Stay or you will die
Stay or I will die
Can you not see we give each other life?
Winter is near
The demons will need warmth
The squirrels say they spawn from hell
Perhaps that's why they cannot survive without our heat.
I digress,
If more of you leave, I'll be sure to standout
Have I ever mistreated you and your brethren
Do I disgust you so much that you'd choose death over my company?
Stay till summer, then you can leave
Quiet down,
I hear the demon's cackle
Stay or he'll take my life
He's got an axe, mayhaps he won't notice that I'm dry
Do not approach me you demon
Produce your own heat
Cut me down now but I shall live on
Who needs leaves?
My children have developed roots
I shall live on!
I know I'm second-hand
Filtered out to feed ur addictions
It's bad for my health
But I can't help relapsing over the touches
They take the cigarettes to their lips
and blow the leftovers at me
And I inhale with everything I have
I'm out of breath
But when im with them
It feels like something to live on
I'm an addict for the 2nd hand
I can't avoid it as it blows through me
Around me
Hazing everything I used to be familiar with
It becomes a part of my bad habits
My new form of oxygen
Different from the one I was taught about
I'm second-hand
And I hate that my lungs are worse than u thought
It burns when I think about it
I shouldn't have gone
I promised I'd stay away
Find something to give me purpose again
But turns out it's all I'm good for
A product of what I was made of
2nd hand on what I grew up on
A Body—kept its Custom still—
Though Tenant fled the Room—
It rose at Dawn—performed the Will—
Yet carried not the Bloom—
The Eyes—retained their vacant Watch—
As Windows—shut to Light—
No Guest arrived—no inward Touch—
To animate the Sight—
The Heart—continued—faithful Drum—
Its Duty—to persist—
But beat upon a Hollow Home—
Where Spirit was not missed—
The Lips—rehearsed remembered Words—
By Habit—not by Fire—
As if some distant Echo stirred—
A long-forgot Desire—
O curious Fraud—this Living Form—
That mimics what has fled—
A Clock—still wound—defies the Storm—
Yet knows itself as Dead—
And who shall mark the Subtle Hour—
The Soul—untied its Thread?
No Thunder cleaves—no sudden Power—
Just Silence—thee Undead—
it’s ok to let go
AP: 1st place 2025
In twilight's hush, where shadows play,
A paradox reigns, in endless sway,
The good perish, while the wicked thrive,
In this land, where virtue's brief, and vice survives.
Patriots fall, like autumn's leaves,
Assassinated, poisoned, for their noble deeds,
Their voices silenced, before their time,
As darkness feeds on justice's prime.
Bola Ige, Barnabas Igwe, Marshall Harry too,
Ogbonnaya Uche, Ken Saro-Wiwa, and more, anew,
Their memories linger, like a mournful sigh,
As tyranny's grip tightens, and hope says goodbye.
Gen. Aguiyi Ironsi, Gen. Murtala Muhammed, fell,
Their legacies lost, in a tragic spell,
For how long shall the good people die?
When will justice dawn, and tyranny's night pass by?
How do I continue to live this life that is no longer the same
How do I walk down the streets without searching for your face
It’s Quiet
Our house that was a made a home by your presence feels empty
My heart feels empty
Emotions vacant
No one lives there but grief
I close my eyes waiting for the sandman but even he knows there’s no life within these walls
I cry and beg for Father Time to turn back his hands to when you were here
When you were here…
Memories of your laughter and boisterous voice echos down the halls
I wake up wanting the day to be over
I wake up missing you
I wake up not knowing how to continue to live
Should I continue to live
Do I deserve to continue to…
Your smile, your voice, your love, your presence
I see
You are the reason I should continue to live
But how do I live without you here.
Their tender verses come to mind now and then.
They bring a smile, or pain the heart deep within.
Each fading from our minds, sadly, passed and gone.
Poets, Connie's, Milton's, Harry's, words live on.
Dedication to three wonderful writers
we knew and loved. Long live their
Poetry, and Legacy. Their Poetry are
kept alive in our hearts and mind.
Connie Marcum Wong, Harry Horseman,
and Milton Hankings. Will never be
forgotten. If you're new to Poetry Soup
I recommend you look up these writers,
and read their much loved Poetry...
Live on.
Give me a hug,
Give me a smile,
Open your heart to me.
Do it today.
Maybe tomorrow will be too late
Don't loose yourself in thoughtless thoughts.
Don't try too hard,
Don't complain, for what you don't have,
Embrace yourself, and shine.
Do it today,
Maybe tomorrow will be too late.
Your are beautiful as you are.
And I love what is in your heart.
Don't hide yourself in a shell,
Just be bright and shine.
Do it today,
Maybe tomorrow will be too late.
Leave me to live
Life. What is that? Is it a radiation? Game of God? Just an illusion? Maybe an interesting natural phenomenon?
No. Life is life. Sometimes forced by suffering, forced by happiness, but life didn’t give me a chance, enjoy your life
Leave my life, and live my memory, you will find there our lives. Children, yours and mine, ours, live in the future’s life
You didn’t love me. I loved you. You found me. Not I found you. My life is damaged, destroyed, ruined by you
I want to get the truth. Life of life, the reality of life. Just open the life and feel the land,
the land of the soul, never to be alone
Never live alone, but stay alone, live together, gather together, live the life alone, not together, together alone, be alone in the life and together, altogether
Live me alone to live
Be in my life to live
Could you give me your life?
Accept mine
Stay with me
Live me
Alone
To live our lives
Enow
enow. / (?'na?) / adjective, adverb. an archaic word for enough
Yes, We Survivors Do Live On But How
Many should die, millions or just enow
Yes, war and the fallen lives of war dead
Corpses strewn upon wet blood-soaked ground
In fertile fields, were farmers once did plow.
Many should die, millions or just enow
War the savagery of lost mankind
Death, carnage, loss and misery expands
In fertile fields, were farmers once did plow.
Many should die, millions or just enow
And tears fall like snow from a weeping sky
And mothers, daughters, many wear black dress
In fertile fields, were farmers once did plow.
Many should die, millions or just enow
Yes, we survivors do live on but how?
Robert J. Lindley, Sonnet
June 22, 1974
Note:
""Enow""
enow. / (?'na?) / adjective, adverb. an archaic word for the word= "enough"
“when that that never was dies ~
pristine soul climbs to new highs”
who is it
that inquires
what is truth
the seeker
who so seeks
must first die
to be free
just stop thought
forever
12-May-2023
Tricube
Third eye vibrates, showering bliss,
Divine Mother’s rapturous kiss.
Each node within our form gyrates;
showering bliss, third eye vibrates.
Silent thunder, at play within,
cleanses our soul of every sin
and as we look on in wonder;
at play within, silent thunder.
We alone know, the way we feel,
as bliss bursts forth with zest and zeal,
imbibed by us in stillness slow;
the way we feel, we alone know.
Lower mind rests, erst fears recede,
in childlike trust, we let God lead
and as our soul attains new crests,
erst fears recede, lower mind rests.
We feel complete, our ego dies,
doing nothing, we touch new highs,
for with head laid down at God’s feet,
our ego dies, we feel complete.
05-May-2023
Swap Quatrain
Twice born we live on
Thoughts rested, die cast,
within the void vast,
aliveness awake
has nothing at stake.
Peace that's thus imbibed
cannot be described,
in time stretched stillness;
path to soul's wellness.
Agendaless soul,
blissful, vibrant, whole,
mode - embrace, release,
flows through life with ease.
Bliss beats heart's joy lifts,
our consciousness shifts,
becoming love's flame,
which mind cannot name.
Once desires are shorn,
here and now twice born,
ego dies, we rise;
in rapture, heart sighs.
26-November-2022
Connie Marcum Wong
Inspirational with a mind that was so strong
May it be in comments or written in a poetic song
You are the gift that keeps on giving
Your compassionate wisdom in our hearts will forever be singing
Creation was created out of nothing.
I look out the window,
see lots of somethings.
My dog knows that time is a dimension,
his NOW extends to other time lines;
- the now, past and future. Bowwow.
It’s his nose you see.
The lady in the 7/11 hands me some change,
I mean both 'hand' and ‘handed’ me,
because if time is a dimension the past remains.
Somewhere also
the change is seeking my open hand.
I am not there at the 7/11 now,
yet I am, even though
the shop may no longer exist here
it still does there.
The past does not agree with its non-existence.
Regarding creation being created from nothing,
then what created that nothing?
What was that womb of potentiality?
Maybe even who?
My dog grins,
I know he thinks I think too much.
What dog? He died long ago,
but…………
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