Long Academia Poems
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Written By Marcel Ike Okonkwo
Under the sound of the Ekwe Nimo
In ancestral groove
One hears the dale and might
And songs of our ancestors
In a land of rich cultural heritage.
Nimo, the land of great heroes where star guides
And tender moon abides,
And where the art in the belly of
Asele institute breeds creation.
From Nimo, the ancient town of brotherly love and fraternal unity
A land of hope and fine dreams
For people with revival dedication And excellent spirits
Where the dawn of the new age
Shines upon humanity.
In the streams and seams of our seeking hearts
Within the current of our yearning souls
Down that endless desire for provision
Oye-Nimo, the mother market Awaits with open arms to feed her children.
A town of vibrant men and women With viral giants of the academia
A mother of astute politicians
Business moguls and doctors
Legal luminaries and engineers
A home of renowned professionals
Clergy, great patriots and patriarchs par excellence
With noble people of extra-ordinaire.
The ancient land is not kingless
Igwe Maxi Ike Oliobi wears the crown
In nobility his essence is formed
Oh the great lion of the Sahara
Whose roar quakes the land
And sends the mighty hiding
He leads with all sense of commitment
And unveils the great ocean of truths
That lie undiscovered before his people
All have made Nimo a sweet home
With Nimo our sweet home
Our world of opportunity
Is simply unlimited and infinite
Nimo Bu Enyi —A Profound Peace To You!
How glue me: On lacking sticktoitiveness
Most of my iv + Lix spittle existence
found me figuratively
(primarily academically, emotionally,
psychologically, sexually, socially...) adrift,
and malfunctioning blinker
analogous to a boat
without courtesy picture
an appalling Cap'n Ahab
ankh caws away!
aimlessly bobbing - treading water
analogous to drowning sailor akin
to a besotted drinker
just out of rest to be
rescued by Mister Rinker
sea ming lee without
any hook, line and sinker
despite being gifted with
an above average thinker
from without, where two
myopic ocular
orbs did winker.
All thru academia
just barely passing grades
metaphorically suffered from anemia,
and at my nadir,
thy prepubescent psyche
plummeted lovely bones
into grave state,
sans anorexia minus bulimia
mental health also linkedin
shot thru through with
healthy dose of dysthymia
cap (tinned em man hint mettle)
kept awake with insomnia
peppering cerebral
cortex with monomania
buzzfeeding earthlinked somnambulant
zombified condition
with a burning
desire toward pyromania
(nearly burned down the house
at 324 Level Road)
nsync with unmanageable
raging (red dee
and bull lush) testosterone
spawning satyromania
the above particularly
accentuated, and cresting
with accursed triskaidekaphobia
most agonizing, when
orbitz around Earth
accompanied by 756 full moons)
demarcated ten plus three
on a Friday the thirteenth,
according to Gregorian Calendar,
hence death be not proud
(originally titled
a fourteen-line poem,
or sonnet, by English poet
John Donne, one leading figure
in the metaphysical poets group
of seventeenth-century English literature)
sought after utopia
pleading, longing, and hooping
if I Willoughby
able to sprinkle
cremated ashes across Xenia.
In the labyrinth of time, where truth and lies dance,
I wander among the shadows of thoughts, seeking wisdom's light,
Wondering why, in recent centuries, the learned have lost their way in the mist,
While the simple have carried the flicker of truth in their palms.
I see around me puppets of knowledge, moved by invisible strings,
Institutions like sandcastles, built on the foundation of illusion,
Where elites weave their web of power, wrapping the world in propaganda's silk,
And we, blind and deaf, dance to their rhythm, not knowing that we don't know.
I float on waves of collective memory, among fragments of distorted reality,
Where ideas are born mutilated, where truth is sanitized in sterile laboratories,
Where gender and identity are color splotches in a chaotic kaleidoscope,
And science bows to ideology, like an old oak in a storm.
I hear the echo of voices from outside the walls of academia,
Organic intellectuals, wild flowers in the garden of conformity,
They are the seeds of thought revolution, the germ of change,
But who listens to them in the din of prefabricated information?
I wonder, with a heavy heart and a foggy mind,
How long until the mask falls,
Until we see that the king is naked, that the emperor has no clothes,
That the institutions we've pinned our hopes on are houses of cards?
I see educated people believing in chimeras, in ghosts of progress,
Fifty-eight genders dancing on the edge of absurdity,
Marriages reinvented, science decolonized, a world upside down,
And I think of the wise words: "Only intellectuals can believe such nonsense."
In this night of consciousness, under the starry sky of unanswered questions,
I pray it's not too late when the veil falls,
When educated and uneducated realize they've been fooled,
That the hearts of those in power beat to the rhythm of money, not compassion.
So I wander further in the labyrinth of thoughts,
Seeking not answers, but better questions,
Hoping that somewhere, in the mist of the future,
Truth will rise like a new sun, illuminating the minds and hearts of all.
From whence we as human civilization
began and came into existence
Still very little do we actually know to
this day
As only a partial bit of our history is yet
to be uncovered
And is then left up to academia to
summise and best explain the
reasoning behind
From since long before the written
form came into existence and was
to be discovered
Walls and cave's we're dorbed with
primitive pictorial pictogram and
Hieroglyphics
All seem to follow and have
a common thread
Every single deity so long as able to
looked up and sought for the answers
In the Stars and Skies above
Once the sun and daylight dissapears
and darkness of night finally appears
The Stars come out and proceed to
illuminate like an open storybook
Descending with it unto earth the
Mythology of the God's and so to
the origins of human creation
And to this day why we as human
beings still look up and tilt our head's
and eyes skyward
When we choose to go in search and
search for the answers that we seek
in order to make sense of the meaning
of life itself
An unfathomable unimaginable celestial firestorm on display combusting and
imploding into a cosmic vacuum millions
of light-years away invisible to the human
naked eye
Creating and leaving black holes
reverberating in its wake bathing in
it's afterglow as if it we're the dawning
sun rising on the event horizon field of
gold
Providing comfort and a final everlasting
resting place as even stars burn out and
die when their time is up letting us know
nothing lives forever not even the stars
themselves
All we need and wish to know is
when our time on earth is up and we die
Do we similarly die like stars destined
to be swallowed hole so as an escape
porthole can be opened to another
dimension
Or is that black hole a star creates simply awaiting new arrival's and slam's tight shut
once we enter
("A Moment of Grace" aka "The Empty Mirror", 2024, original encaustic)
The Truth
If you follow the truth,
And are foolhardy enough to try and describe it,
You end up with something
That like an algebraic equation
Cancels itself out and leaves you with nothing.
It’s a complicated and convoluted thing this truth,
And it takes a lot of courage to follow it
All the way to such a vacant end.
Most of us settle for less
And make a name for ourselves
On the half truths we cling to and proclaim
There are very few positions in society
Of any great standing for truth tellers after all
Certainly not in academia, the media, entertainment or politics.
You’ll find truth tellers,
Fellow travelers reduced to nothing,
At the back of the bus,
In dive bars grooving to some unknown band
Hitchhiking late at night going, for God’s sake,
Who knows where,
Or out on the beach, way down at the far end
Naked and alone.
Anyway, at least those are some I’ve met
Who guided me
Not so much as to where or when or what
But simply to how
How to keep moving
If not physically, at least emotionally and mentally
How to keep wondering,
Which is what those that see
With a sense of wonder can’t help but do,
Until the wonderful is seen in everything
In every moment, the very instant itself
When the equations of a lifetime
Balance out to zero.
(7/9/24)
i can never tell you how displeased readers
are by that position the singular
moment when nothing makes any sense
to them at all but only to a few brilliant pebbles
that soar across the night canvas unknown
to
the dullards of academia
it is the ONLY reason
i write; to express
self to those very few
who HEAR ME.
the rest are noise and there is no
time
for wasting one's artistry on rigid brains
and stiff
necked human-geese.
Then again, my imagination never demands
an audience of understanding but more
of an emotional receptivity.
A slumbering shadowy cloud-vignette
seeping from
a tormented mind onto
freshly sliced paper cuts.
This is the
color red screaming in a dying ink stroke.
:: 07-21-2017 ::
Murderous Sprees...
sinister Population Control, Sans Cosmic Creator?
Maybe,... I shudder to think
up the sleeve and ornate cufflink
of divine maker, a deliberate pitch
to foist *****sapien on brink
viz self destruction,
asper bedlam upon Earth that doth stink
a hellish conspiracy linkedin with tragedy
namely sinister predestined plan to shrink
terrestrial realm usurped by ink
king a pact of devilish destruction, demolition
denunciation, et cetera doth stoke
unslakable thirst of bloody drink
sucked out the flesh o' every body electric
as zombies and vampires quench
fifty plus shades of deep pink
drain liquid of life courtesy of chosen thugs
incognito golem aliens to kill and sink
civilization, until every person extinct
cold comfort (from this Yankee of mortal fate
lifelong resident of Keystone state),
one day extraterrestrials, (whom might
inhabit planet teeming with billions)
will excavate and then curate
a sorry lot of creatures, where bullets did eliminate
an arrogant, haughty, narcissistic...peoples
(a handful of exceptions to the contrary),
whose various tribes never adapted to integrate
sundry superficial differences among themselves
instead chose to allow, enable and provide
(Putin shill) collusion did willingly corroborate
with dopplegangers i.e. "FAKE" guardians
whose real not so impossible mission
to feign friendship, at heart..a pie rate
but sole outlook to eradicate
coercive, self immersive,
passive, et cetera species
and blithely earn blind trust, unwittingly mutate
into their likeness only to trump
pet gentlemen's agreement brittleness did break
as "FAKE" and devastate
democratic and constitutional compact
(utilizing bribery to swindle elite schools
so crazy rich parents could manipulate
levers of prestigious academia) to satiate
egos bragging about brilliant offspring
only to undermine the complex edifice
spoiling promising futures via golden gate
bridge of studious grads,
who exercised sweat o' their pate.
as chopsticks for soup
like a monkey eating scotch bonnets
you have to want it
good luck is a myth
thin as a Theban cookie
as your skin if you don't get it
checked-off triggers in academia
fired as a porcelain finger up
kilned in an undertone of glazing
grace is a saying and a Name
tweaked as an ego or a jacket
potato is a hashing at 3 a.m.
iHopper lingering is a tension
getting to the hearth of it
another homer hit past time's fence
foe knocking at your big teeth in front
like a door to your cheeks
puffed with a nut-angle oblique
playing a game of mother elephant
a recess abbreviated by a bad pronunciation
intonation of inspiration at the bell
wrung and swung along a well-tread trail
as dirty as a thurible
hear the phrase all of the time,
‘It doesn’t fit the narrative,’
used in news, academia,
and in political missives,
a phrase that I find curious
since so many do seem to yell
that the narrative they’ve chosen
outweighs even the world itself.
Like Marx’s view on history,
and the old ‘progress’ fallacy,
this thought that we must have stages,
advance through them relentlessly,
but history won’t hold them up,
it doesn’t go by what they say,
there is no path man is bound to,
just crazy lurchings everyday.
Did not 2016 prove this?
The narrative was she would win,
but things didn’t turn out that way,
and folks went nuts, thought it a sin.
Screamed about it for four years,
it wasn’t supposed to happen, no!
Despite the fact, scanning the past,
that this is how things often go.
I think, perhaps, the first mistake
you see in the narrative crowd,
is simple overreduction,
to pair all human beings down.
We saw this in Collectivists,
and their misplaced faith in ‘the group,’
but others do this trick as well,
simplification hides the truth.
Humans are a chaos system,
even taken one at time,
sure, we do have our old routines,
but every so often you’ll find
we do something that makes no sense,
that no other man could predict,
that unseen burst of randomness,
is so often what makes us tick.
Expand that to the whole species,
and you see chaos written large,
chaos actors interacting,
I think that it's a stretch too far
for any human mind to grasp,
to think you could is a conceit,
too many factors change too fast
to be forseen reliably.
Add to that the physical world
is a chaos system as well,
and we’re all stuck living with it,
this makes it really hard to tell
what causes this, or changes that,
to our mind it seems randomness,
it’s plain to see that narrative
cannot encompass all of this.
Our brain simply can’t organize
or relate to something that vast,
we simplify to understand,
and there’s a great danger in that.
Some start to think the narrative
is objective reality,
and act as if denying that
is a troubling perfidy.
But when has the world ever cared
about the thoughts we apes create?
The world is not a narrative,
that is a fact we can’t escape...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
As I have wondered through the halls of old,
the minds of famous scribes in academia
had made me fearless, oft carelessly bold
when Mind betrayed lexical anaemia.
Soon baying at the Moon as it weeps,
a different view, depending on aspect.
The wisdom I crave inexorably seeps,
but seldom culminates into respect.
The misprision's become my badge of honour
as hyperbole swills in lexicon o’ Man.
Long years of uninformed populous dour
with magniloquent thinking that poetry can.
Yet I contemplate books in warehouse—
dyslexia transformed it into ‘wh…house’—
endless mirth that others could never douse.