Crookedly Poems | Examples

Rambling

That rambling castle across the landscape bewitched my heart
As though divinity has signed, gorgeous is its art.
Are the cherubims relaxing, spreading out their legs and hands?
Are these archaic, ornate boulders on mountainous strands?

Cave-like, carved curvy corridors crookedly coil around
Vertical and horizontal length, width, and depth rebound
Celestially thrill-filled, airy arrays in sunlit style
Are Hephaestus and Athena spreading a sapphire smile?

Points, lines, planes, volumes, and magnitude speak tonnes of volumes.
Are these flawless frills and folds parts of angelic costumes?
Gloriously intricate, cosy carvings, and wide wings
Brim-fill with cosmically grace-filled mimetic mouldings

These sprawling, spreading, sturdy structures seem to symbolise
Incomprehensibly divine marvels that synthesise
Short, long, sharp, and blunt; straight and twisted mortal existence
That draws, from the spiritual source, its soul sustenance.

Usurper

Soft bones
Towing celestial clay
Brutal, the fleshly vehicle
Screeching still
Along its dark an' ancient highway

Where infinite roads, crookedly knot
Tying bow, upon heavens bouquet
Never meant to be begot
Invisible...
Until our dying day

So, pardon me 
The land and sea
An’ rapture me, their eulogy
As fading petal, a warmth to seek...
Upon ashen cliffs, of embered peak

For, heaven held in feathered seam
Formless pillows of life and dream
An’ so life, was left no other way
But for the stars, to steal our world away

For, as to the lesser 
Cosmic ghosts, born in fleeting form
Our future, holds no clear shelter
Cerebral an’ shaken, a snow-globe left...
Cast, in perpetual storm

So, pardon me…
This humanity 

Kiss my bright-eyed lark goodbye!

Let me sleep...
As the spring tides turn
Amongst every constillation, star
An' pinned-down butterfly...

For, every heaven held in feathered seam
Formless pillows of life and dream
An’ so life, had left no other way
But for the stars, to steal our world away

Money Is Loved By Many

I am surely not after money
Like a bee after sweet honey
This World is to me funny
Here riches make life sunny

For money all are deeply craving
And so are very crookedly behaving
For ten generations are just saving
Poor man's chances, they are shaving

They spend money like a lunatic
And are thinking like an eccentric
Currency notes make them ecstatic
They appear to me damn pathetic

They squander money on luxury
Care not for those in penury
They are always in a hurry
For them I feel greatly sorry

Father and mother will be hungry
Toward them, they will be angry
To feed parents, they won't agree
Their hearts are shabbily ugly

They will lead a lavish life-style
To none, kind words, they will mail
To show generosity, they will fail
From devil greed, they will ail.

Chance Encounter

‘Twas on a morning brisk and airy
I met a creature big and hairy.
It glowered at me, and I at it.
I was not afraid, not one small bit.

Its eye was crookedly turned all askew.
From its nose escaped ghoulish-green goo.
A wat’ry rivulet down its cheek.
“It needs a tissue. It looks quite bleak.”

My proffered handkerchief it did take.
Blowing its nose made the sidewalk quake.
It took a moment and looked at me
with a grim grimace, or gleeful glee.

We nipped pleasant words and parted ways.
A morn to remember for always.
We tipped our heads in courteous nod.
Away it turned and away it plod.

This tale is so insanely absurd,
to this day all the details are blurred.
I scarce should repeat it now and then
that I am lumped with demented men.

But for the creature’s courteous bow
It meant no ill will, I know that now.
And when I am asked if I believe,
a brave and bold front I shall achieve.

I shan’t retell the tale of itself,
choosing to keep the tale to myself.
If it returns and it should see me
I’ll smile and definitely pleased be.

Lost

In my pursuit to find me,
Like a baby, I crawl on all four,
Wandering tirelessly out of avid curiosity,
Lost in this jungle of thoughts,
Who am I?
What am I?
A writer or a painter?
A fighter or a peace maker?
What should I do?
What should I not do,

I wish to grasp my deepest desire,
Tightly in my clammy palms,
I wish to execute my purpose with vigor,
I wish to paint the best picture of me,
The fact is,
My balance is looking crookedly odd,
The fulcrum not well placed,
The weights not well measured.

I breathe in my odds calmly,
An inhale, another inhale, the next,
I do not wish to suffocate in this jungle,
Give in to the lurking wild beasts,
I must find my way out,
Before I begin to blend into the green.

Only You

From once when we awake
To once when we lay
Meandering a crookedly straight path
Let’s dance with butterflies in the sun
And snuggle with fireflies at night
And when the clouds are gray and dark
I will be there to lift your heart

Taking Care

Taking Care

Sometimes taking care
of yourself
me
is not easy to do, causes aches
Makes me cry in the night
Lift heavy heart to the day
Let the pieces start to mend
 

Sometimes taking care
of yourself
me
Causes grief beyond measure
Hurts more then myself
To be free of the poisonous grip
To get away
The hand reaching out to choke

Sometimes taking care
of yourself 
feels not like taking care.  
Though I feel,
Inside now, eventually all will be
Crookedly mended, glad spreading
throughout a tenuous thread of beginning

Mine Penned Umbrage Metes Rebuttal

I apologize at any unintentional
     flagitious, egregious,
     deleterious et cetera and
atrocious (asper wording),
     which accidental faux pas
     toward an allpoetry participant
     named skypriceireland, who brand
did me with

     crookedly unflattering feedback,
     and practically demand
did, an explanation,
     which hoop fully
     clarifies intended feedback,
     thus aye expand
utmost sincerity and perceives
     how my anger got fanned

when purposeful intent grand
lee and roundly surmising
     if the Jesse (un-named child) referenced
     in the poem played

     an influential invisible hand
as the whims of children
     can be so inventive
     absent any parental oversight
     to inveigle being baited
     from kiddie make believe island

a desired outcome, rather
     exclaim with com manned
double delight at such un-planned
Hi Yo Silver braying ejaculation,
     thus upon this
     expostulation I stand.

Title Here

title here
which form
concrete where
answer question
with questions
no questiond
go
unpunished
punish me
brutality
words
words words
line me up
crookedly
crooked me
recital fear
title here
?

Ebony Hallow

There are hands that extend. 

Crookedly they creep, their twisted branches reaching for me. 

Decaying twigs resemble fingers, fingers that coil in midnight locks. 

Ebony hallow, where the beast bay’s at the alabaster moon. 

A scarlet cape tattered and worn. 

The air is dense, it chokes with stench. 

Things rot that lay shallowly buried. 

Ebony hallow, where spirits wonder. 

Aimlessly they moan with restlessness. 

Petrifying specters. 

In ebony hallow, blood runs deep. 

Rivers of red, bedrock drenched in vibrant shades of rouge. 

It numbs you, your senses heightened, the feeling of being hunted intrusive. 

God rest your soul shall you ever enter the woodlands where foul play. 

Ebony hallow, a cold October, an unforgiving fate.

Nowhere To Hide

Cascades of stretching autumn ivy
snuggle close to the verdigris hardware
of an intricately carved, but sun-bleached
walnut door under a collapsing portico.

Droplets of sweat trace jigsaw trails
through the clinging film of dirt, revealing 
the white of fluted pillars looming crookedly and
hunched by centuries of unappreciated exertion.

An eerie nostalgia laps at my consciousness
fettering my imagination to that very portal. 
What yearning is this, to peer backward through 
the impenetrable curtain of time?

Curiosity gives way to fearful dread;
wandering thoughts to waking realization;
that it’s a frightful thing indeed, to love
as death relentlessly pursues the same.

What can be built that cannot be toppled…
What can be polished, that will not erode…
What can be loved that cannot be taken…
behind that impenetrable curtain of time?

08/13/15

Weathered Windows

Weathered Windows


Savor the meadow as far as eyes grasped;
Wildlife walk gingerly;
Walked behind them, nodded.
Purple and orange wildflowers
Just didn't fit.
Twenty one posts with mildew
Surrounded the thrown out periwinkles;
Left their fate to cover a virgin path.
A path followed by newly dismissed seeds, pods;
Shown with individuality.
Brown, stiff stalks topped with feathers.
Where did the passion fall away.
With gusto and charms, looked high and blinked.
Imagine so.
Sharpened vision chased the clues;
Brought them closer, fractured two or three.
Saw a wood pile stacked
Oh so crookedly yet seasoned for the coming cold snaps:
Carried two by two, four by five bundles.
Took only two to stack back away.
Cellar doors, grey colored, worn away
Weathered down to the granny apple color
Which, by the way, wasn't  so offensive at all.
Known by those passed to another time;
Not to be abandoned nor evicted.
Gave faith with brilliant touches;
Gven to those with arms held out.
To envelop with the reached up hope
To culminate what was a yesterday, then.

Methusela Driving An Electric Cart At Walmart

soon all that will be left is a jar with
 a vertibrae and rubbing alcohol.

  methusela growing long exo-sceletal fingernails
 in his seven hundreth year steers crookedly.


 soon all that will be left is grocery isles filled
with bleached teflon he says.

rows of miraculous white wonder bread.

 methusela tells how  in the 80's outside of
 berlin he used the psudeneum
 sir diedrich chronograph.

 apparently  he was a well known grafetti artist
 along the ribs of the autobahn.

 methusela smiles a little dodging children down the
 isle playing with plastic sabre swords.

Dream Catcher

Dream Catcher
You hang 
crookedly
from the white plastic hook,
swaying slightly to the west.
Caught to catch.
Five cheaply dyed feathers splayed from winged birds
My dime-store exotic.
Amber, red and gold
Colors of fire, passionate sun.
Colors of purpose.
Dead birds now.
Was this their dream?
To hang near my window
Catching dust and kitchen bacon grease?
The vibrancy of temporary color disappearing
 forgotten with age
You do have movement though,
those 2 inches back and forth.
Back and forth
Not much for flight
Not much for sight
Or dreams.
Your five cowry shells
Ransom 
For all my desires.
What powers do you possess
In your woven macramé
to make this life
Something more
Than simply caught
or bought
or hung?

First published: Page & Spine

Rain and Flood

RAIN AND FLOOD

Raining all through the night,
Mum and Dad kept busy 
wading water .
Soon, the flood overflew 
 the wooden bench we 
Sat on. And nowhere was
Safe again. Soon again,
The cock crowed crookedly.
He too was drenched in 
Rain and flood. 
                
 Daybreak 

We must go to School.
We walked through the  
flooded Streets, groping 
to school.
We couldn't go through
the Pako Bridge.
We turned to the New Bridge. 

Standing and looking into
the school, flood was everywhere. 
Only the headmistress and the
Teachers groped in the flood
Waving us back home.

Heavily drenched in rain and
Flood, my teeth knocked
In drumbeat against one another,
 rhyming with the rains. 	
All Babies, all children cried,
Walking back home.
My sister strapped me on 
Her little back.
Nylon bags, dustbin, human
Waste, animal dung floated on  the 
Flood. 
Amidst staccato of crying voices; 
Kids’, children’s, 
Adult’s, Africans’…
anarchy was loosed 
upon  Nigeria
        


          AKUDOLU IGNATUIS
    akudoluignatius@gmail.com

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