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Best Poems Written by Cherbo Geeplay

Below are the all-time best Cherbo Geeplay poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Farewell To Ellen

By Cherbo Geeplay

It rains so much in Monrovia that a
day is like the bloated dough on a 
grey earthly May, washing over October. 
My love, the sun, hides in her bright den
refusing to be seen. Life comes to a slow
twiggy motion; the forest is breathing
with moisture, like a hut puffing smoke as 
a pipe. While the creeks bridged their ledges,
there is a seismic run-down Waterside! 
Enough, no more, the sewage can take!
She is in my arms, listening to the music
pounding the roof. Still, calm, reading
Ebony Dust, though, with lightning bolts
       yelling to be heard.
       The clatter is like
a rumble---tumbling falling rockets. 
The sorry corrugated zinc holds her 
seams, the bed is dry, but the room
       is a puddle.
       The city is
cramp and damp, like a soaked 
sponge dripping with water. The 
hustling contested old city in an 
evening fog, the Mesurado in
a bulge, taking Fanti fishermen 
to and fro,
       to the edge of Westpoint.
       To love in the midst of mists,
of raging thunder under your ears 
and an air filled with blithering vermin, 
is to drink a linctus in anger, cooped in 
wretched penury. So when the wait, 
cannot wait to be over, you my love
must endure, waiting to part with the 
wrath the rains imposed, much needed 
however, to calm the California wildfires, 
gifted on these shores, for
free. Now: you
       understand, then,
       the irony of nature!
_____
Copyright 2018, Adelaide Literary Magazine, New York

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Dark Enthusiasm

by cherbo geeplay

Sometimes I swear I see the 
clouds closing in, always like 
a high tide boiling the ocean 
waves. Now I can't move my
      limbs and immobile tongue. 
I am speechless in a world with 
too much to say. I cannot stand 
the pain. Here I am, marveling 
at how a black man walks down 
the street and is shot in the back, 
     a dummy for target practice.
A mother’s tears soaked against 
her pillows, crying all night; red 
clouds crunching her shoulders 
under the weight of her pains, 
the sight of a truck at break-neck 
speed running into a crowd down
the curb, because a bigot
thinks hatred serves his
    world view of community.
And in Charleston, blood in
the pews, places of worships
no longer safe havens, it is
Trump’s country. Today the
soft moans of our breath
      burn under the heat of
misogyny. What goddamn
dark enthusiasm is that?

Copyright ©? In Parentheses Literary 2021

Details | Cherbo Geeplay Poem

Masekela!

By Cherbo Geeplay

I can touch the rhythm of your beats,
and sense the chirpy throb; the music
streams it currents to my pulse, the
hair on my skin rises, the trumpet
ricochets, filling the room, seizing the
passages in my veins! I am drifted,
to the swings of the melody, the
harmony synchronizes, its bliss is
on the hill which now fills my mind!
    A bass once stole my dancing feet,
Whistling away on the veld in Witbank.
Oh, Masekela. With my snapping
fingers, the pulsating tempo is curving
my arteries, there is feasting in the
fields and a Grazing in the Grass, the
herds with nudged cadences can
barely hold their joy, feeding off the
Jazz, synchronized with Kuti, Makeba,
and the gifted Huddleston. Your 
trumpet wore the piano and a voice that
seduced the dancers, caressing to
melodic sway rings the saxophone man,
whose fervor tenor blasted, then won
against Apartheid, now drives away,
leaving me, to an empty room, to
which, sits a set of idle instruments.
    Who is going to stroke the trumpet?
And beat the bass, and own the saxophone?
Where his shiny flutes once breathed,
now silence pervades to rust-laden winds. 
The gadgets left behind glossed with silvery 
gleam beckoning to be picked up from the 
stage that once flung them to being in 
Soweto. Is it true that Pepper birds live 
in those hoary tubes, singing beautiful
strains, whistling to the moon?
      Or that in your opus, love invites a
romantic ocean filled with golden surfs,
laced with cords of grooves? Which drifts
softly to the waiting night, to be picked up.
In the music I know, there is hope
flying on the horizon, with no brawls in the
way to hinder its flawless trail,
     now lost on the stage that once
    flung them to being in Soweto
[in tribute to Hugh Masekela:]
—1939-2018/January

Copyright Adelaide Literary Mag, 2018, NY

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Beg for Love

By Cherbo Geeplay 

“Don’t die,” his mother cried
by his hospital bed, weeping.
“I will be fine,” he managed 
      to mutter under thick 
      breath, the stars visible
as he stared at the ceilings.
Rage and hatred above us, 
as winter comes and lays her 
cold hands upon the shoulders 
of the kid shot last night by 
the cops, his corpse hot in 
the mom's palms----tears 
       pouring down her soft 
       cheeks. Possibly we are 
hurtling towards the quake, 
moving the particles beneath 
our feet, the deep void 
threatening to open up 
and swallow the earth 
and the brick walls and 
skyscrapers. The thing is, 
if it obliterates us, how do we 
beg for love, and pray to be 
spared when there is hate so 
much on the isles of the rug.
Stains visible everywhere.
On the soles of our heels. We 
need no ticking time bombs 
ignited by our own palms 
and fingers. A dog sank 
its sharp canine teeth 
into the soft folds of
     a man because it was 
ordered to do so, obedient to 
its master who loves the animal 
more than he cares about another 
living human being who worked in 
the cotton fields that built a nation. 
We can walk together in humanity 
or perish, killing each other off 
      as the volcanoes rise from the 
pits of the earth and swallow 
us all before dark. She went 
home empty handed. 
“I will be fine,” were 
his last words, but now 
she has no heart. He is as cold 
as a crumbled leaf in winter.

Copyright ©?  In Parentheses Literary, 2021

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A ticKing timE BOmb

by c. geeplay

Beyond the city limits and the massive 
power plants outside of Los Angeles,  
Moscow, Mumbai, Monrovia, Havana,  
Burkina ---destructive force is amassing 
- the polar ice is disintegrating.  Like the 
chainsawed timbers hurled away, posing 
grave threats to humanity. Despite the 
serious consequences staring him in the 
face, mankind remains stubborn. Beyond 
and above the hills of the ice caps, a 
mesmerizing spectacle unfolds - the sun 
beam does a graceful ballet of light dance  
then fades away. It is a sight of exquisite 
beauty, serenity, and enigma. I have 
witnessed its enchanting green rays, 
resembling a regal queen cresting in a 
romantic flow, captivating and resplendent. 
And while the polar bear hunt for seals on 
the Arctic Bay, seeking refuge on the ice, 
the melting crevasses and drifting blocks floats. 

Behold a gloom perches beneath the heavens. 
We watched the melting ice caps, our minds 
stretched tightly like a high-speed train racing 
through a tunnel, capturing her morning 
commuters. I wanted to shout at the 
television screen, fully aware that it couldn't 
hear me, yet I yelled nonetheless. My girlfriend 
remarked that I was too loud, and I promptly 
apologized. I urged her to take a closer look 
at the solitary fragments of broken ice; 
she reminded me that I was the one 
wearing lenses, and she was right. 

The bear clung to the ice, with its young 
cub trailing behind, immobilized, their furs 
dampened by the chill of the weather. 
While the evening approaches between 
the crowns of the clouds and as cold sun 
burns, we stood dumbfounded, burdened 
with remorse, either we act now or soon 
we might slip into oblivion,  its happening; 
the storms and rising sea levels are reminders 
we are sitting on a ticking time bomb

Details | Cherbo Geeplay Poem

The Aurora Dances

by c.geeplay

By the time I caught my breath and understood 
the significance of what I had just witnessed, it 
felt as though my alarm was an insignificant fear 
       carried by the surging wind: Corporations 
remained indifferent to these concerns, as 
did influential politicians. Folks had nothing 
to say, showing a cold shallow indifference 
likened to that of  ice cubes in a fridge 
waiting for a Canadian whisky. 

The Earth's rapid warming holds no 
importance, creating an empty void 
for the powerful individuals who dictate 
our lives. Today, we understand that the 
     ice is disappearing  under the ocean's 
surface, devouring it like an ancient 
dinosaur struck by a celestial fireball. 
We must have known long ago we were 
doomed or being condemned to extinction.

And yet, not a trace of fear permeates our 
beings as night descends upon us and the 
aurora dances, beckoning us to admire her 
beauty in anticipation of the imminent future 
      when her lights will finally fade. Even here, 
where the moon shines clearly visible from 
a distance pulling away from us, the stars 
also entice our inquisitive gaze into the 
cosmic tapestry. Two separate worlds 
indeed, but one that draws closer and 
all too real to disregard.

Details | Cherbo Geeplay Poem

Autumn is Green and Gold

By Cherbo Geeplay 

I peer at thy rolling hills. Adorned with autumn's muted shades of yellow, green, and gold. The expansive forest radiates red leafs and splendor. While summer watches from her privileged perch. Lining the pathways, are the falling brown leafs, and lemonades. Behold a pristine scene call couples to a serene bliss, parks and walks, reminiscent of petals scattered on a plush bed, like oceans and waves. November approaches with caution quickly, and as darkness descends, fireflies floods and waltz to the symphony of flickering radiant lights. Twirling around the hillsides and balconies the evening glows, as the scent of blooming flowers fill the air. The moon shines comely, crowned with her glistening halo; the chirp of pepperbirds everywhere to be heard.

Oh autumn, with your unpretentious rope and thy smile, nestled between two formidable foes, you display both gentleness and beauty. May you grant us good fortune as the long winter settles in.

_____
This poem is yet to be published on any literary platform

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A Poet I Held

By Cherbo Geeplay

I supposed I was a poet whose 
ink was gilded With rich entrée 
that was settled and intrepid.
I assumed I could 
bray the stony frothing 
ocean and see the dolphin 
Skate generously for free. 
I thought myself a poet, 
       hiking the sandy beach.
then I stood doubted, nervous, 
a handout to bleach the silver 
cobwebs divorcing the seas 
from the cloud then watch 
Mona go by, wrapped in a 
shroud. A poet, I held; 
I recognized what 
happiness was---
Jazz and trumpets flowing 
In a mid-afternoon cafe, jaws
       apart, in awe looking for 
novelty, and solitude that 
delights. Or waking early 
And seeing cracks pour light. 
I was that poet, modest 
In actions fivefold---then 
I misplaced my passions, 
apathetic, and cold. 
        A difficult man alright, 
alone in his travelling mind.
Taking in the beauty, 
The ersatz, waltz, 
And confined. The fear, 
       of a poet who was 
Supposed to be brave
Now vulnerable, torpid, 
Puny, thirsty for a crave
To shake the hands of 
Kipling, but and only, IF.*
He considers his travail, 
       Soup, alone in his 
       enclave; right there, 
with Ink link to paper.
I supposed I was a poet 
Whose ink was golden
With rich bite and wit that 
Was firm and fearless, am I?

Note: IF* one of the author's 
favorite poem by R. Kipling

_____
Copyright ©? Adelaide Literary,  2018, NY.
This poem was finalist. Was previously titled, 
'The Poet I Am'

Details | Cherbo Geeplay Poem

Love Letter of Summer

By Cherbo Geeplay

Summer is yet to come and may
never come. She's stirring in an
August noon, sitting on the long
plateaus of these fields so far
       from our grasp. The rice
       fields are silent amidst
these thick woods as
the moon loans her
radiance, her silver
glow hovers over the
lagoons. Beloved, see the
treasures you left, bathed
       by the monsoon rains, 
whetting our appetites as
we await the rising sun.
Sullen, sad, the train was
never meant to stop here.
       But the tears of the clouds,
which began yesterday in earnest, 
still exalt the souls of our musing
thoughts mingled with the divine 
wisdom given by the ancestors, 
needing no light to welcome 
the blooms that sprout on 
these coveted lovely crops.
                    ll
O Toni, you are gone too? 
For you are the Carnation 
of Ohio; the love letter of 
summer cuddling the rainfall.
That bright tulip we all wished 
was had, capped to the longing
       breasts of our jackets, the 
cranberry that spread her 
indigo blues thrust upon 
us, swaying the nomadic
revelers drinking from 
your fountain. Why abandon
your guests, you violet pedagogic
         messenger? Your furnished 
truths are heaped upon our 
collars and shoulders now, 
gliding with the wind, crossing 
continents on the quick leaping 
hooves to a canter, a starved
antelope in search of her groove, 
looking for the green patches 
        which you groomed.
               lll
O Toni, the faint waves
of the enduring riverbanks 
are roaring, grey, to the 
erudite laughs of your 
          volumes, the golden
sun of Africa’s savannah weeps.
The splendor of your aura is
now washed on these desolate 
beaches by a massive storm 
blowing over these still hills,
as we hold back the emotions
that come to us against the
the blowing winds. In her 
tarnished lust for fury,
death blasting with 
         thunder, stealing our 
sad hearts. So it is too, as 
the evening swallows the 
sunset, the roaming cavalier 
of cold gloom razes flares of 
fires, devouring the forest's 
leaves pitching her dark fork 
on the land once more, and 
tomorrow again! Beloved, 
you are the pearl of the calm 
seas, the lilies of the valleys.
(February 18, 1931–August 5, 2019
Toni Morrison)

Details | Cherbo Geeplay Poem

Heart of Courage

By Cherbo Geeplay 

This, to the commanding officer 
who led his troops to war, on one 
knee and won in the trenches
on the battlefield littered with
landmines. I held your portrait 
sir, this morning with trembling
palms, dressed sharply in your 
uniform, gleaming boots fastened 
     to your feet. I talk this over with
my son: who is this Kaepernick, 
he asked, so I dropped the topic.
Thought, he was too young to 
understand warfare and the men
who wage them. My honor to know 
a soldier of your heroism seized me,
tells me, wars can be won without 
people being shot, just, by asking, 
why? Volley of bullets wouldn’t
have to penetrate the bodies of 
men, but can prick the hollow 
apostates of partisan whiff
on a day conscience won, 
sparking a revolution
across the sub-continent.
       I fete you dear
       commanding
officer, for your stealth.

                            II
The certificates of your citizenship 
have been studied and assumed
worthy, even by the enemy you 
defeated. The questions have
been asked on the battlefront and 
at headquarters by field officers and
generals alike, barred by their superiors 
        from whispering your name. 
Probing: what does he want, who is 
this man? But on the subway, morning 
and evening trains commuters whisper
your muddled name still. Holding you in
their hearts like mothers hold their babies.
        I have slogged the asphalts of long 
memory dedicated to soldiers of your
tradition, like a madman looking through 
the relics reserved for your kind, searching 
for your badge, and yes, there it is. It hangs
right next to, Owens. 

                        III
Surprised, then yesterday my son
came home. A basketball hikes
under his arm, giving me a long 
winded look like hot knife ready 
to melt a lard, then he knelt on 
his right knee, saying nothing,
got up, and went to his room, 
       tears in his eyes. I noticed also, 
he had began an afro. He discovered 
you on his own.The salt in his eyes, 
that welled up his tears, I report have 
since been washed away. Today, he is 
bolder like the bull that charges, but
calm like these ocean waves once in 
revolt. Oh Col., so he did come to 
know you after all, as I wished, 
because underneath that fine
uniform draped in medals beats 
the heart of courage in steel.
_______
Copyright ©? 2019, Rigorous Literary New Orleans 
This poem was previously published under the title 'Col. Kaepernick.'