Behind moonface stare
communication is lost—
static staccato
fills the gaping silent holes
in the conga dance of time
Earth now slips from view
its skull-dragged behind the moon
to the other side
only astronauts have seen
lied about in lucid dreams
Back from the dark side
lost incommunicado
what phase shifts transpired
in the watcher and the watched
contemplating the dark slide
COME FILL ME AGAIN
Touching the heartstrings and well written
A melody so smooth and hardly energetic
For Annie, it was a song of love so poetic
By John Denver, who was clearly smitten
Amidst the snowy Rockies, in monochrome
A name change reflected his favourite state
Fame took a little time, coming not too late
As eventually country roads took him home
Inspiration came while in Aspen, Colorado
That song he became so anxious to record
D suspended fourth, that distinctive chord
Now in death, he is sadly incommunicado
Administrator incommunicado
Acknowledging nymphomaniacs
Reclassifying philosophical
Ideologically Transcultural
Pronunciation Calligraphers
Communication demilitarized
Grandstanding orchestration
Carpetbagging adjudications
Redistributed improprieties
Abolitionists brinksmanship
Sarcastically realistically
Craftsmanship flabbergasted
Enlightenment librarianship
Democratically
salient arguments
whirlwind across the floor
rugs of rolling hills
closets filled yet more
the ones we never speak of
portraits fleering
infinite mirrored reflections
walls of respective distances
dogs chasing their tales
mad electrons seeking rest
grabbing at foreign orbits
i turn to her
i have failed in suburbia
the great american dream
i am returning to the jungle
my hovel there is safe
i do not speak the language
streets bear names i have never heard
the poet held incommunicado
i always get left on corners screaming
you will be sorry
Lenin and Moscow
MacArthur and the Philippines
Houdini and Death
i shall return, corners are everywhere
waiting for a streetcar
"Desire"
i have come to realize
i will do this again
some men can only pine
i bury them in it
San Blas 90
For full nine months forlorn widow,
Every nine hours by window;
Men watching their every shadow,
Still hoping for her Ricardo,
Who'd promised her Eldorado,
This doing in a Choice Meadow...
Now, The Incommunicado,
Gone her main source of Bravado
And Volunteering Troubadour,
To her a Buck she to him Doe,
Ricardo, not innocent, though...
Slain for vanishing with Grang's dough
Long ago, folks knew their neighbors
The community was one large family
There is much talk about one world,
But It’s impossible to find sincere unity.
True, the world has become a lot smaller
Distant lands are no longer far away
Though social media friendships abound,
Can I count on them? --if I’m in a fray?
Sometimes I have a feeling I’m all alone,
Utterly alone, in a most unfriendly place
I have but a few speaking acquaintances,
I’m residing in an incommunicado space.
Everyone is busy with their own pursuits
I completely understand that circumstance
But when I see my next-door neighbor
Shouldn’t we exchange more than a glance?
written March 6, 2022
The most mischievous of culprits,
A tough veil over its secrets;
Devilishly keeps patrolling incognito
For the unilateral contracts it enters into.
The Eternally Incommunicado;
But easily us reaching without ado,
No signature endorsing after a collection;
Merchandise shipping to abysmal direction,
The reason why I can’t praise its business empire,
Indeed, any transaction with no umpire.
Fallout of Eve’s naivety,
And unwitting acceptance of Free Captivity,
After “a Do-this-and-not-that” instruction,
Making allowance for reckless decision,
Its fulfillment the handiwork of Cherubims,
Behind leaving their Seraphims,
For a continual swinging of fire-vomiting swords,
That must implement God’s voiced words.
Today, my ugliest frowns at sabotaging spade,
And the longest sigh for being a mortal made.
A friend far away, in a distant land
suddenly went incommunicado.
When confronted, he took a reticent stand,
persuasive and evasive voice mellow,
with explanations for absence shallow.
Nodding, we expressed solidarity,
even though believing in certainty
that upon him has fallen misfortune.
On our part pressing not for clarity,
playing our role, showing him the full moon.
11-October-2020
On the days I seem less humble,
Should I stumble into greatness
Or I drown in human vomit
By the light of critic’s benchmark.
Let me give self-love a tumble,
Never welcoming false witness,
Think man’s praise, my fault a summit,
Oceans’ trenches in my ballpark.
Let me bless God-given talent
I might stretch or hope to foster
Any friend that (in my shadow)
Finds some shade and grace worth sharing,
Know it’s pride that calls this gallant!
Let my heart be on life’s roster,
Not held incommunicado,
Though no poem’s King of daring!
Let my joy be more in seeking
Love, than grok a definition
That, too, has a ‘God-like’ nature?
Vanity! The thought you’ve found it?
Though my poem’s voice is squeaking
Mouse-like in its admonition,
LOVE is more than nomenclature!
GRACE - Love’s benchmark! Faith’s man’s gambit!
Long Tooth
October 22nd in 2019
There are such days I’d love to hide
I’d feel indubitably justified
Locking all doors to stay inside
In total silence were I able to decide
I’d sit and write now that’s implied
I’d let the ideas sizzle and collide
There is one dame I would want by my side
I so cherish her affinity with much pride
At any given time her intrusion I’d let slide
Her interruptions I have not once denied
Welcoming interventions in wholehearted stride
Doors wide open to let my muse in for the ride
I’d not waver to see her step up and preside
In her I’ve always felt free to confide
That I’d be happy writing day and night until I died
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
These Are Mountains
Trying, failing,
second best,
In front, behind,
betwixt, beyond
The also-rans
and hard pressed,
Are destinations
of which I'm fond.
In love, out of love,
left behind
Somewhere, nowhere
and inbetween,
Where pity mongers
and unkind
Crowd the places
I have been.
Happy, sad,
ambivalent,
Up, down,
on level ground,
Incommunicado
and vigilant
Are the hideaways
I have found.
Reaching high,
laying low,
A puppeteer
with costume torn,
Bold as brass
and incognito
Are all the faces
I have worn.
Doubting feelings,
holding back,
Weeping, laughing,
feeling sorry,
Black is white
and white is black
This is my fate
my life, a folly.
Peace, happiness
and finding love,
Seeking, keeping
and embracing time
To escape the gloom,
to rise above,
But these are mountains
too high to climb.
© RJVHorton2015
I am obliged to climb up
olympus, the only way to
reach you. I know not much
about you and your progress
in life. By the time I left for the
space trip, you were just a
little egg, now days have
delved into years and I reckon
you have grown into a young
pretty face just like your
mother's. It's kinda tight up
here, I am held
incommunicado to any one in
the extreme orbit. The amour
between Faith and I did not
only excite volumes of words
but gave rise to a special and
beautiful creation, the venus
life clings to for survival. For I
understand that life is no
magic but a spread of courses.
So, you can always lead the
right course with focus at play.
I kindly ask of you to please
make your mother proud of
you and hold onto her rooted
desire for me. Please forgive
the code of fate and know that
I am always besides you to fix
it up. I love you.Hope.
Ambushed by gunmen on a highway in Ocotlán.
Threatened outside a mine site in San José del Golfo.
Shot dead by motorcycle gunmen while driving in Camotán.
Forced from their camp by mine trade unionists in La Sierrita.
Fired at while traveling to meet with fishermen of the Arauca River.
Thousands forcibly displaced by armed conflict in Cauca Department.
Arrested and held incommunicado on leaving his office at the University of Al Zaiem.
In serious but stable condition following a shooting after protesting the El Tambor mine.
Samples from letters
written to 'responsible authorities'
in places I’ve never been
in support of people
much like you and me
with hopes, tribulations
and kids with laughing faces;
perhaps with land.
Who for reasons various
are on the sharp edge
of the process
which provides us
with bright shirts, cheap coffee
and funny vignettes on my N+1g tab .
Occasionally my letters
are followed by good news,
or at least an acknowledgement.
The least I can do;
it's never enough,
yet I hope it keeps
a candle burning.
Written after 20+ years writing letters for Amnesty International's Urgent Action Network
Incoherent Rain
October 4, 2013 at 7:54am
Ask me why there is no one left
I will tell you what
came afer the storm.
it was forever calm
because there was no-one left
Wind stopped blowing
fires stopped burning
Sunami stooped sunami-ing
Fish floating, boats capsided.
chapel for sea gulls now a
light house,burning
guiding lights snuffed
power out of control
Where is tomorrow
there will be no tomorrow
forever dusk
Who has seen the light
of day.?
Can anyone tell me what
truth smells like
What radiation taste like
Is there another
word for manhood
This breath we use to
utter is short
slow motion
slower-
cant pronounce my words
The grid is burning
puters not working
incommunicado
Theres a hole in the dyke
Make haste while the sunshines
to late to be heard cannot
see in pitch blackness
So scary when
Niagara Falls
stopped flowing
The yelling stopped
After the bombs dropped
Hiroshima toxic gas
The news
Haiti-
New Orleans
Vietnam
New york
cuba -
Who's allowed to
live until they die
these days.
When humans float like debris'
can the dignity be restored
too many of us newly old
and children of poor children.
We got trapped for seven hours
We couldn’t un-trap ourselves
From the dungeon of the road
Couldn’t call or receive calls
Was indeed incommunicado
Sim card got stuck
Would we ever get to our destination?
She got fed up, endlessly waiting
Luck smiled on me briefly
As I got through to my cousin
Who told her of my trap
My sms met hers on the way
She was still very worried
Only short of being scared
The day crawls by gradually,
Hours tickle away slowly
Behold! Darkness hovers
As it took over the day set aside to unveil
The faces behind the phone
The day was over.
Alayande Stephen T.
2.01am
21st November, 2007
It was written at the Abuja Garage in
Iwo Road, Ibadan on my way to her in Ado-Ekiti.
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