Long Pestering Poems
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A stolen life. A split-second decision.
Disorganised thoughts, jumbled—
Tangled around an anaesthetised cortex.
Clocks mockingly ticking,
Ticking down inevitability,
As a lone fly buzzes relentlessly around my head.
Swatting at it—it returns mere moments later,
Pestering, always just out of reach,
Festering like a wound reopening, oozing with persistence.
As the slant of the harvest moon traverses its way through splinters in the walls,
The crack of thunder and flash of lightning hail turbulent storms ahead.
Bending down, I roll up an inordinate rug.
Prying back marred floorboards,
Lifting out an ornately sculpted box—
Worn, weathered from the passing of time.
Removing the lid, I can still smell my mistakes.
I let bereavement overtake rationality,
Rubbing my fingers over intricately carved lines.
My former life takes shape before me.
Awake for days, I was—
Thought I could outsmart my lapse in judgement.
The clock struck two, and nothing was happening.
Breathing out, a calm washed over me,
Thinking all was safe—
At least, that’s what I tried to make myself believe.
But that silence was just the momentary tranquillity before the chaos,
As “the sharp snap of branches masked the bark of distant dogs,”
Coming to collect a soul who bargained for more time.
Banging at the door—it snaps in half.
Nowhere to hide. Teeth rip into flesh,
Sending my blood spilling.
As a bone pricks my finger, I boomerang back.
Violently, I smash the reminder,
Yet as furiously as I try to destroy it,
The omen rematerialises—
Spiritually tied together in this coiling, hellish realm,
Until not even an infinitesimal speck of dust exists,
Whilst all time and space melt into each other.
The rooster crows early in the Zambian morning.
With subtle sunlight starting to appear on the Horizon, ten year old Dikembe begins
has journey to gather water for the family from the Luapula River.
With water buckets balanced on the ends of a bamboo stick he carries across his
shoulders, Dikembe returns to find his Mother starting a fire to fix a sparse
breakfast for her three children. The morning sun already beats down on the dusty
village now alive with life. The ever present flies are already pestering Dikembe and
the sores on his limbs.
Dikembe sees the white man on the horizon entering the village by foot, carrying his
bag of medicines.
Women and children start to form a line at the small hut he will use as his office on
this day. For hours, the white man examines one patient after another,
administering what little medicine he has and offering healthcare advice that he
knows is not understood and/or will go unheeded.
Dikembe sits in the corner of the hut, watching it all with curiosity.
At the end of the long day, the white man packs up his bag, walks over to Dikembe
and hands him a piece of gum. Dikembe smiles and mumbles, “Thank you” in broken
English.
As he puts the piece of gum into his mouth, Dikembe remembers the stories one
white man once read to him from a book called the bible, and he thinks, “I love,
Christmas. I hope it is this nice again next year.”
Feels like grumpy faces when I close my eyes.
Unflattering flour on an unflattering apron.
Sandpapered down thoughts.
Flies.
Feels like a garden filled with sand, and maybe creaking sounds.
As if there’s a ghost of a swingset.
Sticks in the grass, but some are alive.
Growling, chomping apple pie with teeth.
It’s all grandma’s house,
Weird bugs, sticks coming to life, torn up scarves.
The vases in the closet.
She used to live here by herself.
We had said for years the same pestering stuff.
Even the willow tree snapped at her.
The feeling is as familiar as gravel in her driveway almost flying into my eye.
I think 92 was it.
Feels like her apple pie spattering near my burning feet.
Flies.
The mellowed out wallpaper.
Hair.
It was the night before her 92nd birthday.
I said “92 is coming for you,” in my sleep sometimes.
Would wake up with flour in my eye.
A feeling like apple pie slobbering on me.
Feels like grumpy faces-
Not grandma’s but her childhood friend in my double vision.
She knows what there is, over there in the light…
Flies…
…eating a Juicy Apple Pie handmade by some stranger.
As you start to walk out on the way,
the way appears.- Rumi
Tonight, I speak to the moon,
lunar verses echoing the piercing
lyrics of an aching heart.
Its crystal wings softly
kiss the sea line in silence,
releasing silver ripples
of renaissance,
while the sun awaits another
dahlia dawn, graced by
delicate symphonies of
fairy-feathered fantasies.
Time is a treat ribboned
with truth and testaments
of melted monsoons,
left as souvenirs of the past,
on shimmering shores
of fragile flowers.
I was once a broken ballad,
bruised and battered
like an ornament left
on a haunted island,
where every breeze felt
like the seething sounds of sirens,
awakening demons within
my chrysalis psyche,
to cloud the horizon
painted with pigments of peace.
Trust was an ink blot
I spilled upon oceans
of blue-black pearls,
oblivious to the cracks
and faded glows of opalescence,
for I was a naive target
of narcissistic daggers,
caressing my skin with
pestering perceptions.
As I wore my wounds
like corsets crocheted
with crooked compassion,
too eager to embrace
wrathful winds~
bursting forth infernal flames,
while drenched in the
subtle dews of raging rain.
If I were to tell the world
the person I used to be,
could I write without
my fingers trembling,
without the weakened words
of weariness that weighed me down?
For I knew not what love was,
and I knew not
dreams of strength,
runes of resilience, or the
unbreakable gravity of forgiveness.
Yet I rise, beyond faceless ghosts,
soaring above nameless streets
of pointless thoughts.
I am now everything I was not;
I am both shadow and light,
seeking and waltzing to
the music of my own magical fight.
So remember,
the furs and claws,
the water and fire,
outlining the garnet~
aura of my ambient existence.
The mind is a mysterious vessel
It carries decisions and memories of yesterday but
No matter how many whiskeys, they will not disappear
It replays life altering choices
Alongside choices not made, in a whine
A stamp of regret imprinted on the brain
The only way to erase it, through death
As Sisyphus, my punishment is grueling but deserved
The ache of self-loathing is like shouldering 100 slaughtered men
The colt 45 calls louder today than normal
Its call seducing
Claiming the pestering will dissipate if only
I paint the ceiling crimson red
Oh, I think today its victorious
As the liberating barrel tastes of sweet escape
Its forces are immense and face withered resistance
Swimming thoughts fly away
Refreshing darkness comes with one, quick, pull.
my clansmen where is mother
where is our companion-she
where that amazon the gazelle
whose fast limbs are paradise-made
my clansmen: it pains it pains
like some delicate & new wounds
we have gone through the forests
a day of search’ng is like a decade
what would a full moon bring to us
we’ve been through my niger’s banks
all the cave are fully naked to eyes
of pestering search - my clansmen
lets get into the azure is mother
of the earth cover’d by the rumbling
clouds or by the ascending gods
of the nine clans - this sky’s rowdy
when the fights are o’er would she
return to her homestead & to us
or remain among those thousands
of thousands: the sacred moons
of the head of heaven & earth
Form:
Refrain:
We three mates can raise three cheers.
Here we are together raising our glasses of beers.
Any sins or troubles, let the beers wash them away.
We can be sober tomorrow. Let’s get loaded today.
As long as we are functioning alive,
we have to punch the time clock for nine to five.
Our supervisor is such a pain in the rear.
We can forget about him while we drink our beer.
With my automobile, I am two payments behind.
For the repo man, I will be difficult to find.
He won’t think of bringing the tow truck here.
The car will stay outside while we drink our beer.
For thirty years now, I’ve been stuck with my wife.
She has been torturing and pestering me for most of my life.
If I’m out too late, I know she will come here.
We can all wait patiently while we drink our beer.
The shy Moon dims her silver to sleep
Bored of wishes from chattering Stars
She nods off into the dawn glimpsing
The handsomeness of the morning Sun
As twilight breaks the Moon's dreams
She awakes from the warmth of the Sun
The mighty yellow sphere bows into the sea
The Moon glows pining for the glorious Sun
Twinkle blinking and mean-full winking
Those pestering Stars laugh out loud
And mock the Moon to break
Into her crescent shape and blue shade
The Moon closes her eyes waning away
Wishing for dawn just to glance
At her beautiful prince of light
Shining with rays of brightness
Whispering Stars secrets dim into day
Their rhythm of rhyme reaches the Sun
Curious he becomes of the Moon
Does she really love me?
A wave of warmth covers the Moon
She peers into the light to see
The smiling face of the mighty Sun
She awakes new and full
The busy Earth looks up
Two celestial bodies embrace
The Moon eclipses the Sun
And blocks his light from sight
The full Moon shines her silver
Bouncing off waves she smiles
Stars blink and twinkle quietly
The Earth hushes round and round
As dawn breaks the Sun waves
And the Moon bows way for day
They have their moments to be
Those silly stars blush silently.
Oh for pity's sake put some clothes on,
the bracing air will steal your breath..
and I need you to stand and stay strong.
Cold comfort thrills from your chill touch
help me recall why I adore you so...
A chin of the ages rests on my shoulder in sweet affection,
two arms encircle my world in every direction.
Redtail hawk riding a thermal looks down..
what caught its gaze I wonder..
Will the day lend a hand through a pestering cloud,
or roll its eyes in thunder?
Such a fine firebrand you've stoked,
as I shave my face and call your bluff.,
Wishing the once would last forever..
though once was more than enough.
I put away yesterday, and packed it away,
I said good bye to live for today,
But today i had to clean, and i found you again,
pestering my heart even though your no longer my friend,
you never liked my words, even though they stood true,
you hid away all that you knew,
you stood clean as a whistle and covered up the grime,
it was none of my business so i left it to time,
i kept a place in my heart, as i do many others,
and i wait on the prompt until it all comes together,
we are in the same book, but on different pages,
God moves our hearts in many stages,
and that momentary lapse is only a space,
the heart creates because it needs a break,
To Breathe......
Form: