Soul
Breaking
Lies whispered,
Seeking escape,
Soaked in caged deceit;
Mimes mocking withering
Posies, left parched and sundered—
Suspended beneath obscured dusks,
Dripping amidst blinding aftermaths,
Idly shadowed by lewd scars of talons
Amidst alcoves of echoing nocturnes
Unshackled by your sweet afterglow,
Healing me with the elixir
Of our dawning horizons,
Strumming eurythmic tunes,
Suppressing starless
demons, betwixt
Soul-stirring
Destined
Love.
Each day presents a choice of paths
As we journey through life’s meadow,
Seldom do we foresee the aftermaths
Making our way in sun and shadow,
Knowing not what the future may hold
With certainty, we valiantly press on
Placing one foot after another, boldly,
Through eve’s night and morrow’s dawn,
Until time comes to stop and rest awhile
To reflect on the paths we chose to take,
We find ourselves greeting with a smile
Most of the decisions we chose to make.
Hopefully, the better choices outweighed
Overall, we took the right paths,
A swath of right and just decisions laid
With no one accusing us of the aftermath.
Written October 1, 2022
[Thanks to Mr. Robert Frost for
inspiration to write this poem.]
I am burdened with the knowledge of a million aftermaths.
My mind splits each possibility, each more real than the last.
Each path is unnaturally woven with rapid memories.
As I reach more deeply.
I discover that I can see the pieces of a family I used to be a part of.
And the paths that were dull and nonsensical-
Are eclipsed with smiling fragments that turn poignant.
Poetic justice is real
Here is the ultimate deal
Things come back and bite you
So your retaliation and anger should be few
Smack in the middle of the back.
Things will come around and track.
Enjoy peace and quiet while it lasts
Which is a long time in the aftermaths
Fate has a way of finding us; we cannot hide.
Once it finds you, it grabs you from the other side.
Poetic justice is real, karma is alive and well.
So be nice to people, or you'll find yourself in a living hell.
Some aftermaths burst unseen within,
as aftershocks of sorrow,
arriving as electric jolts
that crash through your skin.
Those shockwaves subside, twinkle out
like embers;
the Kleenex runs out, then you patch up
a memory
like a pair of jeans you cannot throw away.
Then there is that other kind…
those become a stealth lingering,
a picture hung at the back of your mind,
a denial hovering over you
like a Hokusai ‘Wave’ always a verge,
a cresting,
a toppling brink
that falls so slow you don’t see it
because you are in that image somewhere.
It’s a cold tidal wave
waiting to scorch you tongue
with another winters frostbite.
That kind of aftermath is always at hand
to drown you again.
When you feel that towering brim
shout at it
just as loud as you can.
Six years after the atomic bomb
Plunked down in Hiroshima
Tearing people into pieces
Dali was still losing sleep over it
He begins to collect strips and struts
Developing a surreal idea of what he is about
Collects arrowheads, wire, bits of bone.
Defers from his usual style
Puts together Raphaelesque Head Exploding
A tiny canvas with a large message
Showing his disdain for atomic bombs
And the barbaric aftermaths
Here I sit alone
Alone in the dark
No light anywhere
Not even a little spark
The lights went out
Halfway through the storm
Life tomorrow will be
Nothing like the norm.
Hurricane Zeta
Came through with a fury
To the shelter
We must go in a hurry
The winds were so strong
And blew with such might
Listening to the howling winds
All through the night
When morning came
Without the normal lights
Looking around you at
The aftermaths fright
Trees were blown down
And powerlines snapped
Moving along carefully
As not to get zapped
2 days so far we've gone
Without electricity
Who knows how long
It will continue to be.
10/30/2020
Can’t help that I am dangerous but cautious
Been in situations that left me broke down in this world lost in this
Feel the pain that has drained my eyes peeled my skin away
Aftermaths of traumas that don’t go away
I am built Ford Tough with a chevy engine
Cherish what I have so Im always fixin and mending
Heard more of the mistakes Ive made in life then the decisions that were right
Is there ever a day that doesn’t feel like I have to wake up and fight
You can’t please everyone, That I know
Hurt feelings from the closest ones, That I Know
They are the hardest battle
Hard skin outside, inside fragile
I know the damage of pain so I reverse the game
Even when they hurt me, I still love them the same.
AMASOWONMWAN
At arm's, I am but your brethren,
Ne pas comrade
Pour food, most have sold
Their Honors for gold
Others, a pot of pottage
The tree only bends to the wind
Because it doesn't know how to do otherwise
Ainsi be wise, precautions taken
Births no aftermaths
You are not your father's son
Lest, you wear the family's emblem
Upright;
Off white greyish, ripen with time
Solely relying on faith
Hoping for the best,
Yet ignoring all good
Seeing nothing right with better.
Amasowonmwan
Strangers shan't lay a curse on you,
Nor take your portion
A few know your real names?
Iten edo
Even the gods forbid that a father bury a son
But then also
The child is the father of the man
Alright?
The darker the skin colour
The deeper the roots,
For sour sweet tastes the truth
Like rumor, solid liquid smells it flavour
Symbolisms of our ancestral struggle.
Fear what you know
Not the unknown,
All these and more
Are reasons why people drown
At ovia river.
ghops
There is rumbling in the skies
It’s not thunder
Babies sound a chorus of cries
Where is mother?
They have mastered the drill
To take cover
Prayer the only sanctuary, they stay still
Survive or wander
There is no heat to keep them warm
There is just rapid fire
They are used to the sound of a bomb
Aftermaths are never familiar
Tears are falling and dust is rising
There’s a mass murder
Aircraft engines rolling, shrilling crying
A heartless gunner
Cable television breaks the news
Airs oblivious pretenders
Victims silenced, war-mongers with more views
Superpowers slumber
The sound of war is the inaction of peace
Blind, deaf and afar
Creating a vacuum that thirsts for violence
So hush
And listen to the sound of war as you wonder
From lands aglow with carnige
To aftermaths of reconstruction
The frozen shock of human failure
Is won with great loss
My peace is won in policy
My peace is an armchair's comfort
But from violence of the flesh
To the nightmares of the mind
The soilder's peace is not kind
Why must we strip men and women
From the freedoms of the heart
To display the force of finance
Why must we rattle the bones
Of the sons and daughters
That tears have raised
What unlearned lessons
Should the foolish tongue unleash
Deep in the soils of conflicts
Lay the ashes of resolutions
The blood of generations
Have made fertile free land
Where my home sits strong
And in days of remembrance
I search for hope
Any means to an end
That repeats without caution
Shows no honor to bravery
Our futures are unpaid debts
That borrow to no end
From the loss of hope
To say thank you to sacrifice
Without the promise of peace
Delivers no comfort to the brave
Before the rise of the sun
just before breaking dawn has begun,
shadows haunt the hallows unfreed
where whispers slip in and out the trees.
The leaves step lightly along the paths,
soon, the trees bare their naked dances
as the wind rises to tease the last few branches
to release last leaves of summer aftermaths
to dance and race along the cold footpaths.
Alone, lost the wind begins to cry before the freeze
a whirling whine within the lower trees
announcing autumn 's end to the harvests;
hidden in between the skeletal figures alarmists,
a lonely howl that rises before the sun
and all the forests weeps at the end of season run.
Here it comes, the mighty bellow
of winter fall beyond the warm and mellow
screeching in the shadow of the hallows
whistling the song hung like gallows
of spring and summer lost to the darkened shadows.
As His Young Fan Stood, Terror In His Heart
Coming home from war a different man
his only son, by far his biggest fan.
Yet horror of war deaths in his mind dwell
death of his brothers, war's mad, raging hell!
Blood and guts in war's horrific display
screams in dying, as they began to pray.
Helpless to save brothers, his dearest friends
brought violent seizures, gut wrenching bends.
As his young fan stood, terror in his heart
nothing helped, no wisdom could he impart.
One more victim of war stood there in fear
afraid that his father's death had drawn near.
With God's love and grace he said, "Son, please pray
for the blessing that you'll not face war someday."
Robert J. Lindley, 10-16-2017
Sonnet, (War Horrors And Its Aftermaths)
Cool May evening skies come as a surprise
following several days adventures
of record heat breaking temperatures.
and as the brush of March retreats with temperatures of gathering heat
relief comes unexpected in belief
but most welcomed relief.
The end weeks of mid May return us to much cooler days
of March winds without a flower
frequented by April's showers
then the cold light breezes scour as days fill with gray hours
and brief morning sun light
glows bright again after midnight.
The dusk of May begin to fall filled by distant robins call
and catbird songs sound spiritual
in whispering of mating rituals.
Too late the seasonal slide as spring is set aside
to waiver from stormy wrath
between wintry aftermaths
and the hinted promise displayed of brilliant more sunny days
wrap heat and light explored
to move the season forward.
Sometimes, I want to tell you.
Laying by your side, it’s a mystery to explain
Why I gave up my poetry for so long.
It’s a mystery to explain why I told you my mother is dead,
When I really don’t know what happened to her in those jungles.
I loved you, telling you everything I knew about myself,
Only to find, as the years went on, how little I really knew.
I can’t dream of my father, his face was blown off by an
Anonymous enemy rifle before a picture could be taken.
I don’t have the voice to sing songs to you,
Or the stories, to tell our children who their grandparents
Really were.
The past has no gifts for me except an amnesiac’s freedom.
History has been swallowed into a speculative grave-
I don’t have a trace anymore, except the tales of strangers
Who saw my heritage slowly burned away
Timber by timber.
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