“Buzz buzz”, the anopheles shrilled the night
As with hunger on grasses, they slumbered without light
Babies, held against skeleton milkless breasts
And gnashing teeth, the men in dispiritedness beat their chests.
The greybearded simply await their knell to toll
And in agony, the brisk and spry watch their fall
As they, starving, grow thinner and thinner
Fully aware they would grace the coyote’s dinner.
Kwakwa, my village smokes no longer
Deserted of people and animals even to the border
For the peasant farmers of this poor village
Now repose at the mercy of Biya’s heinous rage
Pa Bossom’s charred body graced the stake
For being asleep while others, awake
Beholding red, took to their reliable heels
As bullets battered the meek and echoed over the hills
From Bamenda to Buea I now repose
For my life has no purpose
As biya’s gun dictate when I flex
Myself, I keep asking ‘when would I be next?’
Categories:
milkless, bereavement, betrayal, death, holocaust,
Form: Narrative
The Lover's Rendezvous
The wicked sense of a complete lack of control
has always led mankind down roads nobody knows
Until it unfolds
Until the Devil takes hold
Until the bodies get dumped in a hole
and the shrieking grandmothers,
whom you can never console,
clutch the little dead babies to their milkless breasts
So just confess! get it off your chest!
Peace in rest, and its all in jest
Confess! and brush the ashes from your vest
as you taxi your honey to your little lust nest
in laughter, caressed your sweet little Aryan cum-fest
as the grey snow fell, as if straight up from hell
The stench of burning flesh smell
as the guard dogs growled
and the cold wind howled
You traded a God of love
for a black leather glove
and oh yeah, lots of burning in hell
Categories:
milkless, 12th grade,
Form: I do not know?
I am being thrown from the depths of centuries
Carrying all my grandmothers’ wounds
Combat boots marked my head with terror
my back bruised with the lashes of my man’s old belt
I am being thrown from the depths of centuries
With infants hanging from each side
Sucking on my milkless breasts
Their urine unkoshers my religious purity
inherited from my grandmother’s time
I am being thrown from the depths of centuries
To throw hateful words at my own children
It avenges my life of a dead person
It comforts my purposeless time
I am being thrown from the depths of centuries
To live the life they have destined for me
The men who are not even from Persia
Those bearded strangers who stress their “Zaad” at the time of worship
I am being thrown from the depths of centuries
To be weak so my man can call himself strong
And to be a mother to my many unwanted children
So he could brag about his fertile manhood to you all
And for his God to reward me at the end a paradise
To watch him making out with the good-looking cherubs
I am being thrown from the depths of centuries!
Categories:
milkless, abuse, grandmother, islamic, lost
Form: Free verse
TWO COUPLETS ON “ FLAWLESS vs FLAWS “
POEM 1
I had no idea what he meant :
We bought a small one-roomed unfinished apartment.
He said I was too critical, always looking for flaws.
This apartment was 16 floors up but had no floors.
16 floors up, this room has its floors up. As I speak,
The floor’s up with guys looking for water leak.
Looking for flaws ?!
Damn right I was I was looking for floors!
This place wasn’t flawless, it was floorless;
As well - by the way - as doorless.
POEM 2
What is the real story with Aunt Jemima’s pancake mix?
You gotta add egg, sugar, and milk, before you can fix
A breakfast or lunch pile of flapjacks,
And sit back, eat, digest and relax.
Our Aunt’s eggless, sugarless, milkless, but not flourless.
Her packets of stuff are certainly flawless.
Let’s hope she continues with at least her flours,
For if her stuff is flourless : and then it will have flaws.
Categories:
milkless, funny
Form: Couplet
It was like spidural
dry crumbs of silence descending,
a still born sun popped out
through a raw hoematoma :
mountain was guilty of something,
it changed its mood and started
talking to clouds until the sky
turned crimson. The fountains had
a question for the bald owls, who under
the lidless eyes, always carried a massage
of colossal waste after the unholy
dinner. I know your glory was beckoning
to unflesh the bones in mass grave
of winged seeds who died in unsewm
pods of violence. I have still not come to
terms with the neck high milkless gaze.
SATISH VERMA
Categories:
milkless, art
Form: I do not know?
Thorns on roses
ticks, fleas on
kittens
no help for the poor
snowball with no mittens
cereal that's milkless.
food with no taste
no seconds in minutes
elementary art without paste
artists with no vision
siblings without fighting
t.v. with no color
cake without icing
talking without voices
no roots beneath trees
by understanding rainfall
you understand me.
Categories:
milkless, life
Form: Rhyme