Long Reckless Poems
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Everyone, from children to grownups,
carry the world in their hands, they see the past
and the future simply by the move of their thumbs and fingers;
from their very spot they fly in the air hanging onto the mixture of
illusion and reality.
The little glass plate they are staring at is,
though, a two dimensional world, they go
beyond the fourth dimension and reach the world of infinity,
the time of conception to death, while creating a totally anew concept
of time that is a mixture of kairos and chronos.
Because you see everything at the same time
in this little glass plate, layer after layer of thickened image
starts to fall to cause the chaos, the distorted image crumbles.
When a child finds Hydra in the little flat glass plate he held,
he challenges Hydra, and after a long difficult fight, though
he cuts a head off from this great serpent, a drop of blood
numbs the child, with venom spitting out from the mouths
of the remaining heads it deadens the child. Then, after all,
the Hydra’s blood and venom overtake the child’s shrunken brain,
the child becomes a fierce monster himself.
For a grownup,
while watching Laokoon and his two children locked in the coils of
hissing snakes, agonizing. He undergoes unbearable torment himself,
as if Laokoon was tortured by the snakes, stretching his arms in the air
to grab something that may lessen the intensity of horror.
From the touch of smooth
but cold skin of the snake,
he shudders, he frightens, he feels death.
The child, comes and goes from here to yonder world in no time,
led by the move of his fingertip, he came and sat with the devil
face to face, tries to trade junk the devil offers with his soul, though
immature, he is therefore reckless, but innocent.
The grownup who haunted by anguish,
walks on the path of life and death, because
he is unable to shake off the bad-omen he carries;
is now sitting in front of a poker table and through
the little flat glass plate in his palm, gazing at the numbers
on the playing cards; he irons his ragged soul with steaming-hot-iron
for external appearance, the soul that even the devil won’t take in
pledge for filthy lucre.
It’s outrageous but,
all generations alive today, seem to be confined
in the little flat glass plate, they live as the slave of the fingertip.
Is the life you are living
Really worth remembering?
Day after day, same old dream
Playing lottery with hope to win
The size of the shoes you wear
Does not determine how life will fare
You have got to wear an attitude
Of a man desperately in need of water and food
Life does not count on what you have
She smacks you pretty hard
The moment you are reckless
Steals away your happiness
I never stopped believing in miracles
But in reality, a man is boss
When he takes bold decision collectively
To impact people positively
To determine life, if it is worth living
Depends on what you bring in
At the break of each precedent day
I have made it, can you boldly say
All Rights Reserved© Akan Udofia 2017
https://akanudofia.blogspot.com.ng/2017/10/is-it-worth-it.html
Monday, October 16, 2017
Squinting towards the lens, pressed fingers poised
Patter of shutters point to ample publication
Greater than any citizens' optimised hopes
Helicopter swept, high stake hustling self opinion
Gratuitous frog mouth catches fools, sticky tongue lashings
Golf club strolling, silver spoon holding, crumbs for cleaners
Pussy grabber dresses in pro life garb for target demographic
Speaks the language of fanaticism, fist in scripture
Heavy repertoire laced in hate. Dire threat leant on as a pillar
Podium fronted pompous smoothes fear with one liners
Gambling with virus spits in the face of reckless ruler
Trillion dollar trade removed, blackjack tapped table bust
Mogul makes workers homeless amidst bankruptcy claims
Grotesque filing fails retains dozens of glinting casinos
Gall lets leader make meme of nuclear dictator
Having little remaining reign tenure, pocket profane folds
12th July 2020
When I was a young child I wanted everything that was in sight
I was so reckless and wild but I didn't even notice my own plight
I saw what wasn't really there and to what was there I was blind
To be honest I just didn't care and would usually end up in a bind
I used to think that I truly knew, that this will make me happy
But I would still feel so blue and as such my soul didn't feel free
Yet on and on I would continue to go, saying that that's just me
In others words, I didn't have a clue because I just couldn't see
I knew He was up there and I knew that He was always around
But if you really do not care, then of course, you can't be found
The Lord never left my side and so very often carried me along
Being filled with pride I could never realize that I was so wrong
I am not that child anymore as now it is His Will that comes first
Oh how Jesus has such a wonderful cure for all those who thirst
So be careful what you wish for, for Jesus has such a better road
You can never give back anymore than that which is already owed
1 Corinthians 6:20
For ye are bought with a price:
therefore glorify God in your body,
and in your spirit, which are God's.
On My Own
It is early in the day for most.
I am just going to sleep. ‘
This will make many people angry.
But at times, I just don’t care.
I wish that I did.
A glass of wine, a pill from the doctor.
That is not enough.
Soon, it is a second glass, a second small tablet.
I have to keep up to everything; that is expected.
I have done so for so long, I don’t remember…
any other life.
Others hurt too. I see. I watch. I listen.
Everywhere, pain. Suffering!
Then there is that moment, you ask yourself???
“Do I like me anymore?”
(All drugs, alcohol or “other” should be taken in front of a mirror.
You need to see for yourself what things are doing to you…legal or not.)
If the answer is not hopeful…
then the problem is great indeed.
The burden heavy, the measure of it,
only “You” know.
Oh, and Him.
Friends,
Hope is sometimes right there.
In front of everything, seated in the best place.
Yet we “choose” to walk on, the path unknown,
Careless, reckless and dangerous to ourselves,
and even to others.
If that is happening, or worse has happened?
You have been given permission to go back.
“He” died to make it possible.
You can make it right.
It is a gift.
You are valued. You have a place.
You are loved.
They say they know me
Sometimes even better than me
Gossiping like ducks
Telling stories without facts
They say they know me
All my weaknesses and strengths
Into my soul and my mind
My kindred spirit you would presume
They say they know me
They sound closer to me than my own skin
Pushing out lies with reckless abandon
These enemies without faces
They say they know me
Perhaps to satisfy a craving, a desire
A need to share part of my story and glory
They say it is part of the price for fame
They say they know me
Yet tell untrue stories of me in my absence
What cowardice! What shame!
I understand; I forgive!
Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, and poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen.” ...
Leonardo Da Vinci
What if there was no poetry in this world?
Unpoetic world with no more poetry
No more perfumes to permeate flowerbeds.
No more glossy beads of petrichor cloying.
A blindfolded moon in veil hunts for solace
moving a canvas of craters, in clouds motionless.
Voice of unspoken words wilting away,
locked in deep thickets, an infinitesimal space
clog a lump in throat of breathless syllables.
reckless tender feelings transmute and displace.
No urge to transcend, No boundless and free...
An unpoetic world with no more poetry.
A lovesick heart no longer rambles
Only blaring sound in bleary eyes,
as known faces devour unknown shorelines.
No more open waters , no more endless seas
No misty mountains, No opaque night walls
Only sunsets fade into shattered dreams.
Butterflies swarm around in colorblind paths,
in search of red and green, they find no more.
No more rhythm ,
No more rhyme,
Only pattern of time ticks in twenty four
The Useless Joy of Poetry,
With us, she is no more.
Dated 24 th January 2019
SEPTEMBER'S POSTSCRIPT
The amber calendar dissolves,
leaving September behind to
inherit the melancholic residue
of our ephemeral summer.
The equinox arrives, a quiet
guillotine of gold,
servering the incandescent
warmth we used to hold.
September recedes, leaving a
skeletal landscape behind,
and the calcified architecture of
a love designed
in the reckless crucible of July's
blinding blaze,
now reduced to the twilight of
these shortening days.
Your absence is a reminiscence
that deeply hyperventilates,
an unforgettable phantom that
never truly abates.
I am trapped in the
retrospection of your quiet
silhouette,
navigating the imperishable
cartography of my own regret.
Every fallen leaf is a
memorandum of what we
could not save,
a fragile, amber monument
above a silent, emotional grave.
I am paralyzed by this heavy,
internal compunction,
standing alone at our love's
abandoned junction.
The autumn wind whisper of a
bittersweet commemoration,
of a fleeting, brilliant spark lost
to sudden isolation.
September leaves behind the
frost of what will never be,
locking your ghost forever in
the vault of my memory.
An ominous trail
in their dark ashes—
each ellipsis
hid a treacherous bend.
I feel the camper’s
hollow rattle
between cracked ribs
that won’t quite mend.
Not their youth,
but mine—
still burning
in oil-smoke haze
too thick to see.
Torn nights
of endless yearning—
a senseless chase
I couldn’t face,
and wouldn’t flee.
Would the dust
of reckless trysts
still stir—
and burn again?
Would my reading
turn to riding
that soulless path,
the camper’s sin?
The snare of wishing
for what’s long missing—
new campgrounds,
starlit nights...
But on that road,
the rain keeps falling—
and all that’s left
are rusted rites.
- An echo to a friend's "Road Trip"
Oh heart, I can't grant you all your wishes,
Sometimes I feel for you, more than words can convey,
I hear you pounding at the gates of what you desire,
But my actions will be silenced, for I know a better way.
Oh heart, how I wish to secure you,
To build a fortress around your fragile beat,
So that nothing harsh will ever come your way,
No dagger, no deceit, no bitter defeat.
Sorry, heart, for starving you of what you crave,
Sorry for locking the doors you begged to open.
But dear heart, not all you want is what you need,
Some desires are storms dressed as sunshine,
Some people are lessons disguised as love,
And if I gave you everything you asked for,
You would shatter in your own softness.
So I will discipline you, not to punish you, but to preserve you,
I will teach you patience, when you want to rush,
I will teach you silence, when you want to scream,
I will teach you to let go, when you want to cling.
For you were not made to be reckless, my heart,
You were made to be resilient,
Not to break at every disappointment,
But to beat, to heal, to hope again.
So rest now, my own heart,
I am guarding you the only way I know how,
Not by giving you the world,
But by saving you from it.