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Best Poems Written by Cherbo Geeplay

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

Details | Cherbo Geeplay Poem

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

Details | Cherbo Geeplay Poem

HOPE

by c. geeplay

The passionate winds blow among 
the branches on the plains, while the 
river flows among the ravines and 
cliffs. The feisty embrace of the 
moon's shadow  blooms on the horizon, 
moving in leaping steps upon 
the night’s longing swells, 
crusted with the honeyed songs 
of birds flapping their wings to 
the rustle of the river’s waves. 
The hope in the yearning voices 
on the shore refuses to vanish 
into thin air, as the moon shows 
her face, shining quietly in the 
evening sky. The leaps of the 
hunter is uninterrupted by 
the dew that mists the 
plants and thorns of the wild 
shrubs and flowers, and I stand 
there and marvel, as an 
evanescent 
morning 
swoops in.

Details | Cherbo Geeplay Poem

These are the Open Arms

By Cherbo Geeplay

You woke me up when I was dead,
teaching the night stars wantonly 
to obey the Atlantic; then slashed
my arteries in flight to Lake Piso, 
humbling its boundaries, before 
fusing them calmly to a gel.
When the elders speak in parables, 
it is a mix of pepper soup which the 
fufu welcomes and surrounds. As 
the deer is trapped in the undergrowth,
so does it wait to be strapped. —These 
are the open arms to the farms, mucking 
the deserted mansions decked in chocolate 
nuts, covered in honey; the lost spectacles
of yesterday is now over. Once gowned with 
cluttered cow-webs and peppered with 
shrubs, this, before the revival of the
grimy walls, serenade and greened 
with lilies whose aroma calls from 
a hundred miles to the carpenter
—the tool man and his bride waiting 
to  be announced as the sun swell 
the hilltops, smiling to the boats
sailing on smooth tides.               
                     

                ll
Moving quietly to fair waves,
the clouds crushed, hovers,
washing the mud away,
freeing her from the rocks,
bathing the earth and taking 
away the dust disguised as 
chaffs. the yacht’s inviting voice 
is heard throttling along—between 
hearty murmurs, chuckling to the 
     weaving currents, curving the 
Atlantic surf, dancing fervidly, 
where the fires meet the pits of 
burning woods. The hearth in a 
melody on the placid shores of Sinkor, 
intimately as Monrovia grins to the Atlantic.


                         lll
Bewitched, racing to the beaches
is a sweetening of the surf stones.
The shells humbled under the rocks.
In trance, the turtles are running
with the whales,  the currents,
silvery, the smell of saltwater
overpowering, yet elegant. Your
slender sailing finger rubbing
my rough ankles bring comfort.
—You woke me up when
I was dead, teaching
the night stars wantonly
to obey the Atlantic Bay,
like seashells humbled under the rocks.

Copyright 2018, Adelaide Literary, NY