Best Fretwork Poems
Social fretwork
I posted a thought,
it flew away
down through dark, cavernous
cyberways,
to bump and grind
with other lonesome thoughts
in the hotbeds of social fretworks.
And worried then
where it might go
unguided, misunderstood
to liaise, frolic and fret
argue, debate,
opinionate
in a world of posts,
untethered,
away from me,
gone, awaiting its return,
alone
After Amadioha went into sweet nightmares,
he made us to breath through the chest of the sea. from the celestial bodies of the shrine,
We shone our forefather's smile with a mirage,
a little littered mirage spelling words in ellipsis.
these were the rose crumbs tailored in the sand castle of our glassful laughter, we're the Palmful morning in the eyes of our home in the abyss.
when a child cries, he forgets that the route to
his home is written on his body as a tattoo.
when a girl thinks of gathering firewood in the heart of the forest, she thinks of her thigh &
the bushes surrounding it, nature made it so.
We do not think of our skin as a poetic of agony,
We do not think of our eyes as poetry letters
but we draw lines and currents of imaginations describing how rituals made men insane.
We carried out those prilgrim for the boys,
our forebearers made us cracked our head up,
they carved pumpkins traces for this generation; for this humble journey mixed with fire & water.
Our souls, our dreams were the Shakespearean places you never had the chance to see physical.
they are the rituals of nature, a side Sithoulte,
a wonder land created like a paradise you don't stay often but in your dreams & imageries.
We are birthed here as debris & plump scars,
a tortured lips holding the past & the present.
We are the foundation of everything evil spirits,
We were born in the ritual of a grievous war.
to say a human is a benchmark of his own,
to say a man is a mango dropping without a choice of where and how to touch the sand,
to say a man is everything fretwork of agony;
to say a men are slaughtered memories...
but to this edges of rites & repeated steps,
We'll remain the gospel from every mouth.
Our ancestral hands shall still set a table,
to tell the girlchild how to sit in a public hall
to hand over the shrine to the boychild
to tell man that he owns a woman as head.
to keep birthing good and ugly children.
our hope will always depict heavens glory
and, our darkest fears as the skin of hell.
And it must be passed down to the next
genes to tell the next & sand keep multiplying.
This is the ritual of mankind to remain alive.
©John Chizoba Vincent
From_A_Pen_Refusing_Frustrations.
Farm in view with a field full of cows
Golden mist of grass on the ground
Afternoon light.Colors change +glow
Just for a few minutes then darkness
The night was silent.Courtiers enjoin
Banquet hall lit bright with candlelight
Soft glow shines through the fretwork
Rich golden liquid Midsummer revelry
Ruby ripe pomegranate and rose petals
Beautifully carved gold goddess statue
Hair decorated with flowers and ribbons
Minstrels play dance melody in the gallery
Develish dancer natural grace delicate face
Click of metal heels on the parquetry floor
Sequinned dress spun centre of dance floor
Nursing pretty delicate wide glassed cocktail
Sweet scented oils delicate fragrance at door
Warm play of breeze on pearled slender neck
Posies white moonflowers catch her breath
Strawberries fermented honey scent of jasmine
Wreath of flowers whole grove of long willows
Long leafed tendrils flowing gently in the wind
Tiny pink roses lavender and hemmed lovage
Night air smells of wood smoke + blossoms
Majestic colours
Line the room
Red, Orange Gold.
Champagne bottles
All popped their corks
Stand tall on shelves.
Mirrors, Mirrors
Fretwork frames
Everywhere reflecting
Orange lighting.
Tallow hanging
Like pearl dropplets.
Arched doorway
Draped in red velvet
Tied back with
Gold sashes.
Pictures, pictures
Hang all around
Past and present
Black and white.
Busy, Busy,
Mind racing
Will I write?
I think not...
Form:
After Amadioha went into sweet nightmares,
he made us to breath through the chest of the sea. from the celestial bodies of the shrine,
We shone our forefather's smile with a mirage,
a little littered mirage spelling words in ellipsis.
these were the rose crumbs tailored in the sand castle of our glassful laughter, we're the Palmful morning in the eyes of our home in the abyss.
when a child cries, he forgets that the route to
his home is written on his body as a tattoo.
when a girl thinks of gathering firewood in the heart of the forest, she thinks of her thigh &
the bushes surrounding it, nature made it so.
We do not think of our skin as a poetic of agony,
We do not think of our eyes as poetry letters
but we draw lines and currents of imaginations describing how rituals made men insane.
We carried out those prilgrim for the boys,
our forebearers made us cracked our head up,
they carved pumpkins traces for this generation; for this humble journey mixed with fire & water.
Our souls, our dreams were the Shakespearean places you never had the chance to see physical.
they are the rituals of nature, a side Sithoulte,
a wonder land created like a paradise you don't stay often but in your dreams & imageries.
We are birthed here as debris & plump scars,
a tortured lips holding the past & the present.
We are the foundation of everything evil spirits,
We were born in the ritual of a grievous war.
to say a human is a benchmark of his own,
to say a man is a mango dropping without a choice of where and how to touch the sand,
to say a man is everything fretwork of agony;
to say a men are slaughtered memories...
but to this edges of rites & repeated steps,
We'll remain the gospel from every mouth.
Our ancestral hands shall still set a table,
to tell the girlchild how to sit in a public hall
to hand over the shrine to the boychild
to tell man that he owns a woman as head.
to keep birthing good and ugly children.
our hope will always depict heavens glory
and, our darkest fears as the skin of hell.
And it must be passed down to the next
genes to tell the next & sand keep multiplying.
This is the ritual of mankind to remain alive.
©John Chizoba Vincent
From_A_Pen_Refusing_Frustrations.