Best Rituals Poems
Restless restoration
Return
Remove all the rubble remaining from the rampant rift you released and retracted
Remember?
I recognized and revealed your ravishing rituals and repugnant relations
Rippling into your relentless rampage
A recycled retaliation, resonating with regret and self-revolt
A response reused rather than repenting the wrong
Ravaging our rare relics of reverie without remorse in your ruthless rage
You have rendered a realm of ruin; relinquished of reason and rightful retribution
Reliving the reoccurring rumbles of this relationship as I rummage through the wreckage and reassemble the rivets and fallen rafters
You have run out of radius, only to reappear in my retrograding reflections
Recollecting till I rupture and regress
Reminiscing, recalling the rapture and revelry repeatedly
The rain that remains is relevantly rational
A requiem to rot for the rest of this reality?
Reevaluate righteous relief
Rust over, rise up or seek revenge
Love Letter
Courting a Black Widow Spider
I do admire your knitting skills
The sight of your cobweb fills me with thrills
Your hourglass figure glowing red
has never gripped my heart with dread
The sight of you a passion rare instills
So I could never believe, as I view fresh kills
that the day we wed, I’ll be next day’s meals
Thoreau's beaten path to the river has
nothing on my bakery trip each morn.
We crave the ritual comfort to give us
a thought of control rather than forlorn
hope of the future. We are desperate
for meaning ,our curse and even I,
"atheist", am constantly on alert
for that one sparkling clue to catch my eye,
and bring all my life's work into focus.
Meanwhile the city buses continue
down Kuhio. the high heeled ladies cuss
their johns at 3, elderly tourists view
the sights after a long lifetime of work,
I sit in the bakery writing in my book.
I sleep with yawning windows
Under blankets of a coddling breeze
To ensure some honesty in God
I sleep with active lamps
Where bulbous dreams can swell
Un-shaded by the restraints of vanity
I sleep in the suit of a newborn admitting all
My secrets divulged in prayer should I pass
So I may leave with the same purity I came in with
I rise to partake in all while eyes are open
Knowing I can never miss a nuance
Until the daytime phoenix blinks
MY VALENTINE RITUALS
A day set aside
Only for love to tangle
A day where gifts are exchanged
All in the name of love
A day where love is confessed willingly
A day that increases birth rate
A day where lies reign supreme
A day where truth are rarely spoken
How many valentine dates have you this year?
I remember those yesteryears where I count
In double figures my valentine dates
Lies in all its shades comes into play
Deceit in all its forms void my thought
My specs & species are divided into three folds
Classified in order of priority
Some plays in the league of Pre-Valentine
Such are told the lies of my travelling
Before and on the valentine day
With pomp, pageantry on red roses
They celebrate their valentine with me
A day or two days before valentine
For the fortunate lady set aside to play
On the special day of Valentine
She still do not have the luxury
Of monopolizing the day to herself alone
My Valentine day is broken into three
The ones that will dine with the King
During Breakfast, others during Lunch
And the last set are the ones for Dinner
Oh, I see you sigh for me!
Sexual intercourse is not a key element
The day is of love
I share mine amongst three or four ladies
Stop!!! don't judge me yet
I am not the ladies man
I am just the man that ladies love to hate
The last fold are the players of Post-Valentine
Those that basks in the basket of lies
That I travelled on Valentine day
Those here are not of after thought
They are fed with lies of my travelling
For one occasion or the other
Even weeks before Valentine
It was primarily my University days
Where I stayed in two campus hostels
And two off campus hostels
These hostels are abattoirs for the butchers
We are the butchers... King of the jungle
A Don at my own game
AST-
3.35am-
@still at home in Berger, Lagos.
12th April, 2015
No Exit
musicians hide behind scarring sounds
beyond madness
beyond folly
beyond Somewhere Everywhere
dance with delirious determination
through fragments of melodious folly
dissonant dulcimers declare
repetitive chords
within punctuated digital drones
repetitive beyond vibration
vibrating beyond repetition
percussive rituals vibrate
beyond inflated vaudevillians
mutating into
mad cacophonous comedic collisions
rituals beyond vibrating cacophony
rituals behind chaotic vibrations
deranged vibraphones
denounce
fragments of repetitive visions
mindful of mindless
Exits
Saturnalia, the pagan worship of winter solstice,
the darkest tidings of the year.
The birth of our Nazarene most likely
September 29th.
Like a used car dealer rolling back the odometer,
Pope Julius I moved Christ’s birth to
December 25th
to sign up more pagans
at the darkest tidings of the year.
For this, the Puritans never celebrated Yuletide,
a pagan holiday of sin.
Still, rituals of the festive season endure.
Sitting in solemn silence on the eve of every Christmas,
the Swedes turn their TVs to Donald Duck.
So too do the Japanese eat a bucket of KFC
while the Ukrainians decorate Christmas trees with fake spider webs.
In Greenland, men serve women whale blubber
and the Catalonian’s nativity scenes always
include a bare-bottomed pooping man.
These are the darkest tidings of the year,
Christmas is incomplete without them.
These are the devotions of Noel.
Endless tunnels lead me, to dim corners of strange dimensions
Floating with waves to infinity, loops curling me to shores
I lose the stories seen, in witty rituals of my mind.
May 23, 2020
Let the Pens Flow - Sijo Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Jenish Somadas
~Winner: First Place
BRIAN'S select D,any form,any theme Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Brian Strand
~Winner: Third Place
The warm evening breeze
Caresses my skin as I sit
Beneath the old garden elm.
The chatter of birds echoes
Through the trees as they perform
Their spring mating ritual.
Redbirds, mocking-jays, and hummers
Scurry from limb to limb, jealously
Chasing foe from new-found lovers.
Enjoying the serious antics,
I hear the voice of the mourning dove
Calling its forever mate in the distance.
My thoughts turn to my own mate.
No longer within my sight
I remember your every detail as last seen.
You have left me as a bird in winter:
Sure to return to this nest
As time marches slowly,
And yet I ponder the burning question
Weighing upon my soul.
"Did you take out the trash, Dear?"
Filled with sunny day rituals,
we are a sampling of the craft;
The bourgeoisie will call us fools,
filled with sunny day rituals;
Magical keys and safety tools,
duplicitous sides come off daft;
Filled with sunny day rituals,
we are a sampling of the craft.
E ach Wednesday evening we eat soup and bread,
A simple meal like one our Savior ate.
S upping with dear and closest, trusted friends,
T aking the food to meet His coming fate.
E very one is regretfully afraid,
R ealizing that our loved Savior dies.
R evolted that our own dark, grievous sin
I s causing Him to ride to His demise.
T raveling fearfully with Him to His doom
U ntil his death on Cross on Black Friday.
A ll of us mourn and sorrow by the tomb.
L ooking to promise we'll see Him again.
S unday brings that most astounding vision.
He has risen!! Our Christ is arisen!!
By: Joyce Johnson
Entered in Linda-Marie's Easter contest
I pity thy facade.
Caked layers of makeup.
Two faces, twice the work.
Masking. Hiding. Deceit.
Outward lie.
Apply. Shroud.
Cloak. Comply.
Deny tears.
Features die.
* 'The Pirouette Poetry Contest'
* Sponsored by: Suzette Richards
* Entered on: 09/05/2025
Rituals
in the summer rain
we dance like silk winged mayflies
our skirts bright with water
the fields ripen
the soft dunes hiss
with the scraping of bone fragments
ancients are sleeping
on pillows of wind.
.
in the summer rain
our feet move on the soft earth
leaving paths of laughter
the crops reach up.
the grandmothers
traced coloured scraps of wool
through their weaving
to save our stories.
in the summer rain
our hands reach beyond the horizon
we touch the gods
to thank them for life.
Glow morning warm
hugging
sleepy scalp and face embrace
outside sacred pink
yellowing fragrant dawn
Without fear of fading dark
or death
or sin
Welcome in
naked foot massage
pressure memories of walk
on stretching strings
Hang on
for this new day's feel good dance
Lay back
tummy up
butt and back below
Angel face
reflecting innocence of trauma
from hands on humane touch
empowering health
warming arms to shoulder soothing skin,
lightly felt wealth of recreation
Back
then front,
up
now down,
back and forth
Soft slapping rhythms
to these wellness rhymes
Songs we sing;
your turn,
now mine.
Signs of tender touch
engaging passioned humors
triumphant
or traumatic,
soothing
or sad
frightened
angry
mad,
invoking sacred rage.
Warm touch patterns
never scalding hot
And vocal rituals
nonviolent communion
accessible
to enable all
creatures lost
and small.
Two brown cartons
at dawn of light
and one at parting dusk
just before dream-filled night
And two more.
One at early bright
and one at brightest warm
as I'm sure you've noticed
five from dark through light
In our well-seeing
daily weaving care,
visible signs
for sacred wonders
and silent wealth care voices
Warmly embracing
inclusive sentient choices,
enabling these shared songs
our therapeutic rejoices
of out loud sounds
while feeling communion's dancing touch
Even more sacred,
profoundly aware
without verbal dominance
these soulful sounds
whispering our glancing
waving
circling sights
inside outsized well-sung voice
enabling healthy care,
empowering well-felt choice
Togathering
this glow morning hug
warm waking mindful scalp
and spirit face embrace
Without fear of fading dark
or death
or sin.
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.