Long Cowrie Poems
Long Cowrie Poems. Below are the most popular long Cowrie by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cowrie poems by poem length and keyword.
Before They Came
Sitting here with my daughter between my knees, I braid her hair; One by one I place the lucky cowrie shells in her hair. I hear the call and response in my village. The roll was being called. This gathering was different, “the drums tell us we must gather to meet”, as we will have guest to greet.
" Habari-Ghani” -'' What's the news'' The news is, strangers are here, to look for wives, they want to take us away./
The news is, our ways are not their ways, Father says we girls must go away to have a better life. /
“Your husband died and no one in this village will marry you”:
My father said;You have also have a daughter, you must think about.
Father spoke again: I have many other daughters, and I cannot take care of you for life.!/
As I arrived in this new land, My Husband, was not really my husband:
He treated me as a maid with wifely duties. I took care of my daughter
Until she was age fourteen – Then he sent her away.
I cried myself to sleep at nights and dreamed of Africa my home and how things were before
“THEY CAME”./
Things were fine, right before they came; We had our own way of solving problems.
Sometimes, I would get lost in thoughts that felt so real. It seemed as
I could smell the wood burning on the open fire, I longed to dance in moonlight with my sisters,
I wanted to eat again from coconut Shells; I wanted things to be the same as the were;/
Before they came.!
I could smell simmering pots of love cooking.
The pungent scent of burning wood and coconut shells....
I remember bathing in rivers./
The Joy of weaving our love in baskets.
It has been Five-hundred years, and I am still here in this new land, holding onto memories of sun filled oceans./
Trying hard to hold onto the times of happiness...Before they came. These things are deeply embedded “Mamas Laughter”,” grandmother’s wisdom” by blood, these things came with me on this journey./
For dear life I am holding on to our ways, unashamed, I long for my African life, my culture, and my happiness....” Before they came”!
Let us roll together on the cobbled floors of
Europe and pick up, in our greedy search,
Every fallen crisp and old blade of ancient grass.
Good old restless fleas must not peck at them
Or resume haunting the spectres that follow
Them season after season.
And it must be on a Sunday —post
Sunday school—after the church bell has rung twice;
After the spell of the visiting thaumaturge on the village
Has followed the blight of the late rains of a
Second-rate April.
The scent of the market is heavy with spinning films,
Thus rolling the eyes from streets to canals,
Increasingly stunning the breaths of tipplers
Breathing with the rage of manhattans.
A scalding winter shrouds the open intimacy between fogs
And brumes, made sweet with a hootenanny.
The music is loud but soft, and weakens the restiveness of
A new week bound for ceaseless waves of inked drama.
I hasten to the old secretaire I had descried from the
Buried haunt of writers and scribes — men of quill pen.
Its blend of age, the aroma of cellared wines, and the
Blessedness of regal oak has made my day. . .
Oh, sorry, my Sunday.
“Happy Sunday to one and all!” I cry,
Reaching out to the grandmother pouch of time-bleached leather
Around my dancing waist.
And I shall proceed to buy it with European farthings and African
Cowrie shells, and manillas adorned with loud-campaigning verdigris.
At the beach, digging beneath the pier
harvesting minute shells;
sharks teeth and all sorts of goodies;
I make jewelry you see; Cowrie earrings paired
exclusively with brown Tiger-Eye; a tasty treasure,
eye candy of a semi-precious nature.
Naticas, Tulips, Conch’s and Crown’s
paired with Smiling Shark’s teeth,
for the Seafaring Pirate Effect is
inspiration, for my more aggressive muse.
I package my haul in an azure blue bandanna and
hand-to-brow, I look upwards at a winging gull,
in the sunlight above, feeling the
breezy-brush of her wings upon my face.
Cooling waves, embrace my feet as I saunter towards a
favored spot, up the beach; the surf’s song can’t
possibly be any sweeter to the ears; I hear it
whispering, “peace...release...peace...release...”
I let go of every bit of stress and embrace
ocean’s mantra.
Time to sun, a towel upon the hot sands
I don my sunglasses and sunscreen;
tune to my favorite song on my iPod and lie back,
feeling Old Sol’s cordiality, upon my skin.
Days like this are pure,
mind ambrosia.
Florence has warm blood
and cowrie teeth that seldom clatter,
even in the chilled, fluttering dance of July rain.
She’s an element of Shiloh
in weeping quest of a promising Samuel,
and for this,
walks through long and clammy paths in July rain.
July, a month of sacred yams,
with breast tubers and milk tendrils,
befriends Florence,
an eloquent lamenter,
the quintessence of languor,
this day of streaming showers.
I have often had her tears
on my palms —
tears that sob gently, lest the temple yonder
hears her and pronounces them FAITHLESS.
Florence, battered in the rain,
frazzled by extreme caution,
with ambiance of July
and naivete of the grey ewe,
has prayed for her breasts, for her milk
and for the growth of her stunted soul.
I, too, have prayed —
for the rebirth of the seventh moon,
for Florence and her bedraggled sorrows,
and for strength on behalf of our weakened village.
Upon the crest of a whispering wave,
A love letter sealed in a bottle's embrace,
Tossed by the tides, an age ago,
Lost in the depths, where mysteries flow.
Within its parchment, emotions reside,
Ink stained with feelings, impossible to hide,
A longing expressed in words so true,
Captured in time, like morning's first dew.
Conch shell trumpets a tale of old,
Announcing love in echoes bold,
Carried by breezes, a melodious call,
Love's proclamation, enchanting all.
Cowrie shells shimmer, treasures of the sea,
Symbolizing love's currency, pure and free,
Gifts from the ocean, precious and rare,
Like the depth of affection two souls share.
In a world of fragments, memories cast,
Love's legacy endures, forever to last,
Upon the crest of each rolling wave,
Echoes of devotion, eternally brave.
In the green and misty hills of Buea, where Mount Fako stands tall,
Lives a mentor and a leader who answers the data call.
The name Vianney Forewah made it to the lamp light,
Guarding routers, lines, and servers to keep our network right.
As a Telecom Controller for the country’s elite,
He watches over traffic, making sure connections meet.
A Master in Forensics and a sharp, defensive mind,
He traces hidden hazards and the threats that lurk behind.
At NEXGEN and COMPSUDEV, he leads with steady hand,
To bring the gift of digital across his native land.
He speaks for open access and protects the internet,
So the youth can learn in safety without a single threat.
In classrooms accross schools, the students gather round,
To listen to his lectures where true cyber rules are found.
He maps out the curriculum, he tests them on the floor,
A proud and patient teacher opening up a brand-new door.
From Nmap down to Cowrie, he sets his honeypots,
Catching bugs and clever hackers in their secret little plots.
Suricata shields the system, while the malware gets scanned through,
Teaching students how to handle what the cyber crooks might do.
He cares about inclusion, making sure no hand is bound,
Like the recent time in Manila where the BrailleRAP device was found.
He brings the open hardware back to build it at the space,
So those who cannot see the screen can find their proper place.
A traveler of the global stage, from Abidjan to Spain,
He joins the world’s internet fights to minimize the pain.
A YALI West West Fellow and Ambassador with pride,
He shares his tech-for-peace ideas with leaders far and wide.
At home, he is a family man, a father and a son,
Who celebrates each milestone when the busy day is done.
With simple words and daily care, he helps young people grow,
A helpful peer and guiding light that Cameroon and the world gets to know.
"The 50 Move Rule"
Thomas Crown
rolled his smile
around her frown
Romance blew a warm breath
over her pristine cowrie shell
Voodoo Mojo Bag
There,
just there,
an Ocean made a Blue move
In the Red
Life
Black Black White
White White Black
Read,
A story to tell
White White Black
Black Black White
The 50 Move Rule
Thomas Crown
rolled his smile
around her frown
Love
has no strategy
Chemistry, richter scale rated
The mind being not vacant
Each piece moved in the puzzle
towards Walter Mitty
Calamity Jane
rides like Godova
into the Windy City
Unannounced
Packing pieces
of a puzzle
Thomas Crown
rolls his smile
around her frown
White White Black
Black Black White
Romance
with sharp teeth
bites ...
The 50 Move Rule
Checkmates
Pieces on a playing board
Life
Alligned?
(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
“I Like It “/ Moby (Octave Edit)
https://youtu.be/q520gk_rmDE
"Butterfly" / Lloyd Cole
https://youtu.be/vf9odSxCyio
"I Like It" / Moby (Original, Slow Version)
https://youtu.be/TdXLNHWmurM
“Are you following me?" she asks, but doesn't meet my gaze.
"Yeah," I say.
"Why?"
I give her the only honest and true answer I have.
"You're where I want to be.”
("Leaving Paradise")
"I grabbed my book and opened it up.
I wanted to smell it.
Heck, I wanted to kiss it.
Yes, kiss it.
That's right, I am a book kisser.
Maybe that's kind of perverted or maybe it's just romantic and highly intelligent.”
“Love, like everything else in life, should be a discovery, an adventure, and like most adventures, you don’t know you’re having one until you’re right in the middle of it.”
(Brushstrokes of a Gadfly)
The 50 Move Rule
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fifty-move_rule
The strange men made strange fruits
Point.
Strange
Strange fruits
fruits and Men
the difference only in color
Multiply the hate. divided. but blood is same
Between strange fruits and strange men, what is with us and those Different.
Strange
Strange
Creators
Strange men
Men had God
Fruits had god and Allah
The difference of cross, a tree and Crescent
Equaled blood flow by gun, arrows and swords. The winner, takes all history
The rest punished for your Gods sins, you are killing the cat for eating from your plate, yet you never feed.
Nothing
Strange
Men
Against Women
Strange
Sex
Strange
Men
Strange Money
Was with men
Fruits traded with cowrie, cows
Sum up, Money bought fruits in the market
Totally men hid the path, yet cleaned packed fruits still follow their way
Strange
World
Strange Fruits
Free from Men
Strange money still ties them
Poor fruit does not care about the tree
Add Men of God and strange money and fruit easily falls for tree
Eternal return, young fruits carrying the weight of the world, the Old carry the weight of time, someone help them right
Point
Point
Point
Neo strange fruits feeds strange men by praying to Men of God to get strange Money to pay for their death beds. We can only hope, the more the lines the more we perfect. Amor Fati?
Written: June 23, 2023
______________________________________________________________
Bonds packed with zeros—harmony, grief, regrets,
In this endless cycle, memory no longer begets.
Your poetry is a symphony that stirs my soul.
But also a river of nausea in which I swim, whole.
Lonesome, dispossessed, my being in unrest,
A fetish for the departed, my electrons protest,
Darkened with heat and sound, aching for release,
Delicate slights, hunger, I cannot appease.
Bear me safe, classy, an echo of frustration
A decadent counter-revolution, my salvation.
Invention, force, and calculation may fade away.
But the lessons from failure forever stay.
The struggle mistake, the clarity we seek,
Caesar black vision is bold and unique.
Metaphors communicate wonders untold,
As a monkey and a cowrie shell, a story unfolds.
The absolute, shallow, and devoid of depth.
All surface, a worry that leaves us bereft.
To be zealous, and lewd as we bleed at sunrise,
That is the contract, the ultimate prize.
The journey of life, filled with harmony and strife,
Grief and regret are intertwined in this mortal life.
Memory fades as we seek a fresh start.
And your poetry is an art that ignites my heart.
Despite the beauty, a nauseating river flows.
A discomfort that lingers, a feeling that grows.
I swim in its depths, bare and exposed.
Deprived of control, my vulnerability imposed
Within me, a fetish for those who have passed.
Their presence lingers, casting shadows that last.
My electrons, once vibrant, are blackened by pain,
Absorbing the heat and sound of their refrain.