Long poem by
Robert Ronnow | Details
Science can’t save you, neither can religion,
at least Popper and Niebuhr, philosophers and poets,
are entertainers, which is why actors and athletes
are paid so much. Thanks for the summaries.
I was teaching Shakespeare’s 92nd ridiculous sonnet
to my student who lays blacktop in the off season
Shakespeare bellyaching about dying without her love
a feeling foreign to a modern adolescent sensibility
although many teens are pretty far gone searching
for their mothers or fathers in their dazed lovers’ eyes.
Which is why we call it “the wound that never heals.”
Or the lesion that’s always lengthening. And bleeding.
Muslim fundamentalists and their Christian counterparts
are a mystery to me. Pews and prayer rugs, the airless
indoor environment of religious worship, reading
scriptures, hypnotized by hymns and fainting from staring
at candles through stained glass windows, almost certain
the preacher is faking his certainty about the afterlife.
It’s not my problem. A more immediate concern:
receding gums and tooth extractions, swollen joints,
poor lubrication and circulation, wave after wave
of viral infection, the occasional antibiotic-resistant
bacterial attack, usually urinary, and who knows
what internal organs are dividing and conquering
without mercy or cease, i.e. the wound that never heals.
It is wise not to overvalue your continued existence,
good not to be innumerate, unable to compare
a mere 80 years with say 6.0 x 109 or all of time
(to date) times the multiverse. Conversely,
it is interesting all of space and most of history is contained
in your little mind (realizing of course it’s just a map
of the cosmos not the cosmos itself, or is it?). I’m
unable to wrestle free, tongue in that cavity
and locked in my memories, so separate and disparate
from the biomass in the crosswalks, even my spouse.
Alone, so alone, even your doctor can only devote
limited thought to your situational mortality through
the redress of poetry—also a wound that never heals.
Snow for eternity, that’s what this February’s been.
All to the good, for someone it’s the final February
so enjoy it to the extent you can. By that I mean joy.
Joy at birth. Joy at death. All joy. All times. Anyway.
That was Shakespeare’s message: even tragedies are comedies.
May, a Buddhist, chants each morning.
Her husband, Marc, who’s Jewish, plays league tennis.
Their son, Aaron, will soon make Eagle scout.
How does it relate to your wound that never heals?
Luck runs out. For D.H. Lawrence in New Mexico
or Ulysses S. Grant in Ohio or Yasujiro Ozu in
Tokyo or Satyajit Ray in Bombay or Rabindranath
Tagore in Bangalore or at the Battle of the Atlantic in the Azores.
The night is a poultice, winter or summer solstice.
My anonymity will not effect the anomie ghettoside
seeing for myself how season by season
vacations and accomplishments accumulate, late in life
and early on, sunrise over mountains or moonrise over Bronx.
Masturbator, prisoner of war. Hospice of the Holy Roman Empire.
Numerous blue notes: the 3 flat, 7 flat, 5 flat,
the 6 flat and the 2 flat too. I don’t get
what Wallace Stevens means by imagination.
When groundhog shows up as a totem, there is opportunity
to explore the mystery of death without dying.
This then is the purpose of purposelessness (and of eating less)!
Now what about that wound that never heals.
The Skeptical Observer column in Scientific American
was somewhat alarming when he accepted a paranormal
explanation for how his wife’s grandfather’s inoperable
transistor radio played music from its hiding spot
in his sock drawer on, and only on, their wedding day.
Now I’ll have to believe my father (or mother!) is watching me
perform private sexual acts with (or without) partners
or that they could even know my thoughts. Or aliens
are attending our committee meetings and making
perfectly reasonable decisions given the available information
and the world is rotating just fine without humans.
These possibilities–angels, ghosts, aliens–are better
than holocaust and genocide. In this way,
and only in this way, does doom become endurable.
The wound that never heals in the end is all you’ll feel.
Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2015
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Long poem by
Gerald Dillenbeck | Details
I am just finishing my morning meditation when I hear my doorbell ring. It actually sounds more like that buzzing sound you hear if you fry a fat fly on one of those electronic bug swatters. On my way to the door I hope it's not my new neighbor who just moved in the first floor apartment below me yesterday. Nobody wants a too friendly neighbor, right? I'm from the "fences make good compassionately mindful neighbors" school of thought about neighborly interdependence, much less intimacy.
I open the door to a 60-something blotchy, ashy, white-skinned man wearing grey polyblend sweatpants, slightly too short, over a pair of black Crocs, screaming "I gave up on myself years ago," and a lighter grey zip up the front, grimy hoody with a ripped left pocket, sleeves pushed up over old-red-haired-man, possibly ex-athlete, thick creepy hairy forearms.
Before I have a chance to let him know this feels invasive to me, or even say "Hello, who and why are you at my door during my meditation time?" the new downstairs neighbor starts flapping his jaws as if my ears were born to listen to his cheery wisdom.
"Hi, I'm Oliver. My two neurally challenged teenagers, Ivy's the bratty girl, and Daquan is the perfect, but sometimes a little loud, sort of like a really ticked off roaring lion, but you'll get used to it, son, and I are your new downstairs neighbors, and I wanted to meet you right away because I don't want you to freak out and call 911 when you hear us yelling or screaming or crying or jumping endlessly hour after hour because Ivy is really hyper and because Daquan can't speak but often seems to have a lot to bark and roar about what sometimes seems like its just gas and sometimes means he's wet and is trying to tell me I need to put the novel down, or stop writing that dreadful sad poetry, or writing predictable lyrics for country-western songs, much less living them, and sometimes he's just playing Tarzan, yodeling in his make-believe jungle. He's legally blind and uses a wheelchair for school but at home he scoots and thumps around, surprisingly athletic, on his butt, kind of like an upside down inchworm if inchworms had feet and arms, which of course they don't."
I don't have the first clue where this is going but we have no time, and apparently not the least commitment, to discern my own thoughts about Oliver's communication and rationality skills, or lack thereof.
"My husband lives about a mile upriver in our cottage that we are trying to expand before the rest of us move in. He is tall, dark and handsome in an AfricanAmerican kind of way and is usually depressed, at least when he's around us, which I can't really blame him because Ivy is Oppositionally Ordered, I don't know why they keep saying Fetal Alcohol kids have Oppositional Disorder because her capacity to oppose everything is most certainly not out of order, or in any way under-developed. She will pitch a fit if all you're trying to do is get her up from her feeding trough to help her out of a poopy diaper. You would think that somebody was going to eat her food after she has already marked it with her drool. I have no idea why they would call that Oppositional Disorder. No one I have ever met has been more oppositionally wired synaptic than my daughter."
"Anyway, Valentino, that's my husband, he suffers from chronic depression which is too bad because he used to have this really nice soft sense of humor and romance, if you know what I mean, but now he's just quiet and sad and afraid to retire because then he won't have any friends that don't drive him crazy like his family does, including me."
"He complains that we're too loud and stinky and the house is always filthy and my cooking is terrible but he likes to cook and clean so I don't really get it why it's not OK for me to not like to cook and clean, or do the laundry, or the dishes. Do you know what I mean? So, tell me about you."
Finally, a question other than the parenthetical "do you know what I mean."
"Ditto. Except mine are named, respectively, Yang, Yin, and Attila. Do you happen to like Ginseng tea with lots of honey?
Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2015
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Long poem by
Amber Stratton | Details
I was blinded by darkness
Not knowing where I planted each footfall
I had a body I had a heart
I had a mind and most of all a soul
I thought I was alive with happiness and joy
Alive with peace in my soul
But I was wrong dead wrong
I was all but dead to the world
It was Death that captured and trapped me
In a grave not letting go of me
In the end not knowing it was little ol’ me
Trying to breathe trying to fight my way out
Thinking I was almost there to the top but not even moving
I thought I was justified by my negativity and actions
Not knowing it was trapping me further down
Displaying the ignorance of my ways without caring for the ones I loved
The pain of it that was caused went noticed
Everyone telling me but not realizing it until now
Letting the deceit and evil willingly roll off my tongue
Thinking I was always right on everything
Thinking that all I need was the trust of man
No matter how long I sat by the fire I was cold
Even when the sunlight was resting upon my skin
I was still ice cold as Death’s very own
I did not think that life would be this dead within
The darkness of the ice cold abyss of the grave yard
Picking and choosing what to do seems right but it wasn’t
Trying again and again until finally picking up the one thing
That I thought would not help me in the long run
Thinking that I had all the love in the world
Knowing that nothing can bring me down was one
Of the biggest lies I made myself believe for so long
Thinking I had fait and love in my life but I was wrong
And in the end all there is was nothing but darkness
Deceit and evil rolling off the tongues of you so called
People walking blindly through the shadows
Of the ever present grasp of Deaths darkest abyss
Of all the wickedness that has been committed in my life
Why now has the Mighty Father and Mother given me a second chance
Why have they forgiven me of my sins without a second thought
Have I really forgiven myself so the Father the Mother and the Divine
To enter my body my mind my heart and my soul
Has the Lord and the Lady really seen that I have been trying to
Change and to become an adult woman mentally so my
Husband can rely on me in the time of need like now
I thought I was ready to begin a life with kids
Until I realized that I am still one myself
How will the Lord and Lady tell me when I am ready to have
The family I want with my husband who is my soulmate
All I can do is wait ever so patiently for the moment
The Lord and Lady will tell me when I am ready
Inside that dark grave a white light came to me
With a hand to pull me out of my hole I dug and saved me
From my own condemned version of hell after praying
They deliver me from my sins and the trespasses I’ve done
What are people going to do when they see me
Completely changed after the long visit to LCJ
God and Goddess thank you for saving my when I thought
There was no way for me to be saved and unworthy of it
Again thank you for everything I currently have
In my life my wonderful loving husband that only
Sees the potential in me all the time and the love he
Gives so unconditionally to me even when I
Do wrong in his eyes or the law’s eyes please
Show him the same lovingkindness and forgiveness you
Have so heavily laid on me to realize and forgive
Myself and those around me like I should
Have so long ago when you tried to show me the light
I have forgiven myself of the anger and hate I had
For my adopted family and now it is in the past I cannot
Change that but however I can change how the future
Goes by what I say and plan to do now today
I can look back not so long ago the darkness that
Covered my eyes then and hope the light keeps the veil away
I can see all the negative emotions that were running
And controlling me I had no idea what to do
Now I am grateful for the things I have for
The things I have come to realize on top of everything
I am the most thankful to you in my life
When I thought I did not deserve the love
And the care you have shown me
Love is for an eternity, not just a second, minute, hour or even a day.
Copyright © Amber Stratton | Year Posted 2013
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Long poem by
Scribbler Of Verses | Details
someone always told me this with tears in her eyes...
(for Lata Sethi's late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)
a wife left South Africa in the 1960’s to join her husband
who was in exile at the time...
in 1970 the husband was sent by the African National Congress to India to be its representative there...
the husband and wife spent two years in Bombay...
one afternoon the husband fell and broke his leg...
the wife knocked on their neighbour’s door, in an apartment complex in Bombay
the neighbour was an old Punjabi lady...
the wife asked the neighbour for a doctor to see to the injured husband...
a Parsi ‘Bone-Setter’ was promptly summoned...
the husband still recalls his anxiety of seeing ‘Bone-Setter’ written on the Parsi gentleman’s bag...
by the way, the ‘Bone-Setter’ worked his ancient craft and surprisingly for the husband, his broken leg healed quite soon...
but still on that day, while the ‘Bone-Setter’ was seeing to the husband...
the wife and the old Punjabi lady from next door got to talking about this and that and where these new Indian-looking wife and husband were from as their accents were clearly not local...
the wife told the elderly Punjabi lady that the husband worked for the African National Congress of South Africa and had left to serve the ANC from exile...
and that they had left their two children behind in South Africa and that they were now essentially political refugees...
the Punjabi lady broke down and wept uncontrollably...
she told the foreign woman that she too had had to leave her home in Lahore in 1947 and flee to India with only the clothes on her back when the partition of the subcontinent took place and Pakistan was formed and at a time when Hindus from Pakistan fled to India and vice versa...
the Punjabi lady then asked the foreign woman her name...
‘Zubeida’, but you can call me ‘Zubie’...
the Punjabi woman hugged Zubie some more, and the two women, seperated by age and geography, wept, sharing a shared pain...
the Punjabi woman told Zubie that she was her ‘sister’ from that day on, and that she felt that pain of exile and forced migration and what being a refugee felt like...
Zubie and her husband Mosie became the closest of friends with the Hindu Punjabi neighbours who were kicked out of Pakistan by Muslims...
then came the time for Mosie and Zubie to leave for Delhi where the African National Congress office was based...
the elderly Punjabi lady and Mosie and Zubie said their goodbyes...
a year or two later, the elderly Punjabi lady’s daughter Lata married Ravi Sethi and the couple moved to Delhi...
the elderly Punjabi lady called Zubie and told her that her daughter was coming to Delhi to live and that she had told Lata, her daughter that she had a ‘sister’ in Delhi...
Lata and Ravi Sethi then moved to Delhi...
This was in the mid-1970’s...
Lata and Zubie became the closest of friends and that bond stayed true, and stays true till today, though Zubie is no more, and the elderly Punjabi lady is no more...
the son and the husband still have a bond with Lata and Ravi Sethi...
a bond that was forged between Hindu and Muslim and between two continents across the barriers of creed and time...
a bond strong and resilient, forged by the pain and trauma of a shared experience...
and that is why, and I shall never stop believing this, that hope shines still, for with all the talk of this and of that, and of that and of this, there will always be a simple woman, somewhere, anywhere, who would take the ‘other’ in as a sister, a fellow human...
and that is why there will always be hope...
hope in the midst of this and of that and of that and of this...
hope...
(for Lata Sethi's late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)
Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses | Year Posted 2013
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Long poem by
Briana Lynn Minard-Adler | Details
Bradlee Joe is mine, he's always been mine,
The younger brother of David Authur Rasmussen Jr.,
Those gorgeous brown eyes staring at me, natural hair color,
That's brown; just like his brothers, but he dyed it blonde.<3
That gorgeous angel face, I think of him everyday all day, think of,
Those memories, that smile, that laugh, that voice, those strong arms,
The strong arms that hold me, just like his brother used to.
The sweet things he says to me, those precious eyes look into,
Into mine, the way he runs his fingers through my hair, the way he tickles me,
The way we play wrestle, the way we talk, the way we look at each other.
Eyes full of wonder, wonder how long we'll stay together, then he says,
He says "Baby we'll stay forever", and I believe every word he says,
My God if he only knew, knew how he makes my heart pound, the way,
The way it's just so easy to talk to him, man I can tell him anything, and I know,
I know that he'll keep it a secret, that's why I trust him with everything,
Everything inside of me. Everytime he asks me if I wanna start,
Start over with him, I always say yes, because I love him!!
No matter how much he hurts, I'll always love him, I do, because,
Because I know it's real, I love him with everything inside of me,
I want to wake up next to him everymorning and fall asleep,
Fall asleep in his arms everynight, say "I do" to him, have his,
Have his children, be in love forever, my God I've never felt this way before.
I fell for him the first moment I saw his gorgeous smile light,
Up that dark lunch room, the way you hugged me tight, exchanged,
Exchanged numbers with each other, and the way we talked on the phone for hours on end,
Oh how I wished for you to be mine, How I still wish to change,
Change my name to Briana Lynn Rasmussen.
Babe I can't inagine a world where you don't exsist, babe without you,
Without you I'd honestly die.
The son of David Authur Rasmussen Sr. and Sandi Rasmussen,
The brother of David Authur Rasmussen Jr, and Cheyeene Rasmussen,
The cousin of Kenneth Michael Hampton, better known as Mikey :) You have
Have a older bro, a younger sister & brother, and you have you,
Father's eyes, your brother's strength, your mother's beauty, and your crazy,
Crazy sense of humor.
With you I can't stop smiling, laughing and giggling.
Babe I am finally home, it's been a long time, and I am glad you kept the bed warm for me,
My home is with you, it's the only place where I belong, and babe I am so glad to be home.
I love your curly hair, I love the way you hold me, the way you kiss me, the way yoy,
You love me.
I love everything you do, and everything about you,
Babe I really do hope that day comes where we say "I do."
Hell I'd do it right now if I could, if you wanted me the same.
I want to be the mother of your children, I want to be the on;y woman you come home to,
Come home to after work, the one you give sweet kisses to, and the one you tell,
Tell me about your day, the one who wants to fall asleep in your arms, and
Wake up in your arms with my head on your chest, see your sweet smile everyday,
Hear the words "Good Morning Baby, how'd you sleep?"
I'd reply sleepily "Great, how bout you Angel?" I love everything about you, everything
Everything you say, babe I love the fire in your eyes, the way you are protective over me,
The way you fight for me.
Babe I just wanna be your forever, and when we die baby,
I want to be laidto rest next to you, or with you in the same casket, because,
Because I'm only me when I'm with you, you are the only one who keeps me warm, The only one
Only one who makes me feel like I am home, like I'm finally alive,
Like I'm finally me, babe you are my better half and really honestly,
I've been so lost without you, and I am so glad to be back home.
Copyright © Briana Lynn Minard-Adler | Year Posted 2012
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Long poem by
Faeeza Paruk Simjee | Details
What You Are, What You Mean To Me...
Oh Wife! You are my life,
around which I spin my daily axis -
My work, dealings, obligations, routine is as a nexus,
Interacting connecting life with gratified emotional plexus...
You are my means of enhancing worship of my Creator,
whose pleasure I daily aspire,
You are my Jannah's access...
Keeping you happy, my Lord renews my happiness,
For you I sacrifice personal partiality
to open between us meaningful ecstasy,
Your heart spurred to do things for me joyfully,
born of sincere love & not just bound duty,
In this my heart finds tranquility,
Knowing Allah & you are with me happily...
I preserve your treasures fastidiously,
For you are my companion in life & next destiny,
In my providence You are beauty engraved into it's text,
You are peace through me flows as my eyes upon you rest,
You are speech when I have nothing to say,
You are warm infusions in my mind as saved snippets browse you each day,
You are quencher of my desires,
dousing my fires,
You are whom my heart has won distinctively,
By just upholding your respect & God-given dignity,
simple warmth, & sunnah courtesy,
Caring for your being as loving responsibility,
to maintain your happiness my priority,
Succumbing not to any hardness born from undue authority...
Winning your love has been extremely worthy,
Graces you've colored my life with so beautifully,
So much that a fearful ache rouses considering separation even temporary,
Until we meet again in aakhirah's endless journey...
You are my support, my comfort,
feeding my will to live beyond,
My inner strength upon whom I often lean on,
Your mirror I use to reflect back light you fill around us so unreservedly,
As each day my aim to be as you are to me, though unconsciously...
You've taught me a lesson I teach others duly,
To enjoy woman she must be taken care of warmly,
Her love-blossom to scent life's garden sooOo incredibly,
when she is dealt with generously & not authoritatively,
A fine line within woman defines love from bound duty,
Man's success lies in winning her love to flow through everything uninhibitedly,
By being kind, compassionate, amiable, considering her agreeably,
Understanding her needs & passions befittingly,
Delivering her pleasures within sensible boundary,
Priding oneself in upholding her respect & dignity,
Adhering this advice, Jannah will unveil in life duly,
as it did in mine so magnificently...
Its soft hands that glide wisps away from hampered beauty,
Women as emotional beings radiate light when carefree,
Their equilibrium transforms into love when dealt with gently,
If only man understands & complies this intricate make-up of woman duly,
to unlock all her treasures that be,
Tasting delectable nourishment of true love & harmony,
Whilst enjoying musical symphony,
of two beings living in congruent synchrony,
Understanding, compromising, accepting each other's personality...
My wife, you are my friend whom I love & trust,
A soulmate specially created for me from special dust,
My love to whom I'm empathetic & just,
My desire who protects me from sins of lust...
When worries plague me your solace is a must,
You are my queen, Jannah's gust,
While we enjoy each other in entwined truss,
I'm grateful for you, my beloved wife,
To have you grace my side in this world & afterlife.
GLOSSARY
Aakhirah = Arabic for After-Life
Allah = Arabic name for “God”
Jannah = Arabic for Paradise
Sunnah = Arabic term for complete role-model teachings of Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) regarding every aspect of life including mannerism, behavior, dealings, worship, ethics, values, morality, etc.
Copyright © Faeeza Paruk Simjee | Year Posted 2017
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Long poem by
T Wignesan | Details
Unquotable quotes: Gals, Dolls, Bitches and Broads – XXXVII
( No aspersions are being cast here, willingly or otherwise, on the fairer, stronger and infinitely more sagacious sex. Even if these over-used words are somewhat overloaded with derogatory connotations, depending on the circumstances, their use here in these “effete efflorescences” are not meant to affirm or deny the original sacred conception of womanhood which is made up of the qualities of the most refined, and, not to mention, the most beautiful “creatures” among the human or even animal species. No attempt is made to sidestep the issue: the spectrum of life forms include the best and the worst specimens, of course.)
No apologies are tended, here, for the use of these terms: gals, dolls, bitches and broads since what they represent are the salt and spice and also alas! the vinegar of our daily existence: take a pinch or sip and feel the itch twitch for the rest of your days.
Given the traditional roles of “Mother” and “Sex-Object” that gals are called upon to assume, it would only be fair to remind them: You can’t have your banana and milkshake it as well!
The choice is plain: Either you opt out of being a mother or you make the ultimate sacrifice – multiply the population of the world, but PaLEASE! Stick to one or the other!
The quality of human life and the human race depends on your choice.
All forms of morals and the enduring values of human existence depend on/await your choice.
Not to make the choice by continuing to assume both the roles is the fatal error: you can’t be a virtuous mother and loyal wife and – let’s admit it – a “bitch” as well.
Life would be an interminable Sunday morning liturgy on TV if gals, dolls, bitches and broads didn’t make us sink deeper into the quagmire, that is, late Saturday night - only to wake us up early the next morn.
Who is the more despicable a character: the thieving hound who hides out in the basement or the stairways till the husband shunts off to work or the adulterous bitch who hurriedly kisses her children and bundles them off to school? OR, or the husband who drops off the commuter train to bounce some other babe on the way home?
If you’re a gal and some guy called you “bitch”, or even – excuse the word – “bloody bitch”! What would you do? Take it all lying down like a putdown paid broad? Or would you mount your charger and pound the guy in broad daylight down your street, cheered by all the dolls in your neighbourhood?
Why is it an axiom that a really stunning-looking gal when ogled at would be generous with her poses and rewarding with her smiles whereas the opposite is the case with the passably pretty bitch or broad?
Wouldn’t wives give half their gold reserves to know what their husbands tell broads about themselves?
Doll-makers know as much about the art of sowing wild oats as dolls about dark matter.
If dolls can bitch about what kids did or do to them in a year, even a broad’s ear will shrink from shame.
Even if guys who play with dolls all day long keep bitching about it all, they’ll sooner or later get them enthralled.
Guys who fall for gals but refuse to tie the knot tend to make their dolls bitch, look and talk like sods.
(End of Part One)
(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, 2016
Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2016
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Long poem by
Ndaba Sibanda | Details
This pledge that l,Ntando, make today serves
as my guideline that I shall follow
happily, ungrudgingly and tirelessly
for the sake of our love life.
Indeed l am well aware of the fact that
the beauty of this pledge does not only lie
in word alone but in action as well.
For that reason in every season
I shall show steadfast commitment
to the implementation of this pledge
with a great deal of astuteness.
I therefore commit myself to be your
devoted and delivering husband for
all the years l shall live with you
on this earth.
I shall treat you with the love and care
you deserve as my wife.
Indeed l shall treat you with
the distinction and dignity
that is befitting of the queen of my heart.
That body, that bone, that breath
shall be my mine to treasure,
for sure;
a dearness to promote and protect
for dear life…and love!
I shall stand by and with you in all the
situations of our life.
If the situation demands that we sail,
sail we shall together.
If the situation demands that we
climb,
climb we shall together.
I know very well what l am getting into:
I am getting into a marriage that is
overflowing with blessings.
This marriage- with our mutual
commitment-
will stand the test of time.
I know very well what I am getting into:
I am getting into a relationship that
brims over with a transforming power
of love.
This marriage-with our
mutual commitment –
will transform naivety into maturity
troubles into challenges
pretence into practice
pride into progress
bachelorship into companionship.
I pledge to be your steward and partner
for all times.
I shall value the consultations
and decisions that we make as
husband and wife.
As head of the family I shall do nothing
to derail our love train for anything else
least of all for personal and selfish reasons.
Now and forever
I am your lawful and loving husband…
This pledge that l, Nothando, make today serves
as my guideline that I shall follow
happily, ungrudgingly and tirelessly
for the sake of our love life.
Indeed I am well aware of the fact that
the beauty of this pledge does not only
lie in pronouncements but in practice
as well.
For this reason every season
I shall demonstrate untiring love
and loyalty to you;
a love and a loyalty that is a living
embodiment of our marriage vows.
I therefore commit myself to be your
honouring, supportive and loving wife
for all the years l shall live with you.
I shall treat you with the love and care
that you deserve as my husband.
Indeed I shall treat you with
the dignity and nobility that is befitting
of the king of my heart.
On my mind it is always fresh
that I am the flesh of your flesh.
Green or grown
I am the bone of your bone.
I know very well what I am getting into:
I am getting into a relationship that
elevates me into a kingdom of wifehood.
I shall endevour to put my family first
with all the rights, obligations
and privileges that come with wifehood.
I shall endevour to wipe off and ward off
loneliness and lostness from our relationship,
seeking nothing but your companionship;
banking on your stewardship,
sinking together any hardship.
Since you are mine
I shall not do anything else to undermine
our relationship for personal
or egotistical
reasons.
Now and forever
I am your lawful and loving wife…
Copyright © Ndaba Sibanda | Year Posted 2012
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Long poem by
John Hamilton | Details
Turn the page-2
I know that I've hurt you
in so many ways
In things that I do and
in things that I say
Just give me a chance
to prove I can change
Let's just start over
and turn the page
Chorus
Please let me make up
for all that I've done
Remember the good days
when we were one
You know I still love you
and that I have changed
So please let me help you
to turn the page
I remember that first day
the day I met you
You were so scared of loving
and being loved too
You said you could never
trust a man again
cause when trust is broken
it never will mend
chorus
So now I beg you
please give me a chance
Let's go out together
for a dinner and dance
Just like the old days
like we used to do
Let me prove it all over
my love for you
Looks like my persistence
had an effect on you
You said you remember
I have some good too
You said I'm forgiven
you let go of your rage
You said let's start all over
Let's turn the page
Chorus repeat
fade
John Derek Hamilton
September 25,2016
Fictional write
Copyright © John Hamilton | Year Posted 2016
|
Long poem by
Funom Makama | Details
Marriage has lost its security and the vow, its invincibility
especially in a generation so saga and scandal loving
and a society rarely frowning its face to traditional unfaithfulness.
Setting up the stage for lots of pests
to freely and openly infest in the neighbourhood,
social circuses and especially office places.
Eligible married men constantly diverging from patient feminine traps
while their glowing female counterparts,
in constant struggles with ambitious masculine tricks
both now part of a system
contributing to what makes life full of life.
Different scenarios, multiple tales, one of which is of a she-viper.
The claim of the reason behind her attraction
is his decency and emotional accomplishments.
Ironically, wanting him to become bad because he is good.
The moment the Ice cream is served is the time it begins to melt.
Whether it is licked or not.
If caution and an absolute stand point are not well expressed,
a working adventure or an extra-official pleasure
then becomes a life-all-round-disaster.
Discomfort from such heat with a cooling effect is difficult to resist
and when all defenses are dropped,
any man would forget it was actually an attack.
She steals every moment to be loosely informal in words or in actions,
fine crossed legs germinating from silly skirts,
nipple-flaunting roundies, seemingly fighting against any covering
which are quick to dance to the rhythm of his curious attention
and rejoice in their expected victory on his shocked eyes.
He rebuffs her advances with “I am married”
she counters with “the ring makes you a kinda hot”
“I have a family who needs me” is his redemptive shield
to her strategy of keeping him longer, after the day’s gone
“no wonder, you’re so caring to everyone around you” she flatters.
He cautions her civil mannerlessness and moral carelessness
“there’s no harm, it’s my body, you can choose not to look”
She assures.
He tries never to sit opposite of her during official gatherings,
licking of the pen’s tip with her red lips, showing off a wet erotic tongue
and several eye contacts
each sending the same message is his regular torment.
When a man is naughty, he’s a pervert
but if it is a woman then she’s naturally hot and cute.
This is her enjoyment, taking full liberty
in the fun of his resistance, avoidance and attempted distance.
She’s always readily available to render him services
systematically gaining acquaintance with his mind
through regular presence mostly obscene.
When such a link is established,
the longing becomes mutual from both ends
as colleagues or partners, the situation could still be within reach of salvation;
as a subordinate or the boss,
the circumstance becomes a prolonged, trickery and devastating one.
Then the eye finally opens to realize it is already blind
and staying briefly or permanently so
is then left to gossips, the society and family to decide
because at this point he is no longer a victim.
Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2016
|