Long Maiming Poems
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Faith that endangers and saves
It was 1988, Bogota, Colombia, during the time of (La Violencia) the 40 year war of insurgents against the government. At the same time Pablo Escobar was wreaking havok, killing and maiming thousands, all who opposed his cocaine empire. Americans who were found in the country were viewed with suspicion (were they DEA agents, were they spies?) I was there with 20 others (all North Americans) we were on a Christian missionary assignment, constructing the national headquarters and Bible publishing factory in a small town 40 kms outside of Bogota. The Bishop was not happy with us building in his town. He called and complained to the Mayor, who then called the Governor who then called the President, who then called the Military to intervene in what they thought was some illegal clandestine activity by Americans. Two convoys of soldiers came without warning, and broke into our compound, soldiers searching and screaming "donde estan los Gringos?" (where are all the Americans?) I was quickly hidden underneath a pile of wood in the carpentry shop, I could see the soldiers with their machine guns, in a frenzy checking everywhere. I prayed fervently for a half hour, supplicating God to save us! Not one of us were found that day!
Faith that endangers
Scorching animosity
God's saving power
For Faith Haibun Contest by Regina Riddle
July 09,2020
My Heart ~
the pump station of my love,
my affection.
Like petals of a rose—
the fulcrum of my fragrance...
attracting kindred souls to my life,
like bees and butterflies to a bloom.
Rip my heart open—
you won’t find anything else
but goodness and kindness ~
the fabric that clothes my being.
When broken—
the pain is sharp and immense,
like a twisting knife
ripping a soul bare ~
bloodless,
yet endless,
like a drumbeat
without a drummer.
But it can harden—
stony, cold,
devoid of warmth or grace,
vengeful and wicked...
when pierced by a heartless mind.
Then it flows with invisible venom ~
clouding the brain like a purple haze,
killing, maiming...
capable of every evil.
Like roses—
with a range of wildly different scents ~
so is my life: love, hatred, joy—
kindness and wickedness all imbued.
Oftentimes, it sweetly lingers...
other times, it odiously putrefies.
“The Nazi’s had no value of life,
They neither understood it,
Nor did they reckon it merited any value,”
My dad objectified at the table,
One Remembrance Sunday,
When I was young.
Although November the 11th,
Was inaugurated by King George the V,
In 1919, just after World War I,
As a day of remembrance of the Great War,
We use it as a day on which,
We can consider both wars,
And, for some, any war.
The King never wanted again,
To see any more bloodshed between nations,
And so rendered it as our choice,
By making it the people’s contemplation.
We must remember their resilience,
Their hope in the face of certain death;
Tirelessness embroidered in tears,
Their well considered bliss in pallid gloom.
Fight and figure jostled the in-education,
Of the German’s thirst for war, power and dictatorship;
And truth flamed in our side,
Until by our character we succeeded.
That valour is perhaps passed on to us,
The kids of future generations,
Because from our older relatives,
We can understand how they fought.
With this bravery, we need to cultivate,
Trust, love and understanding between nations,
Between our foreign neighbours and friends,
So that killing and maiming is not a possibility.
Line of inquiry:
"The dream seems real since we don a form,
borrowed from elements of that domain,
but if we simply chose not to conform,
we wake up when desires to rest are lain."
The turning wheel of time
stirs up the dust of disarray,
settles in the crumbling cauldron
of the disordered delusive life.
In the maiming moments
of disdained dejection,
truth tumbles in the mélange
of disorientation chaos.
Under the fantasy firmament
the psyche in the desert of desolation,
embeds the shaped imagery in mindscape,
searches for a novel niche
in self-constructed reserve of reverie
to make a montage of extant rainbow.
Dormant notion invents dream,
steers the mind into deceptive domain,
where the sense of time collapses,
making the frame of timeless trance,
where the dreamer makes a mural
of the shifting scenes of desire
in the self-built illusory maze,
until divine consciousness makes the wake-up call.
Acuity suffused with sunset spectrum
designs the derelict desires,
fading in the perpetuity of illusion,
mistaking stable silence for resonant permanence,
embeds the eternal efflux in enlightened soul
sailing buoyantly to the bay of bliss
where the cognizant essence avers
solidity is an epithet of illusion.
Cajole me in the right frame of mind
For I'm vexed not because of
Personal issues but because of the
Morbid, abstract canvas of life
I'm subjected to witness, where
Groups of so-called righteous men
Drop indiscriminate bombs
On fellow humans ripping
Homes and families apart
Shedding the blood of the innocent
Then simply labeling it
Collateral damage -
Collateral damage of War
Shelling babies... collateral
Damage of war!
Then pluck out thine eyes
With two bold fingers
For I cannot bear witness
To the dislodging of families
Fleeing wildly wherever
The cold wind blows
Crossing rough seas
None with the ability of
Jesus to walk on water
Nor faith to part it like Moses
Water ...swilling with red blood
And saline stinging tears
Mothers wailing bearing
The agony in suffering
Petrified twisted faces pressed
To their wet bosoms
Fathers gnashing teeth,
Raging, panting, feeling
Like a poltroon
Powerless. Gray skies depicts
No rainbow, no promise.
Strike me down
I refuse to bear witness
Beseeching before I meet my demise,
Obliterate borders, these
Man made borders
Us with our Jingoistic attitude
Jingoistic ... flag waving
Entitlement ... displaying
Utmost xenophobia
The mantra mocking
Go home, go home, go
Home - face your fate
On your homeland soil
Drenched and soaked in blood.
I shiver terrifically in my skin
What if it was me ... you
In those weathered skin
Under the moon and stars
Branded a refugee, worthless
Vulnerable, famished, weak
Motivated by hope to
Overcome barriers and borders
And when pruned fleshed
Feet imprint the coarse sand
There's no child in hand
Swallowed up by the gluttonous sea
Let hell's bells drone on
When dastardly Superpowers drop
Nasty bombs on the innocent
Butchering, maiming ... moribund
Then labeling it collateral damage
Cajole me in the right frame of mind
For I will go stark raving mad.
© 2015 Denise Morgan
All human life on earth starts in a school!
In my case I was born just left of hell
It was a simple time but not that cool
This hell was time spent in a hot jail cell
I went and suffered on my own through it
Hell was about soul survival, not strange
Hell did have this one thing going for it
It was a time in my life of great change
Basic painful change is all I could see
I think it could be the fire burning part
In a way this was maybe good for me
We all hate to change and make a restart
Again, I think it’s the fire burning thing
But Phoenix had more surprises to bring
My small world became a much bigger space
This was the time I discovered schoolgirls
a Schoolgirl did not have a woman’s grace
but newly discovered power that twirls
Almost like a boy with a BB gun
Unfortunately I felt their focus
Maiming with no regard and just for fun
Resisting their girl power was hopeless
This dangerous girl behavior left boys,
hormone affected and with fearful scars
They did not realize feminine poise,
and their girly ways left boys seeing stars
Boys were toys and fun for a single day
They polarized boys closer or away
Schoolgirls had developed body buffet
I was drawn to this newfound girl candy,
in n moth-flame kind of a fateful way,
forced to band aid rip my eyes off Sandy
Speaking; walls of China to overcome
Yet I needed to open my Colgate,
but words got stuck in my boy bubble gum
With corporal punishment a pain fate,
we did not question we just noticed breasts
This obsession became a migration,
but teachers had this thing with passing tests
This interfered with my destination
Burning in girls flame game a man collected
They Phoenix-ed the man my wife selected
The moon in struggle
As it breaks through the red
The sky is dying
The earth in dread
The three sisters
On a mound of decay
Stand proud of their moment
Civilisation, fading to grey
Sceptre and scents
Sword of the fallen
Spreading their angst
Like a darken pollen
Heads slightly bowed
Their way of glee
Killing and maiming
Deathly spree
Federation of the stars
In need to meet
To rid earths quadrant
This trio to defeat
Ale-era the Apocalypse
Kristy Krull
Illyanna their leader
Void to null
A regiment of troopers
Will assemble soon
From the Jungles of Jupiter
To encamp on the moon
Droids and Trojan
Federation scouts and carriers
Will warp ahead
In battle ready Harriers
Part one of two, Part two being: The Return of Earth to the Devout.
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/fantasy4.php
© Francis Maugo
Help me understand;
Why you want me back
The arrogant and heartless Basis.
Was I not your source of grief and nightmares?
Was I not your bondage and source of oppression ?
Help me understand;
Why do you want me back?
After all those series of torment, anguish
And pain you inflicted on my younger heart.
Was I not the the reason behind
Your daily lamentations and wails?
Help me understand;
Are you giving up on your "religion"
And "new form of worship"?
What happened to your new "friends"
That you constantly defended whenever
You could be giving me fake affection?
What happened to your constant "holy pilgrimages"?
Do you want to tolerate sinning with
The devil incarnate Basis?
Help me understand;
What came over you that made you
To want to take me back?
Was I not the arrogant and disgrace to you and
Your new " heavenly compatriots"?
Was I not the big threat to your brighter future?
Was I not the the BA- and not
the BASIS you used to adore?
Help me understand;
Do you want to now kill me
After maiming my heart?
Was it not you who celebrated when
I had to accept your divorce letter despite
My tireless efforts to broker peace between us?
Help me understand
Was it not you and your belated fellow daughters of Jerusalem danced and jubilated
While drinking my blood that was gushing from
My bleeding heart you had maimed?
Help me understand;
Are you on a mission to send me to the grave?
Have you recruited enough "friends"
To come with you and dance on my graveyard?
Kindly help me understand
Why do you want me back
Oh poor me ? son of Maugo.
The rumbling and shovelling
Pandemonium and desecration
The killings and maiming of souls
Boko harambee, the harem of
murderers
The genie let loose, murder
incorporated,
Unlicensed to kill
It's the wild! wild!! North on
the brink!
The north overrun
The hounds on the run
The hunt only just began.
Boko haram has taken the
center stage
The grave is filling, yet it takes
more and more dead.
It's the Wild! Wild!! North on
the brink.
(Written on the 2nd May, 2015)
N.B. presently Boko haram, Killer herdsmen, bandits, kidnappers and others have overran Nigeria and overwhelming the Security forces.
Machines With Madmen Groaning
Machines with madmen groaning above me at 10 thousand feet,
Grumbling and growling like maniac sky monsters slurping on bloody prey,
Those steel dragons of yore spewing fire and corpses into the excesses,
Like Rodan and Godzilla maiming each other in the frozen spasming countrysides,
Giant crazed beasts reciprocating the deafening overtures of contrived violences,
Contrived annihilations, a few math equations, and we have the Beast rising from the sea.
Here, pour me a glass of your backwashed spittle as it internalizes with basically nothing.
It’s time to find the time to describe a time when clocks will rage on like crazed moon dancers,
When the girls on the boulevard were cool and accessible in their cruising flirtations.
When tanned nomads inside their cool cars found gliding nirvanas, and a bra strap,
Amidst the midnight milkshakes and the incredible nude conversations in the backseats of time.
Machines with motorized redundancies tap into the central eye where speed finds inertness.
Life can be found below the stage on the Thames, river of history, by the Black Friars on Coffee Street.
Incense-filled rooms lie mysteriously down a long gloomy walkway around the opaque tree line.
Ghosts of codgers and spillmen greet the toothless ladies with bloody knees and rotting finery,.
A young bard shakes the hands of broggers and yeomen with dripping quills and pig’s blood.
Grind on young thespians! Read your antique lines, not forgetting your monologues dedicated to fear.
Grant that the music of the spheres above captures the relative major, with silent egresses to be heard.