Long Funeral song Poems
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A murder of crows screech my funeral song,
disturbing the eerie silence that surrounds.
Heartless hands have left scars etched into my crumbling bark,
as bleeding sap drips upon ivory sands,
which fail to comfort the aches of my collapsed torso.
I once ascended under sapphire skies,
as golden rays adorned my emerald lush leaves,
but now I've descended into dismal decay,
realising humanity has no use for me -
offering me as a sacrifice to toxic tides.
I can still remember the sound of crashing to the ground,
as men with axes laughed at the glory of my demise,
allowing me to slowly sink toward the abyss of nothingness,
now I'm helpless as ripples of regret carry me into the sea.
Alone and abandoned, above me is only dreary darkness.
I'm barely breathing, listening to careless whispering waves,
smashing against my soaked motionless trunk,
drowning me deeper in self deprecation.
Frigid branches begin to crumble and snap,
as I slumber cradling echoes of worthlessness
When fancy does he come within one's life,
A candle gently placed goes out so quick.
Of course this is his job, yet one so rife,
And pain he caused to some in just a flick.
A march where veils can barely hide their tears
That rains could not compare their dreary wails;
No song can show the loss that sums all fears,
No hollow branch to hold the noose that fails.
Beneath the branch where he would make his stand,
To rub the names of those who have long passed,
Who paid their debts in kind beneath the land—
To sow it with their flesh whose life have passed:
The rain is sly to time their deaths in gloom,
His song's machined—and he will be their groom.
You were a labyrinth into which I ventured with desire,
the threads of your words weaving me tightly,
a mortal caught in an endless tragedy, a myth.
Each kiss was an elegy of falling stars,
each touch, a funeral song of the deep night.
You wore your sadness like a crown of shadows,
and I—your destined fool—bowed under its cursed brilliance.
Tell me, beloved:
if love is a crucible of destiny,
was my heart the precious ore you refined,
or the forgotten dross cast into the winds of oblivion?
And even now, I wear your absence like a mantle of burning fire—
a seal of ruin woven into my soul, which I cannot unravel.
Call it a requiem, dirge or elegy,
Lament, funeral song of eulogy,
On failing, dying light and last hurrah,
Maybe the last polite vah vah!
Once, a focal point of a family,
A device that brought it close together,
That not ere long a radio used to be,
Family fulcrum, pivot or tether!
Ere, youngsters were hooked to open-air games,
Later on replaced by digital ones
That made the able-bodied walking lames,
Each hooked on to a personal brand of funs.
Time was when the centre of gravity
Was food and frolics on a dining table,
That the Idiot Box had usurped; pity
That meal was munched with the fair served on cable!
One would recall, when ads for condoms came,
When sanitary naps ads became bold
In front of whole family, shorn of shame,
Children looked down on food plates, feeling cold.
Later on when times changed, unlike the old,
Children would look like: we-know-it-all-cool,
You were the prime piece of estate to hold,
You made, TV, an incredible pull.
The changing times then took a giant’s stride
When entertainment was no more social,
But more and more individual, personal,
You no more were, well, a newly-wed bride.
No doubt you too tried to be somewhat smart,
Yet, failed to compete with PCs and phones
That grew smarter, closer to users’ heart,
What can be done when changing times change tunes?
Today you’re far from your olden glory,
You try your hard to imitate smart phones,
Follow trodden treads, eyes tired and bleary,
O social outcast that house-corners owns!
Just one tap ah varied channels to change,
Enlarge a visual, or volume in mind,
One can command things of a varied range,
Alas, future does not seem to you so kind.
O pale shadow of your olden grandeur,
You no more are than a mere magnifier.
__________________________________________
Requiem |01.11.2021| elegy
Poet’s note: It may still be rather too early, but good old Idiot Box is on the way out. Here’s a requiem, maybe writ rather too early.
Here it is again, the nightfall,
To stay for its allotted years
The entrails heeded the call
Attuned to their primal fears
In the alleys, in the pavements
A dark lie is a shining honesty
Old axioms the devil laments
Tears to prepare his destiny.
Where to after the nightfall,
This darkness has a contract?
The bells of hell now loudly toll
The funeral song of your fact
Monstrosity to take back the spoils
A face reddens not in shame
Rape in new ways the gut that boils
Coming back in rebranded fame
Offering hope by perfumed name
Sins disowned, loots to reclaim.
Here it is again, the nightfall,
The hearts that refused must endure
To wait till the morning call,
It will be long, tiring, but it is sure.
Bestrevolver, May 18,2022
The remnants of what we built don't wash away with the seasonal rain;
They sit like heavy clay at the bottom of a dried-up borehole.
Perhaps our calendar together was short, a brief lease on happiness,
A whispered contract written on water, a fleeting relief from the wind.
We used to dance with heavy words until the midnight cold broke,
Believing we could reclaim a connection the city had already priced out.
With every stride across the unpaved roads, our bond tried to take flight,
A stubborn fire we fed with dry wood, burning too bright to last.
Your laughter used to echo off the corrugated roofs, a sharp melody,
A local rhythm that our solitary souls could never quite match.
But like the dust kicked up by a passing vehicle, our time went astray,
Leaving a heavy silence behind, a funeral song for a love we couldn't budget.
Yet I am not wandering blindly through this psychological wreckage.
I bring my heavy chest back to the Kgotla of my mind, finding peace with the Creator.
I recite the heavy verses of the old people, the stories they never put in textbooks,
Sifting through lands that the maps forgot, where love once had a name.
I will return to the edge of the rapids for the echoes of my final verse,
Not as a broken man, but burning softly like a lantern in Kachikau nights.
Whether the community notices my footprint or not,
I will come and go,Leaving behind these blunt whispers of what it means to survive the frost.
In the thick stillness of the Chobe night, when the engines finally stop,
I will deposit my secrets into the sand, knowing love remains an unpayable debt
A quiet, unyielding asset that even the coldest winter cannot repossess.
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