Long poem by
Mbizo Chirasha | Details
iam a fat skeleton, resurrecting
from the sad memories of dada
and dark mysteries of aminism
i bleed hope
i drip the honey of fortune
makerere, think tank of africa
i dance with you wakimbizi dance
i smell and fester with the smoke of african genesis
iam the beginning
kilimanjaro the anthill of rituals
iam the smile of africa
my glee erase the deception of sadness
my tooth bling freedom
iam myself, iam gambia
when others seep with bullets stuck in their stomachs
i sneeze copper spoons from my mouth every dawn
iam the colombia of africa
iam the cinderella of africa
where mediums feast with the ghost of kamuzu in mulange trees
here spirits walk naked and free
iam the land of sensations
iam the land of reactions
coughing forex blues
i still smell the scent of nehanda’ breath
iam african renaissance blooming
i stink the soot of chimurenga
iam the mute laughter of njelele hills
swallowed by kwaito and gong
iam a decade of wrong and gong
iam blister of freedom vomited from the belly of apartheid
i see the dawn of the coming sun in madiba ‘s eyebrows
blast furnace of corruption
nigeria, the jerusalem of noblemen, priests, professors and prophets
iam guinea i bling with african floridization
iam blessed with many tongues
my thighs washed by river nile
iam the mystery of pyramids
iam the graffiti of nefertiti
i am the rich breast of nzinga
iam switzerland of africa
the rhythm of kalahari sunset
the rhyme of sahara, yapping, yelping
iam damara, iam herero, iam nama, iam lozi, iam vambo
iam bitterness, iam sweetness
iam king kongo
mobutu roasted my diamonds into the stink of deep brown blisters
frying daughters in corruption microwaves
souls swallowed by the beat of ndombolo and the wind of rhumba
iam the paris of africa
i see my wounds
iam rhythm of beauty
i sing of you
i sing thixo
i sing of ogun
i sing of god
i sing of tshaka
i sing of jesus
i sing of children
of garangaja and banyamulenge
whose sun is dozing in the mist of poverty
iam the ghost of mombasa
iam the virginity of nyanza
iam scarlet face of mandinga
iam cherry lips of buganda
come sankara, come wagadugu
iam msiri of garangadze kingdom
my heart beat under rhythm of words and dance
iam the dead in the trees blowing with wind,
i can not be deleted by civilization.
iam not kaffir, iam not khoisun
iam the sun breaking from the villages of the east with great inspiration of revolutions
its fingers caressing the bloom of hibiscus
ichbin ein fettes Skelett, das wieder aufersteht
aus traurigen Erinn'rungen an dada
und dunklen Mysterien des Aminismus (1)
ichbin buganda (2)
ich blute Hoffnung
ich tropfe den Honig des Schicksals
makerere, Think-tank von Afrika (3)
ich tanze mit dir wakimbizi(4) tanz
ich stinke und eit're mit dem Rauch afrikanischer Genesis
ich bin der Anfang
kilimanjaro der Ameisenhügel der Rituale
ichbin das Lächeln Afrikas
meine Freude tilgt die Täuschung der Traurigkeit
mein Zahn blingt(5) Freiheit
ichbin ichselbst, ichbin gambia
wenn andere aussickern während Kugeln stecken in ihren Mägen
schneuze ich Kupferlöffel aus meinem Mund bei jedem Tagesanbruch
ich bin das Kolumbien von Afrika
ichbin das Aschenputtel von Afrika
wo Medien schmausen mit dem Geist von kamuzu in mulange Bäumen (6)
hier gehn Geister nackt und frei
ichbin das Land der Sinneseindrücke
ichbin das Land der Reaktionen
huste Forex Blaus
ich rieche noch den Duft von nehanda Atem (7)
ichbin Afrikanische Renaissance die blüht
ich stinke den Ruß von chimurenga (8)
ichbin das stumme Lachen von njelele Hügeln (9)
ich bin Soweto
verschluckt von kwaito(10) und gong
ichbin ein Jahrzehnt von wrong/falsch und gong
ichbin Blasen der Freiheit gekotzt aus dem Bauch der Apartheid
ich sehe den Anbruch des kommenden Sonne in madiba ‘s Augenbrauen (11)
Hochofen der Korruption
Nigeria, das Jerusalem der Edelmänner, Priester, Professoren und Propheten
ich bin Guinea ich “bling” mit afrikanischer Floridisierung
ichbin gesegnet mit vielen Zungen
meine Schenkel, gewaschen vom Nil
ichbin das Geheimnis der Pyramiden
ich bin das graffito of Nefertiti
ich bin die reiche Brust von nzinga (12)
ichbin die Schweiz Afrikas
der Rhythmus of Kalahari Sonnenuntergang
der Reim der Sahara, kläffend, jaulend
ichbin damara, ichbin herero, ichbin nama, ichbin lozi, ichbin vambo (13)
ichbin Bitterkeit, ichbin Süße
ichbin König Kongo
mobutu röstete meine Diamanten im Gestank von tiefbraunen Blasen
briet Töchter in Korruptions-Mikrowellen
Seelen geschluckt vom Beat des ndombolo(14) und dem Wind des rhumba
ichbin das Paris von Afrika
ich seh meine Wunden
ichbin Rhythmus der Schönheit
ich bin Mandinga (15)
ich sing von dir
ich singe thixo (16)
ich sing von ogun (17)
ich sing von Gott
ich sing von tshaka (18)
ich sing von Jesus
ich sing von Kindern
von garangaja und banyamulenge
deren Sonne döst im Nebel der Armut
ichbin der Geist von Mombasa
ich bin die Jungfräulichkeit von nyanza
ichbin scharlachrotes Gesicht von mandinga
ichbin Kirschenlippen von buganda
Komm Sankara, komm Wagadugu
ichbin Msiri vom Garangadse Reich
mein Herz schlag unterm Rhythmus von Worten und Tanz
ichbin die Toten in den Bäumen die wehen im Wind,
ich kann nicht ausgestrichen werden von Zivilisation.
Ichbin nicht Kaffer, ich bin nicht Khoisun
ichbin die Sonne die anbricht in den Dörfern des Ostens mit großer Inspiration von Revolutionen
ihre Finger liebkosen das Blüh'n des Hibiskus
Copyright © Mbizo Chirasha | Year Posted 2017
Long poem by
Trisha Sugarek | Details
The Ash Can ©
I got the call on Sunday night. I was traveling on business. When I looked at the caller ID
I wondered why my husband’s boss would be calling me. I was unprepared for what
he told me and my legs turned to water when he said that my husband was dead.
‘A heart attack? An accident?’ I asked. ‘No’, he said, ‘John committed suicide.
They found him in your garage this morning.’ I heard someone screaming and
wished that they would stop so I could hear the rest. His voice was very far away
and the woman just kept screaming. ‘Shut up! Shut up!’ I need to hear. I clapped my
hand over my mouth when I suddenly realized it was me who was screaming.
I don’t remember hanging up or getting on the plane. (beat) Yes, John and I were having
problems and we had been separated for about three months but nothing was official.
After thirty years of marriage I never believed that we couldn’t weather this and share
the rest of our lives together. This was just a phase he was going through…some sort
of mid-life crisis. This had to be some horrible mistake, a case of mistaken identity.
My John would never do this, leave me like this. (beat)
I stumbled into our home around nine the next morning. The house looked like a woman
hadn’t lived there for months. Dirty dishes in the sink, groceries half put away, empty
beer cans and a full ashtray by John’s chair. Seeking comfort I walked over to his chair.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a reflection in the mirror over the
fireplace. Some wild looking woman with mascara smudges under her eyes and smeared
lipstick looked out at me. I walked closer to inspect this stranger in my house.
She looked old and used up. Who was she? What had life dealt her to look so worn out?
Oh, God, it was me. Staring out with those eyes bleeding hot, raw pain. (beat) I curled
up in John’s chair and closed my eyes. Was this all I had left of my husband? This slightly shabby piece of furniture that still smelled of him? How could I tell our children? Could I bear to go into the garage? What would I find?
I knew that they had taken his body away but what had they left there for me to see?
Maybe something there would prove that this was truly a mistake. I rose to my feet and
walked into the kitchen and through the laundry room to the garage door. (beat)
I slowly opened it and was knocked back by the remaining stink of gas fumes.
John’s car sat in its parking spot, the garden hose hanging from the back window like
some obscene snake. I gagged and pressed the button to open the garage door.
The passenger side window was open so I could look inside without having to touch the car. And what I saw on the seat told it all. There was John’s cell phone, an empty bottle of Vodka and a bottle of Excedrin. (beat) And something else…a second cell phone…what in the world? I was only allowed five seconds of blissful denial before it all came crashing down on me. The second phone…the secret phone that men who cheat keep to talk to their lovers. All those protestations he offered during the time that we were apart. ‘No, there was no one else’, ‘I just need to find myself’, ‘I don’t want a divorce’, ‘I just need some time’. ‘I love you; I’m just not in love with you.’ Lies, all lies! How could I have been so stupid? Then I notice a crumpled manila envelope on the floor of the car. Anger driven, I opened the door and picked up the envelope and the two cell phones and went back into the house. Sitting in John’s chair once again, I smoothed out the envelope and read what was written there.
‘Ricky, tell Sherry I love her. Tell Sherry I can’t live without her. Tell Sherry not to cry
for me. Sherry, I’ll love you forever. I’m sorry.....John-Boy.’ Who the hell was Sherry?
Did my husband of three decades kill himself over some tramp? Some other woman
whom he barely knew? I picked up the second cell phone and scanned the history of calls.
Where was area code 864? As I set the phone down my eye caught the partial title of
a book lying on the rug under the table. Picking it up, I read: ‘How To Keep A Long
Distance Relationship Exciting and New.’ I opened it to the first few pages and found an
inscription, ‘To my tiny dancer, until we meet again. Love forever, your John-Boy.’
My God, John, how could you? How could you do this to us? I yelled as I threw the
book across the room; will this hellish nightmare never end? (beat) I picked up the
cell phone and scrolled down the history; Sherry Hoffman, Sherry Hoffman, Sherry Hoffman, Sherry Hoffman. No other woman, huh, John? South Carolina…hence the long distance relationship…you’re such a fool, I told myself. There was voice mail saved and I listened to the most current ones. Those messages told a story of a married woman who had a son and a new grandchild.
Another sad, pedestrian story of a restless woman trapped in a loveless marriage but
unwilling to leave. The daughter-in-law apparently would not let Sherry see the child.
It seemed that John, in a misplaced attempt to help, called Sherry’s son to insist that
he let Sherry see her grand-baby.
Only to succeed in blowing up that family. The final message was not so sweet and
sexy from his lover. Sherry had dumped my husband. (beat) I didn’t know whether
to laugh or cry. I seemed to be trapped in a crazed, unbelievable soap opera. But what
is it that they say about truth being stranger than fiction? I sighed. John had always
wanted to rescue anyone in trouble…even when they didn’t ask for help. He had crossed
the line calling that woman’s son. Oh, John, what were you thinking?, I asked the empty
room. Didn’t you know? You were her dirty little secret.... (more)
(from my book, Monologues 4 Women)
Copyright © Trisha Sugarek | Year Posted 2014
Long poem by
Vic Pister | Details
When my life has finally left me and my last breath has been shed
And the silver cord is broken and my bodies firmly dead
I shall hover near the body, download the scenes of this past life
Noting all minutest details rolling backwards past my eyes
I’ll store these scenes ‘til later when I can take the time to learn
What the lessons have to teach me and help me to discern
How I treated other people, made them happy, made them sad
Examine all my actions, both the good and the bad
Three days later I’ll lose interest as my focus moves away
From the world that I just left behind, there is no need to stay
For a lifetime in the life of man to God is just a day
And my soul as God on the wheel of life must move along its way
I’ll take the download with me as I move into first heaven
It’s the first stage in the afterlife, in number there are seven
Here I’ll see and feel the good things that to others I have brought
And revel in the feelings of the kindness that I wrought
I will store these in my seed atom so in future lives I’ll know
They’re the things that I must multiply for my souls’ conscience to grow
For the conscience is the souls’ voice that guides you day by day
That still small voice that warns you in what you do and say
When that’s done my view will shift then to the things that I did bad
To the hurt I did to people that left them feeling sad
I will feel their pain intensely, ten times worse when in this field
For I’ll be purely spirit now with no flesh for a shield
These painful lessons will imprint upon my seed atom as well
In some religions we are told our soul’s in everlasting hell
In the stages of the afterlife, this is your punishment in heaven
This is the third and the most painful of the total seven
The Grim Reaper now has visited with his scythe so I will know
Through natures Law of Consequence I will reap what I did sow
He has shown me all my misdeeds and caused me many tears
And this purgatorial experience may last for twenty years
When my suffering soul recovers and the pain has died away
And I’ve incorporated the lessons to never act this way
In future lives I’ll be a better man from these lessons I have learned
One step closer to perfection that my growing soul has earned
Now I can sleep, Oh peaceful sleep, a state of heavenly rest
I’ll dream the dreams I love in life, of things I love the best
All desires that my soul has yearned, not a thing I can’t create
In the Great Silence of the spirit world to help me concentrate
The colors are much brighter, the scent of flowers more sublime
The senses are much sharper, there is no sense of time
I will see all other people as pure souls just like me
And I’ll know we’re all evolving to the bliss of eternity
I will hear the mystic music of the planets as they pass
Like a thousand singing angels, heavenly peace has come at last
Every planet sings its own song, we’ve grown deaf to this below
But in this super consciousness we’re in the eternal flow
I’ll be with my friends and family and others whom I love
The ones who left before me and currently live above
There they wait with arms wide open and rejoice when I arrive
In the fourth stage where I now live, it’s utter joy to be alive
I’ve incorporated my lessons, I now recall my goal
And my mind begins to focus on further growth of my soul
I must make further preparations and my vision starts to clear
I feel I must keep moving forward for all my works done here
I now have gone through five and six, there is just one more
In years it’s been from birth to birth one hundred forty four
The time has come to move along and leave this place called heaven
Prepare for life in the physical world, I move to number seven
My soul has gathered the material, I now know what I must do
To make some more improvements in the places I need to
I must take another body, I must live another life
To grow and liquidate more karma though it means more pain and strife
I build an archetype of the body that in future I will form
When embodiment is offered, and I can be reborn
I will see the opportunities and be able to discern
The ideal embodiment for me when the right egg meets the sperm
I will hover near the fetus, influencing where I can
And I’ll have the power to make it be a woman or a man
I will help to build the body to suit the lessons I must learn
To overcome more issues so more advancement I can earn
When baby takes its first breath and my soul is taken in
With the imprint of my seed atoms that it has brought within
Now the babys’ atoms resonate to my seeds vibration rate
Making it the perfect body for my soul to habituate
The new body will be my new home, I will live a life anew
Gain experience, learn more lessons, through the things that I will do
I’ll apply the added knowledge that I learned in this past life
More evolved than in the last one, and cause me less pain and strife
This will happen just as often as required by the soul
As it pushes ever onward, pushing ever t’ward its goal
Of complete re-integration back from whence it came
To the universal soul of life no matter what its name
Nature is not personal, it does not seek revenge
If we mess it up we have the chance to do it all again
We arrived here by this process, nothing’s changed it’s still the same
But our souls have evolved immensely since we stepped into the game
We started out as fallen angels with no experience on this plane
We’ve grown to this by coming back again and again
Though we cannot remember for each conscious mind has died
The feelings in the soul remained in our subconscious mind
And so this is the story of the cycle of the soul
As it struggles through evolution on its way toward the goal
It’s this way for all unfailing, from natures law there’s no relief
All living things go through it, no matter their belief
Copyright © Vic Pister | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
Mark Massey | Details
With love they make the passage into light,
in gardens lush each mourner stood abreast.
Then hand in hand they walked up to the site
she chose to be her final place of rest.
They all had gathered 'round the open ground
to sprinkle petals on the coffer tomb.
Cold silence seemed to be the only sound
as bearers placed it in its earthly womb.
And far behind the mourners stood a pair
of men in whisper as they viewed in grace.
One spoke about his life now in despair
and other days that brought him to this place.
“No god of love would leave me in such pain,
alas my faith in thee could be in vain”.
Faith in Vain
Alas my faith in thee could be in vain.
I’d called on you to give me strength to fare
the tragedies that fell on me like rain
and in that hour I could not find you there.
My son and wife are now three years deceased.
Malignancy has filled my mind with fear.
I’ve given up my search for inner peace.
Now only manic demons harbor there.
I still aspire that one day soon I’ll be
released from mortal shackles that I wear
and seek to find in heaven my relief.
Through faith in thee I hope to find them there.
I wonder why the god of grace contends
to test the mortal circumstance of men?
To test the mortal circumstance of men
my body fights a battle from within;
the cure too strong for many to defend
with poisons meant to make you whole again.
My ravaged state had left me but a shell
and made me wonder why I even tried.
And as I drifted deeper into hell
my life was saved but for it faith had died.
My guiding light had been my family,
in darkest moments there to lead me on.
I realized that he watched over me,
providing strength in them to keep me strong.
To know my loving family sustains,
In death a living memory remains.
The Death of a Son
In death a living memory remains,
the patriarchal heir shall carry on.
In vain I walk because there is no name
to call a father who has lost his son.
He stood by me when I was in despair
and as those hopeless visions filled my head;
so futile my request that life be fair
or pray for death to take me in his stead.
My grandchild's birth, his son, shall free this pain;
too young to know his father could not stay
reminding us the best of him remains.
But sorrow won and death soon claimed its prey.
With family we can conquer life’s demands;
one man cannot secure such futile ends.
One man cannot secure such futile ends
to ever mend a mother’s broken soul.
She was my lover and my cherished friend,
the anguish finally took its mortal toll.
We placed her in the ground atop her pride.
This single grave now binds me to this ground.
And soon our bodies will be placed aside
with fleeting hopes our spirits can be bound.
I called to Him, “Have mercy on me lord,
in my surrender, I’m a broken man.”
I knew it was his judgement I abhorred.
But who was I to doubt his holy plan?
A granite stone engraved for evermore;
the only way that memories endure.
The only way that memories endure
when all my hopes have withered into dust
and everything in life I once adored
is gone and now in nothing will I trust.
My shredded faith I’ve cast into the air
in pieces I may never find again.
With you my friend these memories I share
so in my sorrow you may understand.
The friend just stood in silence for a spell
and turned to look into the mourner's eyes
then spoke of this great gift that had befell
upon him just before his son had died.
Your faith in life and love you can restore;
they live within the hearts of those so pure.
They live within the hearts of those so pure.
Each mourner grieves the passing of this friend.
The life and death for all is to insure
that everything that ends begins again.
A child is such a blessing to receive,
so filled with love it heals our earthly pains.
Just take this child to heart and you’ll receive
the blessing of the love he has ordained.
All those gathered stood for one last prayer.
With silence broken each then found their way
along the paths where others shared despair
among the stones where mortal remnants lay.
The soul will find its way to Heaven’s door
A stone shall mark all those that came before.
A stone shall mark all those that came before,
the solitary soul shall reign unbound.
With mortal flesh interned forevermore,
we pray the soul is now eternal bound.
Through faith we seek an everlasting life,
we hope our prayers are heard in heaven's heights.
A fragile son cannot escape the strife,
with love they make the passage into light.
Alas my faith in thee could be in vain
to test the mortal circumstance of men.
In death a living memory remains,
one man cannot secure such futile ends.
The only way that memories endure;
they live within the hearts of those so pure.
Heroic Crown of Sonnets
A. Mark Massey
Copyright © Mark Massey | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
Timothy Hicks | Details
I was wiping the dust off an old snow globe in the upstairs attic, when a mop of honey-blonde hair suddenly appeared through the wooden flooring.
"I thought I'd find you here," said the voice, warm and feminine. It was a lovely contrast to the thoughts that bloomed inside my head. The little red Santa smiling gaily, his gloved hand forever frozen in a wave. Truth be told it was over a hundred degrees outside, and up here in this cobweb-ridden place (by God) was practically unbearable.
But as I lightly shook the fragile keepsake I found myself dashing through the snow like I once did so many years ago. I heard the sound of high pitched laughter from afar, out in the sultry day (most likely the neighbor kids playing tag through a sprinkler-soaked lawn). But there, at that precise moment, I was taking the road before me, and singing a chorus or two.
"You miss him don't ya?" the voice broke me out of my thoughts, and for a moment I just stared at her as if she had a left over piece of spinach in her teeth. I nodded quietly in the silence and rubbed the smooth curvature of the glass with my thumb. It somehow felt cold, as if winter wonderland was still trapped inside.
I knew I hadn't stayed too long, though I knew my wife would be patient throughout this ordeal, however long it took. She didn't need to recite any famous sayings to pick me up, just her being there was enough. It was the unspoken truth between us, and it was always enough.
"Cody and Angie will be downstairs when you're ready to head out."
"I'm ready now. I was just doing a little cleaning up." It wasn't quite a lie. It was one of those statements we use to say one thing and mean the other. The attic was "okay", but I knew of more dire things in need of some organization.
Beth went down the ladder first, naturally. Then it was me, a bit awkwardly, still holding the snow globe. We both came into the living room, where our children sat waiting. Cody was playing some handheld video-game in his Hawaiian swimming trunks. Angie was quietly giggling at something her friend said, via text. Her blue bathing suit was barely more than a strap, and I knew I was this close from losing it. But this was a happy day, so I let it slide, just this once.
"Are you still not ready?" asked Angie.
I looked down at my blue work jeans and buttoned-up t-shirt. My wife gave her a fierce look, as if willing her to take back what she said. It didn't really matter though ... my emotions were spent.
"I was gonna change when we got there," I said, a bit defeated.
"Whatever." She rolled her eyes and plopped her phone right there on the couch. I just stood there like a lifeless statue, while my family got everything ready to head to the local pool. My wife was as patient as a snail, but the kids bustled about as if they've been down here a lifetime. Cody was mad when Beth took the game-boy from his hand, just before some big important checkpoint. Angie was calling Beth completely unfair for not letting her invite Tom over to come swim as well. My wife told her, "This is a family event, no exceptions, and for Pete's sake, listen to me for just this once!"
I just stood there, in quiet grief. Their voices were mere sounds, plastic and surreal, and I went along with it as if everything was alright. But it wasn't alright. The world was falling apart all around me, miraculously still turning, and I just stood there! Finally I reached for the doorknob, when I realized I still had the snow globe in my hand.
I looked at it longingly, with affection, and it came to me. A slightly crazy idea. Not the kind where it's life or death, but the fact that it was a spur of the moment decision, it felt totally crazy. I placed the snow globe on the mantel above the fireplace, where the glass caught the sun just right and the jolly Santa shone a brilliant red.
Allow me this simple pleasure, I asked God in silence. Let the neighbors gawk and smirk all they want. Let the kids think their father's going senile, thinking it's December and not August. I didn't care. I just watched the little flakes twinkle through out the water-filled dome.
I displayed it proudly, knowing that good will, kindness and love were never out of season. So I picked myself up out of my gloomy state, got inside the car, and slid into the driver's seat. "Alright, let's go!" I said cheerfully, and everyone looked surprised.
"Dad, is everything … okay?" asked Cody, from behind. But no answer was necessary. I just smiled, and looked across at Beth without a care in the world.
And since we've no place to go, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.
First Published in Dual Coast Magazine Issue #3
NOTE: I've written a few short stories, but this one is special to me. It was well received by my family, and I was so excited to discover it was accepted by a magazine. It was my first non-poem to be published.
Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
Jayne Eggins | Details
Its been over 27 years coming
this missive or letter,
maybe poem ?
I HATE Mother’s day !!
with a passion ... I've said it ...
The sheer relief is palpitating
a load of my mind, and body,
slithers away peacefully knowingly,
just to see those words in writing,
Actually I find the words out of reach
to express my utter relief, just now
Don’t get me wrong,
It’s not that I don’t love or
want to celebrate my mother
or lack feeling for her
Oh ! it’s completely the opposite
Not only does it remind me what I miss (her)
but it also reminds me, what,
what I always felt I lacked
(as a mother I mean), and I've felt
it for many years, since my first
My mother and hers and my father and his
set the standards so high, so very high
that I thought hey, I'm smart ?
I can be a mother a better mother
like no other, like no other indeed !
I remember receiving gifts
being overwhelmed with joy
that first mother’s day
I was graced with that love
and all those crazy
Motherly emotions, we mothers feel
I felt gratitude for all that
and so much more
But then doubt crawled into mind
setting up house, making a home
that would last the whole lifetime
of my eldest son, until these past
days filled with agony, measured
no longer in minutes or hours
but in each moment of pain
I felt I hadn’t been there enough
I knew, or thought I knew
I hadn't loved them 'enough'
or soothed their pains
or made their bed 'enough',
Jesus, the shit I poured
down my own back
I lack many things, though
I had wisp of a dream
that hope would win,
I'd be a mother, like my own
but that wasn't to be
life changed like a hurricane
I lived one life and then
another took its place
no better or worse,
my children never went without,
then they did for more years
than the former, I felt the pain
each time I said 'no' but always
tried to rob Peter paying Paul his due
and went without, yes even food
then slowly as times sands swiftly
drew threw the hourglass
they all left, got jobs, found love
and made lives without me,
I never get to see them much
some more than others
over time it’s taken its toll
I thought lack of contact
spoke about the mother I was
how much I was loved
I was right,
it was saying something
just not what I thought
I have saved two of mine
from the very hands of death,
I have went without sleep
for more reasons than I care to list
I have answered the phone
in the dead of night
spoken about everything
I missed a call to bail a man out
but alas it was the one night
I have known the hands of sleep
all night, for a very long time
so I forgive myself, even if he doesn't
I have slaved and went without sleep
Christmas night, just to see their
little faces in the morning
I always tried my best hoping
and praying, yes praying !,
(to that one in the second row
Saying, "I always knew she prayed")
Some will take a shot at a guess
at why I write this just now this close
to a day that should be celebrated
for all mothers the good ones and the bad
It’s because even a bad mother can love
with every fiber of her beautiful soul,
even a bad mother can be a good mother
on those days that end with a child’s peace
As my days trickle to hours and minutes
I know mothers never ever stop being mothers
yes even the bad ones, can love forever
with passion that burns from her womb
There is a feeling that only a mother can feel
and I don’t mean just birth mothers,
I mean all mothers Biological or not
they all feel it in their hearts and minds
in their bodies and souls
even the children she gave homes to
(but not life), in doing so
is giving a life to without
knowing first breath,
and yet still carry with them a love
they will always bare
then as times hand lays his head
and says enough, she is gone
it is now on this Mother’s Day
I say, I hate mother’s day even more
because I am a motherless child
wishing for just a few moments more
so I could tell my mother
she was the best mother, like no other,
Because she was mine
there’s a lesson here for you children
those lucky enough to still have their mother
give her a call and just say I love you, then hang up !!
let her think what a "cray cray crazy" child she has
but wouldn’t change for anything even life
and I bet she smiles ... eventually
time will never stand for no man or woman,
So love your mother and tell her, once a week ? maybe?
To my kindred souls who have felt the loss
and the stinging cut of the wounds
that drip with grief from their loss
today I hate Mother’s day too ......
but there's a lasting but here,
I forgive my beautiful soul,
I gave 'enough', it was all I had ...
Copyright © Jayne Eggins | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Olamide Adebayo | Details
I killed my friend,
I never wanted,
Do not see me cruel,
I did it for love.
We both ran naked
Under this influential shower.
No one uncoupled his lips
Against this faint madness,
We were indebted,
Either had to earn the prize.
It was shiny,
I couldn't bear it,
Bear to see his vein
Uncuff so much blood,
Was I so cruel,
I slashed him!
Right beneath the ear,
The chin suffered the lot.
He said it to my face:
Once we scoured the Queen's land,
Sang in praises of Great Britain,
As the innocent horses start;
Tugging behind them
But now the horses are dead,
The chariot is birthed against us,
We are dead to brotherhood!
The volcano erupted,
In me, I felt it fuelling out.
I was feeting off,
When he dogged from behind,
With sombre intents.
But I left my gruesome dagger,
Screening through his burdened life-bag.
Yes I did it!
He lay still before me,
I wept over my destiny uncharted;
I could only bare
To see twilight willow
But onto my grave,
Written in Mephistopheles's tongue.
I did, when I had to,
What a shame!
Fled my own land! ! !
A constipated crib conceived in my cranial court,
Was I rather too young,
So that I became a nomad soon.
I rode in grievous company of the sun,
I voyaged in the nailing complement of the storm-I
think we must have prickled its patience,
Its revenge was full of life,
We were dealt by our own destinies.
The carrion-eating bird approved.
This unfaithful revenge
Did but fed my mindset a tongue of advise:
Do not err the storm! ! !
I was conceived on the river-bank,
'Grace' became a refrain in my head,
I felt it was more to be cherished;
Not even my enchanting physiognomy altered.
What could this be called
If not a reborn
Into a soil of freedom and cruelty?
Orphaned by twigs and branches,
Bats and skylarks.
Was it not a diet balanced enough
To sow a seed of ambivalence
In my nomadic thoughts! ?
Did I ever tell of the obnoxity
Of these creatures particularly?
They move their fingers like I do,
Stride like I do,
Posture leveled to the horizone,
Skin worn black;
And they chant in languages I never understood.
I watched them discharge another's blood,
In brutality of what seems their tradition.
I think this island it was
Death feasted all day.
Should it be said that it was pre-destined?
I got hypnotized by a friendly one
Of a different tribe,
But he was lonely,
I proposed to know more of his poor fate.
He even calls me Master,
He seemed anonymous -
I think they were never christianed,
I named him 'Friday'.
Friday was a walking dead;
Dead to his own people,
Died the day doom cast a spell on him.
Death could have had its sediments in his life-
Friday never sieved to the crust
His last lee of ecstasy.
A fearless ant
Hoping to withstand the elephant's stampede.
Tell me; desert of years ago,
That blacks could make one's lifetime
A dream on water beds,
And I would sing to my love;
Let her womb cough out on black ink.
And who fall prey to ignorance,
That my friends were born
To feed our fire, woods,
Destined to be tugged in chains,
Like the survivor dog?
He journeyed to the river-bank too,
From a path unread to me,
He was a dog afterall.
My pains were read to his poor understanding,
Before came Friday.
Oh how I survived on that unlawful island!
I once aimed at those innocent birds
With my old-time riffle,
Friday amused my gaze;
My grave-night experience scored it,
That the fully-winged bird descended
At the furious hit of a dead stick
Thrown by my friend.
Is he not worth soldiers praised in the British
Then why leave them in chains and cages! ?
All burden seized,
When we both seek chairs from the frogs,
We nursed into the cage of dogs not bone-fed.
When for the homeless sake of freedom,
Friday had to unchain my soul
From these hopeless wander,
Or I honour his.
But why is such ugly fate stringed to my journey
Through this turmoil?
No way could I once more vaporize my friend
For any prize,
Not even for a freedom worthless!
I begged him take the prize,
But time rode my own countrymen-waist armed
With improved guns,
Faster than Friday could have lived.
I owe my gratitude
To that very man
Who killed my friend-Friday!
This poem is based on the legend;
'Life And Adventures Of Robinson Crusoe'.
Copyright © Olamide Adebayo | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
DENNIS DE ROSE | Details
What's that in your hand?. Let me see.. He said.
It's a picture; that`s Chuck; he is my friend... I said.
You pick your friends kinda young, don't you?... He said.
No, that was a long time ago. We were in college... I said.
I'd like to hear more about your pal Chuck... He said.
Okay... I met Chuck in New Paltz in `74... I said.
Oh, that's the pot smoking college, isn't it... He said.
Don't generalize, everyone's not the same... I said.
You're right. So tell me some more about Chuck... He said.
Okay, so you want the short version, or long one ... I said.
Whatever you like, I have plenty of time ... He said.
Well, this guy Chuck approaches me; he looks perplexed... I said.
So what was his issue. Why that look on his face... He said.
Chuck tells me "No one will stay with me in the room."... I said.
How odd is that? That doesn't make sense... He said.
You and I swing one way, Chuck swings the other. ... I said.
Now I see what the problem was; What did you do?... He said.
What do you think ? That doesn't bother me.... I said.
Hey, you want to hear a funny story? It's a side splitter... I said.
I've got time. I could use a good laugh right about now... He said.
Chuck had a 53 Schwinn bicycle, all chrome, red and white... I said.
You've got to be kidding me. I haven't seen one in years.... He said.
I'd hop on back. We`d go to town and chug down a few together... I said.
That's not funny. Where's the punchline? So what happened?... He said.
Well, one day Chuck failed a test and got super pissed off.... I said.
That's not funny either. You've got to do better than that.... He said.
He yanked on the handlebar so hard, he busted it clean in half... I said.
Wow ! Did they have "Funniest Home Videos" back then?... He said.
That's not all. We had so much fun together. There's more... I said.
Don't keep me in suspense. Lay it on me..... He said
There was this girl; unique with a special attribute.... I said.
What was so special? Three breasts instead of two?... He said.
No joke, her name was Madam Clittora! Enough said... I said.
I can't believe that. You gonna leave me hanging?... He said.
Anyway, shortly after that, I graduated. Chuck was younger.... I said.
So what happened to Chuck? Good friends keep in touch... He said.
We saw him two years later. We visited With his family, was nice... I said.
Ever see them again? You shouldn't desert a friend.... He said.
You're right. But things don't always pan out... I said.
So what does that mean? You both seemed quite close.... He said.
I was married at the time with a lot of responsibilities... I said.
So that's no excuse. You should've kept in touch... He said.
After that, I didn't. Time changes things. Wasn't intentional.... I said.
So is there more to this story? There's got to be more... He said.
Oh, there is. Time moves on. 35 years later... I said.
It's 2010 and out of the blue, I think of my old pal Chuck... I said.
So you didn't forget him after all, but almost... He said.
It's a gamble, Chuck Drzal was in the phonebook; I called... I said.
Good for you. You took a chance, renewed a friendship... He said.
You're right. Just like old times. `74 again. What a feeling... I said.
So what happened next. Tell me quick, can't wait... He said.
We talked off and on, old times and new things; it was good... I said.
So it sounds like things are really working out for you guys... He said.
We saw Chuck, in the summertime; looked good for 52... I said.
Hey that's great news; Is there more to the story?... He said.
A little more... His friend died the day after we saw him... I said.
Oh, bummer. Sorry to hear that. How`s Chuck now?... He said.
Called him in November. His diamond ring was stolen... I said.
Wow ! That's a real downer. Did they catch the bastard?... He said
No !... I said.
There's got to be more than that. Call him since then?... He said..
Yeah... but... I called twice... he never answered the phone... I said.
Well, I hope you find out how he is doing?... He said.
I did. Saw his obit a few days ago. He died November 17th... I said.
He looked at me. A tear rolled down his cheek... He said nothing..
I looked at him. Couldn't speak, all choked up.... I said nothing.
He looked at me. Gave me a hug, turned and walked away.
I yelled to the universe... "That's Chuck, he's my friend!"
Copyright © DENNIS DE ROSE | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
Rob Tierney | Details
I sit here now back on my bed
Bandaged and still quite sore
I think back to my Mum and Dad
And all they both endured
My Dad he died of cancer
My Mum of MND
Both were unpleasant ways to go
Distressing all and me
My Dad he said the whole way through
That such things were quite shit
“It's not the hand that you get dealt”
“But how you play with it”
He played his days, diagnosis on
With courage and true grit
He even kept his old jumper
Into which he once had fit
In his last days his breath grew weak
He just slept more and more
No longer looked like my dear Dad
Not like he'd looked before
I wasn't with him in the end
When he drew his last breath
I wished I'd been to hold his hand
And hold him as he left
My Mum was strong for all of us
Who were then left behind
We tried to not upset her heart
She's say she didn't mind
We spoke of Dad and often laughed
But sometimes we just cried
It cuts us all when we all thought
Of just the way he died
Bereft of hope, robbed of his strength
Left just an empty shell
Locked up tight inside his frame
He must have gone through hell
Then comes my Mum, my guiding light
She strode right to the fore
She grasped the lead and stood up tall
And led us all once more
For 10 years plus she moved right on
Taking all in her stride
You could tell she missed my Dad
Some things you cannot hide
She too grew ill, and felt real weak
They couldn't find out why
When told that she was terminal
I just sat down and cried
“Why was this all happening now?”
“This all seems so unfair!”
My Mum just smiled, said “C'est la vie”
And sat back in her chair
We visited Mum alternate nights
Myself and partner Lynn
Some days we did a double shift
Although it did us in
I too got ill, not bad of course
But I could not visit
Aware of just how ill Mum was
But I could not risk it
Xmas '11 was an awful time
It really was so sad
Advancing days, time growing short
Not knowing how long we had
My Mum was now in her last days
She knew it too as well
It was just like a crap repeat
Of my Dads sheer hell
Her last day came, I got the call
As I put down the phone
I realised now straight away
I felt now so alone
An old orphan, a silly thought
No Dad and now no Mum
I waited for it all to stop
But no release would come
My world just stopped, the sun still shone
The world just turned each day
My heart was black, devoid of love
“I want to run away”
But that is not the man I am
I buckle but I do not fall
I'm bruised, and bashed and bloodied
But I am walking tall
I feel I am my fathers son
Much more now than before
For those having a real nightmare
I really do implore
Do not give up, do not back down
Stand up for what you feel
Don't be part of the machine
Do all that makes you real
Break down and cry and shout and swear
If its what gets you through
Who gives a damn what others think
Just be true to you
I didn't think I'd get over
Losing my dear old Mum
But now it's over 2 years on
And rarely I am glum
All I do is sit right down
And shut my eyes real tight
And I am back with Mum and Dad
And everything feels right
Whoever said the age old phrase
“Out of sight is out of mind”
Please send this silly sod to me
I'll boot their big behind
My Mum and Dad, live evermore
In cells and blood and mind
And through their kids and legacy
They both have left behind
Still here on earth not visible
Most of the time it's true
But I still sit and talk to them
As I would talk to you
I talk to them, you'll think I'm mad
I simply do not care
It just makes me feel really safe
To know that they're still there
So now I sit down in my room
Upon my empty bed
They both reside down here with me
Even though both are long dead
There's more to life than physical
Of this you can be sure
There's spirits, aura's genetics too
And feelings too are pure
So when I think of Dad and Mum
I sit down with a smile
And shut my eyes to be with them
For just a little while
I feel their warmth, deep in my soul
Just like a summers day
It brightens up my darkest times
And chases them away
I'll leave you now to close my eyes
And see them both again
I'll tell them that I spoke of them
With love and peace my friends
Copyright © Rob Tierney | Year Posted 2014
Long poem by
T Wignesan | Details
The Wedding Ceremony of the Dead, Part One, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel’s Les Noces de la Mort by T. Wignesan
Orgy of stone !
I drank hate in your inferior parts
And bathed during a wild summer our green sepulchres
O ! death
and my animal mouth became distorted
on those decomposed lips which long ago turned
Stricken by god for having loved you
during transfiguring summers O ! Madeleine
wholly naked breasts dried up by such severe beauty
and by such an impetuous sun between your legs
and upon your flanks two large smelly wounds
I loved you streaming and golden through fatigue
O ! grape of sin ripened by my gaze
I loved your heated mounting sucking in shadows
and the houses your famous teeth and your gardens
all juicy the evening of the dream of whores
Nocturnal city whose walls of tears bitter crypt
the obscene litanies that I have sung that I have prayed
to your Madonnas of pleasure and those testing
the guilt-ridden ex-votos which I trimmed
during my wild years !
How I prayed shed tears sang
How I intoned in a tenebrous voice your praises
at the organ of winter’s rains in the tubas
vertiginous in the shade
and how I walked !
How I stalked Death for a long time under your arcades
with my blood I mixed the oil of cobbled paving
where I looked atrociously for pure crime
amongst discordant murders the agonies
And the svelte leaded-glass window I loved
so naked in the square of memory
that she was visible in the great heaps when her haïr
raving cascaded graminaceous over you revealed
your proud marble O ! speechless
that she was grave and sculpted by your labours
death which bathed you with her tender arms
that she was tall like down in the depths of the lakes
and that your rivers ran sweet on her ivory
How difficult was the offering of tears where to be
to be betrayed down there in the darkness
How she was superbly black this heavy calice
raised by two hands of blood over your sin
from the other being never useless
is the tomb
Lord ! You looked for me
in the vacuous waters of a woman
under the searing myrtles You stifled her
the youthful dead drenched in tears ! And you cried out
more desperately than the light
and You laughed at the earth one could hear
Your heart beating ferociously amongst the stones
Father of my pain ! You tear apart my demise
but why destroy the cadaver since You want
the blood ? and why the emptiness ? and why
do You let me have this victim ?
Hands sullied by the night Am I the murderer
am I the cursed priest of this death
have I eaten the bread over her and drunken the wine
have I shed Your blood over her
have I invented
her body cross of voluptuousness whereupon to have me
O ! jealous gods ! what is my crime ?
I loved her
She was a sword of fury between us
in times gone by,
but dead what can she still retain of my likeness
this forgotten rock pounded by her kisses ?
Is this blasphemy
that these rites of a pious heart
serve as down under the stone’s wing
a black sun in her hair
a sip of shadow at her lips
a portion of autumn in her hand
But O !
You aren’t at all deceived by these environs
of alleys of tranquil slumber : and You require
that I were naked in the battle !
Here I am
made glorious, a great flag of adorable countryside
at the highest tower of the impossible,
laid out for her !
I am the fort on which converge all vistas
raised on the naked ire of memory
hymn of stone and the resounding tomb
where adorable Easter rises protected in You
she who was death
O ! Sacred One !
You Lord, march into crime !
the detonations of the soul and the mammoth
explosions of the depths,
hurry up with the profanous dénouement or the darkness
or it hardly matters the resurrection ! and don’t ever
lift eyes towards the curtain of the theatre.
(from the collection : Tombeau d’Orphée, 1941/1946/1967)
© T. Wignesan – Paris, October 1, 2014
(from the collection : Tombeau d’Orphée, 1941/1946/1967)
© T. Wignesan – Paris, October 1, 2014
Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2014