Best Handing Over Poems
Bilum is a type of woven bag in Papua New Guinea (PNG)
...............................
How grandfather’s bilum, which
Across my father’s bare chest,
In a loving embrace slung.
Like the Leleki baskets’ blest
How while so pregnant swung.
How dwelleth he my father in its rich
Splendour till handing-over of its rest,
Then over my clothed chest again sways.
O this old bilum! like all other blest
No longer is laden with in my days.
For its treasures I search in earnest,
That I may grandfather’s mind know.
O this bilum is no longer pregnant!
Along the way, maybe some time ago,
How many treasures fade; this instant
Till my sleep, I’ll summon eagerness
To my modern soul strengthened to seek.
Grandfather’s treasures may be hidden;
Yet through a new eye must I ever peek
For glimpses my days have forbidden.
By: Jeffrey Febi 25 Oct 2010
Behind the black olives redianted*
the moon this night
is handing over a bloomed sign.
Why are you going to bed alone
in colorful bed sheets?
Hear! In Syracusae troubadours are singing
in one love,
about that while you burn into,
you burn endlessly.
But you are falling asleep.
A domestic bird, hidden
behind curtains of brocade
and pressed her lips on a golden spider.
A homeless night in the black olives
and a sound of our Beyond.
* ? neologism created by the author expressing that something is shined on by radiance
There is never an ending
to the spending
a world of paper
and plastic to collect
and horde
clothes
and cars
and homes
and jewelry
and fine wine
and paintings
stocks and bonds
vacations
and expectations
entire vocations
devoted to
disguising the numbers
the Caribbean masquerade
to volumes of recorded
purchases and voices
of invoices
making
discreet
choices
all
to extend
the accumulation
of dates
and names
places and faces
communications
and connections
at breakneck
speed
must fill the need
must fill the need
a shouting browbeating
broadband
handing over
fistfuls of cash
to make sure
make certain
only the best
the finest
the rarest
of air is not available
for
the underwater martyrs
the silent box dwellers
the empty bottle collectors
the wheelchair drifters
the SRO limbo sellers
the workers at
the bottom
of the
fast
food
chain
and the indigent gamblers
who line the halls
to knock on doors
of government departments
crippled by reckless
and corrupt state
administrations
choking the dwindling
sources
and resources
that have
nothing to do
but
count the days
and ways
to disappoint
disarm dismay
dispute the reputations
and applications
held in sweaty palms
eager
to begin living
to end the doubt
to end the not having
the counting of pennies
the slow heroin erosion
the unbroken hollowness
the whiskey-soaked
ravages of vacant histories
better-forgotten memories
of cold emergency rooms
to end being
in a world
apart
a world
of resentment
of fear and hate and anger
of dark empty streets
empty recriminations
empty promises
made to themselves
by themselves
harming themselves
or
arming themselves
to rob to steal
to maim
to take whatever they can
for as long as they can
to approximate
the wonder and magic
of having what you need
when you need it or want it
to not have to beg
to not have to humiliate
or be humiliated
to not have to watch
the ease of others
who have a casual
contempt for misfortune
and respect for nothing
but their own wealth
of deception
to breeze through
tall golden doors
to an unbroken string
of shiny bright todays
and tomorrows
to not have to
lunge for hope
and
never grasp it
in all ways
and forever
just out of
reach
Something cold once touched my face,
a wind that blew from some strange place.
It softly whispered in my ear,
come follow me and have no fear.
The path we took I could not see,
each step was steeped in mystery.
Far from familiar things was led,
the ties that bind now but a thread.
A wicked thought soon came to mind,
t'was planted there for me to find.
Just how close could I come to death,
before handing over my final breath?
From time to time I take that walk,
with the whispering wind I sit and talk.
As the years pass, the question still remains.
If I glimpse through Death's dark door,
my life will I retain?
5/7/19
The colors of our flag
Do not stand for freedom
Anymore.
Red shall not be to honor the blood spilled by our troops
But rather the blood
Spilled by those who wake up every day in fear
Of half the country
And the man propped up by millions of hateful minds
It shall be the color of that phantom blood that gushes from
The piercing pain of the what ifs?
Red shall not be the courage of our country
But rather the color of destruction soon to come
Red skies
Blazing fire
Pre-apocalyptic dust settles over
Us.
White shall not be the color of the absence of evil
But rather,
It's new hue.
And the elephants can stampede us to the ground,
Remind us,
As they kick mud around our bodies,
That our first black president
Is handing over the White House to a man
Endorsed by the KKK
The resurgence of white supremacy
Brings us back to World War II
Yet no one heeds the warning.
Blue shall not be the color of patriotism and loyalty
But rather the tears shed
By many in some lands,
By few in others.
Tears that fall on
The rainbow flag,
The hijab,
The ragged piece of paper with #blacklivesmatter scrawled on it in ink
The dusty duffel bag packed
In order to cross the border
Packed by those we dub “aliens”
Though inside their organs are identical to ours
Red,
White,
And blue.
A divided country that is
Dividing each and every one of us
In half.
Daily Poetry #70, April 8, 2017
Word:Nonsense
“Hahaha, it's always so funny,”
This endless world I can see.
“I'm so special, I am me,”
Try believing that for an eternity.
Another endless rant you go on,
I'm already tired, but let’s ramble till dawn.
With a mind of a child, speak so bold,
And with a soul so stupid, act so old.
You don’t even realize your words are cold,
Handing over my money, for it’s already sold.
“Hey, you're not listening,” you accused,
But my will to care is what you've abused.
Time and time again, people cry,
I can't help, so I'll just try.
“On this rooftop, just let me die,”
But in the end, I'm the one to say goodbye.
No one died, so I guess it was a good day,
Since I can't be alone, I'll find another way.
“He said he loved me, I guess I was wrong,”
But at least your family loved you all along.
“No one notices me, I might as well be gone,”
But you made it through, so you must belong.
My ears are tired from all your stupid tales,
Whenever I'm seen, someone always wailes.
But then I found someone that just wanted peace,
Someone who just wanted the stories to cease.
Taking off their blue jacket, leaving a crease,
Then jumping off with a sigh, one, two, release.
“Wait, don't do it! Please!” Now that I see,
No one will ever truly take me seriously.
There's no one here, so today is the day,
All your stories and stupid tales will end this way.
Taking off my blue jacket, I've got nothing to say,
I smile wide at this nonsensical world's play.
No one to cry, I’ve fixed your stupid calamity,
One, two, jump, this girl will now be free.
The job is to lit in night,
From Sun,leased out the light,
Edison is the master,
Taught Lincoln,not history but how to become a history?
A philanthropist,
Giving all light free like smile,
A camera fixture along the road to capture pictures,
A wayside police always straight and alert,
Vanishing,handing over the night to the next in shift,dawning,
Rolling down the blankets mist and snow in armpits,
When the big way to open to the big boss,Sun to come on Sky!
A rhetorical question finds me asking
(to no one in particular) why I recall
the names of grade school teachers
approximately fifty years ago (whose
names listed below), when the need
to retrieve necessary information due
ring examinations (less time ago)
often found me seized with sudden
inability to remember any vital ants
sirs (even including my name), thus
grudgingly handing over blank test paper
analogously surrendering a vital
document gracing terms of defeat
into the scaly claws (zen nay), sans
first to sixth grade Precambrian relic
(Missus Batson, Missus Rittenhouse,
Missus Wells, Mister Stout,
Missus Shaner, or Miss Rinderle).
Invariably majority of first thru
sixth grade accorded accredited
ancient authenticated creatures.
They freely exercised diabolical
churlish beastial animalistic zeal
us yakking, wickedly unprintable
upon (unprincipled urchin) at
receiving end of fiendishly grue
some hellish instructions. Assign
ments buttressed with ultimatums
harkening back to Jurassic period
earlier in dawning primate con
sciousness. Lesson material kindled
with justifiable license in league
with garnered insignia. Heft
to bring pupils to heal predicated
via warp and weft woven wonder
fully. Wrought writs welcomed
whips with warranty whenever
recalcitrant ruffian refused
respecting reptilian rubric repre
sentative rattling (The Idler Wheel
Is Wiser Than the Driver of
the Screw and Whipping Cords
Will Serve You More Than Ropes
Will Ever Do), which loosely
rendered regularly warbled
wishy washy verse curmudgeons
freedom granted to interpret
as one decrepit, hawkish insignia
certified one beaming Eve and/
or stud deed brute soffit. Education
often relied on the weekly reader,
and letters to and/or from Aunt
Emma. Nefarious mean linkedin
kickstarter jawboning torturous
treatment tolerated, asper imps
of the pervert, mutant Ninja
Turtles duty bound antsy
youthful yokel yodelers
weathering ululating sing-song
and quintessential precepts.
I didn’t miss the snub
Your fancy social club
Will just not be requesting my application.
But joy, as it turns out,
There is no shred of doubt
That I too feel the indifferent sensation.
One time I wished to be
Something others would see:
A social star, or at least in someone’s orbit.
But inside lurks a streak
To be my very own freak
The membership committee does not approve it.
I suck at being untrue
Reflecting you to you.
The flimsy cardboard cutout you want me to be:
Strutting like you walk,
Echoing like you talk,
Ergo my general lack of popularity.
Should I covet the prize
Esteem of aping eyes
You bet your perfumed patootie that I’d win it.
But I’m not a good monkey.
I sure like being punky.
For a certainty, my heart is just not in it.
I’m just not going to fold,
To give up what I hold.
Plaid club tie, gate pass for handing over my mind.
The things I’ve found are true
Are not for sale to you.
I’d rather cram a sharp stick straight up my behind.
Why don’t I act my age?
Why don’t you leave your cage?
Maturity does not equal constipation.
There’s no need to insult,
You’ve all seen my results.
Now stop it with all your silly self-inflation.
See, I like things that matter
Not cocktail chitter-chatter
Throw on trail shoes, or write another sonnet.
See, I’m the best ‘ol me
The world has ever seen
Bet your life--just like everyone else’s--on it.
Yet perchance we could meet
On a flat, open street
There could be no end to the things we may discuss.
Connection is sublime
Through movement, prose, or rhyme
Just don’t waste my time with juvenile games and fuss.
2/26/16
(Mostly hexameter, not sure if this is in any particular form.)
BANKS OF GIHON
Great Leopard you left...
and as you crossed the banks of Gihon...
there you paused and looked back
we were reluctant to put out the fires-
for the children are still young...
we need to cook them yams..
see to it, the young ones are well fed
and put to sleep- oh such innocence...
we did put out the fire...
and great Leopard you crossed Gihon,
and Africa we lost a great son....
But look back you did...
we shall always remember..
some say the leopard.. in so doing
was handing over the button..
we put out the fire and you crossed Gihon....
Your companion a friend..
who had once delivered you a message...
the day machines turned against their masters..
as the emissary was run down Pretoria
running for dear life....
Great leopard you crossed Gihon..
and Africa lost A GREAT SON
BY Lewis k nyaga...
31/12/2014
1828 hrs east african time..
*** Poet’s Greetings ***
(Written for Victor Buhaglar)
Does the Malta shore pause its gurgling rush
Of roll-over waves to hush
In appreciation of your hand brushing its ending, foamed
Touch over the sand, which is the greeting
I’ve sent on to you, dear poet brother, as I do most every day.
Is your extension of my sent greeting from
Half a world away, some pleasant handing over of a day’s friendship,
Where my good-night wishes
Greet your morning breakfast?
So, I fall asleep to your waking —
A walking into a new dawn’s possibilities…
Unless we both bypass time
To give up on rest and remain awake to welcome
The poetry that stays stirring, hunting
A bare recording space through our fingertips;
Unseen one to each other and all, but still present
In one far away place to another — catching
The gasps of wind gusts, or swallowing the ominous
Shadows of pre-dawn and pre-dusk, where
We pause to fill the separating disdance between
Your shores there and our mountains here,
With sprites peeking over our shoulders, and
Faeries dancing for their morning teas or night sherry —
Expecting after all these years, the sent messages that the heartfelt
Poetry being voiced between us and danced over the world’s
Extended beaches, will continue still,
Waiting, holding onto plates of thick, iced cake
And cut, lushious, fresh fruit, which we will enjoy together
While hours apart.
——————————————————————————————————————————
(Written for my poet brother Victor Buhaglar), 5/5/2023)
Thanks be to God. Grateful for the slow but steady
Improvement of my health. Have missed all here on PSp
during recent trials while hospitalized.
LAST NIGHT I DREAMT
Today it is stormy outside
thunder, lightning even cold hail preside
cozy and warm against tempestuous weather
once again my thoughts crowd together
I choose to acknowledge vivid dreams
a lady ‘Leilani’ has gleamed her beams
the same vision four nights in a row
either an angel, a spirit ,or both
she does not walk—she floats
Her pale face and blue eyes are all I see
we are always together--art house overlooking sea
I write, she illustrates with beautiful painting
sharing our creativity, accurately attaining
Intuitive insight into the words I have penned
she knows how I feel, understands—comprehends
an Angel God has sent to confirm my written prose?
she smiles handing over graphic beauty—bestowsI dreamt this dream not knowing a ‘Leilani’— I have since discovered the name means “Royal child of heaven"<><>
To be freed from one’s mind,
Walk the woods, behind mankind.
Yet another day bleeds into night,
If not for the morn, who’d see the light?
With no reprieve, I cannot escape,
As I stay hidden under death’s cape.
Doth the laws we abide keep us in line?
Those who speaketh and make this design.
Should our faith in them never wane?
Shall we overlook this world in pain?
As we perish in the way they intend,
Handing over our gems for them to spend.
Wanted: Slinger of Mirrors,
Tessellating lungs of fulcrum
Wading into scorn’s yellow Spring pond
We are flying to the airway Of. I hunger for our old hunger.
We dealt our Hand and every Star
Only one pond my reflection’s gunning donned
To see bullets’ sound is bedlam
Every pothole in my ear. Another night—come away from there.
That mixture will do no harm, I
Jolting flies.
Happiness arcades.
But if midnight settles down about my knees, about chest-high,
you must be this high to ride
Molting lies.
Effortless charades.
I never thought you would want me to shoot you again. Close your eyes.
Open your mind. Open
something degrading. something small something ready. Opening your eyes, y’know what I call thought? Deadly. Transmuting the world: Deadly.
Do you believe it will change a thing? Can’t.
And you know. The worst essence of mankind opens; jumps out of the garden.
Make a garden wave goodbye,
and wonder if you will ever see that hand, handing over blood
driven mad, stop
at a gas station and whistle to the ancients. Play a song that fulfills
every heart. Play me yours,
Talentless bouquets.
Every try.
My voice is a mirror I am Satan in the morning in the mirror cannot free what I wish not to be
Poisonous parades.
Speak until wine.
Every bullet hole through Vegas in my migraine headache vice grip orchestral jacket unsewn
sewn. As though the knitting of cruelty into facets of time were designed
in hopes that you and I
would not be overflowing with...oh, it evades me, I looked in the mirror
I should have looked
The bullet tore; bled laughter; silver; more
we dealt with spires of Fear. We built here. Seeking to speak.
Left and Right became unwound beneath the planet's rotation.
At the airway Of, my old wound sings the blues of the gun shooting
Wanted: Slinger of Mirrors
plans incised on plain paper
careful calligraphy of a plane
sailing high above the clouds
shrouded in anticipation
veiled in smudges and tears
slowly running out of ink
resolute fears fuel the fire
earthquakes resurface nebulous horizons
and I have not the foggiest idea
uncertainty shapes a landscape
full of thunder and lightening
a sinkhole for rainbows
handing over completely
to what to whom to when
a seeming distraction
at the foot of the rainbow
gold mingles with cold
and heaven freezes over