Long Laid to rest Poems
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Under the veil of twilight, where shadows whisper the secrets of the soul,
A river of thoughts flows endlessly, weaving through the ethereal landscape of my mind,
Carrying fragments of self-knowledge that must be torn apart before I am whole.
The man I know myself to be—the one who walks in familiar shadows—must meet his end,
So that the true man I am, hidden deep in dreams, can rise and truly exist.
The echoes of an old self ring hollow, desperate for the dawn of a new essence,
And in this dance of melancholy and magic, I glimpse the delicate balance of transformation.
I wander through a labyrinth of metaphors, where each corridor leads deeper into the fog of introspection,
Where the walls are adorned with pale portraits of the past,
And every turn brings a moment of reflection, a confrontation with the shadows of an old self.
This man I have known, a tapestry of familiar fears and comforts, must perish,
So that I can lay him to rest in the catacombs of forgotten dreams,
And rise from the ashes, a phoenix reborn at dusk, unburdened and pure.
It is in this crucible of self-destruction and rebirth that I find the essence of who I truly am,
As I walk through the valley of my own soul, unweaving the fabric of the past,
I understand the necessity of erasing the echoes of the old man within me,
To carve out space where the true man can breathe, live, and flourish.
The old man must die, his spectral presence fading into the night,
For only then can the dawn illuminate the contours of the true self.
In this mystical journey, where melancholy kisses the edges of hope,
I surrender to the flux of consciousness, a current that carries me toward the horizon of becoming.
This dissolution of the known self is but a necessary prelude to the symphony of rebirth,
A metamorphosis that transforms the chrysalis of the soul into the liberated butterfly,
Wings unfurling in the gentle light of twilight, where magic and melancholy intertwine.
And as the twilight yields to the night, and the stars paint the canvas of the sky,
I stand on the precipice of my own becoming, the old man laid to rest,
While the true man steps forward, a vessel of possibilities, a testament to the beauty of transformation,
Embracing the melancholy of loss and the magic of renewal, in the ever-flowing river of consciousness.
Ife my love I dream that time
Should haunt or hesitate to be
A whisper exquisite till it requites
With love every rose upon the sea
Then memories wake each crimson blossom
Sometimes aspiring till when free
If my love on seas of time
We sail beyond the very brine
Of all that fate hath made to be
Then time on seas of fate should find
Tis true the moment questions less
When chained to words of renaissance
And beauty gives what is best
Redolent then when laid to rest
In chains and coffins so serene
That love is thralled in me
When fate has thralled the shadow pale
On seas of all I dream avails
A nosforatu dark in solemn sleep
Where sorrow withers and the eve
Of twilight comes indeed to all
Whom in the gloom of night
Find love as tragic as is life
Love as tragic as is life, to have
Should silhouette in the least
All the dreams that we see
Ife my love I dream that time
Twas but a tomb of grey regret
Then every shadow that I find
Should find that all I have is left
Within the tomb of grey regret
Within the tomb where we once met
And there in darkness deep as true
Find my soul still loving you
Sometimes my love a fate forlorn
Bereft of every gothic light
Should find for me and all the more
The anguish that the torment might
In ashen hearts and roses dust
And sunrises dawning till they rust
But ife I suffer in unbelief
No tragic waste or travesty
Should make belief then more to me
For love believes that time might sail
On seas as vast as soul may go
And sailing till assailed no more
On Seas of time and fate thus so
Every emotion I’ve spent on thee
Becomes as real as my belief
That time can languish in the gloom
Of every ghost of love untombed
Till fading in the raven ruin
Twilight comes to light the night
And find that even in the gothic grey
Of love and dimmest candlelight
There burns no heart upon the sea
The sea of all my true belief
Ife my love I dream that time
Should thus like fate unthralled confide
When all the torment of a life
A gothic as a phantoms tear
Could fall in love and still belief
While seas of fate do thrive indeed
When all the torment of a life
And every sorrow that is ripe
Awakes within the grave of love
And finds within the tomb of soul
Every rose upon the sea
The sea of time and fate in me
The parents whose 12-year-old son was just laid to rest
From spraying bullets exploding in his young body’s chest
The father whose daughter was tortured and raped
By monsters initiating in a criminal gang
She will never see her fourteenth birthday
The shopkeeper, who after taxes is barely making his life’s wage
And totally depends on the paltry money his hard work can make
The mother of five beautiful children who went out
For a routine run on a beautiful sunny day,
But will never return to their waiting arms;
All their lives shattered in a heinous and brutal way.
The military veteran who lost his legs, as he served us all in a made-up war
Now sleeps on the concrete in a filthy corner of San Francisco Bay
The innocent 2nd grader, a tiny blonde blue-eyed girl,
Is left confused and unsure
When her trusted teacher says she’s a racist
Who has destroyed the world
The toddler sitting on his mother’s lap who looks on in dismay
As a mustached man, dressed as a woman in exaggerated makeup
Gyrates and sings vulgar songs just inches from his unprotected face
The girls soccer team whose teammate lost half of her face
Refuses to compete with transgender men whose genitals are now misplaced
The Texas rancher whose family must clean up behind
The millions of crossings in a continuous unending line
Of criminal invaders whose tons of trash and broken bodies are scattered
Among his unproductive fields and livestock in rotting tatters
The aching backs of hard-working taxpayers whose treasure
Has been looted and their protesting voices silenced;
For four years they had no say where their money goes.
It’s now enriching Iran, Ukraine and who else, nobody knows.
Nearly a half million young children lost their innocence,
And many their lives, sold into slavery in factories
And as sexual slaves; Grievous Evil modeling the Chinese way
Nearly 80 million Americans, sick to death of insanity, evil and deceit
All rose together to fight the rancid leftist coastal elites.
Together extinguishing the rule of disloyal leaders, fascists, racists,
Their eyes shining with hope that there can now be an end.
Each one’s voice and vote counted this time as they shouted,
“President Donald J Trump will fix it and make America great again!”
Love of Literature
Upon the nightstand rests my favorite book,
I beckon her to bed to have a look.
Anxious anticipation flutters in my chest,
As the day's worries and woes, are laid to rest.
Tenderly, I take her in my hands,
Caressing her cover, she knows my plans.
Lightly yielding as we take our place,
Willing and submissive, with gentle grace.
She's a beauty, in her soft subtle veil,
Gently, my fingers trace her textures, an ardent braille.
I know her body—every peak, every valley, a touch sublime,
Tracing her contours, along the edge, then down her spine.
Pulse quickening, eager mind,
Awaiting the adventure that lies inside.
With delicate fingers, I find my bookmark,
With heightened anticipation,
I spread her pages apart.
An intoxicating aroma fills the night air,
A sweet, savory bouquet, found in classic books so rare.
From the outer page, my finger glides,
All the way across, till I'm just inside.
With a soft, tender touch, I navigate the crease,
Gently pushing outward, tensions released.
With attentive focus, all the way down to the end,
Traversing to the other side, to start again.
Her soft, thin pages, a silky, delicate skin,
A gripping story, further drawing me in.
With the flick of my tongue, I wet my fingertip,
And turn the page with a single finger flip.
Chapter 3, it's just her and me.
Enchanted by her sultry love story,
Hopelessly entangled in her romantic glory.
Page after page, we're intimately engaged,
With kinks and cramps, our positions changed.
Playful paragraphs in passionate positions—
Quite the literary expedition.
Steamy, sensual sentences scintillate the senses,
Trembled? Or trembling? Lost all track of tenses.
Her sensual story, passionate and deep,
Inviting me in further, tonight we do not sleep.
Captivated by every line, savoring every word, I take my time.
Two souls entwined, one rhythm and one rhyme.
Dawn's rays through the window gently creep,
With a sigh, I slowly close the book, softly she weeps.
"Rest assured, my darling, you'll be alright,
For I'll see you again, another rendezvous tonight."
Of all my cherished tomes, she'll always be first,
My love of literature, an unquenchable thirst.
EXCUSE ME!!!!
Do you not see me
standing before you?
Do you not realize that I,
a black woman had a life
that mattered too?
The black woman appears to be
the best kept secret in death
being wiped from the face of the earth
where many won’t remember
our names or know of our existence
When black girls vanish
the only way anyone knows is
through the newsfeed of social media
when white girls vanish
the news media makes sure
the world is notified
while paying no attention
to the clues of plasma
footsteps we leave behind
Many ignore the crimson bleed
of life that seeped
from the opening of the
slashed throat racism made
leaving us to become
the mutilated corpse lying
on the ground society
relentlessly steps over
We’re viewed as a nothing gender
Melanated race of women
often deemed as bothersome or angry
The bellows of our spirits
are discombobulated
as we quickly become
shadows of unrecognized Queens
we are being killed in alarming masses
and all you can say is we must of had it coming
Black women are the givers of the
black lives that are supposed to matter
still we are looked upon
as the doormat placed at
the bottom of the totem pole
you seem to enjoy wiping your feet on
When it comes to black men,
you are seen and heard,
be it good bad or indifferent
but how high must a black woman jump
in order to be seen
how loud must a black woman shout
in order to be heard
Better yet
how many black women need to
be annihilated before our lives
are mourned and celebrated
Brothers, are you willing to
stand up to protect us, even if it's
your fellow brother we need
to be protected from
Our life and death must not be in vain
So what will you do in order change it
Remember,
black women marched for you
don’t you think it's time you march for us?
We are forced into invisibility
like the remnants of
Sandra Bland’s disparity
that was swept under the rug
and lifeless body of Kanika Jenkins
they shoved into a refrigerated coffin
Nia Wilson’s memory they washed away
along with her blood that stained the platform
of a Bay Area Transit Station
or Breonna Taylor and Atatiana Jefferson's peace
they fatally laid to rest in the confines
of their own home
I will forever remember their names...will you??
A Wintry Night
The night is dull, dreary and cold,
Yet my books I wish to unfold,
My aged pen I wish to hold
And divine verses to unroll.
The wind is cold, sturdy and strong,
My bones are frail, feeble and weak,
Yet my mind is robust and young
And songs with rhymes I long to tweet.
The clouds are dense, hefty and dark,
Yet my inner self is full bright,
Plugged with the radiant inner spark
And dazzling with the inner light.
The rains are wet, heavy and damp,
Yet my soul is light and full bright,
Drawing from the flame of the lamp,
Lit throughout the day and the night.
My frame is still, steady and warm,
But soon it will turn wintry cold
And laid to rest as food for worms
Or set to fire on a fold.
Yet the night will soon fade away
And anon a new dawn creep in,
Giving rise to another day,
May be better than one has seen.
Like the new dawn, my soul will rise
To reside in another shrine
Until, at last, time will arise
For it to reach the Divine Shrine
Where there will be no wintry night
And the light will be ever bright.
Written on 7 May 2023
For A Brian Strand Premiere No. 1215 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand
POLITICALLY CORRECT
Now psycho politics subtly suggests
that you follow this rule of polite etiquette-
before you say something please pause and reflect
is what you are thinking politically correct?
There is a conspiracy of a powerful few
to control whatever you think, say and do.
It is this effect that they wish to cause-
for you to think your thinking has flaws-
before you say something please pause and reflect
Is what you are thinking politically correct?
It's a suble intrusion so slyly designed
the thought of deception never enters your mind
but it's someone else choosing the words
you use to describe what you've seen and you've heard.
When anothers words become your voice
your thoughts have become anothers choice-
before you say something please pause and reflect
is what you are thinking politically correct?
If silence is golden then gold has no use
you can spend all you want and not stop the abuse.
The structure is crumbling, the framework is bent
and society is in downward descent-
before you say something please pause and reflect
is what you are thinking politically correct?
Here is an epitaph as silent as death
chiseled in tombstone where you're laid to rest.
Please pause for a moment and pay your respects
here lies a man who is politicallly correct.
Ah, the fortitude of a circle
the circular wisdom
of spring to summer fall to winter
the spinning wheel’s twist of threads -
at once both self-reliant and reliant
my soul to embryo seed to seedling
the mettle it takes for the genesis;
for my poppy pod to wake and break
a tiny speck of matter a fleck of duality unleashed
I surrender my dormancy to the earth -
roots reach deep like pale squiggly fingers
..for my kernel was laid to rest to bustle to life..
while my headstrong head pushes up through the soil
I come to be.. like a new idea taking shape
a physical being grounded
while seeking the realm of the Sun
the source of spirit as essential
as the dark womb from which I emerge
with a heart budding with the universe from nothing
I sprout as a sprig from a rounded grain
conceived in a gold-dusted flurry of furry buzz..
a bumblebee's dalliance with the center of a whorl
a mote of pollen so mite-like -- but
m i g h t y
in purpose potential and power
woven together in the art of creation
wind-driven autumn rains and sips of melted snow
..mother’s milk during the passage of time..
sweetly feeds the gentle needs for my tender birth
daystar’s dabble-dance with shadows
charm the chill from the cradle of the garden floor -
warm ginger dapples flit to find me between
canopy gaps in swish and sway..
mini-spots mirroring the disk of the Sun reminds me;
the image of what I’ll become
when my solar heart shines in a petal-chalice of flame..
rapture stirs the layers of humus
penetrating my essence with a ripening
stoking my fortitude to fulfill my destiny
to break free of that which holds me down
and reach ever higher inspired by a promise;
the golden circle of solace.. the bull's-eye in the sky
whose glow does kiss and grow my soul -
my inner space of bright sure to blaze
in a blossom cup’s confinement
my soul to embryo seed to seedling
sown to assure my flowering
my earthy ascension fulfills Nature’s cycle of nativity;
above the loam I rise to unfurl
and lift my airy leaves’ uncurl up high
in praise of the light
as the end of a gray season curves
into the festive yellow equinox of resurgence
Together in Spirit.
I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine, we are forever together in love, heart, mind, and spirit. Their love was sealed upon each other’s heart’s as their eye’s glimpsed into the eyes of the other, for love reaches beyond death! Forever sheltered in love that was blessed by God above.
The bonds of their love were as deep as the ocean and higher than the moon. Their hearts cemented for all eternity. As seeds grow in a garden, so their love flourished and grew. Having come together emotionally, and spiritually they became one! What God hath joined “not even death can tear apart”!
Love, the most precious gift was always cherished, it became a solid foundation, ensuring, “they would remain joined in death” as they were in life. From ashes they came and to ashes they returned. Together their ashes were mixed then laid to rest, “side by side”. Their spirits joined, to share their love with one another. In life they shared many seasons, never allowing troubles to last for long. They continued living with hope, believing their love would last for all eternity.
Their challenges now their triumphs, being sheltered under the wings of the lord. Finding comfort in one another they are blessed with a beautiful understanding and a heavenly love as they joined. They nourished their lives and love, by building an oasis as they repeated these three little words, I love you”!
Having plunged into the depths of each other’s heart and spirit, a forever commitment forged. Love is the balm of the heart and spirit, giving way to affection. Today and every day, may we fill our minds and hearts with the wonderful memories we hold so dear. Love is like a delicate dance in poetry, shared by those who see and hear the words spoken and those left unspoken!
Dad and mom stand before God, hand in hand untarnished and loved. God is love and they dwell in his love! The path they walk is filled with joy and gladness. Now laid to rest with loving hearts and gentle hands they will forever be remembered and so too shall we be remembered.
David Edward Spivey and Sylvia Irene Spivey Laid to rest together forever.
Debbie knapp
All efforts tabled on Nigeria;
Experiencing a fortunate miscarriage,
Feasting Aso rock- a pizzeria
But never admit it is the cause of this age.
Upon the solid manifesto,
That touches all sectors:
Picturing California's Barstow,
To cajole mandates of the electors.
Finally, all promises are working...
Nigerians are glad to vote SAI BABA.
How beautiful things are shirking!
Yet, we never cease referencing YORUBA's BONOBO.
Now, pebbles tear apart the wall to a lowland.
No sands dare last all days.
Though, the wall can not withstand
The test of time come the apartness of clays.
The crevices in the wall:
Is an awaiting lost of hope;
One day, the wall will surely fall.
Just like acrobats won't last all days on tightrope.
The time is no longer right;
The poor and his rights are wrong,
For there's no one to stand by him.
Those beautiful hearts; pure and young
Have been battered and their loves' lights dim.
Buhari's reign is like what?
Revelation said it well in his whatnot
And if that be the truth,
Should we believe, lazy are all youths?
Why do we fear actions and love words?
If we never mind, our hens can fly like birds
But we keep living in reliving,
The leadership orbiting the Africa GIANT's sun outliving...
The societies expectations--
A reason millions are invested in educations.
When shall we be tired?
To relieve those supposed to have retired.
Just like the withered leaves bring
Blessings unto tree to renew its strength.
The odd flowers introduce the spring
And relinquished fortitude to breath.
The detached withered leaves
That have been laid to rest,
Can never regain life's airfoil
Than enrich the top soil.
What are meant for backups,
Ended up been the beautiful ups.
One thing unsure is the extent of our grieves,
All are mere satisfying best.
Of course, sun shall rise and shines bright on the green lushes,
Blessing nature with its radiant nutritional solar energy.
As the aiding glimmer blushes,
It shall promote unbelievable synergy.
But if nights tarry for long,
Mornings shall come with the healing birdsong...
Youths, light the nights;
Cohorts, best their rest.