Facing any criticism,
Like crude barbarism,
Had been true terror for me,
Stung my heart like jungly honey-bee...!
Little taunting enough,
To make my mind fluff;
Days and nights I brooded,
Over anything that deluded...!
Psyche filled with suspicion,
At two people's conversation;
They're talking ill of me, I thought,
When got chance, with them I fought...!
Doubts ate up peace like parasites,
Often led to silly fights;
Each one suffered damages,
Thought: have we turned savages...?
Void betwixt like valleys,
Widened each day like alleys;
Why betwixt humans such distance?
Why is such existence?
Tranquility got trailed,
Harmony re-railed;
Enlightenment,
Left negligent...!
During midnight prayers,
Alone at church-upstairs,
Heart filled with fears,
I implored the Lord in tears...!
Could a father see his son cry?
Doesn't he hasten to wipe his eye?
And so the lord responded
Took hold of me as though bonded...!
===
I bloom a smile on all today,
Forgetting events of yesterday;
No doubt; no venom; no burden;
Life has turned Garden of Eden...!
22 November 2022
Best Blessing Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Regina McIntosh
THE WAVING KITE 9.07.2021
On that dusky blue sky,
I saw a kite fly so high,
dipped in pinkish white dye
it pretended to be a world watching spy.
It had wings like the avian doo-doo,
a reptiles sleek long tail too
and like how a Pisces do
it whirled and dived smoothly to move.
Keenly watching the waving kite
I was dropped into my dreaming site.
Like my staggered frozen thoughts
the kite too landed beyond those jungly plots..
It's blisteringly dry.
Martian, winedark, overweight -
No lawns on this mesa of millet-baked pie,
To make this crater straight.
No spades here, no scraping rake.
Just sharp sticks, blood-bricked mortar.
Berbers camp here for old time's sake,
But can't stay; as there's no water.
In this sahara's nape,
There sinks this winderly dome.
Winedark, martian, squat-blooded black grape,
The Nomads' ruined home.
Its winedark walls're muralled,
Of a grand god grazed by honest plague.
His gentle green ways enmarbled,
Wonderfully weathered, and vague.
He sent no fire or floods,
So those drifters still kiss his hand.
He let grave waves pave their jungly woods,
In a lawnless scheme most grand.
Ancient bone-sands, sifting.
Campfire rise, boots trace.
Dead trees' shoots forever lifting
That Martian, winedark place.
The green god grins, in a mirror's embrace.
The dome, squat-blooded, has an ozyman grace;
If lawned, he'd have deserted it, its peoples displaced;
And there'd be less life living upon his face.
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