Long Undaunted Poems
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Coldest day yet, 'fore new bairn was christened,
mother's muse foretold as hearth embers failed.
Scripture held tight, she quietly listened,
as cradled creature withered, weeped, and wailed.
What secret kept a mother by proxy,
pallid face adorned in humanlike form.
Life borne so different any other,
unabashed at life's ex utero norm.
Green-gilled coveting mother's pride they wait,
singing forgotten changling's mirthful strains.
Off sibling snatched by fae's strange fostered fate,
sad imposter never thrived, yet remains.
Mother's cast away changling unwanted,
yet child's love remains true and undaunted.
She climbed the poison tree with care,
Its bark a warning, dark and rare.
With every step, the whispers grew,
Yet onward, up, she bravely flew.
The branches twisted, thorny, grim,
Their shadows casting doubts within.
But she, undaunted, scaled the height,
Her heart a beacon in the night.
The leaves, they shimmered, toxic green,
A beauty fierce, both felt and seen.
Their veins like pathways to her soul,
Each touch a challenge to her goal.
Above the world, she reached the crown,
And gazed upon the land, looked down.
The poison flowed, but she stood tall,
For she had conquered, risked it all.
The tree that sought to bring her end,
Now bowed to her, a silent friend.
She lived to see the leaves' deceit,
And found her strength, her own heartbeat.
The streets fiercely stares
Adding to my misery and fears.
While the police brings the tears
Shooting with the gun and their stares.
In our world, things work in reverse
Drifting slowly and never clears
As office bandits drink to cheers
While documents go damn with smears.
We thank the head of state who cares
To see we rot without heirs
For with no dime and without affairs,
Our lives waste through the years.
Semi clad lasses walk, undaunted by stares
While the synagogue no longer prepares
The soul but steal the wares
Of the plebeians with little shares.
Robbers in broad daylight erect stairs
For they, living in their own spheres
Proudly put on airs
And gag in stupor on various beers
Just like a God forsaken sentry
Who in poverty would for money permit entry
And in lassitude gently await purgatory,
For 25frs, I would gladly sell my country
© Temajung Michael T.
Like humble sheep, you may herd us into a fenced neighborhood pen;
You may burn down our churches and those of us praying within;
But you can’t kill our undaunted spirit---hope and audacious faith;
Nor can you fill our aching hearts with your festering---infectious hate.
Oh what an evil web the spider of evil weaves around the lost soul of man;
Yet, from the endless reservoir of goodness, flows forgiveness for your sin.
Not forgetting and remembering the Promise, there’s still hope for this weary land:
Love, anchored on the shore of redemption, cries mercy on the pandemonium you’re in.
Yes, over the years, we have struggled to keep wavering hope alive and hale;
Yes, over the years, we have struggled to keep winds of deliverance in our sail.
Over tempestuous crests and troughs of life, God’s grace has enabled us to prevail
He has assured us that with belief in Him and self, there is no way that we can ever fail.
Too long, you’ve been running with fear---on the track of equality of the human race;
Too long, you’ve been allowed blatant mayhem---blinding you to God’s Amazing Grace.
In July's final grasp, the cold winds meet,
Where sun and frost collide, a strange embrace,
Our hearts succumb to icy fire's sweet feat,
As night unveils, a kiss marks love's last chase.
The breeze, undaunted, dances with the sun,
Two contrasting forces blend in love's cruel jest,
Two hearts once fused, now drift and come undone,
As nighttime's curtain falls, hearts beat unrest.
Beneath the stars, our tale takes its last turn,
Two souls, entangled, part in bittersweet,
A kiss that seals our fate, forever yearn,
As silent truths of love and loss repeat.
In July's end, love's warmth and chill entwined,
A sonnet of our hearts forever pined.
“Death can never separate us. Each time you feel a gentle breeze, It's my hand caressing your face.” By Mary Lucas
The first bell intoned its dreary dirge.
The feel of emptiness spread all around.
I was not afraid. I felt tall and steady.
Night began to obscure the light of day.
I began my lonely trek around the desolate place.
I met no one nor did I want to. I repeat.
I was not afraid. Some candles were still lit
All around the paths. Not that I had any difficulty
To find my way. I had walked that path too, often.
Suddenly all around a wild wind whispered all around.
Still, I was more concerned about names and ages.
How many die young! I feel tears brimming in my eyes.
Yet no tears fell. The light dimmed casting long shadows.
A lone raven cawed, a warming call. I did not care.
The dirge bell rang again, a mandate and a warning,
I pressed on, undaunted but free.
I entered the mausoleum as was my habit,
Lay myself down in my comfy coffin and slept.
Placed 1
Calling on Karen:
Come to the water
In majesty after the fire;
Fourth degree flare refreshed a memory.
Undaunted hero of my heart inspired dreams of liberation.
Calling on Karen:
To console shattered lives at the edge of apathy.
Colored chalk of my soul crushed and crinkled,
Celebrating destiny drawn in Pentecostal praise, and peace.
Did you know hope was entrenched under truth?
Calling on Karen:
Your students hunger for the school of life.
Impart upon us your wisdom.
Impart upon us your optimism.
Impart upon us the best gift, the awakening.
Amen
*Note: Most of the words come from the title of one of Karen's poems.
An eclectic ,miscellaneous daybreak .
like chimera overflows.
We always gaze at a suffocating ,thorny
lark.
The undaunted , unfearing lark frequently
embraces a vexatious butterfly.\
In the realm of anguished, harsh words
the transient, wild dusk thrives like
a rambling rose.
A daring dawn never escapes from
a shattered , stormy sea.
The homogeneous , ashen chains
of the moon echo the valor of a lionhearted
meadow.
The resolute, soundless sun festooned
with a dreamlike love.
The tapestry of truth yells out
like a , cheerful rainbow.
The flaming ,starry hope never yields like
an oracular delight
The tyrannical tears like the ultimate hues
of the universe stem the hidden verity.
As every cassock is enough to tell
You are a minister
Either a chorister or a pastor
To grace well and impel
Is seeing you become only God's toastmaker
Every sunset gives us one day less to live
Count your seeds of the spirit
Spread through undaunted love
And not the course of service's bigot
But testimonies of brethren who enjoy your patency
But every sunrise give us one day more to hope
Most time making all observations dumbstruck
Replying each and every with a thunderstruck
It is no near to count a botch
If its effects work like a troche
Hope for the best for we are all human
Flaws are inevitable but can be abandon
No one has ever achieve chancery with God
That has ever live on earth a slipshod being
But clinching His dictates can make you ratherish well-bred
Good Luck
Get strong
Beefing do suck
Flee off wrong
It gets growth abating
Be the David's type Shepherd
Familiar with the said story
Not needed to be re-established
Failure needs no sorry
Be up and doing...
Delirium
I can’t believe your dead, its still unreal it seams
I wake with scattered thoughts; it seams your still with me
I saw a broken window, on a car I used to drive.
Windshield now scarred red, with remnants of your life
A tattered scar is torn, asphalt painted tire
A soul is left to morn, the same to build a pyre
Imbibe you once did do, two hours before the deed
Crimson now paints red the ashes of your seed
Two men came to me an hour before I woke,
With uniform aplenty I knew before they spoke.
That she would not come home, of her own volition
The duality of two things that found “their”ignition
Something told her not, to read between the lines
And it didn’t really matter just how many times.
She passed undaunted through the kismet of her life
only to find the end a double sided knife
though this she loved more than me
I will never lay blame from this to thee
And seeing thee in shame and sorrow
I know without doubt that on the morrow
When “Time” has come to ask his penance,
And “Past” will stand to give his senteence.
When “War” will sit, and kneel at his blade
And “Destiny” throws his book to the glade
When “Despair” can at last stop and swollow
A “Dream” of one that has been borrowed
From “Delerium” of those unknown of sorrow
Then “Death” will finally have to follow
The “Son” of one that has been hallowed.