Long Staggers Poems
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Hands tick in motion but I hear naught
of the onslaught of killing time depicted.
Minutes run past me in tarred darkness
as the visions in my brain are obscured.
Clocks eat away moments of my life.
I admit I'm nearly frightened to death
of those mimed hands whose strokes
stab me with each gasp of breath I take.
Round and around, silent warning given
in gross opposition to the beastly roar,
aped by masses of such foolish people,
oblivious that my plight is also their own.
Reticence gives no relief to assault. I see
my fate's demise, and frightened I shall be
until death's full tariff has set my soul free.
Rhythmic tickings makes no difference to me.
Silence staggers my soul to substantiality.
Blinded by fear of my imminent necrosis,
I cannot traverse those two roving needles,
hellbent on stinging me to my neon grave!
Passage of time is but a travesty of life
in which man has no occasion to amend.
In the end, death haunts us all in silent
whispers; echoes of cruel scheming hands.
==========================
17th of April, 2016
Fly in the kitchen wiping its feet
Spreading germs for anyone to eat
In charges the dog on hearing a buzz
Hunting and chasing as a canine does
Snapping his teeth with persistent chase
New game to play at a sprightly pace
Jumping high his head flitting fast
Senses alert no barks did he blast
Evading capture the fly flits by
Snap goes the dog with another try
Picture that scene few more times
Stanza less of near repeated lines
A precision snap he caught the fly
Spits it out and it's still alive
Along the floor it staggers and wiggles
Almost drowns from doggy goo dribbles
Went to remove it but wasn't there
Maybe hiding, could be any where
Set to cleaning as dog settled down
Vacuumed in case fly body laid around
Suddenly from nowhere flying in the air
Wings now wonky but didn't seem to care
Through an open window flying swiftly out
Skilled in evasion - an ace flying scout.
27.11.20
Mary Six Pack Pistols staggers through time portals drunk
Pretending to be a priest but she is not a mister or a sister
To the old west saloon through double doors she glides
Drunker than a nun on steroids swinging rosaries from her side
Into a smoke filled room in rusty spurs and fake mustache
Presenting herself as a monsignor from another time and place
Cowboy boots caked in mud with love she blesses them
Introducing her two guns from underneath a long black dress
It is a curtain, a robe, a nun inside a habit for blasting baddies
There must be a shower outside which indicates a storm
The spittoon in the corner of the room needs emptying
She feels the weight of outlaws in her midst
From here to there the crowd looks innocent
But Padre knows better so shoots them all to death
To kingdom come and back again through the chest
Through time corridors we suspect they must be dust
Mary Six Pack says a prayer and drinks some holy water
From a whiskey bottle in another time dimension soaking wet
Then returns from there to here less sober and less blessed
Charged with a misdemeanor for impersonating a monsignor
Closer that dreaded angel comes,
Nearer my God, to Me.
Family fallen, too near the edge.
I walk in doom for tomorrow.
In crazy and cowardly remote concerns,
You death draw a lottery place in line.
Gamble me this, pitiful reaper,
Are you even real?
Within two feet now,
A rattling within my rib cage staggers,
But my brother drank his death,
And my new mother's mind just withered.
Chronically brain is wet and warped,
But I was born into your game.
Allergic to kindness and good works alike,
Death circles my brain, my drain in perpetuum.
Your manufactured trap of vomit and cane,
And sugar plum dreams of gutters and glee,
I dodge you again, but for luck or for timing,
Life leaves daily, per moment of fear.
To meditate
I hold three rocks, in my hand
rolling them over, over,and over
leaving this reality behind, far behind.
I pace, I pad a path deep inside,
where reality has no weight.
I close my mind
listen to the warmth
each of my little rocks give.
A place of quiet Silence,
Dawn and Dusk,
Still and Solitude,
To just be and hold,
within myself,
My sanctuary, safety, belonging.
To be where I belong within,
Strong enough to hold within
all I’ve denied myself.
Inner conscious to trust,
My own discernment.
Again in the quietness of half-slumber-
A dream of half-awakening-
I find the vision that blurs,
without the required stillness.
In the harsh sunlights glare,
I breath in behind closed lids
to pad the path into
the circle of my inner solitude,
Alas, reality still clings heavily!
My breath staggers, stutters, gasp.
Cool air breeze circulates
Within the inner grove I can not reach.
Be still-breathe- the panic will ease.
Let it all go… one, two, three…
Your core is strong, with roots that
Grow deep and wide
Your trunk broad and veined
-flow of energy that
Feeds into branches spread wide.
Lay here tonight, in this one moment,
to remember the strength and peace
Reality drains dry.
(Surreal)
I give all
To one who owns all:
My Joy and
Hope, Strife and pain,
all do i
loan to him to
bear them on his wing,
Soaring through
the claws of the cloud,
Barging through,
Hailing the wind by
her name: que
que, que que
que que que
He says, magneting
to himself
the voice of
the wailing cloud,
Making it
Ooze sweat as
If scolded by the sun.
Measuring
the path of
the firmament.
Treading the
path of the dark
Vague maiden sitting
Opposite the vast
Universe.
On his way,
He meets the persian
Prince whom at
His word flee
like a bewitched
leopard. Nothing
stays him for
his word rinse the
dirt staining the
mood of the orb.
Bearing farther,
He met himself
laying my complaint
before himself.
Then a package
given in return,
Packaging
Confining
Adjusting
Replac ing,
Removing
Adding on
Bringing it
Closer and closer,
To sooth my
matter, heal my wound,
Bless my heart,
Cream my skin,
Take my case,
Make me praise,
Mending my sole,
Prune my grapes,
Feed my eyes,
Bless my life
Returning is he,
Nothing to hold
him Back. The
Oppositions
are now in
Dispositions.
The atmosphere
blows strange, all
air dressed range.
Success Shuddering
Towards my path.
Joy returning with
the climate:
The couple flowing,
Glowing, taking
with themselves
all that can serve
me right. The
Joy hastening
towards me,
waves around her,
weighing her out
of Balance.
Almost to the margin,
To set her feet
she staggers,
Almost to fall,
I: Mouth agape.
Will my Joy be stayed? :
Hatred behind her,
Striving to have
her pulled down,
Like a weak wall.
Almost falling
Is he, crawling now.
Hatred: almost catched
up. But woah!
A greater wave,
Stubborn than the
former, crippled the
former, had her
own a wheel chair.
And now whuuuh!
Crossed the margin,
Yea my Joy,
Bore by my king.
Welcomed home.
18: 01: 15: 14: 56
'Wherever Love conquers men go bonkers.
this is a fact well known.'
'Ariosto' - 'Arry Oo? - 'Oh no, it's not you!
Didn't I give you the slip?
He was a great poet. It's high time you know it,
and don't interrupt me again.
Orlando Furioso' -' I'm not sure, I suppose so
the weather has been very strange.'
'Love drove him mad' - 'How very sad
a woman is always the cause.'
'Don't interrupt or I'll get very abrupt
and you don't want that to happen.
To find a relief, now this staggers belief,
his sanity was sealed in a bottle
to make matters worse, oh what a curse,
the bottle was not on this earth.
In fact it had lain on a cold lunar plain
among other things lost on our planet,
like lovers' tears and secret fears
and the big one that got away.
An English knight pitied his plight
and he undertook the journey,
and so at full throttle he flew to the bottle
on a fearsome and fiery dragon.
With his sanity back, Orlando lost track
of the lady who had excited his passion.
On earth reviled, things unwanted are piled
in lunar caverns and crannies.'
'That story was nice but one tale won't suffice
to meet my need to hear stories.'
'This coming June there's a flight to the moon
and you're going to be on it.'
Colored checkered patterns,
Dashing, vibrant colors,
Hand-woven cloth strips,
Dazzling geometric shapes.
Characterized by weft designs,
Vivid, eye-appealing texture,
Ghana’s national cloth,
A royal favorite outfit.
From the coast of Western Africa,
An indigenous, local brand,
Handed down from ages to ages,
Maiden style left intact.
Renowned across borders
For its alluring tapestry marvels,
Its cherished history staggers,
Our obroni friends adore it.
Oh yes, Africans just love it!
So get a piece of kente that befits,
With its uniquely native patterns,
And let’s celebrate and project.
This is our heritage, our culture, our tradition.
This is Ghana’s premium kente,
The golden cloth from the midlands.
My lips wanted to fall in love
My lips wanted to fall in love,
I did not want to, but just as the milk
boiled over from the pot on the stove, a bitter smell—
Poems fly around gravity.
Walking down the road, I stumble,
fall flat on my face.
Borrowing a breath from the eyes of a bee,
I think there are some memories, some fantasies,
that remain with the mother of spinach.
The drunkard is singing as he staggers along.
A sacred bull stands in the middle of the road,
and with a belly full of hunger, I return home.
One side is hollow within,
the other filled with hypocrisy.
The fallen condition of the Harijans does not end.
Sometimes I think, My Lord,
how many geniuses are swarming all around me,
so why am I stumbling when I go to the grocery shop?
Sunlight comes through
the branches and leaves of the neem tree, broken sunlight.
The mute becomes articulate,
they begin to speak, to tell stories.
A monsoon night. Dense darkness. A village road. Water and mud.
Fireflies in the bushes. The croaking of frogs. Crickets.
The smell of the primordial earth drifts through the air.
Humans have created cities; there are no humans in the cities.
Some strange creatures live in the civic zoo.
My poor verbs cannot touch them.
autumn lingers unfinished
though cold drops november
rain and waits undiminished
'til native summer sun remembers
what could unmake
when days full ache
bloom autumn colors
quick winter all borders
golds greens yellows
reds purples browns
a rusted rainbow frowns
as leaves scoot over meadows
fallen from mountain forest
after fields have given harvest
a father of one teaches his son.
chase catching leaves for fun
they twist turn swivel pirouette
lunge leap slide slice 'til earth is whet
while boy staggers with arms stretched
missing while dad knows misdirect fetched
two and three leaves while son fustrated
cries to quit but egged on infuriated
at last by chance or by experience
claps and traps one in victory dance