Long Center on Poems
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BOTTLE DANCE
Across my land, abysses gnaw at automobiles,
From the foot of the mountain,
To the shores of the oil fountain.
Certificated youths drinking piss to mellow their brains,
Clutching at wheels, dodging bumps into fog lights.
“Stupid, ing dog” curse survivors of amputation “you bastard”
“Who cares, you swine” retorts I the offender
just before crashing into the next one.
In my shack, counting my yields and sighing,
evading the burning eyes of hungry breeds.
How did I ever get here?
In the ring stood I, surrounded by Foncha, Endeley, Jua and Ntumazah
Um Nyobe sang the UPC song and they danced.
They danced the bottle dance.
Sandwiching in the center, on the slaughter slab, my motherland.
Nigeria to the left, La Republique to the right,
Trampling upon outright independence.
Foncha danced and Endeley danced and Nyobe sang and Britain watched.
The tune was clear, the rhythm was jazzed but the lyrics were blur;
Whence had a nation’s independence,
Been conditioned upon attachment to already independent states?
So how did we ever get here?
A loaf of bread baked in the flames of WWI
And served into the plates of Imperial barons of foreign insanity
Too blind to the tongues of oneness.
Drawing a line far far away in the halls of mirror
That tore grandmother’s breasts apart.
The story of the Ewes of Togoland
Was being whispered in her land while she slept.
A line dragged across the highlands of the Adamawa and drained into the Atlantic,
Sullied the virginity and orthography of kamerun.
Grooming a set of dysfunctional twins through years of alien doctrines,
Only to be reunited in an unholy matrimony called Cameroon or Cameroun.
Testaments of tongues foreign like those on a devil’s Pentecost,
That sowed seeds of immortal division.
So this is how really I got here!
A son deprived of the warmth of a Mother
Drained of her milk,
Tapped and shipped offshore.
Scorned and oppressed by a brother,
His name slowing fading away from the sands of time.
And now, the land of bottle dancers clamour for a new dance:
For I know how we got here and I too want to dance;
Federation to the left, secession to the right,
Trampling upon the pseudo 1972 re-unification.
The blood of the brave pipe the tunes
And rhythms of gunshots meet hallelujah,
Sang in a coffin.
On the streets that you created
Parody of
"Californication"
by the Red Hot Chilli Peppers
Songwriters: Anthony Kiedis / Michael Balzary / John Anthony Frusciante / Chad Smith
Marxists march on the streets downtown,
see the terrorist flags they're flying.
Anarchists scream to burn it down,
and blm is trying.
democrats hide as the children die,
on the streets that they're creating.
Their racism swirls in their hate filled world,
where death is always waiting.
Standing there with a gun in your hand,
we see you on the tv stations.
democrats hide as the children die,
on the streets that they're creating.
Civil unrest puts a nation to the test,
on the streets a war is raging.
bow your head as we bury your dead,
you're the cause of all this grieving.
you know its true
it's all on you
death is out there looking for you
and very soon it's gonna find you
no one out there's gonna help you
as the hand of death is reaching for you.
Acting out you've crossed that line,
you've embraced their acts of treason.
You can't turn back as your war of words,
brought murder, theft and arson.
democrats hide as the children die,
on the streets that they created.
Shots ring out and a little girls down,
in the yard where she was playing.
A little boy dies on a bike as he rides,
but its just another altercation.
democrats hide as the children die
on the streets that they created.
Civil unrest puts a nation to the test,
on the streets a war is raging.
bow your head as we bury your dead,
you're the cause of all this grieving.
you know its true
it's all on you
death is out there looking for you
and very soon it's gonna find you
no one out there's gonna help you
as the hand of death is reaching for you.
Rebellions never bring lasting change,
they only cause fear and destruction.
Violence never has change a mind,
it only bring retaliation.
and mothers cry as their children die,
on the streets that you created.
Civil unrest puts a nation to the test,
on the streets a war is raging.
bow your head as we bury your dead,
you're the cause of all this grieving.
you know its true
it's all on you
death is out there looking for you
and very soon it's gonna find you
no one out there's gonna help you
as the hand of death is reaching for you.
On the south-western side of the old mission school,
near the corner of First Street, where blackberries grew
a field claimed by youngsters was crosshatched with tracks.
It was riddled by gophers and, nettled with fox-tails
and the children's bare feet had constructed thin trails,
cupping deep paths that were littered with smiles,
deep in the amber of tall weeds and dry grass.
It wasn't too far from the patched wire fence
that hemmed the backyard of my Grandmother's house.
Westerly whirlwinds would rattle the ragweed,
while seeds of the bull-thorns, that prickled our toes,
would spread with the tumbleweeds, now tossed into rows
like last winter's snowmen, worn to the bone
There were traces of honeysuckle mixed with wild rose
from Grandma's old arbor, that loomed in the distance
A rusty old weather vane like a merry-go round
would spin like a top that might never stop
The ivy was overgrown, and a sleepy old hound
would snooze by the clothesline, in shade he had found
But, deep in the field, was a land of our own
A place we called 'Neverland', a loft in this poem
In the yoke of one tree, with the help of our dad
was a fort built of scrap wood, from piles by the shed.
And by hook or by crook, I would take all commands
While my brother's brewed brainstorms, and his black plastic hook,
assigned him the Captain, while I was the crew
of a ramshackle galleon, brought to life from our books
While I dangled in air, from a tired old swing
"Tinker", my name...in this masculine game..
I would push off, while he pulled me, right up to the sky
and into the branches, with leaves in my eyes......
I would fly to the depth's of a steel gray-blue sky
I would grovel, and shovel, to have his approval........
for he was much older, much wiser than me
I would play like a tomboy,.....shove doll-drums away
Such sweet summer days,......while bright splintered rays
of hot summer sun, would spotlight our play.
We would stay until twilight, to watch the sun die
Defying all gravity.......I could see to eternity
Tootsie Pops clung to the tip of our tongues
while the sun of the twilight, dipped over the dunes
and the call of our mother, slipped over the moon
____________________________________________________________
Sarcomas hatch like caviar
in St. Jude chemo-fire inversions,
where leviathans lay magnetars
to suck the blood of
virgins.
Their celestial suckers nurse their mothers
through quantum-dot tunnels, converging
what little life force
might milk
metastatic roots while purging,
and scute steroids discarding the hair
that ganoid scales like
sturgeon
merging baby dragon parts there
in alternative medicine oceans.
Tumors transcend and
succor
is owed unknown futile fealty
to infant deities who must atone
for immature keepsakes in realty.
Closure
pawns its symbiote spawn upon
weapons in-waiting to wormhole the realms.
Women weep oxytocin. Tissues
wyvern at the hel-
minthe transcriptase cocytus kiln
celling tussin-flavored scolex helix;
hydras caduce their chimera-filmed,
reptile-elm, viral
fetus.
Ignis fatuus reflective glasses
wither the pyrrhic ghostly gasses.
Parapsychic worms
poison
parents’ life-projected choices.
Jacobs slither the lamprey ladders.
Jihadists excise
their end-
ocrine matters... glazing the X,
lambs praise their ossifying father’s gaze.
Depucelation
contracts
‘an eye for an eye’: hexacanth.
The oncospheric galaxies equate;
retroviridae-cestodes celebrate
swapping
meat of child for theft of fare
on trans-dimensional photonic pairs,
where cycles continue out there, memes
extremophiled.
Growing up, we never lived near my aunt. On trips to my grand-mom's house, we would visit overnight with my aunt. Our favorite dishes she would cook all day, the aroma greeted us as we walked in her door. Hugs and kisses, were flying everywhere. She would always say, look at how much you have grown. Off to the table we would go, talking~laughing~eating until overfilled. The years went by way too fast, with visits getting further apart. In the summer as a teen, I would sometimes visit for a few weeks at a time. Never wanting to leave, aunt~how I wish you were my mother. When my little one came along, I took him for a visit to my aunt's. They loved each other just like I did, he also never wanted to leave. Now she is gone, no more loving place to visit.
Date Written: 11/17/2021
1 Place
5. visit
''V'' New or Old Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
On a fine April day, set out in the great cruise ship, Titanic,
Into the pelagic waters of Atlantic, with the weather alluringly sweet.
Plush it was with beaming fellow travelers and amenities astounding.
A journey of great excitement under a star-studded sky at night.
With the crew so hospitable, there was overwhelming warmth and conviviality.
Wine and liquor flowed down through gullets; tasty cuisines were served.
On the deck couples and lovers waltzed, a sweet breeze kissing their cheeks.
But tragedy loomed large in the form of an iceberg, unobserved.
I sat away from the crowd enjoying the rising gaiety.
What was the deafening sound I heard from near?
With a violent shake, the huge leviathan turned to one side.
Hardly knew what was happening, but sensed death was not far.
Hit hard n' ripped into two pieces, the vessel began sinking into the waters.
Amid euphonic melody and revelry, some didn’t know what was happening.
Some in panic ran helter skelter with growls and groans renting the air.
A man gave away his lifeboat to a mother and child, his own life abandoning.
It was a moment I witnessed the beauty of selfless love.
I was inspired to give away my lifeboat that I secured by chance.
A divine spark hit me, and all anxieties vanished instantly.
Sudden was the transmutation, I saw the whole scene in a new stance.
Heaven’s fire was lit in my breast and in love, my spirit began to glow,
How great it is to give life to someone who needed it more.
I heard the angel’s voices flit, saw a new door opening wide.
Had a fleeting vision of the heavenly hall with aureate roof and glazed floor.
I knew all my agony depart and hope instantly sparking.
With God on my side, I felt sinking into the icy depth,
My mind was calm with an unusual courage filling my every nerve,
And my horizon growing bigger and enlarging into uncommon width.
My inaudible parting words were “Goodbye Titanic, fare thee well,
In the oceanic depths, you stay as a symbol of world’s fleeting glory,
Making men think that fate can shatter and pulverize human hubris.
In the sunless Atlantic lair, lie down ageless to tell your allegorical story"!
Do you see the two about to kiss or vase in the void Reversing figures a face or a vase Caressing touch of perception The blind spot shadows of interposition sensations that appear to be real but are created within the mind Erupting within the mind of fiction An emotional parallax but not a delusion Imaginations seeing things bigger than they are Constancy sizing within your mind Do you see the two about to kiss or vase in the void Your clear avoidance sloping characteristics of a surface on the surface you graduate Zippering within the mind An illusion in proximity Alleged ability to gain information about an object Like a starving fever reality kisses the imagination Whole that is perceived as more than the sum of its parts Using a viewfinder to look for a Cyclopean image Do you see the two about to kiss or vase in the void Closure a common fate
Must be a false awakening this cannot be. on one shoulder, a shackled self in a fetal position, full of meshed stones, on the other, dancing butterflies fleeting towards a blue sky This is not happening. it is not real, this exhausted angel drooped over a headstone. Exhales of frustration in one cracking, leave me alone, while inside waves of hellos and goodbyes bursting, into little bubbles of whys. A colossal geyser pushing its self, through narrowing aqueducts, into two little pinpricks of welling eyes. Awakening again, to one last tear rolling down a face Parched reddened eyes begin to squint. Inhaling like it was your last breath. Silence, then fiery mingled flocks of birds, screaming towards the sky, with a heartbroken war cry The whys become bargaining chips and a stern poker face, with varying suites of the lowest cards but it was called by the most high, so you try to sleep and go back, to the first dream Walking for miles in this sleepless dream, coming to a crossroad of acceptance. Reliving is not living and nobody wanted this, for those that are there and those that have gone. Happiness will come again but not surreal like a grief strickened dream
“Keep knocking as hard as one can and wait patiently before the closed gate is the best way to enter it. But find if it is a gate to perdition or salvation.”- By Poet
On a late evening, wandering
lonely through the forest track,
an eerie little house I saw.
Its tiled roof and tall chimney,
peered through the thick foliage of leaves.
Pacing down a dark ravine,
I reached before a latched gate.
A mysterious spell drew me into it.
I paused sometime, wondering
if I should enter through that shaky gate.
It was rusted with some spikes missing
It looked opening to a GHOSTLY world.
I've been here awhile, lost in thoughts
standing in front of this dilapidated gate,
wondering if I should enter it or not.
Weighing on the possible consequences
of granting my fevered fancy, a free reign,
finally, with the curiosity in me overriding
my hesitation, I made up my mind to enter.
With a creaking sound, the latch gave way,
letting me into a forlorn, deserted house.
It stood aloof on a small hillock.
The air around it bore a strange scent
There was a GRAVE like silence hovering.
Breaking it, owls were heard hooting aloud.
Desolate it was with none to care.
Thorny shrubs grew all around,
and tall trees shut it out from view.
Even the wind, whizzed past GROANING
Dark and dreary it stood remote.
Peeping through its splintered door,
I got a glimpse of the dingy rooms.
Sultry was the air trapped inside.
Its floor was covered with grimy dust.
Shadows moved like snakes curling.
GOSSAMER webs were hanging from the ceiling
Giant bats flew about my head.
I stood so GRIEF-STRICKEN feeling a tremor
pass though my body as a wave of terror.
I felt trapped inside a GODFORSAKEN place,
as the gate once more closed behind,
with a loud grate, making me a prisoner.
A gate can be a threshold to another realm~
An entrance to a new world of greater opportunities.
But here it has spelt my doom and all I can do,
is shout and cry, hoping someone hears
and comes to let me out into the world of light!
I cannot recall my very first place
as a baby I did not know my home;
a new baby's room dressed with pretty lace
dad's dog was under the crib to watch~roam.
They say the walls were all painted yellow
the cute stuffed brown monkey laid beside me;
monkey and me were tucked in for a nap
in a room not pink like pretty jell-o.
My parents would pray for me on one knee,
then rocked me and brown monkey in their lap.
My place changed many times along the way,
as a baby~toddler~child~teen I grow.
Out the window I saw big clouds of gray,
I felt this gray~I did not like the move.
So very hard to have many a friend,
all this moving is not made for a kid.
All we do is packing and unpacking,
it really hurts a kid in the end.
I love the tall new slide ~ down I did slide,
what in the world was that crazy cracking.
My place~bedroom and friends were new again,
on the pretty curtains were gray kittens;
all this moving~packing was a huge drain,
the curtains had gray kittens no mittens.
This yard was really really big,
I found three girls in my new neighborhood.
Four of us would play for hours having fun,
we loved to put on costumes and wild wigs;
then climbing up in the pretty dogwood,
hungry late in the day home we would run.
Date Written: 4/30/2022
2 Place
c. place
HowManySyllables and Rhymezone
Form O- Ode- New poems Poetry Contest Sponsored by: Constance La France