Long Cut across Poems
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As you walk through the corridors of life, its highways and by-lanes, the
back-alleys and well-beaten trails, through lush jungles or the arid scorching wilderness you pickup tidbits or sometimes gems of wisdom at the unlikely places, from the unlikely people, sometimes very much alive and present, sometimes from long dead and forgotten.
you learn from parents
and more so from peers and seers,
life teaches better.
One thing I learned from Jesus Christ is that you have to carry your own cross knowing full well that you may be crucified on this very cross – sometimes you have no choice, sometimes you have to do it for the good of the people.
Prophet Muhammad taught me that when a revelation dawns on you, embrace it zealously. If you have enough people believing in your perception, you have begun a new creed.
Moses taught me that you don’t have to tread the well-trodden path. You can cut across the wilderness and still reach the Promised Land.
Buddha taught me that a state of enlightenment can only be attained by renouncing physical and material yearnings.
Mahatma Gandhi made me see the futility of war and aggression. You can bring down a mighty empire just be a wooden staff in your hand and wearing nothing but a loin cloth.
Mother Teresa made me realize that you can live your life unselfishly, working and caring for others and still make your life a success and fulfilling.
not of the heavens
nor of any astral plane,
faith is of the heart.
Nowhere is taught the skills to live a life. You are not born with an instruction manual. No one can fix it for you if you screw it up. And you cannot return it and get an instore credit. You cannot put it on lay-away. You cannot exchange it for another if you don’t like the one you got. You just got to make it work good for you by yourself.
But these bits of wisdom comes much later—at the tether’s end of one’s life,
when we have already put too many miles on and the seats are all worn-out and the dashboard all faded and dusty. When the brakes start screeching and squealing. When the engine starts making funny noises and the radiator begins to leak…
a life-long process
salvation lies in one's self…
seek none but thyself.
Was just another BAU day
at Duesseldorf Uni
Lads in the IT room
playing minesweeper and internet spades
A few emails here and there
RE: IT Support Needed
I can't access my files
Something's wrong with Citrix
George stroke his beard
Screw it, must be stupid SMB
We should've stuck with UNIX
"Something's going on", said Emery
Anxiously searching Elastic
Things are starting to look encrypted
Gasps shouted across the room
As they stared at the long ransom note
Off went the not-so-classic ring tones
on the IT admins' work phones
Nicht das.. Nein!
Swear words dropped on the white bricks
As Emery ran across emergency
Notepad.exe open with bitcoin addresses
mocking her steps pass every screen
PA's buzzing, an ambulance redirected
The white van blazes towards Wuppertal
It's whole thirty kilometers
As the CRT screen rang
A white line cut across the missed murder
From a siren that never went
----------
In remembrance to the woman that died on September 9 2020, the first person that died directly due to a ransomware attack. She had to be redirected to a hospital in Wuppertal 19 miles (30 km) away and died in the ambulance on the way.
The Siren that never went was the network intrusion detected too late.
The IT department described is mostly fictional.
Glossary
BAU - Business As Usual
minesweeper and internet spades - games built-in to Windows XP
Citrix - popular and dirty commercial remote access software. It's remote code execution vulnerability allowed hackers to get in thousands of systems
SMB - Server Message Block, the protocol used by Microsoft Windows networks to share files
UNIX - A simple and secure operating system standard, implemented by BSD, MacOS, Solaris and some Linux distributions
Elastic - ElasticSearch, a search engine often used in the ELK stack (Elastic,Logstash,Kibana) to search events and data across different network endpoints
"Nicht das.. Nein!" - German for "not this.. no!"
Notepad.exe - the program often used to display ransomware notes by cyber criminals
bitcoin - a cryptocurrency that's hard to trace, often used by criminals to demand ransomware payments
Standing at the tavern door,eyes dark and brooding
Neath his floppy hat, stared into the crowded room,
A Raven flew from his shoulder settling in rafters high,
He smiled a sardonic smile and ordered a mug of ale.
All turned to look at this dark eyed traveller tall,
His leather boots dusty ,cloak trimmed with mud,
And from his belt around his coat hung a dirk long
No one thought to say a word they tried to look small.
Around the smoke filled room his gaze did wander
Settled on a crowd of rowdy sea going lads noisly
Drinking ale and rum and telling bawdy tales,
Just back from foreign voyage across the seven seas.
Within their midst a vision sat with a smirk on ruby lips
Long hair framed her face like waves of swelling sea,
Like kelpie mane, ran that hair ,her eyes like deep sea green,
And at once his dark eyes shone beneath that floppy hat.
The night wore on, the air grew warm, the raven fluffed his wings
From somewhere a shot rang out lodging in rafters deep,
Laughter raucous and shrill cut across the misty room,
Silence fell heavy among the gathered crowd.
He slowly turned his head in the direction of the rowdy lads
Dark eyes flashed as stepped towards where they sat,
As one they rose and laughed in his face,swords drawn,
In his hand a wooden staff and they laughed no more.
Faces stunned into disbelief at what they had seen,
Around his feet six men lay still blood seeping from their wounds,
He turned on his heel and slowly went through the door,
The Raven cawed, spread his wings as he flew out the door.
Standing by his horse the sea going beauty waited patiently,
She smiled as he approached with a swagger and dark eyes flash
He tipped his floppy hat and beckoned with outstretched hand,
She went to him in full embrace held him like a band.
They travelled the land, the sea faring beauty and the dark eyed man,
Their tale told throughout the fair sun kissed land,
From village to village and taverns where seafaring folk met,
The legend grew of the Dark Eyed traveller and his mermaid bride.
Andrew Provan McIntyre © 2015.
I AM HIV/AIDS
Saint Luke predicted me long time ago,
While the Book of Revelation warned you about me.
I am raging like a wild fire,
I am growling like a lion,
I have spotted you and I will pounce on you!
I am HIV/AIDS!
I attack people in all socio-economic and educational classes,
I cut across cultural and religious sects,
Graves and hospitals bear this testimony.
Despite significant medical accomplishments,
I remain incurable,
I am HIV/AIDS
From Africa to America, Australia to Asia and Artantica to Europe.
From Cape Provinces to Limpopo and Mpumalanga to Kwa-Zulu / Natal.
From Bekkersdal to Grobblersdal and Makapanstad to Marabastad.
From Sun Valley to Sun City and Mamelodi to Mametlhake.
From Witlagte to Langlagte and Suiwerskuil to Kromkuil.
I am reigning, I am HIV/AIDS.
Woe for the earth and for the sea,
Because I have descended in great anger to devour you!
I refer to you, who do not abstain,
I mean you there, who are not faithful,
And you here who do not condomise,
For I am HIV/AIDS.
Media has warned you,
Priests have preached at the top of their voices,
Politicians have cried loud,
Organizations and institutions have given you warnings,
But all these have come to naught,
Now I will kill you like flies, for I am HIV/AIDS
This is not news to you,
You will certainly catch me through unprotected sex,
Shared infected needles and syringes, contaminated blood,
And from an infected mother to her unborn child.
I then multiply in your blood, mercilessly attacking
Your defence system and leave you for the dead,
For I am HIV/AIDS.
You know this fully well;
You cannot catch me through
Sneezing, sharing toilet seats, coughing,
Or shaking hands with an infected person.
Behold, even if you are not infected,
You are affected by me, for I am HIV/AIDS.
Even though I am dreadful and mighty,
I will finally die and my heart is sore,
That will be when sense is finally knocked in your head,
That will be when you abstain from sex,
You remain faithful to your partner or condomise,
Remember, prevention is better than cure, for I am HIV/AIDS!
They said she sails forever the seas off Cape Horn:
See her and wish to God you never was born.
Laugh if you wish but there’s countless bones
And hulls been sent to the locker of Davy Jones.
‘Twas a fair wind and the seas were at rest;
Then a sudden heave and press of the water crest
Off Magellan Strait, and the storm’s fury grew,
Plunging down our craft and our crew.
As we bore away hard to the west, our ketch
Near to tatters, our topsails astretch,
Another ship massively built
Came out of the storm right at us full tilt.
No warning from the masthead or in the shroud
Just blue sparks of St Elmo’s fire as she ploughed
Towards us, with rope’s creak and flag’s snap over her deck’s teak.
No voice from deck soundless, no bosun’s pipe to speak.
Bell rings in her roll but for whom does it toll?
Cabin doors bang and slew, moonbeams slant through the hole.
The rigging sings an eerie song and waves slap her prow,
Trying to wake this sleeping scow.
But her bowsprit pierced our maindeck,
Then her mizzen cut across our quarter deck,
While her mainmast sliced through our foresail
And her rigging overwhelmed our fo’c’sle.
Water in scuppers bubbles and foams
Light in her cabins blazes for men with no homes,
Tiller fixed, wheel motionless, thru the grey haze’s dullness -
A craft crewless, homeless, hull-less.
Our ketch seemed to shudder and lose her rudder -
I thought that the spectre had wrecked her:
Storm died down immediately she slipped thru thus
And there was no sound and no damage to any of us.
In pathless depths that abound in the sound, (‘tis my belief),
On a rock or reef where you’d come to grief,
In shoals and shallows where souls become hallows,
Such an unfathomed phantom has no fellows.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Entered in Debbie Guzzi’s Contest Tell Me a Story
Pain shows no stain.
The only stain that is there,
Is one of his blood.
It all started a sad day in
July.
He saved my life.
Now, I'm nothing but a simple
Hunter. It's not animals I hunt,
but People...
I knew that there was a bounty,
somewhere there always is. I put
that all aside to speak to him.
I thanked him and turned to leave,
He pleaded with me to give my name,
Fear spiked my thoughts.
Slowly I whispered my name to him.
He asked if he could see me again.
What could it hurt? Whom could it hurt?
Me
I saw him that day
my hunting had stalled.
I saw no fear in living
Should have known that it couldn't be
The man was a trick.
A terrifying trick.
He attacked me when my guard was down.
His knife sliced deep into my arm.
My own knife held steady in his leg.
Pain filled my thoughts.
He attacked again,
leaving a long cut across my back.
I lost the first battle to him,
but I refuse to loose
the war!
When I awoke, I was tied down,
Chains surrounded my wrists.
I was seething.
Once I began to rattle the chains,
He heard me and pulled a knife.
The cut dragged across my stomach.
Blood dripped from it.
I screamed.
He shushed me, trying not alerting anyone.
I wouldn't have it,
I pushed at my chains, snarling like an
animal.
There was a dull thudding noise from the main hall.
He moved towards the noise.
I pulled my wrists free from the chains.
Blood coated my hands.
I moved towards him.
He saw my reflection in a mirror.
He turned to me,
but that's what I wanted him to do.
I launched myself at him.
The knife found its home,
right in his throat.
He simply gurgled before falling.
His body shook slightly, but soon was still.
I threw down the knife and called in my
Kill.
He saved my life,
He hunted me,
I was his undoing.
I am Death.
It beats in me.
Watch for me.
I might be coming after you next...
Form:
What a World!
By Izunna Okafor
Tears roll down my cheeks
Beholding the palm tree I tapped
From his knowledge of blue ink
With a bow, lofting off a huge gap
What a World !
Our intellectuals have all died
And the vase of wisdom dried up
The siege of our dear unbounded hist
Dusked and whisked away in a rueful tomb.
What a World !
In silence has the nature laid hold
Of the man I cherish so bold
Parting him behind our physical ears
And boiling us in the pot of rueful tears
What a World !
The wave blew aloud like a ruse
Kidnapping attentions as a tale
Only to jail some minds in her rue
Blinking as sorrows in the eyes of men
What a world !
We never expected an untimely departure
But that has reposed our penner in a mellow
For the time of men is tied to the nature
And our tears for the dead a show of sorrow
What a world!
The death has struck deep down our marrow
And incarcerated us to the jail of sorrow
We wail not that he was not old
But beside us lies an empty hole
Who then will satisfy our thirsty souls
What a World!
About the Poet:
Izunna Okafor is a Nigeria novelist, poet, journalist, essayist, publicist, administrator and an Igbo Language Activist who hails from Ebenator in Nnewi South Local Government Area of Anambra State.
He writes both in Igbo and English Languages, and has published enormously in both.
Izunna, a graduate of the Nnamdi Azikiwe University, is a recipient of over twenty literary awards, and has five published books to his credit, in addition to his online publications, which cut across Journalism and Creative Writing.
Contact Details:
Phone Number: 08163938811
E-mail: izunnaokafor70@gmail.com
What story should I tell?
This is the tale of how the lonely acorn fell
far from where the mighty oak had stood
cut by the hands of man, felled for its wood.
The mother-father tree lay across the laid bare land
cut down in the forest no more to stand
and the branches stretched out along the dirt
releasing the acorn from its berth.
This acorn scratched and bruised, browned and torn
slipped into the streamflow of new rivers formed
and floated out to the open sea
she rode the tides salted and found herself - free.
The gulf stream path sped north into the wintry chill
as she cut across the sands where tidal waves were spilled
and a gull eyed her glistening shiny coat
and scooped her up but not down into her throat.
Pass the inlets, along the earthen roads
the gull dropped her beyond the manmade folds
where fertile land had long ago appeared
and squirrel and chipmunk vied for burrows cleared.
Buried deep in fertile soils blessed
this acorn was welcomed as the forest began its undress
with autumn fall and winter tamed,
she was awakened by the sun and rain.
This acorn found a place in the northeast spring
with hairy roots that began to form and sing,
of an acorn that was newly born.
escaping the outer shell coat torn.
She began to grow far from where she fell
and as life took on its hold in sapling meld
the newest oak began to watch history unfold
and knew then she was not the last acorn in the mold.
As time and historic years hurried pass
she knew she was not nor would be the last
with nature's watch and thirst
she was, the very first.
4/24/20
for John Lawless contest
The Last Acorn
Screamin’ Bill Wilcox was quite a man,
Carved from a block of stone
With a face of leather, deeply tanned
And a voice you could hear in Rome.
A cow hand he was, best with a rop
Could ride both bull or stead,
Quick with a joke, quick with a laugh
Quicker still dealing with thieves.
One cold night on old Montana’s plain
The heard milled, restless, unsettled
Then ray when they heard a lone wolf’s howl,
A test to a puncher’s mettle.
Screaming Bill road out ahead hollering
His voice booming and proud
The cattle swerved in a moment’s spell
And Screamin’ Bill went down.
We found nothing much left of Bill
Just his trampled, yellow hat
We buried him with it, twas only right
Then rode, a herd to catch.
Month went by and the job rolled on,
Long hours for little pay,
And we rode out to green Idaho
A new herd to drive away.
One gray evening the clouds moved in
Lightning crashed across the land,
The cattle spooked, into a grand stampede
With thundering hooves they ran.
And I alone out in the great range
Was answering nature’s call,
Turned and saw a crush of steers
A writhing and churning wall…
Just then a men he cut across
Hollering out ‘This a-way!’
The cattle turned and charged at him,
But he whooped as if at play!
The next day found the heard amidst
A stretch of fertile grass,
Feeding quietly, quite content
No thought of the near past.
I road along to find the man
Who’d saved my life last night,
I found only a yellow hat,
Glinting in the sunlight.
The others they did cross themselves,
But on my face a smile played,
Because I knew right then, for all of time
Screamin’ Bill would ride the plains
Friendship: Just Like a Palm Tree
By Izunna Okafor
From the crusts of lonely loams
It gently roots inner and outer
And softly pullulates harder and taller
To register its purpose to mankind.
Like the trunk, the bond glues harder
To the closely open hearts of soil
Who signed for mutual reciprocation.
Its oil heals internal and external wounds
Smoothens the rough path in the journey of life
And generally satisfies the ravenous and thirsty mind
Amidst love, sweetness and uncommon affableness.
It is a shelter
To those who faithfully embrace it
It is a protection
From both the seen and the unseen blitzes.
Though it might be swayed or troubled at times
The frond fans away fears, worries and anxieties
And breezes up pleasure and comfort
Drawing from the wind and coolness of the heavens above.
From its base to the apex
Valuable is every tranche thereof
Beholding its mutual and universal foredeal
Both in the long and the short runs.
Just like a palmtree
Friendship is fecund, impactful, virtuous and gainful
Though bad may fitfully come therefrom
That, the good utterly outweighs.
About the Poet:
Izunna Okafor is a bourgeoning novelist, poet, journalist, essayist, publicist, administrator and an Igbo Language Activist who hails from Ebenator in Nnewi South Local Government Area of Anambra State.
He writes both in Igbo and English Languages, and has published enormously in both.
Izunna, a graduate of the Nnamdi Azikiwe University, has won over 20 literary awards, has four published books to his credit, in addition to hundreds of online publications, which cut across Journalism and Creative Writing.