The gigantic acacia tree would testify
Were it not for savage ravages of rot
That erase feeble living things that die
After decades under sun’s missiles hot.
And the birds that chirruped and flew
About as he trudged over hill and bend
Long went like all weak beings of flight,
And no more can lasting credence lend.
If old baobab trunks had tongues that turn
Methinks they would solid testimony avail,
Of how devoutly he toiled in dews and sun
And never refrained from heaven-sent toils.
But since baobab trunks unspeaking are
And birds such fleeting breaths have they,
Can cold unfeeling stones their version say:
Tell how over them hopped he on his way?
Though villainous eyes those labors saw,
Witnessing their tireless winds and turns;
None would ranks of vile ignominy break
And end this betrayal that achingly burns.
And for want of witness this sobbing soul
Perishes and dissolves like a soaking loaf
Amid bootless heavens’ amnesic lethargy,
As cruel decades to a rude century morph.
While I'm the greatest (I and I alone),
I think of the ignominy I've known,
and ask, "can time erase
the mess upon my face
before another well-aimed pie is thrown?"
The seed of freedom is curtailed,
germinates interrupted,
the harvest is delayed...
The fruit of freedom
may take time to be harvested,
but it is worth every stoic sacrifice...
We cultivate God,
ending wars,
celebrating peace,
living life with love!
The sands of time dripping,
leaves and flowers wilting.
natural wisdom flowing!
Wisdom consists simply in...
knowing how to plant well,
cultivate, and harvest...!
Giving Caesar what is his,
is not ignominy, submission, it is
fulfilling temporal law, without being a doormat...!
Serpents, scorpions and owls
are things I can’t endure.
The contents of a bovine’s bowels,
albeit as manure,
or monks in over-shady cowls,
their faces kept obscure,
the sex-life of the larger fowls,
for me hold no allure.
Threatened badgers’ hostile growls,
an overflowing sewer,
others’ stains on bathroom towels –
repugnant, these, for sure.
A dying pig’s pathetic howls
(at least that’s one pig fewer):
Walter Matthau’s drooping jowls –
for these, there is no cure.
Margaret Thatcher’s tortured vowels
are dickish, not demure:
and Ian Paisleys, Enoch Powells
are ignominy, pure.
Trump won, it would be hell...
if he lost, it would be limbo,
but the world would never be heaven!
A certain Brazilian Ethics Council
so much more unethical than lies
experiencing tremendous ignominy
I have never seen such audacity
a being born in Brazil
pretending acts of treason abroad
As I think about it, it's only fair
that Matt should get the electric chair.
In three minutes of time, I wove pure gold
and waited several weeks to be told.
Seriously, I have him to thank
for not telling me my poem stank.
We should find it in our hearts to forgive.
Oh, the ignominy he must outlive.
I must kindly thank him, before I'm done
for his contests, creative and fun.
Here it is, Matt! Here's my latest rhyme.
Have mercy on me and take your time.
The stench of puerile self-aggrandizement wafts through the air, a noxious cloud of platitudes and pomp, as the pusillanimous pustules of pseudo-intellectualism congregate to lavish accolades upon one another. How... amusing. The notion that these self-absorbed aesthetes, ye armchair sybarites, consider themselves arbiters of taste and talent, is nothing short of grotesque. And yet, here it persists, leeches on the cadavers of real artistry, perpetuating a vicious cycle of backslapping mediocrity, as they vomit forth oozing saccharine, cliche-ridden tripe, and elevate it to the status of holy scripture. Quaint indeed. The stench of their ignominy is almost... palpable.
How does it feel to know that playing by the rules was your downfall, I said I would be the last poetess standing because I can do: abattoir hymns of crimson vortices shredding the children to rain sanguinary as viscera chunks hail from above. Sorry ai can’t touch me, it would freak out to even read that. I may not have won many contests, but oops. Hehe.
He came in the flesh
Suffered in ignominy
Claim adverse glory.
Miriam spoke against Moses, her brother*
while Aaron held his tongue
Yet Aaron’s silence helped him none
Offering no defense of his brother Moses ~
Aaron beheld his sister undone**
___________________
*See Numbers 12: 1-9
**Numbers 12:10
Thoughts can be blurry and empty.
paper on an easel, a whirlpool on a sheet
letting emotions explode into poetry,
explores the realm of cryptical and mystery
Crafting verbal art saps one's inventiveness.
I wrapped my body with a tattered velarium.
My shades can't even pass the litmus trial.
I stand without ignominy.
I am the one who folded my halcyon tripod.
My soul is the painting on this easel.
without a brush or ink, an oil drawing of intrinsic
all sins are conveyed aloud in this triptych.
It is a work of inner gloom, a magnum opus.
Drawing by the moon on a quiet beach
A painter stencil is bolstered on a pedestal.
Sea whispers reverberate in the sky.
The cosmic shyness sound
In this bewildering blend of noises and spirits.
A winter tree's naked singing may be heard.
With shades of gray, it is jubilation.
4th place contest winner
Written: February 16, 2023
Premier Choice No 1188 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Father, where are you?
Please give ear to my plea.
Those I started the race with have gone far,
And I am left far behind.
For my legs have grown feeble,
Too feeble to carry my weight,
That I fall with each stride.
Going forward is a great ordeal,
Going backward a stigma of cowardice.
Did I desecrate your consecrated ground?
Did I cause the treachery of man?
Or are my teeth set on edge
Because of unripe fruit eaten by others?
My heart is always bleeding
From pangs of sorrow and pain.
My eyelids are heavy
From an ocean of tears.
Each night, ghosts torment me
In the day, phantoms ridicule me.
When the wind blows,
Needles caress my skin.
When the birds sing,
It is dirges I hear.
I wanted to find succor
By taking the course of Judas
When he realized his greed for silver
Had caused the shedding of sinless blood
But I abhor the ignominy of self annihilation.
Please, the Benevolent One,
Deliver me from this abyss of despair
For in my own mortal imagination
I have done no wrong.
But if You say I am not guiltless,
Forgive and lift me up.
What’s my story?
It is brown eyes staring back at me.
It is attention to my mind to my libido
To my nemesis
Which is you
Lying in your own nakedness
Waiting—longing—for me to kiss you
But in my own disillusion I see you as
Me—a fantasy which I love to ponder on—
Us as one
How beautiful it could be
This hidden ignominy—
Immorality invalidating my mortality
With your sex inside of me, my mouth
My body, my all—
Worshipping another triumph—
But in truth a failure
This responsibility of self to abstain from
You I find subtly impossible—perhaps I do
Not yet fully want myself back on
Dry land breathing fresh sea air
Perhaps I still want to live this lie
But then the only answer is to die.
Torrents of thoughts torment me
Floodgate of distractions rack my soul
Avalanche of delusions
Decapitate my mental faculty
As I muse over the degeneration
That has dogged my beloved country
She manifests every aspect
Of a failed state
The giant of Africa has lost control
Of her Territory to terrorists
Bandits have re-colonized my fatherland
Kidnappers strike terror into the hearts
Of weary and hapless Nigerians
While her economy continues to
Stumble and wobble with ignominy
In the hands of oil thieves
The ancient perpetrators of
rape
Against our father land
Are shamelessly like vultures
Gathering and flying over
The carcass of the comatose nation
To gang-rape her to death
Arise fellow Nigerians and stand firm
Let us take our country back
From chaos to path of sanity
An empty auditorium, echoing with the voices of those long past
Life’s stage, we the characters, parsing the script in a caricature of truth
Phantoms of a thousand different productions, acts, scenes leave the frissons of their presence
We strive, strain, stretch for the higher, brighter, better, betraying verity for vanity
Etchings in dust, the drive to impact the path we’ve trodden
Power like water within the grasp of a clenched fist
Clasping, gripping, seizing, you find nothing but droplets left in your open palm
Ignominy strikes the weakest souls, stretched threads of consciousness reaching vainly
We long to fly, seek to ascend to the forbidden, transforming into what we were never made to be
Transcendent, elusive, suffusing our epic odyssey of alienation
Logic is a casualty of success, empathy a victim of independence
Careening along a runway, the test flight, hoping for the rudiments of wings
2/21/22
"The Rudiments of Wings"
for "This or That, Vol 10" sponsored by Edward Ibeh
Argentinian Tango
The night had been crying of icy tears on the window glass
I kissed the glass a thousand guitars played in Buenos Aires
the night Eva Peron died.
From ignominy to a famous mistress, it takes a high-quality tart.
Sentimental fools had lost an icon, a dream, a fairytale princess
who would give the shirtless hope?
She screwed her way to the top and said, all right, Jack!
A grand mausoleum where we can walk around and spin into a golden calf.
In time, sanctified, and padres will tell of her of greatness
the pope will give her sainthood and include her in his prayers.
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