Long Excitedly Poems
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We’re on Fall break this week and Peter’s favorite aunt - Lita - is visiting. Lita’s a tall, slim woman (eek! A guess), in her early sixties. She’s nicely weathered and tan. I’m sure she once had Peter’s blue-black hair but now it’s mostly white and styled in a loose braid. I think she rocks the coastal grandma aesthetic with a wardrobe of mostly pale tans, whites and flats.
Peter has all kinds of stories about her - she’s a character. When Peter was 5, on Halloween, Lita pretended to sacrifice a chicken, cackling, like a witch. He was wide-eyed until she admitted she was just making fried chicken for dinner.
Lita lives on property adjacent to Peter’s parents, but hers is larger, more of a farm, where she raises chickens and grows Meyer-lemons and persimmons. This may explain why Peter slices up lemons, dips them in sugar and eats them like oranges (I shiver). Peter told me that Lita always liked fruit, which is why she bought Apple stock in 1997.
From what I’ve learned, talking to Lita, she practically raised Peter’s dad (David). Their parents had a boy before her, an older brother she doesn’t remember meeting because he drowned at a church outing when she was a toddler. Their parents, in their grief, had turned in on themselves, becoming as self-centered as gyroscopes.
They’d left Lita by herself for weeks at a time, to raise herself on a more-or-less trial-and-error basis. So, when David came along 13 years later, he became her responsibility. She started working as an auto mechanic and eventually opened a couple of shops of her own. She describes herself as more well-read than formally educated - as if knowledge had just settled on her, like dust from an old library.
“Teressa (Peter’s mom) is very curious about you,” Lita confides to me as we huddle together over venti pumpkin lattes, “Peter’s very tight-lipped where you’re concerned.”
“He is?” I ask, confused, “maybe he’s ashamed,” I venture, “or maybe he’s planning to dump me?” Lita looks amused, ”uh huh, that’s probably IT,” she agrees.
“Look! I say excitedly, pulling an envelope from my purse, “It’s my first-ever paycheck,” I beam. I make a production of opening the thing, like an Oscar envelope. “$223,” I read, shaking my head in admiration, then adding, with sincere sounding hyperbole, ”he can’t dump me NOW, I’m RICH!”
for no fault of mine, congenital blindness has been my lot
i never fail to wonder how i look
mum said i'm blond and beautiful
till date what blonde means still beats me
i can only imagine the meaning of beauty
i've learnt to endure the ridicule of people
who only add pain to an already wounded soul
it also hurts when i'm pitied
with my sister-in-law a constant culprit
the clergyman said my handicap is a blessing
that it's good i can’t see a world so sinful
but he failed to reply when i harmlessly asked
if he had ever prayed to lose his vision
my family even consider me a burden
complains and excuses trail my request for whom to guide me
to put an end to my inconsiderate disruption of their movies
they did me the favour of buying a guide dog
the sighted make much fuss over trivialities
can you imagine crying over a missed movie
or threatening suicide if not allowed access to the television
sometimes i itch to know the big deal about television
but television is strictly for those that are blessed with vision
so is tourism, movies and countless others
i long to be a medical doctor
and also to get married and have my own children
but understandably, men refuse to look my way
i'm now used to the bitter truth
dreams and wishes are not for the sightless
my thumbs are always sore ‘cos i love to read
and it hurts too when my siblings yell excitedly
'bout the scenic sights they behold
oh, how i wish for a day of sight
to behold the rainbow, flowers and mother
to see myself and my dear Stevie Wonder
music is therapeutic to my soul
oh, its the best gift to mankind
though the deaf will definitely disagree
have you ever wondered how life will be without hope
but i live without a hope of regaining my sight
while people sleep, i wish for death
but of course wishes are not for the blind
and unlike those cowards i'll never kill myself
i laugh when the sighted complain of penury
or when they make much fuss over needing a wheelchair
i'll gladly exchange conditions with them if given a choice
'cos the sun never rises in the world of the blind
the need for air differentiates the blind from a corpse
however i've got a few consolations
i'll never get to see an ugly sight or a dead man
i'll never see my husband cheat on me
sadly though, that's if i ever get one
This old car written by a parky ,
I have a friend Denitia
A lovely lady she is
I rang her up one morning
To see if she was in
We decided to have some fun
In an old reck of a car
So off we went
With tools in hand to find this old car.
This car was for the crusher
It had no seats or wheels
But we put our heads together
And started to build
We worked on this old car all day
And found some good old wheels
We sorted out the puncher
And polished up the steel
They all come up such a treat
All sparkling with a gleam
And then when we looked with in the car
There was no seats to be seen
So of we went to have a fined
And there to our amaze
Was an old pink push chair
That will do as a seat
We needed a front seat
So that we could drive
She put it in excitedly
And decided she would drive
We realised it need a battery
And found one on the ground,
We checked it out
and to our surprise
It started up the car
We both jumped in, And of we went
Not knowing we're to go
And this old car went chugging along
And never let us down
The radio was blaring
The music so much fun
We sang along in rhythm
To the 70 s songs
We followed along the rd
And vagus did we find
It was all lit up and all aglow
With beautiful fairy lights
We parked the car,And wondered around
We had so much fun that night
There were saloons and bars
And dancing to ,all through the night
We had so much fun,We wanted to stop
But had to get on our way
We wondered back to the car
But we had lost our way
We both could not remember ,
were we parked the car
This poor old cars gone missing
It's a jaguar
It's blue and brown ,
it has got lots of rust
And has a beautiful pink drivers seat,
It sing all the songs that you can sing
All from the 70s
So if you find a car , that's blue and brown
And lots of rust you see
And that it's a jaguar
That sing along to the 70s
Please look after this old car
It's to good to be crushed
It won't never let you down
Even though it's full of rust
But we have never found it
It's gone from our minds
We just hope that one day
We will hear it coming by
We listen out for the 70s
The songs we so enjoyed
And prohaps one day we will remember
We're we left the car
Sue gage
A loaded pistol,
With youthful courage till yesteryear;
Now lies naked and dormant,
And Is found to be lifeless and dead.
Somewhere, buried in my Junkyard,
Playfully tested till now in all arms to shame;
As it shyly, blushes and whispers to admit,
Murmuring its helplessness into my ears.
Ooh! My Childhood friend,
It feels like an impotent;
To be so bullet-less today.
My Golden days have all ended,
Life has become so ignorant now;
As I've become so bullet-less today.
As the pendulum constantly oscillates,
Time has traded fast on twenty wheels;
Looking for some good fortune in distant lands.
And a store-room in my backyard,
Has always remained the same;
And is still kept unchanged.
But never was any eye caught,
Not even mine;
To drool upon the nozzle of that Gun;
Like the way I used to do,
Used to lovingly do before.
Strolling down my kindergarten alley,
When a Gun was gifted on a bright Christmas morning;
It used to amaze me in my childhood days,
As I so excitedly unwrapped and got it out;
From the mysterious and magical White socks,
Which was hung on my bed; Hung all night,
Waiting for a snowy white beard old man;
A laughing sage in an exception;
Who lived on the mystical hill-side view,
Of my Steel city.
Today, after so many years,
A long craved sight fell upon it;
And it instantly drove me back,
To flash my childhood nostalgic days.
When infant Army camps used to settle,
To battle in the air for all day long;
Under the densely old,
Never claimed tree by anybody - 'Our Mango Tree'.
Ooh! How then this pistol fakingly killed,
So many nappie buddies of mine.
Who played and just acted,
To be dead as my enemies.
Ooh..! How strangely it feels like,
A game of now.
When today the lil' me gazing at any topic,
Sitting in my backyard;
Stumbled and pondered to find,
An old vintage Shot-gun of mine.
So curiously digging the wearily torn school bag,
Hanging since ages on the dampened wall.
Ooh..! So clueless, I fumbled upon,
An old vintage Shotgun of mine.
Dumped and buried under thousand other,
Essential antique toys of mine;
Which notoriously has got rotten in rust.
In closed walls of adolescence,
Where white parchments seeps overall;
From moist doors of yesterday,
Ooh..! How strangely it still feels like today.
who felt incorporeal storied power
of Herman Melville as zen unseen aid
instructing hypothetic rich kid to drop out of school
before his/her first grade
coz of all the money he/she made
which affected modus operandi rendered obsolete
child worker laws
and no sweat of brow getting paid
people used bitcoin (or other online currency)
additionally making purchases
with scant keystrokes to complete a trade.
As with any major dramatically novel scheme
light bulb idea scribbled on napkin
scrap of paper
via cheesy or whipped cream
originating as a flash in the pan
aha eureka moment, or dream
as rough blue print subsequently
underwent beta testing,
before declaring pc innovation supreme
whereby outstanding persons in the tech industry
clamored to join Kidde team.
Whether seventh day add vent
hissed or other religious creed
powerful binary processing
impacted near
earth shaking incarnation indeed
and ramifications in all walks
and talks of life sought expert need.
Coven chanting children murmured Luddites be damned!
Thus spake Zarathustra (cue the opening scene
from Planet of the Apes)
upon witnessing as if king or queen
(in reality father or mother)
didst get immediately
dethroned thus, increasing mean
average positive
effects on society, especially lean
microchip i.e. integrated circuitry
miniaturization "green"
technology (and eventual
attendant affordable price)
viz said trappings
unleashed upon global market
invited absolute zero dust, a must clean
as a whistle work space,
and manufacturers laboratory be microbe free
hermetically sealed vacuumed "clean".
Countless portable machines
unbeknownst soon epithet florid hack
coining impromptu called cyber crime
especially as majority proportion of population
didst purchase these dime,
a doze in countless "end users"
snapped up these smart machines
excitedly keyed away indifferent to gunk
on unwashed hands
plus bits of food particles
eventually caking hardware with grime
(eventually necessitating technician
charging gobs of moolah
sans to unstitch in time.
Sitting in bed.
It’s time for sleep, shower first.
Three baskets of clean clothes, bedside.
Cats' nocturnal sport rumbling across the wood floor, mother pouncing daughter, chasing rubber balls.
Tinnitus and the sound of air whuffing through the ventworks. Faintly piano music seeps through the seal of my door from children’s room, as they dream. I’m sitting... in bed.
I need to shave. My razor’s dull. The hairs will be plucked from my face, less shorn. I will examine skin for blemishes, and finding none will probably aggravate a neutral irregularity to the point of bleeding. I’ll brush my teeth first, to avoid the taste of shaving cream. Then shave and shower, and recall the salt stone my abuser once gave me. She loved me then. Perhaps.
My shampoo is infused with tea tree oil and mint. It irritates my sensitive scalp a little. It smells so good.
I’m not ready to sleep. I’m not ready to shower or shave. I still taste milk on my breath. And I’m awake, as if capturing a few more moments of consciousness… were a virtue. Is it?
Tinnitus my faithful friend. A frequency so high it’s almost imaginary. A close listen reveals dissonance, two or three tones. The warbling interference pattern. You are the closest I come to silence.
Cotton swabs, shoot. I need to make a list. One or two things I remember in the store, and more I forget. Some microwavable containers for rice, to take to work. I’ve been eating sweet potatoes in an effort to lose weight. I like them, but… variety.
Something… something else I wanted to remember. Batteries? No, that wasn’t it. Cobwebs? No, why would I need to remember cobwebs? I have cobwebs in my brain. Ah! Kitty litter. So that too, and… well, I’ll think about it later.
I’m starting to lose feeling in my feet and lower legs. It’s better than restless legs, with which I sometimes wrestle. Usually when I’ve done this, procrastinating sleep. Magnesium depletion, I suppose. Or something.
To have a hand on my back, scratching sweetly. An tender arm draped lovingly, even excitedly over my large belly. The sensation, the meaning. I long for it. Long hair, gentle voice, she's with me. Forever. If only.
Goodnight.
Big white clock is bored
With the uniformity of time
Flowing unnoticeably every day
Always the same tedious way
The clock has been sitting there
From the dawn of the time
Meticulously marking steps of
Hours minutes, and seconds
Till it could no longer bear
The meaningless existence
Of being a humdrum machine
One day the clock decided to try
Something a little bit different
A tiny experiment of stretching
Its' frame to right which resulted
In arrow of seconds slowing down
Then bending sharp to the left
The arrow of minutes jumped up
Clock excitedly slid down fast
Speeding up hourly flow of time
Then lazily went back to primal
Initial smooth fixed steady pace
Bringing time flow back to
Normal rhythm of the day
But now the clock felt inspired
So it tried to wrinkle the frame
Excitedly flipping upside down
Which resulted in unexpected flow
Of time acquiring velocity of its own
Detaching itself from the constant
Existence of space and swiftly
Rolling down the edge of a cliff
Clock fell into the dark precipice
Opening the heavy infinity doors
Where the clock hasn’t been before
In the pitch darkness it felt lost
Trying to catch the evading time
With the arrows arms like spread
Flapping through empty space
But time was evading the clock
Excited and free it mischievously
Played spellbound hide and seek
With the desperate clumsy clock
Which felt confused and scared
The world felt hopelessly lost
For the lonely terrified clock
The clock could no longer grasp
The wholesome consistency of time
Which was racing in its own speed
In infinite universe so the clock
Had to find out the way to catch
The time and make it uniform again
Feeling guilty of such a foolish attempt
To test things that should not have
Been controlled and questioned
Deeply repenting crooked clock
Tried to get back to its original form
Restoring smooth round shape
Straightening three bent black arrows
Tuning seconds minutes and hours
Recovering the consistency of time
That always flies by in the same
Monotonous predictable way
The clock swore never to
Experiment ever again
Being just a humble guardian
Of time instead of
Trying to manipulate it
Let me tell you a story....
of a little girl who didn't want to be a Princess!!!!
it happened a long time ago, in the life of an adorable girl of seven,
who lived in the busiest humming city, enormously crowded.
a gentle dreamy-eyed girl, who chose secret corners to read,
and play with her cherished dolls' house, which her father built.
as it happened..her father found a job..and it was an idyllic countryside,
excitedly she followed family, felt fortunate to be close to nature.
a fairyland of her dreams, a picturesque hamlet surrounded by lush fields,
lived in a cottage encircled by a gorgeous garden, bird-songs, and swings.
she went to the village-school, which was a mere walking distance,
carrying her backpack, water bottle, and books she needed.
her father was the powerful manager of the local textile mill,
where most of the villagers worked, and earned their living.
all the children glanced at her as if she were a Princess,
but this soft dainty lass craved to be purely one of them.
she noticed...those children were walking barefoot to school,
no backpack, no bottle of water, no shiny expensive clothes.
end of the day, she returned home, and declared to her caring parents,
"I don't need the backpack, bottle for water, or the stylish shoes...
starting from tomorrow, I am going to walk to school barefoot"
her parents were shocked, but didn't disagree with her at all.
from the following day, the warm friendly girl of seven,
felt totally comfortable and undoubtedly right, with her decision.
all children were frolicking with her, no more was she a distant Princess,
she was their delightful friend...sharing the same life they had in the village.
she still remembers those eyes which sparkled with wonder at the way they were accepted,
a lifelong memory was created, the gesture kindled a feeling of oneness.
April 16, 2022
For N - Form Narrative - New - Poetry Contest
Theme:Life
Sponsor: Constance La France
SECOND PLACE
Chinue Achebe
You are the moon of Africa' night tale,
You are the muse, the pen and the mood
A thousand brave waves of the blacks
I write through the galaxy of your stars here.
Wole Soyinka
Your words birthed my strength and muse
Searching the light through your eyes
I am indebt with your deeds that spread
Here like the stream of Abeokuta's wind.
Christopher Okigbo
The flower that stood without roots to tap
I have visited the aged ancestors beyond
I behold their teeth on vultured ojoto yam
You're the testament of the new generation.
Habila Helon
The speaking thunder of the northern rose
Finely fried in the refined oil of poetry
I dreamt of picking your tender pen last night
I carved a befitting laughter of your face.
Olu Oguibe
The market envies your opulence of wisdom
Once seen, the sky goes wide excitedly in joy
I looked at your footsteps painted acrossed skies
Your lines drawn on the ground stand for eternity.
Niyi Osundare
Your voice echoes without any guilt in it
Savored in a flavoured aroma of Ekiti yam
The trumpet sounds through your rhythms
I saw your poetry coloured as a rainbow there.
Femi Osofisan
The master that turns the world in a second
The drum sounds louder in your hand when
Beaten in the corner of the women of Owu
I will look naked at the sight of you around.
John Pepper
If the moon refuses to shine on us now
We will make it shine perfectly on us
Like the breeze of the earth you stood
Commanding the sun to serve your kind.
Eriata Oribhabor
The shield that shade many young chicks
When it rain north, west, east and south
You will make yourself the umbrella that guide
We watch from the other side of your heart.
Gabriel Okara
The mighty waver of words of the gods
I have made my soul a moon mat for you
You are the future that betrayed evil folly
I draw from your curtain of words to stand.
Dennis Osadebay
From you I see my beloved Reji Remi
Through your ears I heard Philip Begho sang
A beautiful song to the honeyed ear of Uche Nduka
I see you all from the secret of Lexicons.
(C) John Chizoba Vincent
Voice Of Vincent 2016
The sun baked down on our Karoo town
It is dryer than dry; not a cloud in the sky.
No one in the street.
Nothing moves in that heat.
It is the end of the school holidays
Nothing to do; too hot to play,
Except to swim in the farmer’s dam;
Hoping we will not be told to scram
Before we can dive in
For that cooling swim.
Down the road, through the fence
We laugh, with naughty jubilance.
Through the bush, to the dam
Excitedly we run.
Shirts and pants off in a flash
Into the water, we dash and splash.
But happy times must end too soon.
As we walk home in late afternoon
There is a snarl, there is a growl
Two Dobermans are on the prowl
They block our path from front and back
Preparing for attack.
Our only hope, to turn and flee
In the distance, a single tree
We do not wait, we spin around
And race across the open ground
They catch up quickly and try to bite
As we scream out wildly on our frightened flight
The moment sharp teeth sink into my thigh
I know I am going to die.
My flesh is ripped,
To the bone is stripped
I stumble, I fall
I try to crawl.
Blood pours onto the dusty sand.
I am alone, not a helping hand.
Why?
Why me?
Why is this happening to me?
I am too young to die.
Brutal teeth are the last I see
As they clamp, and tear though my eyeballs.
Then darkness, I am blind
I scream in terror at my plight
At every crunching sound, at every painful bite
I can smell the stench from jaws as they rip
And taste the salt of blood from my torn off lips
Strong paws claw.
Jaws grind, chew, and gnaw
My flesh with fierce ferociousness.
I drift in and out of consciousness
There is no bottom to the dark depth of my despair
I cannot move or see, but only feel and hear
The chewing, crunching teeth on bone
And feel the helpless fear that overcomes, now hope is gone
Will this gnawing never cease?
Please God kill quickly, give me peace.
The pain is neither here, nor there
But everywhere
Yet, I do not care.
I know, that only when I am dead, the pain will cease.
Only then, will there be peace.
Slowly it comes.
Life’s agonising light turns into the darkness of night.
The snarls become a song. Soft music in the air
A world without care.
Then I am gone