Long Pestle Poems
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6/28/24
Oh heck no
It's not good feeling like a puppet made by Gepetto
The overhead downpour constant and torrential
Can't find my way through this god forsaken residential
My sleep was hardly ever restful
So much blood on the money that it turned to red gold
It's kind of sad how easily men fold
As a battle hungry general
Many many heads rolled
I slayed my enemies by the denful
Plenty said I was another hell-bent soul
Wasting all of my potential
Just living a life that was uneventful
Problems incoming by the tenfold
Still folks being petty and judgmental
Doing things that are disrespectful
Or considered dreadful
Never resentful
They don't ever feel regretful
It's beyond coincidental
As well as being consequential
Time has proven with it's credentials
I find it hard to trust anything presidential
Why do so many poke the bear and rarely settle
I'm thankful for this meal of lentils
No matter if I have utensils
Will humans ever stop being vengeful?
Too many quick to fire the first projectiles
Little good it does to be forgetful
And far too neglectful
It won't stick if I write it in pencil
Life gets stressful
So I got to have the mettle
To take care of what's essential
Times turn harsh it just can't always remain gentle
I'm sad that I can't find or understand anything ancestral
We've no proof of anything celestial or spectral
I could be wrong though I'm not a perfect vessel
Still not yet fully successful
For now I'll make some medicine with flower petals
By using a mortar and pestle
It fell from a dune
Into my path
This day
Near where freshwater bubbles forth
And waves push foam
Fraught with tempest
Of a southern sea
Upon an isolated shore
That would turn fatal for
Two pieces
Perfect
In shape and size
Mother with child
Mortar and pestle
I can only pray
You rest in peace
All
Smooth
So smooth
After generational use
A vision of people past
Grinding, grinding
Grinding away
At a meager and humbled life
Only to be
Buried away
For another day
That nether came
Until this day
It fell from the dune
Into my path
I walk it back
Into the dunes
And bury it away
Again
Out of respect
And remorse
For I know
It was you
Your people
That died
Beyond
That lands head
Just there
High up here,
amid this cold and alone,
my tools might best be
forgiven if they've
long-since forgot
that they deserve better.
But the only lips my teacup
have known are my blurburing two.
The only ink my brush has known
has been that scolded into some
sorrowful form on this not-mulberry rock.
The only skin this robe has known
was that of this persistent perpetrator.
It's yet to feel a worthy monk; the only sage its known
is the sage I've crumbled into my pestle
in pitiably inchoate mockery of an apothecary
when my knee went turned and grew as big
as my dreams.
The only ears or heart my poems have reached
up here, in this thin air,
have been,
has been my own -
Source and resting place of my
ignoble offerings.
I forgive my cup.
I forgive my robe.
I forgive my brush.
I forgive my flesh.
It never knew better.
It always deserved better.
It never knew better.
these glass vessels that you see,
no longer appertain to me,
no longer feigning to make part
what was the mainstay of my art,
my skills no more appreciated,
as if I were some rusticated
old fool, living like a recluse,
who’s mind has become “ loose “.
people do not comprehend
the powers which I can bend,
conferred to Man by nature,
developed patiently through nurture.
earth, fire, wind and water,
are the elements where I wander,
they’re the mirror of the soul,
through which Man is made whole;
mortar, pestle, alembics my tools,
books of ancient wisdom my rules,
herbs, spices, base and precious metals,
potions, magic formulas and crystals;
not mere science with which I deal,
but the science of Man; one must feel!
now alas, this is not fashionable,
everything has to be “ rational “.
yes, M.Lavoisier your visit is auspicious,
take what you will, alembics, tools,
glass, books, formulas, take the lot,
for what happens now, I care not a jot.
New Yam
Death brings life
New, tender and green
Earth brown, immaculate white
The priest heralds her coming
The town crier drums it
The farmer dances to the market
It's time to celebrate
Let loose the masquerades
Celestial visitors from yonder
Let the melody of the odó
Echo the birth of the new yam
Like the birth of a newborn
The drums are rolled out
The market is flooded
With news of its coming
The homestead salivates
The streets jubilate
Vegetables will bleed today
The fattened cock will crow no more
The slumber of the pestle is over
For what is in the yam that the knife doesn't know
The noise of pounding
Will keep the neighbours awake
Iyán funfun báláwú is on the menu today
From: Echoes from the Savannah © Makinde Adebayo Adeniyi, 2024
Bouts of lightning flashes,swirls
And lightens up the pitch, black night
Of our neck of the woods
Tailgated by stealthy footsteps
Of growling, grunting, moaning and roaring thunder,
As in gnashing and grinding of canine
As rain, like beads of sweat, acne and goose pimples
Break out on my forehead and entire body,
Sprouting like yam tendrils from the earth;
meandering as water in rain gutter
From a million hair follicles,
Teasing my entire body
And finally docking by hook or crook
Like a boat at it's embedded tributary
Between my negritude toes
I google in consternation, bewilderment
At your obstinate attempt
As pestle on bits of grain in motar
To pound a defiant, renegade earth
Back against the wall in rope-a-dope
To submission and surrender
Powerful strokes of koboko whips
Descending from heaven
As plague upon pharaoh and his kinsmen,
Drumming endlessly on thatch roofs
And corrugated iron roofs alike
Concocting rhythms more intoxicating
And damning than heavy metal music
Images of African women
Resiliently scurrying, shuffling,
Between thatch huts and drooling rain;
Scuttling to retrieve rain water in pails
And ebony children
Drenched in rain like weather beaten bats
Savoring every drop from the whinning sky
Rain,
I yearn for your spirit
But dread your fiery, fury,
Flash and flood
Come rain, soak me in your mist;
Drape me in your dew and moisture
Rain,
Your ghost evokes succor and misery!
Another morning
Breaks in a wet and thickening
Cling of fog, gathers on leaves to load
Down and bend
Each with a growing weight,
Fastened until too heavy to hold when all
Gives way to spill and
Hammer on the roof of your world.
Inside, the air throbs. Fragile nerves
Jar with every weighted blow and cry to
Keep the light from
Leaking in between clenched lids.
Migraine !.
Nothing worse to wake to,
Or have the inflamed dregs of a dream
Pounding like a pestle in the mortar of the skull,
Quickening with every stroke and
Revved to pummel each clambering thought
Should you try
To escape the prison of your pain. And when
Unable to take anymore, you have that
Vision of a place where you would like to go, then
With your finger, marking it with a large
X on your imaginary map, hoping when
You're ready, you can blast off leaving a smouldering
Zero on the pillow where your head should be.
Line of inquiry:
“feeling not thinking, soul with love linking ~
we attained God consciousness unblinking”
There are times I'm torn between feeling and thought,
consciously aware of a dispute between mind and heart.
I become anxious when I realize there's a power struggle
and my doleful soul seeks a tranquil place to snuggle.
Somewhere deep inside of me where it's more docile
until my heart and mind call for a truce and reconcile.
Unfortunately, that's short-lived... a temporary thing.
Until again, they'll fight like pugilists in a boxing ring.
Rodin didn't sculpt The Thinker inside each human mind
but the psyche often chides the heart, "Love really is blind."
Divine, are those gifts God has so generously given to us
but they don't always come to terms, and it creates a fuss.
The heart yearns for love, the mind searches for a reason.
Scripture says the heart is treacherous and commits treason.
My mind stands guard, to prevent my heart from breaking
but despite the risk, my heart finds it worth the undertaking.
A logical mind weighs pros and cons, thinking pragmatically
Bah, cries a heart, "Life should be lived more romantically."
They grind on each other as if one a mortar, the other a pestle
And so, the mind and heart will continue to quibble and wrestle.
The soul always reappears when a modicum of peace holds fast
but the truce between heart and mind is destined never to last.
Although instrumental to a soul's well-being, they will disagree.
Mind rules a heart, or vice versa. Que sera sera. What will be will be.
Woman.
I want you with or without
lipstick on the mouth.
With debutante breasts
or middle-aged,
housewife, of
militant...
I want you with your eyes,
of Chinese,
Arab or
almond Brazilian...
With your body
of fruit tree,
your flower hair
so wild....
I want you with your skin
black
white,
yellowish
I want you with your
thin waist,
or pestle, even
rounded...
With your butt
dry or upturned ...
With your countenance
strong but sensible,
or suitable
experienced boss,
or childish manner ...
I want your body
of mountain that I love
climb up, I want you
with fantasy visions
or full of real images.
I love you and I want you.
shining, conquering,
being respected
With a generous smile
on the lips and doing
with elegant fingers a
Victory V ...!
Unrealities and realities
grind together in mortar’s mouth,
spilling, pulverizing, volatile perfumes—
succumbing scents of citrus, crushed copper,
musks of bruised lightning,
threshing thunderous throbs.
Instability incarnate sings her reveling wails,
fragrances of something
Beyond Name.
I guide existences into black curve,
severing them against sharp, obsidian walls,
letting them rupture—letting them bleed
—syrups and statics—
messy marrows of forgotten equations.
Their shapelessness mutable,
pliant pages to pulp in the plunge
of the merciless pestle.
How many combinations will one
blend and crucify—
to crush, to coax, into coherence?
Rasps of bone bend against sanguine salts,
sheens of opulent oil merge with ember embryo—
iron filings licked into life by tempests reigned.
Anything of matter becomes
moisture—mass—mold—
hunger pooling at my basin’s heart,
seething for impending strike,
for sudden and unforgiving
birth.