Long Floodgate Poems
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Torrents of thoughts torment me
Floodgate of distractions rack my soul
Avalanche of delusions
Decapitate my mental faculty
As I muse over the degeneration
That has dogged my beloved country
She manifests every aspect
Of a failed state
The giant of Africa has lost control
Of her Territory to terrorists
Bandits have re-colonized my fatherland
Kidnappers strike terror into the hearts
Of weary and hapless Nigerians
While her economy continues to
Stumble and wobble with ignominy
In the hands of oil thieves
The ancient perpetrators of
rape
Against our father land
Are shamelessly like vultures
Gathering and flying over
The carcass of the comatose nation
To gang-rape her to death
Arise fellow Nigerians and stand firm
Let us take our country back
From chaos to path of sanity
Unsatiated cravings open the floodgate of suffering,
surging torrent of torment tosses the servile soul,
for in the karmic cycle of being born and reborn,
desire doesn’t die, but it’s a blink between life and death.
Distressed mind extracted from sanctum of sense-response,
stilled in the quietude of silent mindfulness pervasive,
finds the rays of divine light at the end of the mortal tunnel,
where the righteous life gets the insight of unveiled wisdom.
The liberated soul attains the distilled essence of nirvana,
floating on the ether of the last breath ascends to heaven,
the transcendent supernatural kingdom of almighty God,
to be suffused there enduringly with His benevolent grace.
At the celestial portal of the mystique afterlife existence,
an angel waits to welcome to the new abode in paradise,
enlightening that the novel life of real intent begins then,
permeated by the ethereal ambiance of eternal bliss.
May 28, 2020
Contest : Heaven
Sponsor : Regina Riddle
Unparalleled power
Unparalleled opportunity
Opportunity of a lifetime
Opportunity to dream a dream
Dream that isn't utopian
Dream of a peaceful world
World of yours and mine
World devoid of hate
Hate for hate's sake
Hate engendered by ignorance
Ignorance by fools
Ignorance so tragic
Tragic stupidity
Tragic mess seeping deep
Deep inside the core of the soul
Deep in our hearts
Hearts that incessantly bleed
Hearts that inexhaustibly weep
Weep a river
Weep a floodgate of tears
Tears that can't be stopped
Tears that can't be hidden
Hidden for long
Hidden behind a veil
Veil of unfathomable secrecy
Veil concealing a flurry of emotions
Emotions that flow like a stream
Emotions so visceral
Visceral fears
Visceral pain
Pain no medicine could ever dull
Pain with white-hot intensity
Intensity so searing
Intensity so overwhelming
Overwhelming sense of unease
Overwhelming power
Power to corrupt
Power to entrap
Entrap anyone
Entrap me in various ways
Ways uncountable
Ways destructive to us all
All of humanity
All who live and breathe
Breathe air and life
Breathe fire and passion
Passion to fight fire with fire
Passion to fight for a change
Change!
Fire!
Date written and posted: 10/07/2018
“The inner journey of piety opens the floodgate of
divine bliss” – By Poet
I chase the GOSSAMER mirage of the drifting desires
in the desolate desert of my GRIEF-STRICKEN existence.
I carry my languishing life listlessly across the bleakness
along the pitiless pathway of disparaging delusion.
Caught in the whirlpool of GHOSTLY mire of mortal being
I wander lost with deceptive awareness of bereft belonging
in GODFORSAKEN wilderness, GROANING for help to take me
to the surreal ambiance of beguiling heavenly abode.
I strive to be free from the GRAVE grip of despair
destiny designs, resulting in the loss of esoteric essence,
impelling me to break away and chart a new path,
with discernment of divine conscience guiding me.
I transcend the looming limits of space and time,
implore God to show me the way of the inward journey,
for I devoutly yearn to be suffused serenely with
the patina of perpetual peace shining within the soul.
I perceive the shower of His graceful endowment,
drape me with the aura of freedom and happiness.
I sense delighted the faithful flow of blissful divinity
flood my inner sanctum as I open the gate of consciousness.
With my pen poised- I begin to write you a poem,
Oh, words and thoughts are whirling in my head;
And from deep, deep WITHIN the floodgate is open,
The blood drips and the bleeding words spread;
With my pen poised- I begin to write you a poem.
All my saddest, emotions and sorrows- I give to you,
Oh, please will your carry my burden for awhile;
I am in THAT cemetery walking under a sky so blue,
Then, I am a girl standing alone in a church aisle;
All my saddest, emotions and sorrows- I give to you.
My beloved- are just names engraved in cold stone,
Oh, mom I wish you were here to hug this girl;
Will you be my FRIEND and hold my hand as I moan,
And from this sorrow beauty will whirl and twirl;
My beloved- are just names engraved in cold stone.
And I write over and over again- my dreadful pain,
Oh, the sorrow and grief is etched in words I write;
I put my poem in a CONTEST and wait to be slain,
But sometimes, with great joy, I see a bright light;
And I write over and over again- my dreadful pain.
When I am held high in the light- I know pride,
Oh, and when my words are lost, I weep alone;
The bleeding stops and into SOLITUDE again I glide,
And I let my grief rest and the pain has flown;
When I am held high in the light- I know pride.
___________________________________
May 27, 2016
Poetry/Rhyme/I begin to write- Five Words
Copyright Protected, ID 16-795-445-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Inspiration, five of my poems:
and that comes from within
All That I Am
death of a friend
Bite Me
silence sweet solitude
Written for the contest, Five Word Challenge
sponsor, Timothy Hicks
Fourteenth Place
i’m on Georgia turf, the land
of bless your heart, pretense
of the titillation of heat.
scurries the sun; moon
damp on clothesline.
burrowing bunny ears with
chocolate undergrowth.
seeds just float away —
Spring ants on ready
for full on assault -
red, black, small, sweet
snacks, eyeing the path
up the drain, backpacks
with chemical-scent
prepared to fill the queen’s orders.
moss suspended in animation -
vibrant hues imbued
with mosquito larvae.
oh what joy when Hotlanta dries
and we run smack
into the thugs
that arise from corners of
their nests.
just in time for Easter
bless our Southern hearts
with beasts that beat us
to the melted bunny feast,
branches that grow
overnight — a highway
for the squirrels. eyes
will be on pretty petals
that overblossom —
the poet soaks
in flooded rose
and jonquil reservoir.
flowery words swim
in the concentrated puddle
along with whirligig-ladybugs.
oh what fun, a slippery-slide
into a momentous hatch —
let me explain: a floodgate;
the Assyrian army.
3/5/2020
Here in the quietness
like that of a silent root
growing deep into the earth,
I sit in the womb of my room,
contemplating a tributary
flow of imaging words
from the lexical river of verse;
sending streaming messages
to the belly of starving eyes
Suddenly, and as quiet
as a shooting star
across the sky’s vastness,
a small black spider
eight-track its way across
a clear white wall,
disappearing into liberation
If only our own liberation
could be as swiftly energizing,
rather than like the quiet
slow movement of a full moon
seemingly struggling across the sky,
reflecting the sun’s allegorical message;
albeit its waxing and waning
The sun has always
had that bright symbolism
of resurrection—liberation—
new beginnings;
even though its journey
over valleys, across rivers, seas,
and over hunchback mountains
ends in a down setting
over the ever waiting horizon
While panging venomous verse plots
to distort imagery messaging
in the lexical flow, anti-venomous
discernment, as quiet as a spider’s heart-
beat, opens a floodgate of wisdom
Thus, it is revealed
that each sunset and each sunrise
marks another triumphant day
in the struggle, and despite
the darkness the moon’s waning brings,
there’ll always be bright tomorrows
bringing one closer to the liberation quest
That something as venomous
as a black spider could be,
should initiate the webbing of
the tributary flow of this meandering
hopeful verse, is no less than a mandate
for pregnant poetic minds
to continue to ink the liberating word
She remembers the shimmer
of one Sunday morning
The sun had grown dimmer
on the overcast seas
The color of yellow,
spread long amber fingers
And the sycamore trees
cast strange somber shadows.
There was a threat in the sky
and the faint sound of thunder
Then a flash in the hills, in the blink of an eye,
Clouds gathered so quickly on the hillside, nearby
They rudely unlatched all the floodgates within
When a minute had passed light shined once again
and a radiant sun spread like gold end to end
At the old oak table, she sat in the kitchen
Staring at paper, with a pen in her hand
Searching for muse and the words for a poem,
seeking the magic, to paint with a pen
Hoping for gold in the late summer's bend
While hearing the tapping of rain and the plunder
And as quickly as storms, come out of nowhere,
a floodgate of verses resounded like the thunder
and flashes of lightning struck lines here and there.
Pouring on paper, like rivulets on windows
a floodgate unleashed, were the words in a row
Painting a river, a poem she could own
and words that would capture the late summer storm
___________________________________________________________
Contest: "Titles" Required using titles of our first 5 poems.
9/17/15
(Titles of my first five poems:)
The Old Oak Table
Dimmer
Yellow
Sunday Morning
Unlatched
Entered again: 'Second Chance for the Unloved Poem' Contest
Sponsor: Jesse Rowe
For ages, probably for prolonged ages
They have been waiting for the ecstatic pearl
Collages of pomegranates in bends and edges
Are on the toes to get into the whirl
For ages and ages the two hungry clouds
Have nurtured their myriad colours
Explosion of passion in retiring from the shrouds
Two fantasizes colliding in tremor
For ages and ages the starving crimson words
With the pen and paper set dance-like
Waited in the molecules of curve in the swords
Tonight they are getting into the crushing of psyche
Touches of silk and strokes of electrons
The birds at mad bites into the pineapple
Inbox is flooding with cloud nine neurons
Moments mesmerized in moonlit maple
The horses from Harappa racing fast
The fountain opens its wonderful floodgate
The ship tossing along with the mast
Tumultuous tempest in the Ithaca strait
Go go go Owl plunder your moon
Let the black beauty put on maroon
________________________________________________________
July 31, 2016
As I sit at the table,
I will ponder and then
search for the words
and a form for a poem
I'll be staring at paper,
with a pen in my hand
while looking for gold,
whether it's midnight or dawn
Just like hearing the tapping of rain on the window
A free-verse is brewing,
at first just a drizzle
And as quickly as storms,
seem to come out of nowhere,
a floodgate of verses
will sound as my thunder
and flash as my lightning
to strike here and there
Pouring on paper,
like rivulets on windows
A free-verse unleashed,
forms the words in a row
Painting a river, and a poem I can own
_____________________________________________________
10/30/15 For Contest: "What Is Your Favorite Poetry Form?"
Sponsor Nayda Ivette Negron