melancholic tidings—
optimism asystolic, now
fool’s paradise.
laconism stentorian
saline fluid agglomerating
“malignant” obfuscates,
formulates black stars.
fluttering, clouting
against ghostly pale tile.
aesculapian screams
circumnavigate weak cerebrum,
foxtrotting endlessly,
cold-blooded mockery.
serene bedrest
sinking linen counterpane.
morphing, suffocating
anaemic stature,
tasting like metal.
thrashing abnormal growth
actuate tunnels unending
i feel it.
i feel everything.
head encumbrance,
vessels strangulated,
blue skin a horror.
needle-punctured, scanned.
inhuman study. a specimen,
neglected medical non-priority.
fragile. no mind.
deteriorating. weaker.
sick. morningly.
please. help. ignored.
stained. vomit. pale.
monitor accelerating.
oxygen. chemotherapy.
please. help. me.
i. am. human.
bottom. medical. food. chain.
neglect. oxygen. oxygen.
oxygen. oxygen.
need. medicine.
nurses.
loud.
sonorous.
ringing.
light.
hunger. thirst. taste. smell. vision. touch. hearing.
taste. smell. vision. touch. hearing.
vision. touch. hearing.
touch. hearing.
dont. go.
hearing.
loud.
asystole.
Coal black night
wrapped in bleached blanket
under the clear skies
stared eyes go dim and deadly
anaemic
Words go mute
off the cuff raised hand
to bid her farewell
stayed in dark softly as a
man in fog
Place: 1st
after doors close after hours when scarlet neon flickers out red-light nights fill voids of need my body is a ripped flower my throat tingles to the burn of vodka-fire gleaning the gleaming water-washed street for an answer to the latest outstanding bill sadly grateful for the slightest footfall twenty for oral forty for full car park dark steam-heavy dark not streetwalking but streetstaggering in hollow-pod hell anaemic-ashy and vodka-fumy amorphous shadows loitering on durex-dotted waste ground in secret alleys back to dank brick or deep throating down on my knees skirt around thighs fingers come-pearled and slick come quick after doors close after hours when scarlet neon flickers out cold glitter of streetlights gleam of cold hard cash cold kisses colder touch no eye contact look away the cold nothingness that we say
The urge to travel,
to spread your wings and fly away,
never rooted to one spot.
never spotted on a route.
signpost now defunct,
map a feeble pointer,
direction only by one’s nose.
Intuition in ascendence,
as day and night blur anaemic edges.
Fleet of foot dream chaser,
never-ending sequence,
is chaotically just that.
Event foreman cast,
in a starry-eyed plot,
script writer of their own unique journey,
stagecoach vagrant from,
a who-knows-where platform,
speed bump skipper on a blind course,
taking the "lie" of the land.
In every sense a false scents,
trailblazer has a life of their own,
but tragically a life that both owns,
and disowns them in "equal" measure.
Time-lapse photographer flagged,
by ephemera but doesn't notice,
loop by loop square off,
under amber moonlight passage.
faraway green seeker,
bereft of halting site,
with no stop off in between,
momentum the only resting place
A weak winter sun, anaemic and wan,
devoid of all warmth, listlessly shone
on fields fresh frosted with nighttime’s hoar,
masking all traces of animal’s spore.
The crunch of farmer’s boot on ground
and the caw of the crow the only sound.
Misted breath in knife sharp light,
forms miniature clouds to watery sight.
As the mercury plunges swiftly South
and crystals form on moustachioed mouth,
the son of the sod does his daily round,
hauling fodder over stone cold ground.
Tending his charges, fair weather or foul,
in summers drought or winters howl.
‘til all is safely gathered and stored,
a job well done his just reward.
No blood would ooze out if cut by blade
No flesh below to sink, nothing inside shakes
Bare bones protruding here and there like spikes
Vacant look in the eyes
Yet the body breathes and survives;
Skeleton like children of Somalia, one of the African tribes.
Somalia carries the most pathetic tableau in the world stage;
Three fourth of its children below two are anaemic
And large numbers are stunted below five years in age
Yet, each mother can’t resist giving birth to six, seven children though sick!
High temperature, polluted water, inadequate housing and sanitation
Poor infrastructure added to their plight makes the poor Africans
Chased by the changed climate and the natural calamities
Fighting among themselves, vulnerable to many a tropical disease
Some of them are obese too who wait for more ways to suffer;
Poor healthcare system compelling them to incur
Huge out of pocket expenses pushing millions of Africans
To the path of poverty and indignity, mostly among the Nigerians;
Paucity of doctors and health centres add salt to their wounds
As some age old dreadful superstitions surround.
Aju Mukhopadhyay, 2018
I am not taking about an apocalypse
I am not talking about humanity’s ultimate collapse
I am not talking about shores battling oceans
This is not about earthquakes inhaling hurricanes
This is about the threats to everyday relationships
The rupture of the tapestry of phratry and friendships
The storms of sweat that flow as our inside breaks apart
I am talking about the cataclysm in our hearts
Imagine a journey watching the evanescence of its destiny
Imagine the sweetest words ever said losing meaning
Imagine your ears losing the sound of your own foot steps
Imagine the look of strangeness masking familiar faces
A mansion becomes a prison cell if it is walled by geniality
An adventure becomes a displacement without our humanity
A friend becomes a stranger when we stand on heels of pretence
A family becomes just an anaemic bloodline without oneness
The fulfilling moments are the ones our hearts retain
When trust is lost, only a tithe may be regained
We try to hide behind blinks as life flips into storms
The world shrinks when we are homeless in our homes
Two Minutes to Midnight
What are your intentions Sir, its important that I know?
The World is close to Midnight, only two minutes to go.
Remember empty promises to keep us safe and free,
Words of retaliation, serve no one, wouldn’t you agree.
It’s no good building bridges, just to knock them down,
Capitalists will also perish, when seeds of war are sown.
Be the greater Man, leave out your pompous rhetoric,
World’s present isn’t dead, but it may be a little sick.
A Trojan Horse is not the way, a strategy doomed to fail,
Talk with counterparts; alone you’re anaemic and pale.
Be a great ambassador, don’t leave us on the outside,
Say no to war, be the bigger man, stand tall with pride.
The future is in your hands, if only for four short years,
Consider the fate of Man, don’t leave us dead or in tears.
For Roberts 8 word challenge contest
Poem written in Sonnet form 8/3/18
The bullish sun sat on your avant-garde tree
Growing on the baroque poems of your dancing knee
The dilettante attributed it to the icy ennui
As elan had been in a holiday spree
I was very happy at the warm anomaly
It was indeed a deja vu for me
Amidst the sucking cacophony
The carte blanche was the best policy
Of course if it came from a sunrise that was bona fide
In the anaemic milieu of our poor poetry
January 18, 2018
Ten words ten lines 2 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One
What is the douse of men?
That drives clutched
Formidable and incredible
From skull bird
To the modern stone shack’s lament.
The knot of history unravels;
Breathed through eyes,
Sighted through skin
Unknown anaemic love.
Coated in the waft of death
And touched by the parched flaps
Of weeping butterflies.
A stranded thought - strangled,
Laid bare
In the memory of the morning
- Lest we forget.
COLD BLOODED
Summer grows old
cold-blooded
tree’s scant
leafless twigs
bend and break
creek and whither
Anaemic the suns
pathetic rise
and fall so soon
the rainplunge of
icedew sickens
to greysludge gloom
Winter takes hold
cold-blooded
labouring storms
iceflesh to bone
sallow and shrunken
we faceforce doom
© Kim van Breda—29 September 2015
RUBBISHITROCKS
rubbish bins rot their
stenchsimmers in dark
lanes
the gluttony of pots
slopslaughters of
remains
rodents hiding behind
verminrocks
stonethrowers
feeble weedywarts
carcasses fried with
flies in the heat
of stillstopping
hearts
who knock at the door with violins unstrung…
to bid enter would force a
stand before their
watercoloured
court
where writes turn
to anaemic
amoebia’s of the
fragileflopfaint
verses of yawn open doors
to drain the wounds
of weary wacko’s
in their wake
@ Kim van Breda
Having no colour honour or even humour
such a shame on you
liking glamour honour and favour just for weddings
and there the colourist painters
anaemic thoughts let us not be paralysed by our difference
like in the aeroplanes above
we do both now travel
and dream of the Broadway theatres
(lettuce keep our connexion)
Reflections
Perchance refractions
On mirror of civilization
Unveiling deep furrows-
Nausea of despair!
Ugly shadows of innocence
Haphazard ruins
Harbingers to Africa.
Mother Africa
Unleash black juju
Denounce anaemic gods and
Sing blues to negritude
Dream with Senghor
continental dreams
Dreams individual-
Like Nkrumah
A touristo blackano!
And African huts
Where come rains
To water our negritude
Come clouds
To hide our wrecks, rubble.
Robbed of freehold rights
By mayor and corporation
At slum clearance!
Acclaimed sons and daughters
Of former freedom fighters
In our misery!
Mother Africa
Forget them
Forget a touristo blackano
Behind wrecks
Behind smutty, illicit stuff
Behind oblique natives!
Forget these loud symbols of welfare
Albeit feigned
Symbols of might
Albeit loaned
Symbols of unity
Albeit fictitious
Symbols of friendship abroad…
Forget these things!
They mask the essential you
Distorting your true image
The image truly befitting
Our motherland:
The world’s caustic kaleidoscope!
The flyer through the letterbox claimed 'pumpkins now half price'
I'll make a pie for Ma-in-law, for once do something nice
I was told to bring a wheelbarrow, maybe a pair of wellies
But all this preparation, still did not prepare me
For when I reached the pumpkin patch, behold, there dazzling bright
Were twenty seven pumpkins, none orange, but white!
I rubbed my eyes and scratched my head, but still they didnt change
And thought inside my muddled mind 'the grower must be strange'
But still I paid the buying fee for my rare and freaky fruit
Rolled it in my barrow and squelched home in my boots
Then when I got it home I sat and stared an hour or two
I wanted orange pumpkin pie but white will have to do
I dont know yet how I'll explain this to my Ma-in law
She'll take one look at anaemic pie and laugh me out the door!
But beggars can't be choosers, I'm just gonna have to blag it
And next time I want pumpkin pie, go to the supermarket
27th October 2011
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