is based on
Copyright © Emma Kalliway | Year Posted 2014