Long Bygone times Poems
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THE CRYING WILD CREATURES.
Nzongi Mwero.
Oh, we recall the bygone times,
The days of the golden past,
That chirping with our merry mates,
Flying around the parks,
Gone the joys of the nests,
That freedom restrained,
Coming at our will in parks,
But hindered and chained in the parks.
Oh, we feel painted at our hearts when we recall,
The scene in the parks unsmiling,
No glistering dew drops from the trees,
All big trees were cut down,
We can’t forget that lovely shape of the parks,
That endearing our faces.
Oh, life was real nice in the vernal shade,
Oh, we miss the sweet voices of our brothers in the parks,
Would that we had the strength to break the predators,
What a bad luck have we?
Can we pine for another park?
Brothers let us think of the weapons and tactics,
That we could escape from poachers and predators.
My friend Antelope- You can use your speed in retreating,
You Tortoise- Use your shield or bomb shelter,
My friend Chameleon- You can use the camouflage,
You Porcupine- Please use your swords or bayonets,
My friend Snake- Use your poisoned knife,
You Stunk- Please Use your tear gas or poison gas,
My friend Octopus- Use your smoke screen,
You Electric Eel- Please Use your electric shock,
Then my friend Gecko- You can Use your diversionary tactics,
And finally me Elephant I will Use my tusks.
Everyone has a duty to perform his defensive way,
To deal with poachers and predators,
But still human beings have more brains,
They know how to trap us,
We plead those with good hearted to protect us.
Parks are our shelters,
Rivers are our shelters,
Oceans and lakes are our shelters,
Trees are our shelters,
The land is our shelters.
Oh, we beg you do not harm us,
You live on land- You live on land,
You drink water from the rivers –We live and drink that water,
You get medicine from trees- We live and eat those trees,
You collect foreign money from the parks- We live in the parks,
You use oceans and lakes to travel –We live in those waters.
Oh, we are all world creatures,
Why are you killing us for meat?
Why are you destroying the parks?
Why are you contaminating the waters?
Why are you cutting down trees?
Why are you burning the land we live?
Why are you hunting us for more money?
And already you are getting foreign money due to us,
Please stop hunting us or destroying our shelters.
Lessons from Shakespeare
Here’s a song of tragedies
Four plays from bygone times
Shakespeare did the penmanship
For these heroic crimes.
Hamlet was a stately prince
King Lear a royal dad
Othello was a noble man
Macbeth was just plain bad.
From these stories we can learn
That great men can have flaws
And even in this century
We all can crash and burn.
Come on now and pull your socks up
Pull yourself together,
Think of your Ophelia
who needs you to get better.
Will you be or won’t you be -
Just make your mind up quick,
Before the others bring you down
With sword of poison trick.
Alas too late revenge is nigh
And not the one you thought
For old Polonius is dead
And you’re the one who’s sought.
(Is there comfort in the thought
That Hamlet came to know
That nothing’s either good or bad
But thinking makes it so.)
My love and I are just one flesh
My Desdemona true
The very thought of losing her
Just makes me feel plain blue
They say I have a jealous mind
My one and only flaw
I think the fault entirely hers
Perhaps I should make sure.
My first mate says it’s really so
So what should I believe?
He saw her with his own good eyes
Give him her handkerchief.
(Iago’s plot to bring him down
Succeeded to a T
Perhaps Othello’s not so great
A captain of the seas.)
I love my wife she wants to put
A crown upon my head.
She tells me that it is my fate
There must be some blood shed.
And so I tried, upon my life
I did what I have done
But the dagger that I slew him with
Returns to haunt my mind.
Yet now I’m king, my wife is queen
What more is there to do?
My wife appears to lose her wits
I’m sure that she’ll pull through.
(So it seemed to both of them
The way was clearly shown
But by snuffing out another’s life
Macbeth destroyed his own.)
Hamlet was a stately prince
King Lear a royal dad
Othello was a noble man
Macbeth was just plain bad.
And through these stories we can see
Some universal themes
But more importantly than that
A world of poetry.
I was reading Aristotle,
because I am just weird like that,
and as I poured through ancient words
I was presented with the fact
that what I read from classic times
saw far deeper then I can see,
he’s twenty-three centuries dead,
and somehow still smarter than me.
But there’s no shame in learning from
the writings of a genius mind,
and it’s comforting that we still
have this wisdom from bygone times,
but then I stop and remember,
when I have looked at all he wrote,
it’s tempting to think we have all,
but the truth of it is, we don’t.
We’ve got maybe a third of it,
and do we even have his best?
The rest of it has disappeared,
it wasn’t copied with the rest.
The originals longs rotted,
what we have copies made by monks,
what they had not, or valued low
has now forever been undone.
And though some people do assume
that all the best stuff was retained,
I think of all the books I’ve read,
from the genius to the inane,
and noticed that great wisdom can
sometimes come from an average read,
that one high point in the banal,
and who knows just where that might lead?
So even if the best remain,
and all the average works were tossed,
it still truly depresses me
when I realize all that we’ve lost.
Now Aeschylus wrote ninety plays,
and only six of them are left,
Sophocles wrote one hundred twenty,
now to seven can we attest.
And given how much those few plays
have shaped drama down through the age,
can you imagine what we’d have
if all those stories still remained?
In history there was Livy,
who wrote the long story of Rome,,
in one hundred forty-two books,
today just thirty-five are known.
The Iliad, The Odyssey,
Two great epics we all revere…
that cycle had six more poems,
and not one of them have we here.
Even the Bible refers to
countless books we no longer know,
what would our faiths all look like now
if to those texts we still could go?
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
I was born to love people, to be a traveler through their hidden hearts,
To discover the inner gardens, where the flowers of triumphs rise from the soil of sufferings.
Every smile evaluates me with a luminous chasm of hope,
Trying to reach the essence of their being, through each rain of buried memories.
To not be the one loved, but just the mirror that reflects their light,
Perceived as an echo in the silence of autumn leaves, writing poems in cold winds.
I was born to be the poet of shadows and scattered lights,
The one who catches the sparks in their eyes and hides them in intricate metaphors,
To touch the invisible strings of souls, weaving threads of a burdened destiny.
To break down their walls, with a delicate touch, sowing trust in barren places,
Without being seen, without being felt, but as a passing breeze,
Like the wind that leaves the harbor before dawn, leaving only calm silence behind.
I was meant to be part of the waves, not the one that lifts them toward the sky,
To float among ordinary people, an obscure presence under shifting shadows,
An entity among souls, not spreading storms of emotion, but only the echo of bygone times.
A pool of indistinct feelings, a lake of experiences lived in silence.
Somewhere, my gaze wanders to seek the depths,
But it hits the strict shores of harsh reality,
Perhaps being part of the wave was not just the people around,
But something profoundly missing within me, a void becoming ever vaster.
And so, in this journey infused with mysticism and lost hopes,
I weave every thought with threads of melancholy and magic,
Lost in the labyrinth of souls, weaving a secret and poetic universe,
In the heart of the waves, where my heart pulses under the enigmatic light of the moon,
I find the delicate thread of hope and follow it into a perpetual rebirth,
Toward an infinity where the heart intertwines with eternity.
Beams of sultry light.
Reflecting dim flight,
As fireflies flicker and swarm,
Cascade around my form.
The book reveals its worn pages.
Drifting through the ages.
Memories of bygone times.
The splendor of those rhymes.
Shiny satin ribbons of blue,
Reminding me of you.
Turbulent foaming sea.
Homeward bound to me.
Gratifying my lonely soul.
Rebellion over hot coal.
Seeking soft secrets sublime.
Yonder mountain to climb.
I spy the look in your eyes.
Brilliance so wise.
Vines entwine creeping.
The willow is weeping.
Listen to the sound of tears.
Hear the sorrow of fears.
Adorning my quest.
Beholding the rest.
All the best has gone by.
Feeling my sigh.
Touching my heart.
Tearing us apart.
That treacherous sea.
No longer a part of me,
Drowning my dreams.
Falling apart at the seams.
I time to reflect,
Time to resurrect.
Floods my being.
Not worth seeing.
The butterflies gone..
Must carry on
Silver band all that’s left.
I am bereft.
Lost my way.
What did you say?
Now you care.
Do I dare.
To wonder why?
Love is a farce,
The blooms are sparse,
Love’s luminous light,
Shines excitingly bright.
Everywhere but near me.
My sightless serenity.
Woven lilacs dipped in dew,
Cast to the wind so few,
Mild scent fills the air,
Aroma of musk everywhere,
What can I expect?
Is this a time to reflect?
A child alone in the dark,
On a journey to embark,
Free from oppression now.
Liberated somehow.
Childlike innocence bestow.
They will never know.
Her dreams are wild.
She is just a child.
Growing fast.
Life must last.
Primordial being.
The angels were seeing.
Her life slips away.
A child of yesterday.
No more will play.
Just a forgotten run away.
But somehow, I did live,
Someone had a life to give.
There were no bouquets.
Not sure who to praise.
Sullen lights eject.
It’s time to reflect.
In the heart of the night, under the shining silver moon,
Shadows of lost time stretch in their waltz,
Carried by the cold wind that whispers forgotten promises,
Hopes and freedoms, captured in dreams of yore.
Colored leaves, leaves of bygone times,
Danced in my dream, seeking unknown rhymes,
Meeting the grass, everywhere, the grass of green hope,
But neither fate nor faith offers the core.
Trembling leaves, freely kissing the wind,
The postmodern Columbus swore to find the land,
Boundaries of freedom with the rustling of morning,
Shining heart, golden scissors in the nets of life.
Pretzels with caraway seeds, serenity passing,
The day of emerald, time coiling in a shell,
Memories from hell calling, birthing nightmares,
In the amber noon, cutting with old scissors.
Black stripes of tigers, the moon and the Prophet's beard,
Monks cannot endure, nor even the poet,
Walls of reality breaking, cold rationality,
Our hearts opening the realm, the mind to teach us.
The forest of humanity's guilty silence hidden,
Rusty ax from the east, disturbing the mind,
If love was true, why was freedom misunderstood,
Mocking saints, possible hate, birthing words.
Truths hunt us, thoughts surround us,
Feelings speaking of rare love and brutality,
Spirits, beasts, ghosts on the pale road of normality,
Gentle visage of family, city, mentality.
For once, let's not avoid the real facts,
Language, beliefs, culture, feelings, natural acts,
Life, our own reward and punishment,
Living in forests, self-exile, our wisdom.
In the silence of the night, under the full moon of revelations,
Drops in the infinite ocean of existence,
Ephemeral, yet eternal, fragile, yet strong,
Alone, yet connected, in a cosmic dance of destiny,
On the magical stage of life.
In a world once illuminated by the gold of bygone times,
A dark veil is now woven, a prison for lost souls,
Where critical spirit and free thought are but whispered memories,
Control of education becomes the key to inescapable conformity.
Values are distorted, and obedience becomes the supreme virtue,
While the media becomes a dance of shadows that distracts and manipulates,
Rewriting history erases the markers that tied us to the past,
Creating modern mythologies that serve only the ruling elites.
Under the watchful eye of technology, every movement is monitored,
Security becomes the pretext for invading our fragile intimacy,
Structures of punishment and reward are born from behaviors,
A social credit system that weighs our weary souls.
Economic dependence intertwines with the loss of autonomy,
Self-sustained agriculture and free trades become relics of the past,
The digital economy controls every transaction, every hope,
Personal property disappears under the guise of illusory common good.
Moral values are turned upside down, good and evil unravel,
Moral chaos and absolute relativism become the new gods of the world,
Social degradation is encouraged, primal instincts triumph,
While spirituality is lost in the echo of a forgotten time.
Power centralizes, cultural identities dissolve,
National sovereignty becomes a tale of forgotten past,
A single planetary government casts its shadows over freedom,
A quasi-religious ideology justifies the domination of the few.
Thus is born a planetary prison, where light slowly fades away,
Under a sky where stars barely flicker, souls wander,
In a world that has reversed all that was once sacred and full of life,
Searching for a way back to the gold of an era long past.
I have run barefoot more than the sun has ever existed.
I did not know what it meant to be steady, slow, and in control.
I wanted to never settle, to never rest.
I sought solace among the sighs and groans of the forest.
I sought peace in the arms of its bark.
The forest whispers, and I listen,
letting my steps become echoes among the dead leaves,
I sway among memories and shattered dreams,
transforming into a pearl of the past,
wrapped in the mystery of bygone times.
In the silence of the night, the stars are my confidantes,
telling me stories of when the earth was young,
and I ran upon it, carefree, timeless.
Each step was a heartbeat,
each breath a verse from a lost poem.
And yet, in that perpetual motion, I found a home,
a place to rest my weary soul.
But the bark of the trees calls me, pulls me from my reverie,
forcing me to confront my shadows,
to unveil the story of a woman who loved,
lost, and was reborn from her own ashes.
In those moments, I feel like a flame dancing in the wind,
always moving, always changing, yet never gone.
Under the moon, I find myself, reflecting on all the smiles and tears,
on every moment lived and forgotten.
The mirror of my soul captures both light and darkness,
transforming them into an endless story,
a ballad of a life lived on the edge,
between dream and reality, between past and present.
I run barefoot through eternity, seeking answers, finding only more questions.
And yet, in this endless search, I find beauty,
I find the magic of a melancholic existence, full of mystery and poetry,
an existence where each step is a new page,
each breath a new verse from an unwritten poem.
Billowing taupe clouds, hunker down and hem in the Peninsula,
The morning rips open
A glimpse of sun shone; a lemon curd slivers between slits of of silver illumination
The first hint of light glances up frothing crests of salted foam,
Waves slap mineralized milky encrusted piers,
A place she never goes,
The boats, the ropes, salted misty chalky vapors
All a mockery of thematic proportions,
Unduly deliver a set, a scene,
In which a broken-hearted woman creaks about over well trodden planks
With a mystery in her eyes,
A coat two-sizes too big
And a hint of faded spicy cologne
Envelopes her unconscious, the odor she is unaware of
She perceives a mounted flaking, patinated iron harpoon mere décor
A prop on the set of this distant sea,
An artifact for ancient ways of hunting, the heart of the whale she knew was the size of twenty men.
Old men begin to mill about from the shore they amble toward the beauty and the death of the sea,
The lulling sea
A salve for old men, a balm to quell the roaring mind,
Clapboard sided sea worn boats rise and fall not of their own accord,
But as slaves to the the great sea, slaves to the sea
They carry metal traps, hemp ropes
And the unforgiving memories of the land,
“Landlubbers” she muses. A momentary countenance of mirth gleams in her eye.
Such a funny word. An erstwhile chuckle engages her lips as she knows now the seriousness of life, whereby in bygone times mother warned: “Love will make a mockery of us all”
They keep me company -
Old letters, yellowed pictures,
Quaint artifacts and reminiscences.
I touch them with my fingers
Feeling remainants of the past,
Somber sacraments my heart has treasured.
They help me through my days -
While away my dark and lonely hours,
Taking me on a sojourn to bygone times.
I need to close my eyes -
Take a deep breath and ready,
To feel like I did once upon a time.
Happy that my mind
Has kept the relics of the past -
Intact, just as they were once.
The sounds, the fragrances,
A look, a touch, a smile, a tear -
I even see what I once could not.
My naivete then compelled
Or perhaps I chose to ignore,
Maybe, I had not the sense I have today.
The past subtly commingles
With my present and stops short -
Barred from doorways of tomorrow.
But I carry them in my heart
Those sounds, fragrances and feelings -
Which leave a smile, a tear and sighs.
Like wreaths upon the graves
Within my heart - that it may cherish,
That subtle touch of my bygone days.
They keep me engaged
The old letters, yellowed pictures
Little artifacts - ruins of my past.
Times I wish I could let go
But for strange reasons I hold on,
Or maybe they are loathe to let go of me.
They are now my companions
Who straddle my desolate moments,
With pleasure, pain and a deep longing.
Broken fragments of my past -
Which will ever remain with me,
I know they will keep me good company!
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