Long Ensuing Poems
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Nights are restless in dispirited dreams,
treading water in storm-tossed seas.
Starlight guides an uncharted course
when I hear your voice calling me...
hoping to have you again at my side,
sultry eyes gleaming across ebbing tide.
In shallow shoals I stand shivering,
swells swaying in a rhythmic beat
as if they were merciless maelstroms.
But from their lure I seek no release
if from their hold you cannot break free.
Then, I shall perish within their flow
for this reality I have come to know...
My hunger for you will never be sated,
my thirst remains unquenched.
I'm drenched in brine and endlessly search
but yet to find a seraphic solution...
an inkling as to how I can ignite the flame
to light my way while calling your name,
for no matter where my quest leads,
I fail because you're never there.
If to be with you I must face my worst fear,
submerged, entangled in waters deep,
I will find you and wrap you in my arms.
If the bottom of the sea is where you sleep,
my heart will entreat the storm laden sea
to enfold me as it did you, joined in reverie.
I cringe at the desperation of that thought
but my heart is beginning to lose all hope
that it can cope without you at my side.
I cannot hide the dreary darkness inside me,
the bitter starkness and ensuing emptiness
that fills my solemn soul with morbid dread.
Gladly, I would surrender my last breath,
accepting death, forsaking the loneliness
and offer my life... body, mind and soul
without a torrential train of trickling tears
nor wretched frown of fear upon my face
to be with you again each night.
Quivering, I'll wade into tremulous waves
if it means I would be reunited with you
somewhere in reality... anywhere but here...
in dire doldrums of my dreams each night.
Even now, they beckon me into their depths.
If to love you, I must drown; I dare say I will,
surrendering to the fate of my destined plight.
The Shine Of Secret Love
In the ensuing evening of low-moon time,
I am continually astonished at the rate of the dying.
What has happened to these endless dead,
These unliving shadows dressed in ripe memory?
Such sentient moments spent in a haze
nailed to the wall,
Such ancient voices still speaking of vanished lives,
Of obscure conversations in the old morning hours.
These dead souls still know the
turns and the names of the ancient avenues;
I can see their faces again and
hear their familiar voices in the coughing fog,
We can sit here in this darkness and
Leer at the lascivious naked moon,
Strutting up there, looking for the shine of secret love.
Or we can walk this slow avenue holding hands,
Maybe find the Life Stone of our lives and heartbeats.
Maybe we can stand under this curious streetlamp and
Kiss for an hour.
A ticket pinned to the thigh reserves it,
the whole cadaver is parceled off - of course.
Legs are a late harvest, these often-indigent parts
carry a visual poverty long after the body is plucked.
Under watchful eyes the young medics
separate muscle groups, filter large blood vessels
from fibrous runnels, hesitant scalpels
seek out fascial planes.
The leg is devolving to scraps,
yet, ingrained in the tissue
I sense residual shades of a former life,
seaside postcards, old photographs,
perhaps campaign ribbons, odd tokens
amongst yellowed newspaper clippings,
all briefly surface as conjectured images
beneath a probing knife.
The gray flesh retains its personal history,
I imagine that behind the knee
there is a wife, children, and a separation
all spectrally etched between femur and tibia.
Much of the ensuing bone-whittling years
are demonstratively scored
across a formaldehyde and jelled narration.
The students suppose they dissect a limb,
while I notion that I turn over bloodless pages,
of an unwritten story,
and now the last few attached ligaments
remain as threads that speak at last
of a long journey’s end.
Jane right at work as she shares point watch of the front desk's with her equal who ran off to get their hot prepped meals an offering I declined.
I waited for his return keeping Jane company, so I played at the lobby's seated Asteroid game while a quieting kid watched me at play while his late arriving parents kept Jane busy.
Returning cries went out the door, as game resumed my awe. Unbeknownst the ensuing silence breaks, Clint's voice -- I thought you'd be here, ... Mr. Eastwood!
I quickly unplugged the game. Inquired where's Jane, he guessed she's in back since nobody's was there till he saw me playing there.
Then hails, Jane. Mr. Eastwood--we're passed by that Jane, I told her. Clint went on to say of his reasoned presence will be walking through the lobby doors, and that the difficulty was his inability of reaching either of us, alerting of his own predicament.
Then a voice from a closing door, I am suspecting she's Jane, would you be William?
Yes, Mrs. Taylor--Good, wouldn't want us to be pulling straws all night--Dickie darlin,--yes'um, ah 6am charm my dear.
Yes Mr. Burton--make sure he answers the phone. Yes Mrs Taylor, says Jane to Ms. Taylor's --TaTa!
Clint smiles, they cut me off at the pass, showed up at the Hog.
He'd not have lost character if he played Dirty, --Mr. Eastwood.
Camelia - Rabindranath Tagore
Kamala was her name.
I saw her name written on her journal
She was traveling on a tram, with her sibling along, toward the path leading to the college.
I was a back bencher there.
From one side, of her face, the smile line is visible
And the unbridled hair, touching softly her neck underneath the braid
With the book and journal in her lap
I missed the designated stoppage where I was supposed to stop.
Now, I have a stricter time, allotted for a walk outside
That calculation is not quite a musing with my workspace
Almost befitting with their leaving time, whence it is time.
Often we meet
I ponder in silence, regardless if there is any relation or not
She is my co-traveler.
A face with innocent intelligence
Was evident there, fulbright.
The young forehead had untied haid rushed to upside
The bright eyes had a gaze, unhesitant
It comes to my mind, why there is not any crisis, ensuing
Saving civilization from, to make this life glorious, charismatic, flying.
the children wait on the shore
eyes fastened to the horizon
behind them stand the women
with a gaze far more serious
all impervious to rain and wind
the hurricane had turned inland
last night it was moving north to Baja
the fishermen left with ease
it would soon be gone
yet, early in the morning, it moved east to Nayarit
chaotic nature, in the end reigns supreme, it always has
in the distance dots appear, fishermen driven home
as the storm rages over them
children and women frantically search
the returning pongas for any familiarity
as the fishermen struggle valiantly in the waves
tonight some prayers are bearing fruition
while others were lost to an angry sea
a storm none could predict
nor ever will with certainty
the candles burn at the feet of the dead
now plaster saints, imploring continues
long into the night, a chance of perchance
that bird that sings in the worst gale
morning brings the tolling of church bells
amidst the devastation
faces who will never forget that chaos
has no favorites
only illusions, as matter, may well be, Berkeley rocks
the luck of the draw, despite Darwins' wishful design
the ensuing fluctuating schemes of pandemonium
desultory forces who at best are deficit in reason
or are they, who knows the breadth of creation
a constant reminder, the precarious hold life has
how delicate the day we the biota share
how precious life is
i learned that long ago from a little tippler
leaning on a dying sun
toasting with manzanilla the heavens above
cursing some matelot beneath her labored breath
now the nobody we all are when the light extinguishes
receding within into singularity
and whatever wormhole we exit will never matter
nor the dimensions therein
gone, as the smoke from an extinguished candle
escaping forever into the entropy
where matter never perishes
Fergus Falls 96 The Patient Stones
how often in my writing i see Emily Dickinson appear....i have often fantasized about pursuing her heart
There’s no victor and no vanquish,
The so-called rising sun of Biafra has been set forever,
It would be a disservice for anyone to refer to any eastern state of Nigeria as Biafra,
The tragic chapter of violence has just ended,
We’re at the dawn of national reconciliation,
Once again we have an opportunity to build a new nation.
My dear compatriots,
We must pay homage to the fallen,
To the heroes who have made the mammoth sacrifice,
That we may able to build a nation great in justice, fair trade and industry.
I imposed a blockade as a deliberate policy,
This was necessary during the ensuing stalemate,
Though it led to the mass starvation of Biafran civilians,
It aimed to compel the secessionist group to surrender,
And stop bullets from rewriting our history.
My government may seek the friendly assistance of foreign governments and bodies
especially in the provision of equipment to supplement our national efforts,
They’re however several foreign governments and organizations
whose so-called assistance will not be welcomed,
These are the governments and organizations which sustained the rebellion,
They’re thus guilty of the blood of thousands
who perished because of the proliferation of the rebellious resistance,
They did not act out of love for humanity,
Their purpose was to disintegrate Nigeria and Africa and impose their will.
Time/event: The Nigerian Civil War, 6 July 1967 - 15 January 1970 / in the voice of General Yakubu Gowon.
February 10, 2025.
Omen
Its coming soon i fear
I can hear the preacher on the corner screaming
" The end is near! "
If he only knew what ive been feeling
in my bones these many years.
All the signs
All the warnings passed down for ages
Scribed by prophets on sacred pages.
The dreams and visions ive been afraid to share
I dont dare
For it is the death sentence for fools
Once again the dunce in the corner
On the lonely stool
How much further can i be cast away
But i have to say
All the bombs and ensuing holocaust
The volcanoes cataclysmic blast
The approaching comet with a target on
Our back
But the fact remains
People will shrug in disdain
Until their final too late moments
Swallowing their agonizing pain
And the preachers screaming fades away
As his voice evaporates in the nuclear fray
His dreams of heaven blown away.
Its mans last thoughts on judgement
day.
To answer why we threw it all away.
In the liquid sanctuary of silent noons, where steam rises to the sky like an unfulfilled dream,
we meet in the dance of waters, two spirits swaying under the warm curtain,
her hands, springs of tenderness, flow over me like an ancient promise,
each touch is a verse etched on my skin, a poem written in whispers,
she commands the water to be gentle, and I, listening, feel her song like an incantation,
we let ourselves be carried by the waves of time, in the silent dance of stirred memories,
and when my hands meet the temple of tranquility that is her body,
it's as if I enter a sanctuary where love is sculpted in flesh,
every corner of her is a prayer spoken in silence, a relic of eternity,
and each touch is an enchantment, an invocation of peace.
We lose ourselves in our ritual, masters of the frozen time,
in a world that forgets to slow its steps,
but here, in our sanctuary of water and soap, we rediscover our souls,
where time stops like an unfinished painting,
and we remain suspended in the moment that embraces us,
when we emerge, we let the water continue its story,
we dress in the ensuing silence as in a sacred garment,
speaking of trifles that become everything in our cosmos,
for there is no need for more when you learn to live in the miracle of the moment,
and if ever you leave, my love, do it like a whisper slipping into the night,
like a star that slowly fades, gently, so I do not feel the sky tearing,
but only your light that shone in our quiet noons.
In the event that I forget
what this poem is about
I refer you now to the birds
outside my window.
They are silent – it is a sound-proof window,
but I want to speak of windows more.
I should have titled this poem ‘Window’
but then the silence and the birds got my attention.
What is a poem - rhetorical unanswerable question,
yet perhaps they are a silent window,
the words being birds only the eyes
and the heart can hear. Well they could be.
Before he died in the Hospice
my father would gaze out of the same window
everyday.
On the other side of that silent window
horses grazed in a paddock – nothing special.
We both would sit facing that expanse of glass,
I wondering what to say next,
He nodding and smiling at the horses,
the green cropped grass - the occasional birds.
Not a sound did they all make
but father was listening and seeing
what only those close to the center
of silence can see.
I believe the words end here.
In the event of my losing my place
In the ensuing quietus
please look away.