Long Residues Poems
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From The Ashes of The War, 1
The smoke has cleared, but the silence betrays,
A quieter warfare that numbers the days.
Where brothers who shared both the mortar and name,
Now look at each other through prisms of shame.
They tell us the root of our lineage is wrong,
That Bini, not Igbo, is where we belong.
They swallow the history the victors have spun,
Denying the mother to flatter the son.
If bent on abandoning your Igbo identity, oh Ikwerre,
Would you also abandon your half-brothers in Amaigbo and Nkwere?
Where Amaigbo’s son, ruled the Niger Delta, as King Jaja of Opobo,
A revered king and a free son of Igbo, never a servant or an odibo.
The vowels are altered, the heritage torn,
To bury the cradle where identity was born.
Bini was Iduu, they never claimed Akalaka as a son,
And Eze Chima, not, REze Chima, never a Bini born.
Behold how the letters are weaponized now,
An "R" stamped brutally on a community’s brow.
A tactical grammar where ancestry hides
From Umukurushi to Rumukurushi, it slides,
What an “R” wonder in not identifying as Igbo
Umuola to Rumuola and Umuokoro to Rumuokoro,
Umuekpe to Rumuekpe and Umuigbo to Rumuigbo,
The tags of "Niger Delta" replace what used to be true,
South South, a desperate shield from the malice they knew.
When oil residues soiled the creeks they knew,
And oil wells shared among Western and Northern emirs,
Excluding the Igbo Chiefs and the South-South Chiefs, too.
They cannot erase the Igbo language all the same,
Though they try, by adopting new regional names.
Yet their chieftaincy titles remain of Igbo ancestry,
To stay authentic and linked to the history, authority and ancestry.
Oh, weep for the scholars, the local elites,
Who traded the truth for the praise of the streets!
The intellectuals, blinded by status and gain,
Who justified treason and sanitized pain.
They authored the distance, they drafted the wall,
And cheered as they watched their own brotherhood fall.
They organized and seized Igbo properties labelled "abandoned,"
Sharing those homes with reckless abandon) ed
Even Saro-Wiwa’s last address belonged to the Ojukwu dynasty.
Yet the soil remembers what politics tries to erase,
The blood in the marrow, the lines on the face.
Though the names may be rewritten and the history denied,
The truth of the cradle still echoes inside.
Two young, red hair ladies, were talking in a sunny afternoon at the beach, about first love and marriage. Salty residues linger on her long wavy hairs. Samantha, the blue dressed girl, was recently engaged with her fiancé Steven. Grace, the red dressed girl with a scarlet parasol, would be the bridesmaid.
The wedding will be celebrated in four months. The white dressed girl, in the background, was Chloe. She was Grace's sister, who was admiring the azure beach.
Air was imbued with the illusion of romanticism. Samantha was deeply in love with her fiance.
She wore with pride the diamond engagement ring she received from Steven as a promise of true love. Beach was a haven for the three young ladies. They visited the place every weekend since they were little girls. A sincere friendship would be felt between the friends.
Walking in the beach made me remember the romance novels that end with a happy ending. The young ladies shared with me their anecdotes, so they were painted in a canvas by a famous painter and written as a novel by a famous writer. Five months later, I returned to the beach, and found the young ladies talking about Samantha wedding.
For Red Parasol by Alfred Glendening Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Eve Roper
Second Place
6-21-2016
An awful stench is circulating in the air
erupting dark clouds everywhere
Rough waves moving backward
casting doubts and hammering fear
Muddy water gushing down the dirty stream
disrupting and shaking the core of my dream
You brought me upon this corrupted earth
To suffer, endure pain and eat dirt
I am feeling so ashamed
I doubt if I can rebound again
The bricks are piling on top of each other
There is no way I can get it together
The boomerang is flying around
conquering its mission and fortifying ambition
Great God of the universe
Come minister to my bleeding soul
I am living but I am not living'
I am eating but I am not eating
I am speaking but I am not speaking
The wind has come to a standstill
It is sucking up all the energy from within
The trees watches in awe saggy leaves
broken branches patronizing everyone
They are not swaying they are silently groaning
I am standing on the broken rock
which is about to collapse
The full moon has come and gone
leaving everyone in the dark
The werewolf has resurface again
leaving its impression deep in the clay
Short roads and long roads intercepts
And a great burden is looming over my head
The river is running dry
And residues are evident everywhere
I am walking carefully on the side but
But I have just slipped into the mud again.
Life has meaning when there is love enough to care and to share.
A song comes to mind about feeling free and walking on air.
In a protected cocoon; I was body tissue, yes, but more.
So much more, especially when I learned to breathe.
So much more, when I later learned I had destiny and purpose.
So much more as the mechanisms of life caused me to breathe.
The inhaling phase was crisp and pure, nontoxic and divine.
No first or second-hand smoke, no fumes from alcohol, no
poisonous residues from drugs, legal or otherwise. I have
no lucky star to thank; it was my God and my mom, my dad.
To be cherished and wanted; to be desired and loved; to
be enraptured with the feel of, "It takes my breath away".
Albeit, to inhale the sweetness of heaven and not have
'my breath taken away'. Life. Never take it for granted.
And then, to flow into the second phase of my breathing,
exhaling effortlessly, and experiencing the reality of life,
the blessed, the bliss, the feel of, I'm free. I inhale; I exhale.
Just look at me now! I'm alive and well! I can breathe!
081321PSCtest, As We Be Breathed, Unseeking Seeker
When the Earth retaliates,
we will claim to be victims of a faceless evil.
We will say we are pursued by vicious forces,
and that we are at the mercy of the unseen.
Have we reflected on yesterday?
Have we examined our actions?
Have we considered the residues of our industrious machines?
Have we thought about the dirt they release into the sky?
The Earth is on the verge of unleashing its fury.
Its elements stand at the edge of a precipice,
ready to crash down and engulf us in horror—
a tempest of relentless darkness.
When the Earth retaliates,
We will awaken to a new sky,
one that obscures the sun’s rays,
a sky that will herald the woes that await us.
February 23, 2026.
You're this loving aura:
Your beauty, so vibrant
All your senses are on, —high
But you wanted to bust down and cry
PS: —I love you.
I ache, you say; in this tender voice
I say; let me ache for your pain
Let me; bare your pain and free yourself
PS: —I'll hold you.
I wanted: To take your pain
Like residues in my palm
And smear it on my heart
So that you can be free of this pain
PS: —I love you.
I desired to become all of your pain:
Thus
I wanted to make your love mine
But instead
You slipped away on through; I'll miss you
PS: —I'll hold you in my arms.
That in itself is a pleasure:
Knowing
It's worth bearing this pain for you
Baby—PS: —I love you.
R.I.P. Shannon, I sure do miss you,
Incredibly so.
I’m stealing through a twilit realm, the ancient pale of Whereis,
passing chambers of an Heiress
(though no need to feel embarrassed)
through a magic mystic mirror hanging curtainless.
A glimpse near naked alleyways (denuded by the moon) ex-
poses Ghosts in gauzy tunics
carving symbols, round and runic,
in distended dingy dungeons of uncertainness.
Down misty streets of cobblestone – ancestral avenues –
patchwork paths consume my shoes
(chasing foggy curlicues
twisting, twirling by in twos,
floating anywhere they choose),
leaving footprints that confuse
vagrant wispy retinues
of the threaded wooden sticks that stalk a Puppet wandering.
Condensed in drops of fantasy, distilled in evening dew,
shifting Shadows I pursue
(wearing faces I once knew,
slipping slowly from my view)
turn their backs to bid adieu
leaving stars to tempt me through
Awful Tower residues
mocking treasures time outgrew
in the birth of old from new
framing pageants in review
midst the visions of the painted past I can’t help pondering.
Contorted candelabra claw the skyline’s walled suspension
caught in twilight’s intervention
– still unlit (in stark dissension),
therefore seething with a tension
in the quiet apprehension
of the Watchman’s inattention
to the night-time’s bold pretension
to her power, not to mention,
to her hyperspace extension
(far beyond my comprehension
of the sundown’s bleak dimension) –
on exhausted beaten boulevards of foolish fretfulness.
Oblivion depletes me, voiding haste and hurried hassles,
me, a simple abject vassal,
trailing moonlit floating castles,
– fickle feet, but fingers facile
grasping straws and pendant tassels –
as I stumble through the rubble of forgetfulness.
I think I must be dreaming as I seem to see these things,
neath a sky alive with wings
(hear the Nightingale, she sings),
midst the whispered murmurings
soughed by Phantoms clad as Kings
pacing palaces in rings,
while their hapless footfall clings
to the sagging sinking sands of midnight’s splintered splattered ruins.
Entangled in the swirling leaves that spin in dizzy flurries,
(while the wind beside me scurries
as an ermined hermit hurries)
lurk my sleepy woes and worries
(glowing faint’ but growing blurry)
which, when plundered by the demon dusk, I’d left behind me strewn.
Continued in Part 2
I have run three marathon since the break of dawn and have written three songs to humble the dishonest man but all the effort that I have made he still continue the shove dirt in my face. I stood up to him like a cock on a spring and spread out the details all around him, he seems to evade all logics and persist with the idiotic manuscript.
He rants and raves in the sweltering heat and reality plunge him under the blood stained sheet. His phone rang for a couple of seconds and that was the last time we heard of him.
The people gather in the square to celebrate the life of a man that they say was so dear, they say he was the center of the square, a dumb fellow with a promising mind but had a heart that was as salty as river.
His egoistic attributes and his domestic under the cover motion has caused him to sink to the bottom of the ocean and the intimidating look on his face has thrown him out of the entire race and so the sharks had big fish for lunch and the birds reserve the brain marrow for brunch.
The different phases have come and gone and the people have been left to weather the terrible storm. They walked around with clouds on their faces, flip fop slippers on their feet and a misery floating in the deep.
I cannot forget the day when they walk down the road with thick blocks on top of their heads in the blistering heat with no shoes on their feet relying only on courage to pull them along and when they reach their destination they sang a colorful song and suddenly the burden was gone.
I stood on top of the mountain watching malady jumping over the fence dropping residues on the ground and greeting the people with a sadistic frown but the rain came quickly and washed it away and save the city from the tempestuous day.
Suddenly a strange emotion came over me and cast a shadow in the street rooting up trees and tearing down houses. It walked from street to street making peculiar sounds in the breeze, so nature has returned to the dark places and they have finally complete all the phases
The sun came out with a sudden grin and told the people that they have paid dearly for their preposterous sins, and so I wiped the sweat from my face and crossed the bridge and travel a thousand miles to start a brand new phase.
It's known as the 'Grand Old Party',
But now it seems the GOP stands for
'Grab Only Power'.
Here, it is simple greed that drives
False narratives, where residues spoil
Before they sour.
Little remains, from this once honorable
Party of Lincoln, where he himself
Would not recognize it today.
Since those ideals of a single nation
And its people, have seceded from a
Union, with a fractured display.
Now I believe in our two-party system
And feel both sides have value
That we need.
Yet I'll never find the reason in creating
A further divide, as the privileged
Cause others to bleed.
So for those that might remember,
Who it is that they truly serve.
My prayers will ask only that you find
Courage, and hopefully a democracy
to preserve.
the ether is alive with oscillations
pulsations and electric frequencies
satellite and shortwave intonations
invisible, yet carried on the breeze
neutrinos and photonic modulations
infrared and x-rays, promptly spun
ultraviolet streams and applications
gamma rays and ions from the sun
ozone filled with radio transmission
microwaves pass thru us constantly
the residues of past nuclear fission
all that we have yet perceived to "be"
I've always had an issue with believing
the paranormal "ghosts" phenomenon
yet, with all the atmosphere's receiving
who am I to say what's here ... or gone?
~ 8th Place ~ in the "Ghosthunters And Spiritualists" Poetry Contest, Kevin Shaw, Judge & Sponsor.