Best Travail Poems
The archers’ line was straddled,
By many a shapely calf.
The Marshall called the nocking,
And winked at the pretty lass.
The Maiden drew the bowstring back,
To her ruddy cheek,
As she fired her fledgling flights;
They heard the fair Maid "Eek!"
Chorus
"Sing Hey Ho, best beware!
Hey Ho have a care,
If ye've any pretty parts,
Ye'll keep them out of there!"
The bowman smiled and nodded,
As the Maiden struck a pose.
"Try again M'Darlin' Dear,
"But watch out for y'er nose!"
The Maiden rubbed her forearm,
And looked back with a glare.
Nocked another arrow shaft,
And hit the bull's-eye square.
Gentles all they tipped their hats.
The Marshall cleared the field.
The Maiden went to fetch her flights.
The men trod close at heel.
Returning with a manly stride,
Yet again, she took her stance.
The bowmen's eyes all glimmered,
With mischief far in advance.
Chorus
Pulling back her bow string,
To her crimson cheek so close,
She let another arrow fly free.
The string hit her in the nose!
Tears welled in the Maiden's eyes.
All the gentlemen rushed the Dear.
Wiping the pretty lassies face,
Of every single tear.
They brushed the few stray auburn locks
From before her green-brown eyes
Handed her the fine longbow,
And heard her sorrowful sighs,
"Do try again M'Dear Mistress,
But for your form we fear,
So, be very, very, careful Maid!
Keep those nipples out of there!"
Chorus
'Twas 'pon the final flurry,
As she drew string back to cheek;
"Thwack" went the taunting bowstring,
And again the Maiden "Eekked!"
Her cheeks they blanched a deathly white,
'Pon her brow there came a frown;
Still, when the Marshall called count;
She gamely shot the round.
"Sing Hey Ho, don't be scared,
Hey Ho just take a care,
'Tis simply a friendly warning
Not to put ye're pretty parts there!"
children growing up in a bewildering moral landscape
what is right, what is wrong, what is politically correct
with mindless amusements or habits they seek escape
the media, education, religion they all opposing direct
the parents fared no better, controlled and farmed by big corporation
forced to deny and reject healthy lifestyles for a media fairyland
fears of security used to control peoples and their co-operation
many disillusioned escape in drugs or simply bury their head in sand
The true God is rejected and must not interfere in education or morals
unborn are murdered, the sick, the old, the unproductive used as guinea pigs
manliness, bravery, patriotism are rejected garlanded with florals
out is male and female, in is all manner of sexual thingamajiggs
is it any wonder the young are confused
good is condemned and evil behaviour excused
brainwashed by legal lies that the real truth is refused
the future looking foggy and so none is enthused
What is truth asked once a ruler to Him who is the truth
What is truth, what is the meaning asks today's youth
Where will they get their truth in a morass of lies
Who will lead them to the truth, who will hear their cries
In the dead of night,
I heard the cry of death;
A shrill cry it was,
But a faint cry,
As of a heart fainting of strength.
It oozed out in a steady stream
Of soul-rending shrill
As of unending wail and groan
From a house lately frequented by the grim reaper.
"Owailo", mother had muttered in education,
Was in travail!
Her own slice of cross she must bear,
Of the divine curse of travail appointed
To all eves.
Owailo travails unto death!
The divine malediction of travail
Becomes for Owailo,
The inevitable appointment with death
For her offspring she must never behold
Even as the offspring lives.
Oh hapless Owailo!
The ill-fated reptile of the shrubbery,
Who else has beheld your fate
To plead your cause before the Law Giver
Before whom mercy and grace abound?
In the dead of night,
I heard the cry of agony;
A shrill cry it was,
But a faint cry,
As of a heart fainting of strength.
It oozed out in a steady stream
Of soul-rending shrill
As of unending wail and groan
From a house lately frequented by the grim reaper.
"Owailo", mother had muttered in education,
Was wallowing in travail!
Her own slice of cross
she must bear,
Of the divine curse
Of travail appointed
To all eves.
Owailo travails unto death!
The divine malediction of travail
Becomes for Owailo,
The inevitable appointment with death
For her offspring she must never behold
Even as the offspring lives.
Oh hapless Owailo!
The ill-fated reptile of the shrubbery,
Who else has beheld your fate
To plead your cause before the Law Giver
Before whom mercy and grace abound?
THOUGHT OUT BY
CHRIS EDACHE AGBITI, ESQ
Soul in Anguish,
Soul in torment,
Soul in delirium,
Soul in pain,
Soul in ecstasy,
Soul in anxiety,
Soul in frustration,
Soul in disdain.
Soul in passion,
Soul in laughter,
Soul in death and
Soul in life.
Soul in penitence,
Soul in reflection,
Soul in love and
Soul in strife.
Oh my soul you
Keep me dancing.
I can never
Dance alone.
I search for my
Soul’s companion.
Who will offer?
Is there one?
Here are now my
Suitors willing.
There is Envy,
Look at Hate,
Bitterness and
Self-Absorption,
Pity looking
For a date.
What of Vengeance
Narcissism,
Self-indulgence
Dressed up fine,
Pride and Guilt with
Sad Depression,
Desperation,
What a line!
I have danced with
Every suitor.
And I’ve wondered
Who is mine.
I don’t want to
Lock into a
Partnership that
Doesn’t shine.
All of these have
Looked attractive.
Yet they weaken
On the spins!
Where is one that
Lasts for ever?
I will only
Look at him.
I need one who
Will not fail me,
Leave me when the
Going’s tough,
One who’s strong and
Knows the dance steps.
Treading on my
Toes is rough!
Something deep
Within me tells me
Suitors there are
More than enough,
I must search the
Highest mountain
For the one whose
Name is Truth.
Mr.Truth will
Undergird my
Weakness, lift
My spirits high.
Warm my coldness,
Light my darkness,
Hold my trust as
He draws nigh.
.
He will lead me
Without falter
To a banquet
Richly spread.
I will follow
Every dance step
Waiting for the
Day we wed.
Then for ever
All those suitors
And their lies will
Disappear.
There will only
Be the glory
Of beloved
Jesus here.
TRAVAIL
place your bets then roll dice twice
test the tale of death and life
call forth a need for God
plains of trust not doubt
pray tell us please
as it is
fill my
needs…
where that
sad heart bleeds
like stale sick jokes
that form the march
to raise pure white flags
in time like dark dire rhyme
lift me out of my own ways
up to the light that plays my soul
© Kim van Breda—6 July 2015 (8-1-8 “INFINITIAN”— NEW FORMAT by Ian Guyler)
The day presents a journey, waiting to begin,
a font of wisdom in a strange new land,
each personage a soul to take apart,
although one never knew those traveler delights;
the things to love,
the mystery to probe--
that vague excitement beating,
beating in a viscous river, not the heart,
but deeper rumbling, forcing through
and past denial, echos of a distant consciousness
suspended in time's ether.
It is as art in powdered fragment,
crushed between the feet of desperation
as a history is wiped away; as in Iraq,
concentric blips of insight
clamor still, though now in whisper...
that dissecting souls is hazardous,
transforming, alien.
One soul
that would not breathe again,
that would not echo,
offers up its own creation--
poverty that we might not have known.
What was that beating?
More than history is gone.
Was it a sigh retreating
when the blackness won?
~
Hill by hill, a travail climbing.
Which new outlooks give birth to
Wider, brighter, a mountain valley's.
Deep sighing, as we breathe through.
On a grander appreciative scale
Those life-stepped that culminate
Heaven-reached, soul-released, eying
Earth; rained on compassionate.