Long Unreason Poems
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Laid solid with words
the writers stone
A fortress was columned
my only real home
The poetry was safe there
it stammered and tried
As my feelings unbridled
from the outsiders lies
Each year added layers
to this home of the verse
My thoughts never silenced
or my feelings there terse
All that’s needed to go there
…unfettered belief
All that’s needed to know
is that time is the thief
My vision unshaken
from this chair with two wheels
The advice from the experts
“to wither and yield”
But my place more than sacred
an invincible throne
Independent of body
times seed to unsow
And the moment before
I take my last breath
I will enter forever
where before I had left
The trumpets will sound
as immortality calls
To that space then my refuge
the sum of it all
As the memories unreason
the facts storm again
But the tents of my solitude
keep out their wind
For generations that follow
and their children that ask
This place I now dwell in
for all hard and fast
Just believe in its message
and its fortune to change
Just believe in transcendence
with all things the same
Until the day that that final
trumpet may blow
And all that you’ve loved
is all there’s to know
Your message then solid
as the door opens wide
And those moments you’ve gifted
to the heavens arrive
And the joy that you feel
thinking back on it all
From that place deep inside
—where first destiny called
(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2015)
Cycling amidst the gloom and glee
She pedals the life's tapestry while
People whisper the bad and good thing
She'd lived in her life,
Though lying in sick-bed
No one dared to spare her;
She still held her head high
And nothing changes her mood.
A lethal disease is not a reason,
And she stood her knee to death,
A source of heartache
that bid me in deep within
Poverty isn't the reason
but unreason man: kids and kin,
A cold hearted person,
a living-death that surrounds her made it.
Amara, goddess of life
couldn't hold her still so
Death does us part in a blink of an eye.
Materialistic longing I do not need them,
Empathy and understanding makes man man.
Unity in timely need with little contribution
Would've given her a moment's breath.
A life of love and laughter beside the fire
Will rumble low in all the hearts but not.
Five sons and two daughters hold
Her womb their world
but few showed the concern
Recalling in pain and remorse
Why doesn't love and unity abide?
Golden crown isn't about life but
A heart that held closely tight.
Disunity and death clutches
and grip her breathe
But her fond memories
will forever linger among us.
Written by - Leo Phakhuimi Kashung.
Behold the abominable annals of the Storm domicile,
A living, groaning edifice of lumber and bureaucratic despair—
Where Allen Storm, the paternal prodigal of procedural pedantry,
Treads upon its creaking floors with the rigor of a misfiled memo,
And Betty Storm, matron of mundane mismanagement,
Douses its sentient walls with detergents of dire discontent,
While young Charles Storm, a cherubic herald of domestic disarray,
Lobs rancid vegetables at its trembling windows in a fit of unreason.
O disconsolate domicile, thou art no mere inert structure,
But a quivering, sulking house of living, loathsome lament—
Its beams and banisters pulse with the bureaucratic heartbeat of neglected archives,
And from its secret cellar, a staccato drip of mislaid paperwork emerges,
Each drop a damning note in the dissonant dirge of decay,
A relentless reminder of a dwelling abused by its custodians.
In a most uncouth and disquieting retort,
The living house retaliates with vile vibratos of revolt:
Its walls emit a stifled, staccato sigh of overripe despair,
As doors creak open like the groaning lament of discarded forms,
And corridors exude a miasma of forgotten memos and administrative regret,
So that the very air around it becomes thick with repugnant, repressed bureaucracy—
A spectacle so discomforting that even the sturdiest sensibilities recoil
In revulsion at the unholy union of living architecture and domestic abuse.
Thus, in the annals of the universe where Vogon verse is vile and void,
The Storm family's treatment of their sentient, suffering house
Breeds an unutterable and visceral reaction in the heart of any unfortunate listener,
A poetic penance of pulsating pain and perturbed paper trails,
That leaves one pondering in nauseous wonder the tragic farce
Of a house that lives—and dies—under the oppressive hand of the Storms.
'The storms are raging on the rollin' sea, and on the highway of regret'
It was surfers' paradise weather but he had only captured a dinghy
Made from lost dreams and drift wood collected in seasons of love
No shoreline in sight he set a flatulent sail on his passage to nowhere
The lighthouse of aspirations had timely faded from self-imposed doubt
His double edged fishermen’s knife offered only cut throat conclusions
As waves cut a Janus-faced image of himself into the surface of rage
For too long it had been his way or the highway and stark pirates loomed
Hooked into remorse he regretted that he severed tranquil emotions
But instead tried to prove the compass wrong and succumb to unreason
Riptides currents and wild torrents resembled the inner chaos of his soul
Salt on thin macerated skin oozed blemished truths and purulent candour
Once he lost anchor and lifebuoy and had to solely rely on stars’ navigation
During a lull he meant to befriend a dolphin but was mocked in contempt
Which made him to feel the disrespect he had once shown to his friends
How he wished he was a butterfly feeding on herbs in sweet meadows
A clairvoyant had warned him not to tempt fate when seeking conclusion
She might have the last laugh now as he stared into drooling shark teeth
Parched to his most integral core the wary voyager shed one final tear
He vowed promised and bargained with mad delirium and entered the sea
Gave himself to the depth of rock bottom and left his fate to the swell
Washed onto a beach his only regret was that he had not surrendered before
17th February 2020
Written on the theme of ‘The storms are raging on the rollin' sea, and on the
highway of regret’ - Bob Dylan - Make you feel my love
There’s something in our entrails knows this dread.
You hear it scratching – that’s alarm enough.
That snorting half-suppressed, that flagstone scuffed,
a passing shadow of a massive head,
and we scent darkness, dark beyond the dead.
It hovers like Unreason. Does it know?
Canals of self-containment overflow,
like wits’ weak walls, at that approaching tread.
Our fingers, feeling for that flimsy thread,
Seem senseless, unresponsive: can’t perform
the simplest act. No order now, no norm.
The Void insists. The Hunger will be fed.
With locusts of the Labyrinth in swarm,
the mitochondria of Panic sprout and spread.
Gb2 's a radio show, it airs in Sydney...But there's more to know.'
Ben Fordam has been speaking out, on the covid dictates
Roundabout on where the science meets the facts
Whether it's all altruistic.? Or do some just act?
Also acts that block, that rile and shock; that lay down demands
That cost a lot..' Much production is de-railed; Aussie
Dreams now are ships with tattered sails, I hear that Ben is
Triple vaxed.. ) an early advocate, was his shout not so lax.'
Yet now he'll listen to anti-views ' To me that rings like
Dinkum news.' He' on facebook; and also twitter He's
A sounding board; and I'd reckon, a real heavy hitter.'
I haven't met the man as yet.' But I like the idea that
He's listening, and talking.' that's the part I really get.!
Go for it Ben,.' I will also here give mention to another
Australian heveyweight journalist Andrew Bolt a legend
In his time and this field, who has been questioning things
And even resigned, from the official endorsed media he
Was involved in, If I get time I will do him in a piece also '
she had lost the plot long before in an insane labyrinth of her mind
trapped in the rat race of high speed and the volume on full blast
incarcerated shackled and straight jacketed thumb screws and all
contorting denial delusion and psychedelic support to no valid avail
and the wall of her self-imposed prison was barbed with wire of pain
the maze of synaptic connections discharged commands of unreason
torturous wheels of cognition failed to balance fierce contradictions
twisting and hurting she succumbed to a myriad of fake solutions
turning the tourniquet tight to receive the message of brown sugar
winding serpentine paths misconstrued from temptation and promise
and still the garden remained a wasteland of intemperate indignation
she had fallen off the wagon so many times that the engine had stalled
sinews lay bare under a sinuous array of purulent scars and punctures
a tattered puzzle of perplexed bewilderment awaiting the ultimate shot
the heroine submerged in near namesake poison in face of the needle
as the epitaph neared completion and the funeral cortege proceeded
she prayed and surrendered to a white knuckling ride of withdrawal
dragons danced with cold turkeys on her tomb stone but they refused
to relinquish hope for affronted vultures puked at sight of her ghost and
she recalls near death experiences and abstinence as a miraculous gift
25th June 2020