Long Privately Poems
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Once upon a time,
In a secluded, distant kingdom,
There lived a beautiful princess
Who spent her days carefree,
If not slightly impassive,
Exploring the palace gardens and
Dancing nimbly around the courtyards,
More often than not accompanied by her ladies-in-waiting,
The youngest of which had become
Her best and most trustworthy friend over the years, and whom,
Unbeknown to the princess,
Suspected she had fallen in love with her.
The princess's sixteenth birthday came, and there was
Great rejoicing throughout the land.
The princess and her best friend
Found it all rather amusing and tiresome when
The King declared that it was time
His daughter was married.
The princess took little interest in the
Many suitors who came to try and
Win her heart, though when she
Consulted her friend,
The lowly lady-in-waiting,
She was always sure to remark on
Which man seemed the kindest,
Who was the funniest, and
Which would provide her with stability and care.
Though, of course,
She privately dismissed them all.
So the years went past,
The princess grew more beautiful each day,
Beginning to make an effort to impress
The neverending stream of suitors,
Whilst her lady-in-waiting,
Silently saddened and horrified by her own desire,
Continued to enourage, comfort and love the princess
As the suitors came and went.
The princess laughed and kissed her friend, saying
No man could ever mean as much to her as she.
Then one day, a prince arrived at the palace,
One unlike any the princess had met before,
He smiled at her and she
Never sighed or turned away,
But merely smiled back.
The lady-in-waiting watched them
Explore the kingdom astride a white horse,
Dance delightedly together in the moonlight,
And she saw the prince
Encourage, comfort and love the princess,
And she blinked away her grief.
Soon wedding bells rang throughout the land
As the prince and princess held hands and
Spoke their vows,
The lady-in-waiting stood near the
Back of the congregation,
Smile frozen on her face.
She had no horse, of course,
She could not waltz,
She was a lady-in-waiting; a servant,
And the princess always marries the prince
And they live happily ever after.
There are no fairytales for fools like her,
And she is left waiting, wanting, wasting,
Without a hope of happiness,
And that's how the story ends.
Once upon a time
There was a man
Who lost his job
And his home
And his car
And he slept under a tree.
Simpleton that he was,
He never gave thought
To asking the oak's permission.
But the majestic old tree,
Being wise in its great age,
Suffered the unlucky human
To lie there in grateful repose
Between two of its massive,
Outspreading roots.
And there were visitors,
Unseen and unheard
By the man but who,
For their own secret reasons,
Took an interest in him.
So these playful beings
Found a way to indulge
Their sense of mischief
Whilst helping the man
Avoid further calamities
To his person.
The woods where he slept,
You see, were privately kept,
And others like himself would,
On occasion,
Pass close by that spot.
Well, the man was of a mind
To sleep well past the dawn.
But the toilers began
Their day early, so it would
Be only a short march of time
Before their paths
Would finally cross.
So the task at hand
For the imps
Or the elves
Or the ghosties
Or the faeries
Lay in devising clever ways
Of rousing the man
Without ever revealing to him
Their own true nature.
Once, for example, they bounced a
Large, round, feather-light something
Off the side of his sleepy head.
It felt like a giant nerf ball but was
Nowhere to be seen immediately after.
On another occasion, they directed
A friendly little toad
To land with a thud within inches
Of his horizontal face.
But in other instances
They acted more boldly;
Tickling his hair,
Grabbing him by the shoes,
Or yanking on an elbow.
The only time he thought to ignore
Such a silent sort of
"By yore leave, yer slumberin' Grace",
He only just avoided a confrontation
With some early-morning workers.
But Serendipity finally intervened,
And after the passage of a fortnight or so,
This man's situation changed yet again,
And he no longer had to sleep upon the earth.
But a peculiar thing occurred, you see.
Being accustomed to regular attention from
His entertaining unseen guardians,
The man found himself unwilling to return
To the bland comforts of a regular bed.
And thus it was only by
Withdrawing their favors
That they compelled him to
Quit that place for good.
And then, reluctantly, with yet
Further pointless delays,
I finally said my goodbyes
And left that place as I found it.
I need to Get this off my chest I need to say this
This picture won't be perfect, no matter how I display it
But I'll try to make it as beautiful as possible
I'm going out of my mind, because you've been sectioned and admitted to hospital
I wish I could help you, but you're in the best place
I lost my dad at 14, yours died 2 weeks ago, I hope your shoulders soon have less weight
I hope you talk to the hospital staff, and aren't planning your next escape
I hope you realise it doesn't make you less of a man to shed a few tears
You were clean from drugs for 14 months and off section for 2 years
Before this relapse, but it was to be expected
You don't want to speak to anyone, so I can't even send you a message
We've never been the closest, but I always hold you dear
If you need me, then I'll hold your tears
Talk to me, and I'll hold your fears
I always hated drugs because of how they made you & our sister turn out
Maybe I'm wrong for being this honest and putting them words out
But growing up in care, due to my families drug habits, put me off trying them
Words on a page is the form I'm crying in
I wish I could pull you up, if you need me, grab a hold of my hand
I promise to go a full day without mocking you for being a Liverpool fan
But that's banter between us, cause I'm a United fan and our teams have a big rivalry
I'm only putting this out there, cause I can't speak to you privately
Some people have beautiful lives, why does ours have to be a war?
I'll die with my pain if it means you can be free from yours
You're my brother, why should nurses dictate when and how long I can see you for?
Same mum, different dads, but we both love Hip-Hop and football
I hope once you figure your own mind out, you'll accept my calls
We've never been the closest but that needs to change quick
But neither of us have energy because depression drains it
I'm bipolar and you're schizophrenic
So if we're together people are quick to panic
The difference is I'm the better looking one
Sorry, I'm just having a little fun
Trying to bring a little humour to a hard time
I hope you find some light for your dark mind
We're not the closest, but I'm rooting for you
I hope you make it
I'm sorry because I had to say this
The picture isn't beautiful, but it can be depending on how you display it
This might be a bit different from the typical 'High Road' story.
That's because there was no personal conflict between the other
party and myself. And there was no tug of war for position or possession.
However, this is probably the best example in my personal life that would
portray a 'High Road Pursuit'.
Anyway, I confronted my superior about what I and many others perceived
as inappropriate behavior on his part. It did not appear that anyone else
would act on the matter. So I pursued another person who was a board
member, and we agreed to confront him together privately in hopes of
curtailing the behavior and the activity. Our efforts fail to change the
situation which led to the board member contacting my boss's superior.
Had we succeeded in altering my boss' course, things would have turned
out radically different. During or since, there has not been any animosity
between us. We have maintained a friendship over the years.
Long story short, my superior was forced to resign. His resignation also
cost me my job. I was keenly aware of the probability, but felt my action
was far superior to my position. I was in a position to seek his position with the high probability of securing the job. However, I had decided that if I pursued my superior and he ended up losing his job, I was not going to seek his job. I knew that such a pursuit would not set well with my own heart. In my own mind, that would have been 'the low road'. 'The High Road' was to walk away regardless of the outcome, which is what I did. The organization's
gain was more important than the job loss that I would personally experience.
Some roads are built with inferior material, material unable to endure the
ware and tare. They will not hold up under the punishment of vehicular traffic. Such is also the case with our personal lives and relationships. Low roads cost less to build, but are only sustainable for very short seasons. My career path was forever changed, but I have always been pleased with my decision. The 'High Roads' are costlier but will serve us well. Such has been the case with the professional 'High Road' that I took 29 years ago.
101221PSCtest, The High Road, Regina McIntosh. 5P
Learning when/how to close seat then...
flush... the toilet with good frisson!
(alternately titled long windedly
using lower case letters:
no matter tidily bowled over based
upon real events, perhaps subject devoid
of literary merit and/or taste
no embarrassment, cuz
I got nothing to cover
despite precious time going to waste).
Analogous to constipation,
constitutes full term pregnancy,
perhaps umpteenth or first,
which former offal bodily function I durst
mention, said subject doth stink,
yet... exercising bowel
applicative, constrictive, effective,
exhaustive, gesticulative, instinctive,
massive, oppressive, qualitative,
quantitative, significative and unitive
(beg to differ if ye think me perverse)
both scenarios prone to stress and strain,
difficulties can arise evacuating bowels
gluteus maximus muscles severely pursed,
radiating sharp stabbing sensations
behind junk in trunk quarters felt
until bulging temple veins ready to burst,
where piles of hemorrhoids
foul rectum tortured and accursed
necessitating Judas Priest well versed
to issue last rites while
appropriate official dull livers worst
news to missus, whose
inconsolable sympathies nursed,
nevertheless bit torrent of sorrow
honor alone time with grateful dead
subsequently finds medical personnel disbursed,
privately newly minted widow mourning
tears for fears immersed
bemoaning sudden permanent absence
gone fore e'er foremost farter figure first
instance obliterated, when posterior
uproariously (actually not funny)
inflicted hemorrhage emergency,
die hard ludicrous poet (me) experienced
all expense chauffeured ride in hearst
aforementioned purportedly roughly comparable,
courtesy hearsay, when
hypothetical woman with child,
(here, I metaphorically paraphrase)
as maven ready to take aim giving birth
(nine months after satiating
hankering call of the wild
buzzfeeding miracle worker whipped thirst,
and temporarily appeased
inherent maternal yearning
to beget offspring, then... off to races
sprinting at greased lightning speed
amazingly enough slightly protruded womb,
(among other fledgling
and/or practiced moms avid runners
all touted as winners relay race crossing
finish line simultaneously
comprising distance measuring more'n verst.
I remember it was a cold morning
There was down pour of rain the previous day
It was still drizzling a bit
It was an airy morning very quiet
Remember the smell of rain
Very fresh morning
For the first time in a long while
I remembered my wife Lucinda
We had been estranged
That morning all I thought of was the cross
The forgiveness of all my sins by Jesus
That day I made up my mind to forgive Lucinda
Forgiveness for adultery
It was the fourteenth day of February
What a coincidence with Valentine’s Day
I drove to Lucinda’s house
I could hear my heart beating
Out of anxiety of how she will receive me
Our separation was quite nasty
At her door I fidgeted with the bell
Lucinda was speechless when she saw me
We didn’t speak a word to one another
I hugged her in an embrace that was like eternity
We still didn’t speak but we knew what we were saying to one another
My heart reached out to her, like the father and his prodigal son
Lucinda was my high school sweet heart
When we got home
Lucinda’s heart and my heart had a dialogue
I had forgiven her totally
Forgiveness the gift of love
Love that covers multitude of sins, casting out every fear
I made dinner that night, dished it out and washed the dishes afterwards
We didn’t have much money but we celebrated love with what we love
Especially with the gift of ourselves
Lucinda knew I was a dry man
So she warmed the atmosphere with some scented candles
And Peabo Bryson music
There was no more quarrel but tranquillity
It was romance at its best
I gave Lucy a gift and her eyes lighted up with surprise
That night we privately exchanged our vows again
Hmmmmm it was a happy day, night, hour, second
Thank you Jesus
My home was restored again on Valentine’s Day
Lucinda broke the silence
When she looked at me and in a love coated voice
She said to me I love you my boo
My heart leaped, as I responded with tears in my eye and emotion laden voice: I know
Jehovah is indeed love
And he still performs miracles
It is good to let go of hurts and embrace reconciliation, I said in my thoughts
Thinking of all that had happened
Forgiveness begins with self and ends with the recipient of mercy
God still sings and still speaks even on valentines day
Lets listen and we will surely hear
Ah, the glorious damned winter
and the inviting
gray chill in the air.
I meander
ever
so
slowly
past lawns
strewn
with a cluttered array
of pagan snow zombies -
staring blankly,
as I obliterate pint-sized
snow angels
failing to don halos
that could have easily been
brush stroked with
da Vinci's golden teardrops.
(Impoverished attention-getters)
"I suggest you peruse Alighieri’s 'Inferno' –
it may, at least, promote heat - if not hope!"
(Simpletons)
Frost continues to cloud my spectacles -
thick and relentless
eagerly permeating the glass -
endeavoring to dance
a feverish Fantasia foxtrot
upon the skins of my pupils.
My heavy feet scuffle
past these endearing peasants.
Bleak…frozen…
forgotten Mt. Everest tombstones.
Disgraced outcasts of embarrassment -
smashed against a stark white canvas
hands cut off –
sticking out their parched tongues
begging for alms.
Click and count.
Their fragile bodies so much alive
their dark, hallowed eyes
so
much
dead.
(So be it)
They stealthily huddle alone -
(Hah! I’ve created my own personal oxymoron!)
These gruesome street urchin waifs -
Dumber than a sackful of hammers and
frostier than a Maine Christmas morn,
convulsing and shivering ‘neath lampposts
without snow shoes or socks,
bawling and boo-hooing...
“Clutching weather-worn copies
of James Hilton’s 'Lost Horizon'
and littering the virgin snow
with salty saline discharge –
igniting street corner bonfires
without the faintest hint of smoke."
(Wasteful)
Ah, the glorious damned winter
and that magnificent gray chill in the air.
My arctic thighs carry me home now
where I am safe.
Where I can slam my door
and shut my eyes.
My cavernous domicile
whereas I can privately converse
with Mr. Dickens and Mr. O’Neill
and read “A Christmas Carol”
or “The Iceman Cometh” -
without a snaggle-toothed interruption...
Listen to the haunting strains of L’Inverno
from Vivaldi’s “Le Quattro Staggioni”
and cackle wildly as I burn first editions
of Clement Clark Moore’s
most infamous penning -
pour myself a
tall glass of ice cubes -
devour a heaping bowl
of vichyssoise -
scarf down a fudgcicle
and just...
turn the air conditioner
ON.
Those of us
who have had guilty pleasures
of owning valuable real property,
like a car
and rental property
and office equipment
Office buildings,
solar inverters,
and nuclear holocaust delivery systems
but not privately owned MBA degrees
or merely intellectual property
or more intimately owned emotional properties,
Those of us
who know the mixed blessings
of owning organic and technocratic fragments
of climate pathologized,
yet still breathing, planet Earth,
especially if taxable property,
have heard about depreciation of values
over their natural/mechanical life/utility
health/power time.
We might recall
depreciation of property value
decelerates more gradually as time marches forward,
barring any unfortunate head-on accidents,
flying and melting and fragmenting damage,
accelerating astronomical crises
eliminating long-term realistic health-wealth values.
Depreciated suddenly to total loss of asset value,
now a global junk-dealer liability.
Anyway,
just as depreciation decelerates over time,
appreciation accelerates empowering resilience
with time's enduring health/wealth cooperative life-experience,
Organic systems accelerate
robust cooperative integrity
over a deep learning nutritious multiculturing life-time
of Win/Win climax learning
deeply curving synergetic ego/eco-relationships,
Growing in good-humored co-investment priorities
for story telling and listening
to resonant fulfillment co-opportunities
Rather than continuing historic depreciated taking
and Win/Lose epic slow-losing ego/economic depressions,
Anti-systemic pathologies,
realistic predictions of global chaos.
Retributive injustice depreciations
slowly fade toward entropic disorganization,
just the suffering and loss opposite
of exponentially appreciative Win/Win compassion
Explicitly conscious
of living interdependently between and within
autonomously natural depreciative law
and appreciative open-systemic/spiritual
yang/yin multicultural
left/right psychological
self/other empowering
appreciative
spiraling
deep listening and wide learning order
re-mixing depreciating curses
into old-aged exponentially appreciating blessings
of co-opportune climaxing climates.
Now, up into his arms,
soon you shall know each other's charms,
down the shadowed hall, turn to the right,
to the Shadrachah, you hold on tight,
then, down many stairs, you go,
where no light ever seems to flow,
darkness holds such fear for you.
It seems an eternity of being carried down,
as into the darkness, you both do drown,
then before a door, his feet do stop,
it opens and there is a mighty drop,
another door opens on the other side,
candlelight flickers from deep inside,
floating across slowly, you reach the other end,
his lips upon your lips, as his head he does bend,
love sings from the heart.
Then you both walk into the room,
where you now stand, in shadowed gloom,
down ten steps, the cauldron there,
where you shall be shown, love and care,
the bed of night's passion is rising,
and to you, this isn't surprising,
down the steps and to the dragon bed you run,
you are ready for a night of fun,
love shall sing in the flickering light.
You must lie on the dragon bed,
love's mist plays around your precious head,
then above you, your love's handsome face,
he lowers himself onto your grace,
as he kisses your sweet lips,
he softly plays you, with gentle fingertips,
lips are parted and forth comes a sigh,
it shall soon be time, for your hearts to fly,
two hearts now becoming one.
Temples sing in sweet perfection,
the gentleness of love's creation,
the chamber alive with sighing pleasure,
you are the Shadrach Hah's greatest treasure,
passion stirs and desires rise,
you, my love, the ultimate prize,
but no more do I go on,
for my heart sings another song,
sometimes love should sing privately.
Now, romantic, I don't seem to be,
so I leave you now, with dignity,
dress you now, come up the stair,
my angel, with the Auburn hair,
there are those who expected a night of passion,
I decided, this time I do ration,
my heart grows sad and is far less bold,
this can be because I am getting old,
my words no longer sing, love's own song,
the Shadrach Hah returns, where he does belong.
He goes to the cradle of his doom,
we shall return to the bed of night's passion, later, my love.
Vampire: Vampyre Love Poetry Series.
*The Boy Who cried German*
Although Ikeh was as nervous as ever he still gathered a little guts to address those sluts. He always did walk around in a jumpsuit like that suitor who visits Bisi everyday. His Igbo accent flourished with pidgin diminishes his English when ever he spoke giving room for the linguist in our school to use as a case study when talking of mother tongue nonsense.
His fanta face and coca-cola leg mama Nkechi describes as a factory error of the producers of caro white. That bow leg of his Malam Audu mai shayi laughs at privately but still hails him as the next Ahmad Musa. Even the father of raggae Bob Marley would have given him an award if still breathing, he always allowed the brown village dust to cover it giving room for lace n dandruff. What of his lips? Forget about its tattered looks, the village girls gossip saying his girlfriend must be crazy to kiss those, its huge structure like the camels in the movie "The Mummy"
Yes! His girlfriend Franklin
Only God knows where she got that name from. By birth her mama n papa called her Omoshewa Ajoke Babatunde but ever since she visited the city on her arrival changing everything concerning her heritage but that fool forgot to remove her Yoruba tongue always putting a "H" in place of an "A" she loudly calls "Abigail" "Habigail" or "Again" as " Hegain"
A perfect with him.
Alas!
He dressed in an America suit trying to adjust the tie he never wore, his huge feet in a rubber sandals trying to have mutual understanding with the rough village sands using his handkerchief to wipe the excess dust the white men vehicles left behind. His nose like the back of papa Michael 190 showcasing his mighty nostrils like the twins well beside Adaobi's house. He waved at the passersby to show he just brushed his brown dirty teeth.
Now in the podium I sighted Ikeh talking with Albert the German. The microphone was now handed to him
"Oh Lord" I said closing my eyes because I know he will make a mess of the presentation bringing room to the downgrading of our village. Then in seconds my heart sank on hearing his German English. The crowd in amusement
*So Ikeh can speak English fluently?*