Long Dull Poems
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Those sad voices echo from every corner
From the faiths we hold
To the jobs we seek
To the stories of division we are told
This devil of separation
Carved in the sounds of our tongues
Etched in the scars on our faces
Is defined by the colour of one’s skin.
But what does division beget?
The denial of a brother’s colour
A fracture in the way we share our stories—
Aren’t they all choices we come to regret?
Tribalism and racism are like tragic comedy
False ideas are made to be believed
They build up slowly, line by line
Only to end without climax, in a dull senseless grief.
A lonely life it’s not easy being a fisher’s wife
but loneliness can be a compassionate companion
unbridled spite of bucking boss-mare-waves followed you ashore
her turmoil roiled the blood in your veins
and no amount of vodka
could flatline her seething heartbeat inside you
I saw her in your storm-full eyes eyes the color of stormy seas
you wore your hair in dark waves like hers a windblown tangle
I saw her in your storm-full eyes spindrift and steel blue —
rage of the Bering Sea against a canvas-sky the portrait of your eyes
your tongue-shard slashed at me like a broken bottle in hand
word-squalls blew and fist-storms
flew like splintered glass
piercing me to my marrow till I glistened
but… I could never glisten like her unblemished face at dawn
years of boss-mare-waves ground you down – razor edges worn smooth
your storm-tossed-heart now floats.. a lost raft on a tamed tsunami
your flat-sea-eyes the ancient blue of glacier ice
frosted over dull yet with a faint glow of stories you can’t tell
as you search a cognitive wasteland for words as harmless as sea glass
It was as if a dead man had a hold of my throat.
Each of his fingers (he had but one hand),
was a bone handled butter knife
dull,
but together they clamped my breath like a vice.
"We’ve got to get you in ASAP,
You’re going to choke to death."
Death loosened its grip on me
as if hearing its name said out loud.
The Doctors office jumped sideways into
an erratic twilight zone, inflating and deflating
as I sat in a bleary bubble of shock.
Death squeezed harder
until I wheezed like a broken accordion.
"Look!"
I looked at the X-Ray, my larynx, and around it
woody vines, fibrous ropes clutching
a narrowing breathing tube. A Gordon’s knot.
I told the surgeon about the knot.
He nodded gravely and said,
"It wants to strangle you."
Is there a name for this condition?
"Yes, we call it:
‘Dead Man Strangling Syndrome,’
surgery is the only answer,
delicate, difficult, decidedly unconventional surgery,
that’s the only way forward.
First we need butter, lots of it, and an exorcist.
Are you a Catholic?"
Yes I was born in original sin
and a spreading guilt.
"Excellent" he said, rubbing his hands together,
"then we may have a chance."
Suddenly over the sudden years
I have felt an encumbrance; I sense an albatross -
the weight of sundry uncharted days.
Times I chronicle today as if I were a wax cylinder
or a broken spool in a cassette tape.
A gray goose wing flight is my personal sky.
I must write 'personal sky’ ten times a day
so that the abated will not be forgotten,
yet how to keep a dull sky fresh
when the days are so metallically shiny and blue?
How to recall those monochrome stories
we once told our fully colored-in children,
for they have grown far beyond
such unchanging horizons.
I have so little time, yet must set down
the legend of little boy gray,
his story has almost passed away,
now eyes have no corners to see around,
I knew him well, alas the roads to that tale
are backhoed by cartoon rainbows.
The bygone calls me out into the dinge and drizzle
where a lineage of dog turds leads the nose
to a yesteryear. a knuckle end of time it was,
free from the wow and weight of newness.
We lived under our own cloud cover,
Poetic meadowlarks meant something once,
but now look at them, they strut like gawdy roosters
over our gray-worn journals.
Times past cannot be cured, they are far gone,
all is hump-backed like a speed bump.
Wordsworth and his damn sunny daffodils -
as if we did not know already.
A long moment ago history ran through open fingers
as ungainly as any grayling gosling.
A flint faced sky was abuzz with love, war
and a brawny heraldic Kevlar,
It was understood that the compassion
of the ordinary is to drain away
any hint of an uncertain tint or hue.
I unshoulder now this burden of tawdry things,
shed this molting, wingless, emblematic Auk,
and for one last page of time
record all the trappings
of the then and thereupon,
dumping them most irreverently
into a vividly golden
ash can.
Walking down the country lane
I saw trees in flower all the way.
Gleaming gems among emerald leaves,
A medley of colors on fabulous display!
The path was carpeted with grass.
Thick bushes grew on either side.
The sun was mild and the air, pleasantly cool.
A quiet place where peace did abide.
I felt so thrilled sauntering alone,
Enjoying the serenity of the scene
I hoped it would extend long,
Taking me to terrains unseen
But to my perplexity I found the path a cul de sac
Forcing me to take a different track.
It seemed as if travelled by none.
But I was determined not to turn my back.
No living soul could be spotted anywhere around.
The trees growing in clumps were wild and dull.
The path was strewn with pricking thorns and stones.
The place looked savage and morbidly still.
With every step my feet winced in pain.
But giving up halfway was not my choice.
Determined to reach the farther end,
I dragged forward obeying my inner voice!
This is exactly how we feel sometimes in life
When the road you travel looks a cul- de- sac
When anxiety presses you down to the hilt
With persistence, move forward and never turn back!
Feb.13.2023
~ Placed First~
This or That, Vol.16. Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Edward Ibeh
Love is our umbrella, shelter from storm
A gift from God that keeps us safe and warm.Quote - Poet’s own
Love is an umbrella just made for two
Love brings only rainbows and skies of blue
Smiling when days are dull, gloomy and grey
Soothing all troubles and sorrows away.
Please come and share my umbrella with me
To me you're adorable as can be
Entwined hearts melt into one, where there’s love
Together we’ll weather storms from above.
Me for you, you for me would be wholesome
Together we would never be lonesome
Sharing a home, a cosy nest for two
Singing and dancing in rain all life through.
I wish you rainbows and freedom from pain
Shelter for always in downpours of rain
To shower you with love and endless mirth
That's what I offer for each day on earth.
Facing this world, both of us together
Making sweet music, lasting forever
Blissfully joyful I’m sure we would be
If only you would happily agree.
Until my dream within a dream comes true
And you say that you truly love me too
I'll be standing and waiting patiently
With my umbrella for two faithfully.
At five, coarse strands gather in your small fists
as you tear them clean from your scalp.
You hate yourself
You are ugly
You are selfish
You are a monster.
At seven, sitting under the fluorescent lights of the classroom,
you drive the dull graphite point of a pencil straight into your thigh,
puncturing the skin through your clothes
over and over.
You are weird
You are different
You are never enough
You are a monster.
At ten, pressed against the cold glass on the car rides home,
you dig your fingernails into your arms,
dragging them down until thin red lines bloom
and leak onto the surface of your skin.
You are stupid
You are worthless
You are a failure
You are a monster.
At twelve, sitting alone in the quiet of your room,
your hand shakes as you press a blue ballpoint pen
to the lined paper
to write your very first suicide note.
You are unwanted
You are a mistake
You don’t deserve to live
You are a monster.
At fourteen, under the cover of midnight,
the heavy metal head of a hammer strikes your soft, weak body,
leaving dull, aching purple bruises across your skin.
You are unlovable
You are too much
You are a burden
You are a monster.
At sixteen, you keep silver razor blades sleeping
in the dark of your nightstand drawer,
buried beneath your socks,
so no light can reach them.
You are bad
You don’t deserve love
You are broken
You are a monster.
At seventeen, you rely on pain to keep you alive.
You cannot remember a time when breathing didn't hurt.
And in the dark, you ask yourself -
who would you be today if someone
had just wrapped their arms around that small,
trembling five-year-old,
and pulled her hands away from her hair?
Who would you be
if you were allowed to be a child
instead of a monster?
A dark blue midnight awning has its portrait,
etched by a starlit silver lustrous galaxy,
silhouette of black lace frilled clouds,
in somber quietude adrift beneath a vibrant pearl,
amber moon whose gleaming radiance bemused awhile,
at the stark underbelly of flickering candles,
that the urban nocturne spellbound revel in perchance,
sleep pattern held captive by ethereal bliss,
angelic dreams wrapped in opal tincture,
what optic relishes await at early first light,
a colourfast dawn unveils it’s bronze bespoke banner,
heaven bound yellow flare insouciant whim,
red orange burst sky a stirring presage,
for wingspan flight of stone gray plume creature,
natural world usher whose gold throat cadence,
rouses wonderment among the persimmon trees,
phasing into human yearning for awestruck omen,
Kashmir bright velvet hue azimuth a scant gem,
yet sapphire orb twinkles close or distant lure
might embolden dull minds with ardent spark
The life of a cursor is not an easy one.
It could turn into any shape depending the command of the user but
Sometimes it decides to take matters into it's own hands and to do as it pleases and refuses to work
In the end it is only an artificial intelligence
With an end of life undecided.
Our life as compared to the cursor is full of vitality.
We do things on whim depending on our mood
We do things as instructed because we've got no choice than to obey
Sometimes we decide to go our own way ;
Different from what we are supposed to do
In the end we have a limit
We are no robots
Why then do we stress ourselves out and not enjoy life?
Life without some flexibility and happiness
Is like the life of a blinking cursor on the computer screen
Dull and without vitality.
(For all the girls in North West Province)
I am Lydenburg's Lily,the fearless,flawless, blinding light at the end of of every cosmic tunnel.
My purity is so potent it cleanses the very soul of the landscape,leaving only sparkling perfection.
I am a pillar of platinum brilliance, making fresh snow seem dirty and dull by comparison. The light of the sun actively tries to hide behind clouds, knowing it cannot compete with my brilliance.
My elegance has it's own gravitational pull, bending the knees and expectations of all who witness me
I am the iconic, the incredible, the immaculate standard by which all beauty is measured.