Long Custodians Poems
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There were two of them
Lemmy and Remmy...
Two leaders born
Born of destiny
The weight of government
Must rest on the shoulders
Of Lemmy and Remmi
Israe-el and Leki
One king the other kingsman
One immortalized one mortal
There is no telling them apart but
Leki has a scar on his back.. yet
Others claim Israe-el has a scar too
When mama called out to Israe-el
He faced his mama who realized
The folly for faced her Leki...
A heated exchange outside the mall
Israe-el has Leki vexed..
And now its an all out war..
Israel tries to use the katana
fails to wield it in its full power
Leki takes the sword lifts it, it thunders
And katana glint of silver comes alive
Down Israe-el... brevity in moment
Then Leki realizes what he has done
DADDY!! DADDY!!! screams Leki
I have killed my bro .. DADDY!!!!
A slight rain covers the land..
Leki sobbing uncontrollably
A slight stir did i see, did i..
He is alive Leki!!... He lives
Far be it from you Leki
To ever put out the lantern
For in Israe-el is the lantern
The sword of Israe-el now
Belongs in the custody
The custodians seers
Leki you realized katana..
Katana glint of silver
You are extra powerful
Shouldn't be held lightly
Remmy na Lemmy
Abuja doesn't feed on manna..
That why the boom and boom
Is alive boom boom are drums
Drums of war for Lemmy doesn't
Doesn't live on manna... ABUJA
CODE 254
Mselah 0922hrs
LKN
Let it breathe—
not as a slogan carved in stone,
nor as a promise rehearsed at rallies,
but as a living thing,
fragile as morning light,
restless as a people denied.
For democracy is not a throne
where power sits unchallenged;
it is the trembling voice
that dares to question the throne.
It is not the ballot alone—
ink on a finger fades—
but the courage behind the hand
that refuses to be bought,
refuses to be broken.
Let it breathe
through dissent,
through the stubborn tongues of truth,
through the uneasy silence
that follows a lie exposed.
For when voices are caged,
democracy suffocates—
not with noise,
but with the quiet death
of meaning.
A nation does not fall
when its enemies gather at the gate;
it falls
when its people forget
that freedom is a duty,
not a gift.
Let our democracy breathe
in the streets where justice walks uneasy,
in the courts where truth must not kneel,
in the hearts of those
who choose integrity
over convenience.
For power, unchecked,
is a slow poison—
sweet at first,
then fatal.
And silence—
silence is its closest ally.
So let us speak,
not as rebels without cause,
but as custodians of a fragile flame;
knowing that to keep it alive
we must guard it
even from ourselves.
Let our democracy breathe—
not perfectly,
but honestly;
not loudly,
but freely.
For in its breath
lies the soul of the people,
and in its silence
their slow disappearance.
for Kungkarangkalpa
Sisters, scattered starlight,
Songline stretching sunward,
Stalking, tireless shadow,
Sudden leap, skyward bound,
Stars, seven silver flames,
Silence, seventh, hidden,
Still they rise, slow and bright.
Note:
Kungkarangkalpa, the Seven Sisters Dreaming, is one of the oldest and most widely shared creation stories among Aboriginal Australian peoples — its songline (a sacred storyline tied to the land) stretches across more than half the Australian continent. It tells of seven ancestral sisters fleeing an unwelcome suitor across the desert; to escape him, they leap into the night sky, becoming the star cluster known in Western astronomy as the Pleiades. Their pursuer follows and becomes the stars of Orion — which is why, each night, Orion appears to chase the Seven Sisters across the sky. Traditionally only six stars are visible to the naked eye, and many tellings — from this Aboriginal songline to Greek and Lakota myth — explain the mystery of the hidden seventh sister. This poem is written in tribute to that story, and is dedicated with respect to the Anangu Pitjantjatjara Yankunytjatjara people, the traditional custodians of the Kungkarangkalpa songline.
Far below the arguments of gulls,
beneath the commerce of waves,
there stands a library built of coral and silence.
Its shelves contain no books.
Instead, each volume is a memory
the world misplaced.
The first laugh of a child
whose name has long dissolved from stone.
The fragrance of an orchard
uprooted before photography.
The final dream of a sailor
who mistook the moon for a harbor.
Patient octopi tend the collection,
dusting absence from forgotten years.
No visitors arrive.
Yet every century,
a whale pauses beside the entrance,
sings a note older than history,
and another memory returns home.
Meanwhile, we above
continue calling ourselves the custodians of knowledge,
unaware how much wisdom
the ocean keeps from our reach.
the blood is pounding in my ears,
The sounds of the cafeteria are utterly drowned out.
Her round, pink lips, mouthing obscenities at me
As her fists rain down on my face and chest,
Legs straddle me, scabbed knees on broken tile.
I should be in pain,
But I am elated, finally, she touches me.
Her short red and brown hair is matted against
Her face. Salty sweat and tears trickle onto my shirt.
The blood from my broken nose and busted lips
Cover her blouse.
I am at home with her pain-other students, not
Understanding, gather around our scene. Hateful,
Piercing blue eyes hidden behind a sheen of tears.
I have long since let her vent, shaking
She falls forward, her arms around my neck.
Carrots and Grilled cheese scattered
Around the dodge ball line, where our
Bodies lay still. She sobs.
My eyes swell, a reddish pink that will darken
To lavender, a mouth full of copper blood is what
I deserve. Hot, sticky fluids soaked clothes
Like a feverish dream, our bodies convulse;
Memories like a highlight reel flash as a custodians
Calloused hands bring a mop and bucket.
Blood pools around, a thick aroma wafts into hearts.
I didn’t mean to hurt her, I shouldn’t
Have said what I said. He was a fool,
He never loved you.
He was our best friend
Her Ode to Joy, my partner in crime,
A hero to me, her first crush.
There’s a surprise in all flesh
And I hope one day she finds it.
Custodians of pleasant deed
You will see them behind good
They mean no harm, but to join hands
Their aim is to build an organization of
Creative generous innovation
They are the structure;
The citadel of good behavior……….
Their MINDS are so clean and pure
They always want to make HOLY
They are like angel of the Mighty, the Highest,
The Wonder, the Mystery, the Marvel
They are the angels of light in our society
The bad will always be on a point while the good
Will always be the foremost
Their name were being written
With white pen on white board, the custodians of
Pleasant DEED shall not DIE
They shall rise in the hereafter
Where the fellow angels will welcome them with A song
Dedicated to all good wishers on this site,
I can't MENTION NAMES , they are countless
I stand where
the old breath gathers,
where earth became memory
and memory took root.
I am called mother
not for what I hold
above the ground
but for what moves unseen
the slow giving,
the listening
that does not turn away.
In the dark beneath you
I keep the stories warm.
They pass through me
without voice—
pulse to pulse,
root to root,
a knowing older than speech.
I have taken in
the footsteps of many
soft ones,
careful ones
those who spoke to wind
as if it answered
because it did.
Their songs did not leave.
They settled into me,
rested in my grain
like embers
that refuse forgetting.
When the small ones rise,
thin with new light,
I feel them
before they break the surface.
I steady them—
not by touch
but by nearness,
by the promise of staying.
Fire has named me before.
I do not turn from it.
It is a fierce remembering,
a clearing of breath,
a way the land speaks
in heat and renewal.
Do not think I end
when I fall.
I open.
I return.
I become the ground
that holds the next voice.
Lay your hand
against my skin
and be still enough
to feel what continues.
You are not outside this.
You have only forgotten
how to listen.
Note:
Mother Tree is a poetic symbol, not a universal Aboriginal or Torres Strait Islander belief. It is written with respect for First Nations understanding of trees as living parts of Country—kin, ancestors, teachers, and keepers of memory. Cultural beliefs and stories differ between Nations and Communities.
Written with respect for the Traditional Custodians of the land on which this poem was written, and in recognition that cultural knowledge belongs to the communities from which it comes.
Hey!
The prodigals have returned.
The one we entrusted with our wealth.
The custodians of the granary keys.
They are here again.
Five years ago,
We sent them to legislate for us.
Very angelic they were.
Very blameless they appeared.
The prodiglas have returned.
Overseas they have been.
Offshore accounts they've created.
Their lifestyles lucrative.
Very egocentric they are.
The roads they promised to improve.
Till dystopic.
Bursaries in their accounts.
As our children languish in illiteracy.
Their son and daughters graduates.
Ambassadors and high officials they are.
The prodiglas have returned.
To persuade us into voting for them.
With incentives they have come.
Sweet words they have.
Very seductive they are.
The prodigals have returned.
@ Tha Formidable Cheru.
History is the view of the far past in the present
Yet no present is without a past
Though the future looms before us
Yet nothing is new under the Sun.
Anything that is, has been before.
The present is life"s linkage to the future.
A future without the present is the present without a history.
The history of my people defines their pre-existence
The Nok terracotta, the relics, pieces of potters, are landmarks of a skilled civilization only being unearthed now.
The history refires their potentials.
History is you standing on thresholds of generations,
Whose genealogy has been lost.
You are the oral custodians that generations have longed to express.
A people without a history is a people without a future
Is a people without generational synergy
A people with traceable history have a future predicated on a great past.
(Written on the 9th of March, 2015)
The Construct of an Essence Forming
Collaborative custodians of remuneration for the poor
Commemorative symposiums on humans need for wanting more
Symbols of ancient mystery drawn upon cave walls
Thimbles of fragrant misery born from what a man recalls
A nieche in the marketplace, an advertisement that lies
A piece of someone’s face falling plastic from their eyes
The grief of the replaced calling out for compromise
Attitudes of servitude that call for investigation
Gratitude for the interludes that fall for the relief of compensation
Exactitude that can only conclude to stall the consternation
Platitudes that are borderline rude based on weak configurations
Instantaneous satisfaction born from greed and lust
Sub-cutaneous mathematical fractions that only scientists trust
Spontaneous interactions that are based on sense and must
Contemporaneous fine contractions that are born from the modes of break and bust
An ethical integrity that cannot be mistaken
Umbilical propensity that will not be mis-shapen
Ventriloquist alarmists miming political ideals
Soliloquies, pharmacists, timing hypocritical appeals
Contrite sensibility coming from a place of inherent goodness
Finite possibilities running the race of concurrent couldness
Hematite magnifications of ions colliding for war
Israelite pontifications of lions at the gates of Daniels door
Cocophonies of entropy expanding out through space
Topographies and symphonies sounding with an air of grace
Corroborrees and ancient trees expressing wisdom from a race
Soliloquies and poetry forming from a lifetime of disgrace
The basic convalescence of a soul pure as white
The corrupt adolescence as the whole begins to fight
The abrupt incandescence of a goal reaching the light
The construct of the essence of a mould in pure delight
Copywrite 2023 Elizabeth Morozl