Long Contemporaries Poems
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I awoke this morning, before Dawns early light; the Sunshine still slept.
I took my coffee cup, out on the porch, and for “Lenore” I Finally wept.
The pain, the agony, years of grief: rolled down my cheeks: My Soul’s Relief.
A single ray of sunshine over the majestic purple mountains peak, peeks.
Out of this single ray of light, my Heartbeat; my Soul “ LENORE “ speaks.
“ My Dearest and Only Beloved ; I’m sorry I left, upon our Everlasting Day.
I’ll sing to you My final Poem, before OUR Heavenly Father; bids Me to stay
I remember every Rhyme, YOU wrote For ME : Lets memorize each TIME.
GOD grants US togetherness : “ LENORE, Lets make this HOUR, OURS.
LENORE and I shared Memories, OUR POETRY : many of OUR HOURS
As I came back, from this Adventure, the morning Sun was smiling at ME.
Atop the Mighty Purple Mountain he had climbed ; I was not There to SEE.
With eyes now wider opened, I watch the warmth of the SUN racing at ME.
I feel the wind the warmth flies in on, Flowing through my Grey White Beard
I Smell the flowers growing; I see the mighty OAK Limbs wave; WEIRD.
I must Retrain my senses; To see, hear, feel : TO WRITE!! My FRIENDS
Relearn the Basic laws of Truth and LIFE and LOVE and FEELING.
Must Retrain my hands to write of The Beauty of Mother Earth! My FAMILY
I have to Study very Hard, my Contemporaries , to quicken the HEALING.
Then I can Write, to the ones I love; They teach me Everything THE POETS
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In an age of cheap poets and marketplace philosophers,
When words intertwine beautifully but lack depth,
My contemporaries have already given me the greatest reward,
Their indifference, their silence, heavy like a spider’s web.
In a world where applause is the echo of an illusion,
Rise those who believe themselves original,
For they have an audience that claps but does not understand,
And they do not know that true poets live only posthumously.
I wish to be a shadow in the book of time,
To write my words on dead leaves, carried by the wind,
Melancholy as my ink, and my heart as the paper,
To tell my stories in a stream of thoughts.
For what does it mean to be alive, if not to be forgotten?
To leave only a sad echo and a lost smile,
In a world of those who have eyes but do not see,
In a mechanical universe, where souls are mere cogs.
But perhaps one day, when silence will sing,
My words will bloom in the light of dusk,
And they will tell the story of those who were,
Those who wrote silence, while the world screamed.
I had the worst terrors last night
My mind was in a gruesome sight
The ‘ol apocryphal scene
Insighted by the new regime
Migration bill stirs fear among
Farmworkers chant that It’s Wrong!
Phone app saves Honduran journalist
Can’t go back she’s on their death list
Can’t walk ‘n get food without stress
ICE is cold, enforcing arrests
Or anywhere, nonetheless
For a green card is meaningless
Now a tourist destination
Gaza's newest sensation
Take over plans for a Riviera
Palestine people’s tierra*
Taken; territory sovereign
New rich owner YOU ONLY gain
Who be the beneficiaries
Billionaire contemporaries
For undoence he’s called a hero
Those sacrificed their life for, zero
Those fought for everyone’s freedom
In vain forgotten in this new kingdom
Unbeknownst me how it plays out
Living in the USA, peace-out
I postponed being amazed by time, a traveler without aim,
Until, before my soul could die, I learned,
That all that aches has dissipated like smoke under the silver moon,
A flock and a shepherd, shadows of a long-forgotten tale.
Whoever places my bare and fragile bones in an envelope,
Will write a letter of my cowardly and humble feelings,
The black angel, ruling over all that love touches,
Forbids your bleeding heart the wellspring that cries.
Bandaged with a death buried in the stretching future,
The eternity of the moment hides in the despair that surprises us,
The tears of my life, wilted fortune floods you,
The universe in my inspired soul seeks to hide away.
To our earthly life, I give an imponderable and gentle meaning,
Your perfection, my love, only you make it seem without pain,
You are the one who will birth my steps into eternity, forever,
Because your love, like a god, spreads within my soul.
Your love carries a dull dissatisfaction, ever-present,
Our contemporaries feel it and echo it along the way,
Announcing to the present-past, until the last breath,
That your Christ, my beauty, long ago ceased to exist, but turns into our dream.
Standing on the edge
?of the hill
?I believed to be the final…
?I look across the horizon—
?and I find more still.
?
?A little shaken,
?I stagger.
?I pause, and wonder…
?So there’s more?
?There’s more.
?
?Lost in thought for a while,
?though on my face remains a smile.
?My eyes wander about...
?I see the others—
?my friends, my contemporaries—
?all dash ahead,
?none bothering to turn their head.
?
?Still rooted in place,
?strength drains from me...
?Yet the race continues.
?
?Time trickles
?like water falling into an endless abyss.
?It runs off—
?without a care.
?
?I wonder… how I’ll fare.
?
?Questions flood my mind
?as I snap out of it, momentarily.
?Can I still catch up?
?Tears threaten to fall—
?but I resist.
?I keep them at bay.
?None shall cross the wall.
?
?Can I still catch up?
?Can I still catch up…?
?It echoes—
?hollow, unanswered.
?
?I struggle to breathe,
?hold my chest,
?grit my teeth.
?
?I brought this upon myself.
?I… did this.
?I know I was wrong…
?Funny—
?I knew all along.
?
?Looking at the horizon one more time,
?I ask myself:
?Did I really just watch,
?while the others became sublime?
?
?The empty horizon remains silent,
?as if confirming my line of thought.
?
?My thoughts spiral—
?unable to arrive at a conclusion.
?Still, I stare at the horizon,
?my gaze unflinching…
?like a man possessed—
?yet my eyes are filled with confusion.
?
?Questions flood my mind.
?Again, I snap out of it.
?
?Can I still catch up?
?Am I expected to accept this?
?I know it’s my fault—
?yet a strange unwillingness grows within me,
?a silent refusal.
?
?I can’t fail.
?I won’t.
?
?Strength begins to fill my legs
?as I run with wild abandon—
?no care for the bruises
?that rack up as I pick up speed.
?
?A voice resounds:
?“Stop. It’s too late already.”
?I ignore it.
?
?It repeats.
?I ignore it.
?
?“Why do you do this?
?The price is too much to bear.
?Just stop.
?Give up.
?It’s late already.”
?
?For a moment…
?I stumble.
?Doubts try to resurface.
?The pain flashes—
?new wounds appear on old ones.
?
?But I grit my teeth…
?and I run faster.
?
?I’ll win this, even if it kills me.
?I’ll win—
?even if it’s barely.
?
The Owelle
of the realm
of Onitsha
their title,
Zik of Africa
Our vintage title.
Zik a real patriot
with core values
your contemporaries
were at the regions
but you dreamt of one
Nigeria at the center
Tribe and tongue in vain.
The Owelle was a champion
a champion of the center
though your ideals were
thawed by your peers
he solidly stood by it
even in the face
of the civil war
One Nigeria! One Nigeria!!
echoes that kept reverberating
One Nigeria! One Nigeria!!
Time and time again your
relevance proven
Turned sounds of Nigeria
relished.
Owelle of Onitsha
Zik of Africa.
(Written on the 30th March, 2015)
Could you tell me
when
America became so selfish, introspective,
a host of clueless, unrealistic fools,
that see only ourselves above all others,
sole contemporaries of time and history?
When
did we forget the points and purpose of freedom
to follow one man's power hungry dream,
ill-conceived?
When
did the cost of freedom give way
to the conspiracies of delusionary sways
cutting back the realities of the day?
When
did we hold fast to a lie,
never seeking truth
pushing fact aside, truth denied?
When
did we stop caring about the future free
within folds of democracy
for our children and their hopes and dreams?
When
will we ever learn from history
its lessons
that freedom isn't free,
there is a price to pay
in everything we do,
in everything we say,
we must act not just pray
before it all slips away.
It was the time when art was king,
Of artists whose praises we all sing.
Great minds there were in the Renaissance,
Through eons , unsurpassed, with little advance.
Greatness was embodied in the works of art,
In Lorenzo's gardens did Michelangelo start.
But great there was one of Mona Lisa fame,
Master painter, inventor - Leonardo his name.
Contemporaries for sure, one really wonders
Of the two, whose work steals the thunders.
David, the Pieta, Sistine Chapel, and more
Everlasting they are through ages sure.
But then there's the Lisa, Last Supper, inventions galore.
On their ingenuity and genius, the world lays great store.
Can genius be bestowed in multiple men?
Can peace and tranquility be shared even then?
Can two kings sit and reign on one throne?
Or squabble and fight like two dogs with one bone?
And so, these men of unparallel fame
Were set by chance a mischievous game.
Asked they were to adorn the Council Hall
With paintings to settle rankings once and for all.
With gusto did the two set about
A Battle each to prove their clout.
Leonardo chose the battle of Anghiari;
Battle of Cascina was Michelangelo's quarry.
Great was the strife between the two,
Each strove hard for the other to outdo.
Of the rivalry ,I heard, - the worst of all,
Art was the victim - and the two took a fall.
Relates the great chronicler Vasari,Giorgio,
That the nadir of art was seen in the Palazzo Vecchio
As each of the greats thought little of their craft
But dallied and diddled, till the populace all laughed.
The Cascina on naked bathing soldiers was based
On the banks of the Arno it was placed.
But the scene that was rendered was so ludicrous
That his work, sadly, bordered on the ridiculous.
Leonardo's Anghiari was a shade grim
But his chances to greatness was very slim.
He used oils from Pliny the Elder's recipe
But soon these flaked , were smudgy, and drippy.
Be that as it may
To Art's great dismay
What should have been great works
Were diminished by Rivalry's quirks.
Vasari painted over these objets de art
And replaced these with his own from the start.
Now conservators do scan, to see if they can,
Which of the two, Leonardo or Michelangelo, was
The painter of the elusive Magnum Opus.
~18 Jun 2016~
Grandma was German raised to value beauty,
her art found in nature the flowers and the trees.
Grandpa, a Wentworth, from an English family
whose Great Grand sailed the Mayflower, across the sea.
In the time of William Morris, when craft was art,
Great Granddad was a shipwright that's how we got our start.
So, we valued craft and beauty and adventure charted.
Through tough times, poverty, still wisdom was imparted.
Born in a place of splendor miles from the bay,
Mom was raised on the poetry of Edna Millay.
I was born there to and in the woods I played
amongst maidenhair ferns and violets unafraid.
In art born, with brush and pen, often did I write,
raised on Lord Tennyson to great my delight.
And, I adored the architecture of Frank Lloyd Wright
how he blended craftsmanship into each homesite.
Schooled in modern art Warhol and Mies Van De Rhoe,
my mind opened blooming to many new tableaus.
All my contemporaries were part of art neuvau.
Each masterly artisan's work helped me to grow
A wind of gratitude is waving
River of love is dancing, exhibiting wonderful styles whiles meandering
Cloud of commemoration is drifting.
All to say ‘’ayeekooo’’’’Osagyefo y3 ma W'amo’’..
The throne is set, come and receive a panegyric
You are a relic in our memories
Posterity will always judge in your favor
A man of wisdom and valor.
You fought covertly or overtly for then progeny's emancipation
That fight had made us a proud generation.
Your were the torch of your mother,
Your contemporaries can't gainsay.
Your foresight laid the foundation for your mother's future.
You started building the walls that projected your magical plan's picture.
Your confidence was willing to leave no stone unturned
Alas, nature sent you to the urn.
Great dreams stuck in the skull
If you can hear me, speak through a necromancer.
We have missed the great voice of an orator.
Even if your phonetics can’t do, let us feel through your kinesics
We will love you until our hearts are no more
Your mother will remember your sacrifice until she closes her memory's door.
You indeed are a founder.
We salute your charisma.
Dr. Kwame Nkrumah, ‘’mo ne adwuma’’
’’S3 3nn3 y3rehyir3n s3 nsroma’’
’’3y3 wo mm)denb) ntiaaa.’’
We respect today.
Because it is your day.
Osagyefo Dr Kwame Nkrumah
’Mo mo mo’’
We salute.