Long Elegies Poems
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(for chikbok girls four years after elegies of lost)
And we opened the book of remembrance again
Tickling all ears that are designed to be deadly.
We filled the cups & buckets with tears of blood,
Bloody tears as the cloud rises from dark night
& the horizon of our lives radio out our prayers
in pleasure & pleas recording poetry into broken
Rhythms of the kings bird' songs singing elegies untold. We recoiled this pages of cries into folded arms. Lost is our liberty ephemeral into chaos.
This light of darkness are now printed in our
palms of history tormenting our own feelings.
they left home through the corruption of their father's land. You know, their lies ferried them
into Sambisa to go & tell a tale of their crimes.
the chromosomes of their pigments lacked the bravery within the wrinkled nose of their cheeks.
Lives are buttered fireflies &worms of mediocre...
We may not know how pains taste until untitled chapters of sorrow unfold in our lives to seek revengeful voyage of our sins towards our home.
We televised their lies on the national televisions,
tilted the head of our cocked brain into gadgets
in a ballroom of miscreants clothing our beliefs.
I opened this book of remembrance again,
For my lazy sisters that struggles effortlessly amidst leaves and shrubs of looting leaders.
for their tears composed a musical notes,
for their fight created astraying street steer
I held upto these fallin' memories in a graveyard
into the abstract demon of my noble moralities,
into black races, into an abstract journeys.
brittle of the papers written in absence of our
ourselves, in the pictures of our lost self issues.
we will gather these soothsayers to the cloud
to sooth out those prilgrim girls in the moon.
till then, let this dance be of survival &revival,
of those deaf & dumb girls kept in the bosom of emptiness. they made them voiceless like the pages of a blank books but we know all their magic tricks in the closet of their ignorance.
No chikbok, no Dapchi girls but looting politics,
Politics that has strange mouth & shadows.
Until this madness is cleansed from our souls
Point towards your chambers & crack your mind
We are mocked movies trying to be seen by all,
a documented fairy tale in the heart of all.
©John Chizoba Vincent
From_A_Pen_Refusing_frustration
My muse is a poetic flower garden,
blooming lilacs in barren meadows,
but I still remember
how I heeded haunting heartbeats
in paradise, whilst praying
for your lustrous light,
to descend onto my hazy horizons.
Your eyes like captivating sunsets,
made me dream away,
recalling shells lost in a forgotten
coral reef, castaway upon
an elusive island,
where the paths have no name,
but the oceanic breeze
calls yours so softly.
I was killing time,
scribbling elegies
on distant musical shores,
where spotted eagle rays
and flying fish were my only mentors.
Nocturnal reef sharks unfolded tales
beneath lonesome skies,
illustrating a secretive stairway
that would lead me
to the scintillating stars.
Deep within my heart,
I knew in the darkest
night you are the light
that would illuminate
my breathless sighs
with blazing ballads
rewriting my fate,
reawakening my
need to thrive through these
endless melancholic monsoons;
surfing through vast oceans.
Your cosmic radiance pulled
this chocolate mermaid,
from the bioluminescent
ripples of sorrow,
empathising with
endless streams from
my volcanic mind
and harmonious heart,
which was in dire
need of healing,
from draconian depleted
ideologies imprinted within
a labyrinth of
narcissistic daffodils,
emanating deceptive fragrances
resembling the devil's disciple,
claiming me as nothing,
but a mere self
confessed queen
on a conquest to conquer
the uncontrollable calling
to a land of virtual hypocrisy.
If only they knew
I no longer desired
to rule a kingdom of
tumultuous pretense.
I was waiting for the
return of the butterflies,
tearing apart the fragile
walls of its cocoon.
I knew if Romeo did not die,
I would be living Juliet's desires.
I was a poetess
searching for
a purpose, with no sense
to shelter, watching the
last icicle
of winter melt away.
Truth deserves a narrative
that has no ending,
though I question the universe.
Where do the
lost poets reside?
Is it where the
moon chooses to hide,
disguising dreariness
within dazzling blankets
of dancing moonscapes,
or will this be how
this sleepless soul
seizes its faultless lunar tide?
Written: May 12, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Kai Michael Neumann
Quote: “Set yourself on fire and seek those who fan your flame.” By Rumi
**********************************
I sliced through the strings
that thawed my dreams in shadow,
tossing them into the time tiara
of celestial orbs and supple styles.
Periwinkle-plum dawns defy time;
Bright blooms grow in cosmic cracks.
Dusk falls on barren land, esoteric embers;
With an aching heart, I walk alone,
serenading with blue lotus meteors.
The wand of Kismet gleams akin to stone,
as cinnamon-glazed magic unravels.
Each shift is a fascinating fight—
light-flecked drape, lyrical elixir, elegies;
curling mulberry-leaf marrow fades.
After the kernel, I strive for clarity
without crash or catharsis, without pain.
A lovely wind touches my smile—
In the pulse of erased promise.
An impending divorce is stipulated.
In echoes of exquisite and ubiquitous,
lavender-sequined crystals of shift,
I sail beyond the rhyming reefs to embrace divorce.
Cut wistful strings, salty lines, diving into rhapsody...
Torn uncanny links below heavy waves,
free to explore unmet routes
amid vanilla plankton tears.
May I find solace in every crooked teal smile.
O, if sepia pearls and reverie state a split,
I release and love what is not meant to stay.
Even with moon megalomania, using past wisdom,
the plants wide wings amid the warm sky
and herbs flexed with a deceased breeze of joy.
I sip in the glorious, gold-and-cherry air,
Clouds of bewilderment have dissipated.
In a captivating cosmos, clarity clings.
Hunger, turmeric-tinted roses follow an idyllic climb,
and whispers shout boldly—unafraid, Nix!
Ominous night glows appear as we fly across the sky.
We claim our position under brilliant beams
and the rose-glazed moon,
while myths merge across endless twilight.
Heartbroken after its fateful odyssey,
among the stars, free from a fixed kismet.
I will sleep calmly, wishing for plum rings
to create a pearlescent paradise.
The Estuary of Esoteric Embers
laces my home with soul-searching chimes,
whistling away in flavors of forgiveness.
Somewhere between fallen flares
of an untouchable phoenix~
and the nostalgic red of crimson horizons,
I feel the amethyst embers of longing
illuminate rambling roses
that mourn within my hibiscus heart.
O beloved Love,
I long to be your tulip twilight
adorned with unfading mauve haze,
where green-gold scribbles of sunset
erase interlaced flaws,
to harbor blue-black mists
twirling above tides of tainted topaz…
and I will thrive amidst
storms of insecurities,
as the Swarovski Horse of Poseidon,
crystallized in resilient silver,
gleaming in glowing grace,
beyond dews of darkness,
shifting the aroma of pomegranate’s kiss.
There, peonies of peace
feast upon decadent delicacies
in the barren garden ~
flourishing with jilted jasmines.
I wonder, will these metaphors
woven across my canvas in perfumed ink,
speak the songs of my splintered spirit?
For the moon no longer sings
the melody of my soul,
and I refuse to choreograph
a diabolical dance for resentful ravens,
collecting twigs from tortured trees,
as the crescent smile
wanes into neon nothingness.
Yet while the witching hour beckons
skeletal remnants to rise
as celestial ashes,
I go insane, lose my incandescent light
that glistens in opalescent hues,
leaving my quill to suffocate in solitude,
unable to grasp the musical muse,
to stitch sorrowful sonnets
with seething synonyms.
O stringed sapphires
sailing above the meadow of melancholy,
forgive this coffin curse ~
it holds carvings of a corpse bride,
aching to be seen beyond the kohl shawl~
cloaking the frost-glazed silhouette,
weeping woeful elegies
while slumbering in the
amorous arms of Orpheus,
for in your absence, I cannot breathe,
and sleep screams
like a long-forgotten miracle,
needing an oracle to
alchemize a soothing potion…
So lay me down in a bed
of deep daffodils and thorns,
watch me plead for merciful rain,
to free obsidian tears of terror,
while my psyche bleeds
grammatical mistakes.
I am forever trapped in tremors of agony,
unable to reopen galactic gates
of euphoric escape,
so tonight I’ll let the torrents of torment
embrace inked insanity…
Ancient Greek and Roman Epigrams I
Wall, we're astonished that you haven't collapsed,
since you're holding up verses so prolapsed!
Ancient Roman graffiti, translation by Michael R. Burch
You begrudge men your virginity?
Why? To what purpose?
You will find no one to embrace you in the grave.
The joys of love are for the living.
But in Acheron, dear virgin,
we shall all lie dust and ashes.
—Asclepiades of Samos, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Let me live with joy today, since tomorrow is unforeseeable.
?Michael R Burch, after Palladas of Alexandria
Now his voice is prisoned in the silent pathways of the night:
his owner’s faithful Maltese...
but will he still bark again, on sight?
?Michael R Burch, after Tymnes
Poor partridge, poor partridge, lately migrated from the rocks;
our cat bit off your unlucky head; my offended heart still balks!
I put you back together again and buried you, so unsightly!
May the dark earth cover you heavily: heavily, not lightly...
so she shan’t get at you again!
?Michael R Burch, after Agathias
Hunter partridge,
we no longer hear your echoing cry
along the forest's dappled feeding ground
where, in times gone by,
you would decoy speckled kinsfolk to their doom,
luring them on,
for now you too have gone
down the dark path to Acheron.
?Michael R Burch, after Simmias
Wert thou, O Artemis,
overbusy with thy beast-slaying hounds
when the Beast embraced me?
?Michael R Burch, after Diodorus of Sardis
Dead as you are, though you lie as
still as cold stone, huntress Lycas,
my great Thessalonian hound,
the wild beasts still fear your white bones;
craggy Pelion remembers your valor,
splendid Ossa, the way you would bound
and bay at the moon for its whiteness
as below we heard valleys resound.
And how brightly with joy you would leap and run
the strange lonely peaks of high Cithaeron!
?Michael R Burch, after Simonides
Keywords/Tags: ancient, Greek, epigram, epigrams, epitaph, epitaphs, translations, elegy, elegies, eulogy, eulogies, death, grave, funeral, lament, mourning, loss, pain, bereavement
People are, constantly, selfishly numbering their troubles endlessly
While you are listening to them patiently and hopelessly
They write elegies describing unrequited love, themselves,
Their pain, feeling blue,
But this elegy is only for you-
Everyone is writing sad poems, and self-centered, too
However, my poem is devoted to violence, to violence against you
Today, I saw a dead bird on the road
Its death made me see again this horror,
It left me to endure humiliation, over and over again-
To watch faces, innumerable, impersonal, coarse, covetous faces,
Who rush every morning to destroy you
Haste, hatred and indifference are jostling down the streets
Crazed women are shopping, peeking into shop windows greedily,
Throwing away papers and bills on the sidewalk
Some men are drinking and smoking in a tavern
Cigarette smoke, trivial conversations
Erase and kill everything, even love is contaminated
By the touch of their dirty fingers
Chimneys and cars are turning the air into smelly haze
Snarling machines, squeaky sirens
Override chirping of birds and children`s laughter
Gardens made of plastic bags bloom on the river banks
The souls of dead swans are floating on grey lakes,
Enclosed by sadness of poets
The sea is bleeding, bringing waste back on the sand
And you are crying over the man,
Who was a long, long time ago,
Clad in beauty and who is now dressed in wrecks
In your tears, I see the universe and despair of your silver companion
You are still spinning noiselessly,
Changed, old, wrapped in a shabby veil,
Your wrinkles, made of concrete roads and towers
Are becoming deeper and deeper, your gowns are worn-out
You are still spinning, persistently and compassionately,
Going nowhere, into the empty future
People are constantly, selfishly numbering their troubles endlessly
While you are listening to them, patiently and hopelessly
They write elegies describing unrequited love, themselves,
Their pain, feeling blue,
But this elegy is only for you-
Everyone is writing sad poems, and self-centered, too
However, my poem is devoted to violence, to violence against you
In the morning,
I am not a poet.
This is no matter of opinion,
It is an undisputable fact, and don't I know it.
I am not a poet
In the afternoon, either.
Not for a lack of trying,
The words simply won't flow from my hand to the paper.
When the Sun sets,
Nothing that I write could or should be considered poetry.
Every line sounds like gibberish,
And should be treated accordingly.
But when I finally rest my head
And close my eyes on my disappointing diminished hexaverse,
I imagine myself in a world where the constellations spell out similes,
Until I am finally submerged.
I frolicked through a field of Forget-Me-Nots
As I basked in the moonlight made of metaphors,
I could not help but gape at the world
That was unlike anything I had ever seen before.
Hyperboles whizzed past me,
An ode to life echoed through the air!
I could hear onomatopoeias crashing against a distant shore,
As personification ruffled my hair.
I sat myself on cloud like grass
And turned my gaze upon the stars,
They twinkled with the secrets of long gone poets,
Whispering sacred bars.
I tried my best to listen
As Orion and Scorpius traded elegies,
'Til the Man In The Moon said,
"Not yet my child, you are a poet yet to be."
And so I tore myself away,
And resigned myself to the beach,
I took in every inch of thalassic beauty
As far as the naked eye could see.
I contemplated what would happen
In the morning when I woke,
Would I continue writing underwhelming sonnets,
Until the day I croak?
"No!" The Sea roared
As the tide came rolling in,
"You will write of what you witnessed,
And one day when you return again,
Bellatrix and Hercules will tell your story
To the fleeting comets that come 'round,
They'll say 'There! There they are!
That's the poetic dreamer we told you about!'"
Once the Sun had risen I waved goodbye to the Sea,
And although I was nervous I made sure not to show it,
For I knew the pen would always be mightier than the sword,
When in the hands of a poet.
I still follow
the blinking spells
of the rose wine sunsets
before surging sandstorms,
believing in the euphoric breeze
floating across the
shivering skyline,
echoing vermilion voices,
lost in the limestone grains,
as questions of change
interrogate the empathy
encrypted within
my inhibited intuition,
like spices of kismet flames,
swirling to the fluid fluency
of sentimental keys
in saxophone tunes…
But in the midst of moving monsoons,
I feel the eagle feathers of Zeus
rain upon the crystalline swing,
crooning songs of tameless time~
wrapped in the crescent cocoon
of silent splendor,
as I rise, dressed in steel and silver.
I hear the bluebird dream
in symphonies of the karmic sea,
streaming with specters
of star-struck ghosts…
O majestic marine jewel,
change is a promised ocean.
It’s sprouting coral blues
from reefs of ambergris embers,
awaiting floods of onyx tears
and jagged thistles,
like a tsunami of smeared streaks
reflecting the smoke
and swollen stains of the red sun.
Tonight, I erase the last mistake;
a scribbled imitation
of my aching past,
for I could not veil the scars,
failing to seize the
splitting clusters of
slate and garnets,
burning between
sleepless lakes,
drenched in midnight terrors,
as satanic waves
blur the turquoise surfing
through the limitless twilight.
Yet, I hear the mermaid moon
call my name in magical refrains,
steering my iridescent silhouette
to an ivory shore
where ebony hints of ink
would home the hermit castles,
where you and I can breathe~
as soulmates destined
to draw neon lifelines from
bioluminescent sparkles…
So let the bluebird drift into an orchid dream
where karma is the poet~
draped in deep violet,
writing elegies
to the eclipsed eyes of the red sun
that stole the silk and sage
of summer sighs…
And change is more than just a mere rhyme,
it is the ultimate essence
to rearrange
whimsical words
woven within wind
from honey and gold
of a
dulcet
dawn.
An alchemical raven's gray rhapsody awakens those cynical roses who
Breathe-in the ebony beams of blood-bathed sun, exhaling
Cacophonies that ricochet across these truthful horizons where,
Depressive roars embalm Lilith's lawns. Awash with smoked prairies and
Equinoctial secrecy, my neon lips swathe in life's witchy lies, for -
Flames of fury, lace every lead feather of the pewter crow, that feasts on beliefs.
Grieving charcoal stars swing like souvenirs of deceit when,
Heartbeats of hibiscus moon, shiver and shatter upon my schizophrenic
Ink, carving betrayals in asphalt ashes. "Am I a
Jewel of jinx, floating like a jet-black jasmine across
Kohl orchards?" - whispers time's wistful rebirth in the
Lachrymose lake of death, as conspiracies entwine in cyan cobwebs within
Medusa's redstone heart, tumbling at my tulip-tombstone.
Now, nebulous blackbirds, rise from corbeau cinders, as
Onyx wings of resilience have torn apart and
Pierced every sheath of shimmering faith - surrendering to the
'Queen of darkling serendipity', as her clemency clenches me onto the cusp of
Rhetoric valleys and winds pirouette with a pirate's porcelain wave,
Silencing the saffron of my soulful sculpture, in eternal streams of fall.
Thornless fate has forevermore, been an insomniac illusion and maybe,
Ultraviolet elegies of saturn's rings will become a noose for my dreams and
Viola orbs will encase every dove-dawn in a woeful chrysalis,
When anxiety's darkling dungeon, spreads across rustic realms and
Xanthic Satan dethrones my poinsettia-crown, as survival holds onto the
Yarns of last crystal light within Cleopatra's claustrophobic hope. But in the
Zillionth moment - my heart shall wail in rhymeless refrain - am I the one, lost?
I call it a palace - my life - gilded and draped in fine silks, where chandeliers shine like false smiles,
And the walls echo laughter that isn't mine, but beneath the velvet curtains lies the bruise of silence, a scream stitched with silver thread.
The hand that feeds wears rings - daggers with diamond tips hidden in affection, offering bread soaked in venom,
Each bite a betrayal masked as care, it builds me in marble grace, then carves my soul with every whisper.
I am the sculptor of dreams they present to the world, the architect of their tower-high pride, but my fingers bleed in the shadows,
Amputated from applause, like the slaves who carved cathedrals and were buried under their glory, I too am buried in perfection.
They say "You have everything", yes, everything but warmth, I sleep in a golden cradle that rocks on cold stone floors,
Love is just a painting on these walls - framed, admired, never truly felt in my frozen heart.
This house of mirrors reflects only masks, and I - just another cracked reflection - smile as if I'm stitched at the edges,
While my heart writes elegies in secret, for what is comfort without care, a throne without touch, when the hand that feeds,
Is the hand that kills - slowly, smiling, saying "I love you" through clenched teeth, building a palace of thorns and pain?
I am the prisoner of my own perfection, crowned with golden laurels that wound my brow, a king captive in his own glory.
Each compliment is a brick in the wall that separates me from true happiness, each praise - a new step towards isolation,
And I, the royal child raised in abundance, hunger for a crumb of authentic affection, an embrace without pretense.
In this palace of thorns, each rose hides a wound, each mirror reflects a lie, and I am captive in my own story,
A prince of sadness in a world of gold and crystal, dreaming of the freedom others consider poverty, but which for me would be wealth.