I know a funeral when I walk into one
I can tell between a funeral and a burial
They are two entirely different artworks
One is done on grand canvas, with drunken strokes
Of sashaying brush and bleeding paints;
The other is done on mere sand, with foot and hand,
Forming sandcastles built by toddlers.
I know too well because I have my senses
Intact after the last funeral I attended on a gambolling coast.
I should know because I participated in the burial of a
Village lout, a wretched lord, so grand with contumely.
Funeral lasts for days and contains the sounds of cannons
And other elements of ceremonies, so loud, so eloquent,
So ceremonious —full of man and illiterate beasts.
A burial, on the other penurious hand,
Reeks of haste, attended by a teething crowd —
And at times comes with thunder that speaks in jest
And a lightning whose light flickers on all things subpar.
The waves crash upon the shore evermore,
As my soul sinks deep into my darkest friend.
No sup to sop my ache, my scorn, with better bitter sin no more yet-gain.
So burn, love, burn until fictitious grin some more,
As sands drip and thoughts whip,
Like wind through gorge on whim.
Vapid values bloom in the tomb of mind of penurious men.
So lie, love, lie until belief is brought in shops of time; no sign of pen nor yen,
Yet I fade into the grave, remembered... only then.
There, my home
There, where good never comes within bull's roar of eer
There, where penurious rule the penury
There, my home
Where hazy are hopes and aspirations
Extort common men for piles of gold.
What a great leader! Please keep it up
Lo! Blotted copybook with corruption
Oh! Lord of karma
Shade is now on our beam ends!
The earth has swallowed and digest the good
Today, all heads above stinks
Indeed, they are pure
Words are more eloquent than silence!
For tomorrow holds cloudy sky
We need more voice to win!
To pull up one's socks on damnation
Our needs calls for strong constitution
Which extinguish the fire of starvation
And also stands as protection
For us and them the future generation
In the cold abyss,
we beseech that we
may not wither in and
from our purchase.
Even though we do not
expedite ourselves and
flow in life's narrow progression.
There's no certainty to existence.
just when you come out of that
penurious life, residing up to the
dreams, unnatural nature whispers
your end in an ending echo,
leaving those we cherish in
despair and hurt of a loss.
It makes me wonder,
why then Do we even try?
When a creative dies,
some colours of nature fade.
Live on Wild!
POVERTY
penurious, needy
beggaring, needing, suffering
destitution, indigence; affluence, riches
well-being, succeeding, thriving
successful, robust
PROSPERITY
written January 17, 2022
DILAPIDATED GLOBE
A weary pneuma bleeds
Tears of the miserable
The poverty-stricken tumbledown
The opulence shows gusto.
At the sight of the indigent
But very penurious in helping...
They live in safety isle
But parade in the dilapidated globe.
Masses weep
Agony of the wretched man
Mercy he pleads
To mother earth and nature.
Under a thatched leaking roof
Muds fall at bewitching hours
Petite ice drops like contingent snow
If wishes were horses...
If the night could give way to day...
Friendly enemies of the night parading
What a tragic horror for the cynical
In a dilapidated globe.
An Ijeoma Ikonne's poem © 2021
Prior chance to madness.
Per penurious mind.
Peer-to-peer abhorrence.
Protesting drab bias.
Persuasion is trust form.
Psychic love-hate wand strew.
Prone your heart to the sun.
April 8, 2021
Pleiades P Poetry Contest.
Sponsored by: Kim Merryman
Once have chance to madness.
On penurious mind.
Ogle to abhorrence.
Opposing drab bias.
Obedience is faith.
Occult love-hate wand strew.
Open your heart to sun.
____________________
April 4, 2021
Written for the contest, Pleiades O
sponsor, Kim Merryman
That day, power-greed
sparkled, in his vision
like a festive crescent
and all the anticipations of the inhabitants
missed their trail, in the gloom of the night
That was the day, akin to his first step towards the authority
That day,
the crocodile of the voracity to lead was belching…
in the moving lake of his spirit
That day, ominous crescent, being sting
was aching, like the stern dagger wound
in the eyes of poverty of the motherland…
That day,
a gloomy battle opened its’ eyes in the lap of the homeland.
That evening of December
walked-off vanished in the womb of the history…
perpetually, sewing the stars of darkness of centuries, with the hem of the universe
That power-chair now, is lying in the backyard of his abode,
being a source of relish for the words of his libidinous, dissolute and penurious - compassionate companions
& today,
the intellect of the whole realm,
lies in the feet of deprivation
She was often totally furious
With her husband who was penurious
He gave pennies to the poor
After quite a big uproar
His flamboyant stinginess quite curious.
"We have searched
some ways
to live.
We have
some dreams for laugh
in eyelids!
By chance,
the strange view of life
we have seen.
As it reflects
hazy faces
in fog affected shiners.
On the canvas of
penurious conditions
through the tight corridors of wilderness.
Escaping from vandal
'Life'
rapidly passes.!!"____ Durgesh Verma
Contemporary Ode To A Mother Crying Out
To Her Children…2015
Sprawled out on life’s stage,
her world turns and runs
river red with the blood of her children:
flowing like a wandering stream.
Bloated ballooned bellies
mock aborted pregnancies;
once luscious breasts
sag in parallel union
with sinking faces
of lost hope.
Lost hope—whirling
like solitary ghost smoke
of abandoned fires:
abandoned fires
dying in waning time.
Hollowed red eyes
of fleeing lovers look rearward:
the wholeness of nothingness simmering;
as smiling death sits—
waiting and anticipating the wonted feast.
Heartbeat of hope struggles—
murmuring in the valleys and shadows;
searching the gods’ penurious mercy.
In the midst of the Dante, hazed hell,
a wretched mother clings
to time and history—once again.
Rooted in her audacious faith,
she cries out to her wandering brood in Diaspora:
those liberating souls spewed from her precious womb.
Scattered liberating souls—umbilical bound;
destined to restore her great grand glory:
With sage seasoned good courage,
sagaciously she squats—
awaiting the victory.
Towers and bridges stand tall
The town looks like the macrocosm
Of a puzzling maze, endless like
A deserted tenant less path.
The city lights illuminate
Every nook and cranny, dazzling on
The eyes of every living being
Like a glaring scintilla of fire.
The night sky is brightened by no stars
But the dust, that envelopes the world;
The neon lights flash in the metropolis
With artificial pride.
The world that lies beneath this veil
Is dark from the sun's absence
Barren are its hills and fields
Ravaged by mortal wrath...
Can a humble mind grow along
Like a sapling in a burnt forest?
Can humanity find its way
Out of its penurious state?
Can LED's give way
To a beam of some sunshine?
Who would tell that coal is but
The trees that have died?
We speak of discrimination
Let us stop it from harming nature
Let us emancipate for our mother
If she is still now revered...
To have all the money in the world
That was dropped onto the ground
Every day, would uniform richness
But that isn't the way it is
Eyes glued to the pavement?
Head hung to the streets?
To every place trampled
There it goes
A poor, poor presence
Trying to have it all
Out of gas for everything
Lucidly latched onto a hopeful head trip
Wearing masks to guise dreams whilst knowing
Its belly will not go up in flames.
Penurious promise shall control all
When the presence does nothing
But observe.
Gardens cannot thrive in shade
an ill-fated penurious terrain
like love that's made, but made in vain
gardens cannot thrive in shade
As light hides behind the trees
shadows conceal the reverie
this ground, immortal beauty made
yet gardens cannot thrive in shade
Lilly of the Valley, forget me not's
retain some portion of blame
her shades of blue and soft white hue
a fertile mirage for a spectral fool
Gardens cannot thrive in shade
for speck of sun that has no place
everything seems to wither in grey
awakening desires endless strain
Tis not this garden I sought to find
in an age I thought I'd left behind
but now as I gaze upon the grey
Its sure my garden wont thrive in shade
A Forrest floor, that's what you are
a bed of amber promise made
A flowerless fern lovely yet sparse
which seems best loved from afar
How do I tell you
and where do I start?
all of my flowers are shriveling
gradually in the garden of my heart
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