Hypocrisies Poems

STRANGERS

We are all strangers here
Streetlights glow 
Against a canvas of night
Solitude in a crowded frame
The underlying current of shame
Silent whispers across the counter
Unheard tales of the city's hum
Coffee cups, half-empty promises
Half-full hypocrisies 
The long shadow of the unseen.

Caw Caw Caw

What do these crows say? 
Certainly, they’re not wasting 
their voice. Perched on the 
branches of the bay tree, 
they don’t fly in the sizzling 
sunlight. Long, short, swift, 
slow, vibrant, weak…Variations 
in the length and the size of 
their cry affirm their cawing 
is not meaningless. How can 
they be close-mouthed about 
the things around? They are 
never opportunists. Like the 
black oyster, there’s life within 
the harsh shell of their voice. 
Theirs is a pretension-free 
accent, conveying true emotions. 
Their raw communication is 
worthier than the polished talk 
with the hidden hypocrisies.
Though undeveloped, their 
language never lacks warmth. 
It’s the tongue of the heart,
spontaneous and syntax-less.


First published in The Literary Hatchet (issue#28)

Fearfully I Am Dizzy As I Stand Up To the Honey Badger

FEARFULLY I AM DIZZY As I stand up to the honey badger--

Sprinkling fluorescent muted dots of racing shadows,
Fatefully  anxieties hypocrisies dilemmas,
As vertigo swirls away constants fathoms.
"I stand up to the honey badger"


“I fear not the bee stings but run from the honey the badger brings”
---James Edward Lee Sr.

1/19/19

Memories and Idiosyncrasies

As
time
ticks by
you grow wise
and dreams start to fade
while innocence and youth vanish
leaving you to deal with life’s hypocrisies and lies
and extraordinary slowly disappears from your vocabulary forever.

The
years
can turn
hopes into
unfulfilled wishes
restricted to the realm of sleep
for reality no longer supports fantasies
and your persona consists of anecdotes memories and idiosyncrasies.

(Fibonacci)


Jan. 4, 2019
Fibonacci - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Dear Heart
HowManySyllables.com

Black Mother

black mother

the white of day stains your
painted dress
the black of night turns
razor sharp
feet that wear flaming coals
a soul that bleeds
outside and in

where trees bear crimson fruit
as roots full bore
hypocrisies drill so deep
to dig her earth
still plough the surface
clinging vines of apartheid

how much she suffers
raped and ravaged 
again and again
strijdom
malan
verwoerd
names that stain
her southern land

g7 dead zones from 48
and cape town clearings
with
sharpeville apologies
still 
segregate

now die 
and die 
and die

awake
by fate arise

friends of earth

minstrels of life 

cast a new play
sing for the future
move for the past
turn now
in loves instance

an old face 
a new name
an old shadow 

seeds to grow

white sister

black brother

white father

black mother

african 
Heart 

african
soul

=z=

Rolling

The chunky shore seems in slow motion
against the backdrop of a hasty tide;
The most dramatic in all the world.

I’m watching them roll their pants up
not quite high enough.
They take their shoes and socks off, and cross
in search of the other side, dry
and soon to be just as drowned and missing as the ocean floor.

Here, 
above all this, 
perched barefoot upon a mossy boulder
fallen here from somewhere father away, 
I sit.
I hear the water rushing in, 
filling up the beach
and licking its face clean,
before swallowing it whole.

Our few moments of admiration become but a gurgle
and a foamy swoosh of liquid eraser; a liquid creator
that swallows me whole.

The melody of nature’s hypocrisies are enchanting,
making them acceptable.

If only I,
as destructive and reproductive as the sea,
were as charming.

A Cloud Looms

On this earth, is there no reprieve?
Each day here defies my sanity,  but we still call it reality.
Something feels off to me
That cloud that looms and never leaves
Raining down great hypocrisies
Watering down true philosophies
Shrouding the sacred mountain,
So we never reach the peak.
Why does it grow, yet never leave?
Spilling it's gale into a well of agony
Filling the tainted spring fifty fathoms deep
Endlessly refreshing the supply of suffering.
Which does not deplete.

Who Can Live Here

Who can survive here?
The air that we breathe smells of blood and anarchy
The water that you drink tastes of fear and lies
You should not say what you think and live
You are living in the time, where fake is fashion

Who can win here?
Your victory doesn’t depend on your strength and wisdom
Your victory depends on the desecration of a referee
The ground that you fight for is sleepy and risky
The cause that you took is bloody and tricky

Who can lead here?
Your vision is blinded by greed and hypocrisies
The mission you are on is full of ambush and lethargy
Your message is rejected before it comes out of your heart
The soil you step is full of personal mines and dynamite

Who can pray and be holy here?
Your faith is legalized according to an ideological agenda
Your God is only accepted if he fits into their temple
Your act of worship is effective if it fits into their idol
Your inspirations are right when it fits their aspirations

Concealing Silver Linings

Concealing Silver Linings


Peaceful Painter:

With paintbrush in hand she leaned forward to paint the moon black
Exposing cold shoulders to an outcome abstract 

To her dismay the light around the edges could not be concealed
For a light in the darkness cannot NOT be revealed 

Darkness is as consuming as a hand that is sleight
Yet we can go blind by staring into the light


Chaos Ensues:

Running from the chaos that was happening in town
She kept tripping on the lies that were laying around
Landing on hypocrisies blanketing the ground
Surrounded by demons holding her down 

Weather perpetually pushed or reluctantly hurled
She ran right off the edge of the world

A Friend of the Stars

When I distrust the hypocrisies of men and hate their society
And loathe the frivolity of thoughtless pets and brutality of beasts,
I’ll weigh the prospect of courting the salient stars,
To gaze at their beauteous smiles and frolic in their romantic treats.

The light years between us shall not be a bane,
Instead, the catalyst that makes the heart fonder.
Some dreamy stars do fall to the earth
 And my soul often lifts to the skies on a swander.

As other men crawl into their faithless wives’ embrace,
I’ll desert the dark of my bedroom and walk out
Into the bush-clear grounds or any treeless space,
And there spend the long night ogling at the virgin stars.

Perhaps some galaxy will empathize with my friendless state
And cheer me up with their broad generous smiles,
And send one of them to come and be my loving mate
To end my long and lonesome wanderings in the night.

Even if no star falls to the ground within my time
I’m content to watch their clustered smiles in the sky,
For I’ll let my soul soar to their company night after night
As other men blight the earth with the curse of their cry.

Keep Calm

Keep Calm
Keep Calm


centreI gulp I gasp I choke I chant
Only to be saved by a swallow
I hypnotize I hypocrisies I dream I deny
Only when officiating the mourning of mornings

my body balances : my mind meanders..

I exercise my anxiety I clothe I meditate my mind
The performance presents the participation of a pause
I show case stage fright I sequester I summon the night
The time the tyranny the tick tock tick the torment

My mind misplaced : My body embraced

I whisper I procrastinate
I sleep I sleepwalk
I sleep
I slumber>

Art of the Possible

Across the Pond vetocracy makes the usual gridlock look more dangerous than any noisy 

radio shockjock as this side of the mill Pond the 'Mother of Parliaments' that if it was would 

make the scandal of expenses even more expensive in public esteem, is having a set-to 

with the 'Gentlemen (and Ladies) of the Press' that wants no effective redress against its 

excesses against the innocent young and old, the brave and the not so bold, so we come to 

a pretty pass, that makes many despair at the hypocrisies of both the politicos and the 

hacks....ur! ratatatat! or as you on the other farther shore may say, 'You dirty rats' to your 

gridlock as we grimace and gripe at our less severe blessed island - and a bit -local fight.

Politics is 'the art of the possible', knowing that the way to hell is paved with good 

intentions and that good people do disagree as to ideals as well as ways and means as the 

moral high ground can be a disastrous landslip unless we think, we act, we try to 

compromise without selling out others as well as ourselves, by avoiding that old curse of 

self-righteousness that is often taken for being so damned righteous in our own myopias.

In the Bed They Make

And when will the tides turn against confident indifference?!

When will humanity cease
To throw cats against curiosity’s silver coated dagger

Another played out song
Another dramatic lyric
Shifting embellished overtones
With deteriorating tact

They spit posthumous awakenings
As divinity laced smiles, wither under a convoluted moon
Shedding retina waterfalls
Misunderstood

Pretentious anger becomes Aphrodite mediocrity
Wisdom, they never “put out”

Crippled tears
Become self-important struts within olive tinted reckonings

Lambasted butterflies
Stirring hornets’ nest
Uninvited

They dream for better days
While double-knotting gang colored bandanas
On eagle’s achromatic foreheads

Another Woody Woodpecker band-aid pulled from condescending hypocrisies

…

And when will the tides turn against pilot light’s mal-intent?

When will the flinty sheep 
Stop wondering how these charring, orange fires began

Forgetting the 115 octane gasoline can
They hold quietly in their hands

©Drake J. Eszes

When My Worries Were Few

I’m sittin’ here just wonderin’ 
When my world wasn’t skew
Heavy fogs and windowsills 
Were light and airy 
Oh when my worries were few 

Laugh for hours up until
We’d have to take on the day anew
Pink and purple flowers 
Were bright and jolly 
Oh when my worries were few 

The changing seasons went along 
When the cold came and brought us winter blues 
Snowflakes and marshmallows 
Were a delight and fluffy  
Oh when my worries were few 

The time would come and whisk us off 
Weary and stressful too 
Accusations and hypocrisies 
Were alright and sometimes funny
Oh when my worries were few .

Africa

We the missionaries of histories
With boots of brute
We march into mission
With hunger and anger
In the confidence of our pains
In the scars of stars
We the stir the rivers
Our strength is drying
Our hope is char with hypocrisies
How many more hypocrites?
How many more charlatans?
Our many more gimmicks?
Africa,
The rhythms of corruptions
Choke in the belly evil genius
Africa,
Homes of the blacks
Where is your history?
Where is your strength?
Where is your spirit?
Where is your future?

                                                                                          awoh kingsley awoh

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