Hot summers dry up the land
The dirt crumbles under the heaviness of disrespect
Fresh flowers adorn the land
Covering the uneven burial grounds
Overshadowed by privilege
What better way to claim superiority
By soiling the plantation they stand on
Ignorance crowds the air
Cast aside by vows of love
Tainting history with a wedding
The stories of black labour whitewashed into a picture of a bride in white
Covering the truths in a veil of fragility
Ironic how they use the innocence of a white wedding
To ink over history
A picture is worth a thousand words
A simple picture of a now conjoined family
Haunted by secrets of ownership
How the brides grandmother was once a girl
Who stood on this same plantation
Watching her parents become slave owners
A simple picture
Once innocent becomes a sinister backstory
A history haunted by the darkness of whiteness
Flower petals spread across the venue of black bones
Not to pay respect to those buried
But to honour love consummated on the grounds of black history
Smiling in pictures with a tainted memory
Plastered in magazines profiting off of slavery
But hey at least they gained popularity
Your eyes?
They're like midnight — not stars, just... midnight.
Dark, full of something I can't name.
I get lost there. I always do.
It’s frustrating, kind of thrilling too.
Your smile? Trouble.
The kind I’d trip over twice and still chase.
It hangs in the air after you leave —
Like perfume or a half-finished thought.
I hate how much I replay it.
Your lips —
They look like they keep too many secrets.
And somehow, even silence looks good on you.
When you pout, it’s ridiculous.
Seriously, stop that. (Don’t.)
That cheek of yours,
pressed against your palm like the day got too heavy —
and I swear I felt the world slow down.
You weren't posing. That’s the worst part.
You just are.
Every glance, every pause —
you’ve got this... poetry thing,
like you don’t even know you’re writing it.
You don’t try. You just... happen.
And I keep wishing you’d happen to me.
L-etters
I-n
T-his
A-rrangement
©bfa041525
Monocrostic (Birthday of Lita G. Ebueng)
We often communicate to the people
We use edited phrase to frank them
One of the most important asset is
To be by yourself, express who you are
Show yourself with beauty, genuine
No exaggerated aspiration, real you
No photoshopped soul, feel yourself
Doing the most wonderful unique you.
A silver platter,
It is my sudden clutter,
To spread my bread with butter,
I even use the cutter,
By posting a letter,
I find something better,
I would set my dessert later,
I don't let it into a gutter,
I am not a chatter,
I am like a trader,
I am not a sitter,
I'm in a jitter,
For a more beautiful flower,
Not something as sour,
Turn into an hour,
I am on the floor,
I'm trying to open the door,
I'm running away from a lair,
That does not want to be fair,
I could not even could not stand the stairs,
I will arrange the chairs,
I fashioned myself with Marie Claire,
I put on a gear,
Do not put me in tears,
Celebrate me with all the cheers,
For that, I salute those in Sears,
As I am the voice,
Uphold by the glitz,
Of hit and glam,
I put the media on the slam,
To remember my jam.
It is nonsense,
Because it does not make sense.
Not because there is no sense,
But because you are unversed
And cannot make sense of it.
Because it is esnesnon,
It is nonsense,
And above your intuition.
It does not make sense.
It is nonsense,
Because it lacks sense
And has no substance;
Conceived from a debased instinct,
Of a delirious, senile and manic concept,
From a senseless conception.
This is nonsense!
And you lack a sense of the concept,
Because you do not have enough sense
To comprehend the senselessness of the nonsense.
This piece is nonsense,
Because it does not make sense—
Because subsidy is gone,
And it does not make sense.
Aesthetic expectations, quomodocunquize,
An exasperating farrago of marketing lies,
Conning client desires,
While promising celestial skies.
In the "Selfie Era," so condescending,
Filters sculpting phantasmagoria, never-ending—
Painting a majestic illusion,
Regality of beauty, a fleeting delusion.
"Ageless," a dream that transcends all streams,
Flustering the mind’s membranes, it seems;
Cajoling artists, ripping through pockets,
A glamour tornado that ceaselessly rockets.
Embrace imperfections with pride,
Challenging the conventional tide.
Luminance flows from deep within,
"Mirror, Mirror, let self reflection begin".
Soft and feathery and illusive
Each word a woven world of fantasy
An artistic lair for the lunacy of emotion
Musical, distant and serene
Aesthetic shelters like seashells
Cast by the angst of the ocean
In lunar dreams, the selenophile soars,
Bathed in silver beams, a celestial dance,
With a heart that yearns for enchanted shores.
Beneath the night's veil, in a trance,
The selenophile wanders, embracing the night,
Bathed in silver beams, a celestial dance.
Moonlit whispers guide their soul's flight,
As they seek solace in the lunar glow,
The selenophile wanders, embracing the night.
They find solace where moonflowers grow,
Their spirit entwined with the stars above,
As they seek solace in the lunar glow.
In lunar phases, they find endless love,
A cosmic romance, a celestial flame,
Their spirit entwined with the stars above.
The moon's allure, their heart cannot tame,
A selenophile's yearning, forever intense,
A cosmic romance, a celestial flame.
They bathe in moonbeams, divinely immense,
In lunar dreams, the selenophile soars,
A selenophile's yearning, forever intense,
With a heart that yearns for enchanted shores.
Dewdrops on petals,
Nature's morning symphony,
Whispers of beauty.
She wanders through the town in the morning light, the firemaker's daughter, with her brilliant eyes. Her hair is wild and blazing red, and her steps are light as she walk, she treads.
She carries the flame magic, her father's gift that bears his name. She keeps the fires burning hot and bold, and her stories are fascinating and never get old.
The firemaker's daughter, with a lovely heart, she gives her warmth, her refined soul. Her excitement is unbounded as she dances in the flames, and her laughter echoes, warm and tidal.
In the blackness of the night, she is a beacon of light, her flames alight, a guiding sight. The firemaker's daughter is a force to be reckoned with. Her spirit was fiery, and her story was unknown.
poetry
excellent, delightful
reading, publishing, editing
pantoum, diamante, sonnet, verse
writing, posting, delivering
long, short
essay
art
beautiful, amazing
drawing, painting, sketching
origami, sculpture, portrait, mural
sewing, carving, waving
creative, unique
craft
music
fast, slow
singing, playing, humming
hip-hop, country, orchestra, symphony
conducting, interpreting, dancing
sad, happy
drama
Jan. 16,2023 9.10pm
Enjoying in a city, which is freezy
Walking in a grass, which is greenary
A long drive of car, where road is lonely
Place where wind breeze makes nature aesthetic
City where deep woods are attractive
This is the place where I want to visit
Birds were chirping and sun is shining
Me singing, basking and dancing
Want to stay this place everlasting
City where valley is touching sky
Love to capture this scene in eye
After leaving this place make me cry
Saffron sunbeam swelters and sway.
Vividly scattering its burgeoning brightness.
Aurora is splendid, the dawning on our day
Awarding us admiration, now till darkness.
Magical orchid exudes a calm garden.
Autumn-loving meadow bird warden.
Roses of sorrow willow petals fall to Earth.
Shadowy blackbird spirit seeking worth.
Butterflies are haunted by their essence
Destiny, svelte and elusive existence.
I asked her name, as she sang "Amazing Grace".
She labeled this somehow "Serendipity Grace."
"Ah, well, it sounds very zealous and mellifluous.
Please, beautiful angel, keep playing audacious.
Written: October 24, 2022
Creating…
the great savior
from pain
The artist…
a messiah
from despair
(Dreamsleep: September, 2022)
Related Poems