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Best Poems Written by Tile Tersoo

Below are the all-time best Tile Tersoo poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Tile Tersoo Poem

Do Not Stay Gentle Into That Shell

DO NOT STAY GENTLE INTO THAT SHELL
Do not stay gentle into that shell,
Old age and death sails to snatch your day;
Wake up against the quenching bell,

For many will think the dark is theirs to sell,
Because time has failed to open the heap of their bay,
Do not stay gentle into that shell.

Great men with great talent, now the wail in hell,
If they had had, the legacies would in silence pray,
Wake up against the quenching bell,

Wise men, who had their gifts in use and so well,
And now too late, they’ve chided with grief on way,
Do not stay gentle into that shell.

Grave men, rot with these gifts, I’m sorry to tell,
With great minds and ideas not heard, what I have to say,
Wake up against the quenching bell.

And you my comrades, with gifts and wisdom,  I quell,
Pull out and do the unimaginable now and not to play,
Do not stay gentle into that shell,
Wake up against the quenching bell.

Details | Tile Tersoo Poem

We Will Not Keep Quiet

We will never keep quiet,
Even in the middle of the jungle,
Left alone with the unknown,
We will make the unknown known
Swim in the pool of realism,
And sing the song of spasm
For we will not keep quiet.

Why will you think your dealings,
Are right and mine wrong? Why?
How you kill and give reasons,
Breaks the delicate bone of posterity,
When will my colleague cling to,
To pend the wand of the yard,
Then, let’s wake up from this,
Lazy and perfunctory sleep,
And slumber around to settle,
The settlement of the time,
For We will not keep quiet.

We shall tell the world the truth,
How you gang and mob to pull,
My whole stern body naked,
How you tame to barren my effort,
How you swerve and swear to spy 
And stop me from the table’s fame
But I will not keep quiet.

We must not keep quiet, 
But tell the world your dealings 
Without hidden vile wry in awry
In whole and naked of the soul,
To end the strike pending,
And to rescue the generation 
Yet, unborn, to avert the wrath,
Of time and queue behind time 
And say things as they are,
Why we will not keep quiet.

Details | Tile Tersoo Poem

Swange

The moon has groaned home;

And soon the shadow’s drum,

Resonates the rhythmic silhouette,

To the ferocious pains of the spine;

Hear the heavy throbs of the drum,

The panting steps of the trumpet,

And the singing sage of the flute.

See as she curved patiently

In the wind, and twist her shanks,

Directly towards the sun, this swange:

The great dance that has survived,

The war of nature, the drift of time,

And the shadows of silent wars.

As she sprint to no where, a darts,

Then bend to finish it all in a day,

With hands spread to the sun---

And legs resisting a visit of the moon.

Like a snake, she twist in trance,

The petroglyps of carribbean trace,

The black race’s paws of pride,

Now, history has danced to your tunes.

I can barely hear the movement

Of your soul in the heart of my soul

And as the trumpet rent the air;

Her moves changes, her eyes dimming.

Many passers-by left mouths wide,

To the ferocious shock of her dance

The dexterity of her posture, dangling,

When you think of her waist___

Then, the community of her back,

With ridges and robes of nature,

As I watch her in the craft, I sigh!

Silently in my noisy heart.

They sing and dance through,

Smiling blissfully as if her body

Is only made of tissues and no bones.

Where have you pressed your pressure?

She reminds me of my tradition,

That descendant’s meld of mild.

If home I reach, then shall I squeeze,

Myself in her fold like a wrinkled hag.

Oh Swange!, she revamps the dead

Spirit in the hallows of my being,

And now I’m whole in the hole of my life.

The syncopation and its vibration

That storm the Inertia, growing,

Soothingly, the goosebumps on my skin.

___This is the dance of the spirit;

With the doughty of your dancers,

And the lapidary of the drummers,

That has intoxicated the veins of my soul.

The bilious nature of your rhythm,

Has continued the confusion in my head,

And I stand to commend your craft and art,

To reward your efforts effortlessly,

As topping the chart of singers and dancers.

Swange is cruel, it has charmed my mind,

And enticed direction of my thoughts,

It is really gentle and fiercely rough.

You have encapsulated the catercorner,

The so soothing sobs of the bleeding heart,

And dragged me upon the pool of love,

Of chaste, and of peace, the hopes of Isle,

Leaving me in the state of shawl sallow,

I will caress your rapscallion, your thirst.

And many have fallen deeply into

The lycanthropy of the serendipity,

Scouring and hiding the rendition

Of your serene utopia, a threnody

To the snatches and the old dry bones.

Swange is fearless and swange is a dream,

It has defile the harmony of our insecurity,

And gave us peace with joy in obscurity,

With the most genteel empirical facts,

Swange is the nude African damsel,

Who has invited me to a silent dinner,

And I took the part of her seductive caress.

That snake like tribal dance of the Tiv’s,

Has raped out virtue and now I’m deflowered!

I have dug myself a shallow sepulchre,

For I have heard the cause of my doom,

This Swange has sweep away sense in my sight.

Details | Tile Tersoo Poem

A Fiendish Destitution

While we dwell to this dreidel,
I seek to know before a sear,
Even in the most ineluctable dandle,
The fruit to which may indeed bear;
In the imbue oblivion, I tell a riddle,
Most morass yet merely in fear,
For the sake of fiduciary wheedle,
Let me share with you my compadre,
The reason for this lachrymose!
We seek solace, I seek a motley,
Of a jejune yet quite leonine__
I’m carrying a huge cornucopia;
__And the temerity to extirpate
The gloaming quiddity, the fireflies.
With my cries not perceptible;
And this sandbag is too heavy a burden;
The earthquake of demands,
With the hallucination of needs,
Have starved my conscience Mekeba!
For I do not come to you by chance,
By chance found you in my utopia.
To be a man calls for a hybrid of habits,
The fluctuation which efface intrinsic,
Hapless of a jaded impaired grift.
To be a suitable snitch in the sight,
Of your serene pugilism with skylark,
A batty revelation of chains of choice!
An honest opinion of soft sips.....
A turpitude scent of petals niche,
The jurassic meld of mundane’s prig.
In my desolate the burning throbs,
The anxiety to revert my paunch,
The antithesis of the flamboyant story;
The entangled facts from the realities
This is the precarious situation smelling,
Around the jungle with fear or shame.
The ornery of your aesthetic breach,
And they vaunted to a great suffice,
Tales of a teller telling them in a folktales.
Everyone with his own dilemma;
In the gamut of this conjecture,
Who will help me muster this burden?
I have reached the dovetail for perfection
For I’m no longer a peer, so I see different,
From the way I saw ages ago in oblique.
This pot of inferno has exploded and this fire,
The inscrutable fire has engulfed my head,
I’m burning in clandestine fray....
I’m in moribund and so I bloviate for help,
In this helpless world that help only the dead!!.

Details | Tile Tersoo Poem

THOSE DAYS

Truly those days were fun,
Little children playing each,
With a fine decorated toy gun,
Life was serious yet catchy;
And we were easily convinced
‘ Sit back, I will buy you Akara’,
Was enough to pacify and evinced.

I can still peep through the silhouette,
Of throwing stones at Mango fruit,
And playing with a plate of omelette,
Those hid and seek games in the rain,
Truly those days were fun,
We went on errands without gain,
Whether it was under the sun!

And when a person died in the hays,
Goosebumps, fear sits in the air;
I can’t forget those jannock days,
As fear was harbored, decency was the heiress
An old woman could tell her daughters,
“Do not touch or allow a man touch you,
For when you do, you will be in a family way:”
I wish to go back to those days in decipher,
For the imagination of her dream, is not new.

These days;
Even a seer can’t see what a teen talks,
And behold, they are all on Tiktok,
Staring at things our fathers only but imagined,
And when you tell them to face their books,
Oh God! They are on Facebook,
These days, decency is just but a crime,
And when you see it, we call it archaic;
Mothers that should do their job,
Are their, on the sad side of Instagram,
Influencing in their nude paraphernalia!

Majority of these parents will taste,
Eli’s strength,  a sad reality disguising,
And truly this age is punctured;
And it is bleeding in black jars,
Where then should I start the tale from,
Truly the beat has changed;
Leaving us naked in the daylight;
Where is  our morality forte?
Even the news of these days,
Does not sit well with the mind...
It is either abduction, manslaughter,
Banditry, and all those odd news,
I’m debilitated and would want,
To go back to those days!
My eyes are witness to this insouciant.

Details | Tile Tersoo Poem

DO NOT MISS THE MOON, WHILE COUNTING THE STARS

DO NOT MISS THE MOON, WHILE COUNTING THE STARS
Do not be carried away by the deceit,
Of an oozing chant of a back palm’s stew;
For the meat that source and house it,
Will slip and off it will drift like dew;
So, do not miss the sun,
While counting the smiles of the stars,
Kafkaesque!
Most magic moments oblique,
The conscientiousness to tame,
And the illusionary shadow’s of blame.
Sometimes, I don’t want,
You to know what I think,
That’s why I hide it in a plant,
A tarred bowdlerize wink;
So, do not stay too long....
Looking at the sun, especially her eclipse.
Alas! The jaded aglet corpse!
I have wringed wet maelstroms,
What you have in your palm,
Is bigger than the shadow storms,
So, do not waste hours counting, 
Those deceitful stars__
When all you need is the moon!
For this is an overweening;
Err that mar many: a raconteur.
    ~ Tile

Details | Tile Tersoo Poem

Life After My not Being Around


Anytime 
I ponder about life,
After my not being;
Around, it perks the skies,
And I wish I had been,
Just born...

Alas!
Little kids die too,
So, I’m left to touch my feelings 
And console pains...
Then, The flow,
Of questions, like;
Will I be loved After?
Or will I be forgotten?
This life
Is a shell of glass,
That is being trashed, 
When broken!

So, in tears!
Why then do I suffer?
To be rich,
To be relevant, 
To be famous;
To be everything, 
After all will be forgotten,
This life,
Isn’t balanced!
Life After you is pregnant,
And bears,
Immediately after you are gone,
Live a brand that can,
Never be targeted,
Even,
With a gun!

So, 
I will rot,
Smell!
After all the luxury!
I love the orge,
Of thinking 
In my future, for After all,
The future 
Is where we all live!
Just turn back,
And look at the future;
In your 
ABSCENCE!
~Tile Tersoo

Details | Tile Tersoo Poem

SHALL I JUST WALK AROUND the SUN?

SHALL I JUST TAKE A WALK AROUND THE SUN?

Shall I just take a walk around the sun?
Though, this is hard and demanding yet, copacetic,
Rough, tough and full of thorns, a trip or son,
As the harmattan wrestles with the sand in mystic,
And sometime too hot the eyes of the rays,
For everything cold was burnt from coal and heat,
And often dark from dark; as it pryingly pays,
 For not all who wander are lost, by chance, the treat;

But in enmity of eternity shall we wrinkle,
Like the Swan in the Arabian swoop, in travesty,
For the sun can be a frenetic foe you tackle,
The gumption to dine in the zenith of thirsty,
A nude that shamelessly assault my consigliere,
So long lives this, and the ventriloquism of her lingerie!

Details | Tile Tersoo Poem

SHALL I JUST WALK AROUND the SUN?

SHALL I JUST TAKE A WALK AROUND THE SUN?

Shall I just take a walk around the sun?
Though, this is hard and demanding yet, copacetic,
Rough, tough and full of thorns, a trip or son,
As the harmattan wrestles with the sand in mystic,
And sometime too hot the eyes of the rays,
For everything cold was burnt from coal and heat,
And often dark from dark; as it pryingly pays,
 For not all who wander are lost, by chance, the treat;

But in enmity of eternity shall we wrinkle,
Like the Swan in the Arabian swoop, in travesty,
For the sun can be a frenetic foe you tackle,
The gumption to dine in the zenith of thirsty,
A nude that shamelessly assault my consigliere,
So long lives this, and the ventriloquism of her lingerie!

Details | Tile Tersoo Poem

They said you are blind?

They said that you are blind,
Yet I can see you with my mind,
 The piecing through my spine,
To me you are but tote sacrifice,
A jar of an oozing surprise!

They again called you trust,
A trip merely to thrust,
The raging furnace's ole to rust!
You are the thing I love to hate,
And I truly hate to love!
While I have inveighed about you.

You have wounded the side of the sun,
And the heat ululating the end of the cold,
Beating the crust aglet of the gun,
Then, The rising of the mocking moon;
Red may be danger, a dagger of threat,
Today, that same red is the hand of love;
With many hiding under to defile,
The sincerity of her meaning;

The blind gift exchange is here,
The smiling shadows of a fair,
To end the tale of a hallow fair,
All of us are strict beggars,
For if you don’t beg from humanity, 
You must beg from the almighty;
So, please lower the shoulders, 
Get a gift for me, even if it is a like,
To prove your true show of love!
A Letter to the maladroit Cupid!
~ Tile Tersoo