I am weary of conflict,
arguments battling across
bloodied ground.
The dead
always come back
as ghosts to haunt
the dark arena of sleep.
Life has become defined
by armaments.
I shall find a place
in the lull of an evening
where the wind quietens
into prayers whispered
along leafy avenues
and storms no longer claw
at the stone walls and pillars
of the temple
but become gentle rain
soothing the City
with its long fingers.
There, on the steps,
I shall leave a fragile
offering for you.
If you come, come quickly
for the sky carries
a reddening glow
and the hearts
of many are beginning
to darken with despair.
Chaos is about to enter
the gates of the City.
Meanwhile the mad Emperor
admires his manhood
reflected in a golden urinal.
Note.
Rewrite of previous poem.
Conceptual understanding quietens mind,
whilst realisation is savouring the taste,
of nectar of bliss in heart divined.
Purifying soul, our heart chaste,
dwelling in silence in the vibrant void,
in timeless time we are then by God graced.
With ego exhumed, our delusion is destroyed
and we find our being beyond space-time,
living light of Self, pure and unalloyed.
Directly experiencing the bliss beat chime,
the heartbeat of God, our true Self does mime.
Whatever quietens our mind is divine,
whilst what causes turmoil, an opposing force,
compelling us to think, whence the oneness sign
disappears, deflecting us from our life’s course,
thus with bliss magnetism if we so align,
we’re free from fear, desire, regret and remorse.
In quietude by melding our head with heart,
doing nothing at all, God-search we jump start.
Chews the food that revitalizes life,
Brightens my face with beautiful smiles,
Voices my joy and quietens my strife,
Takes away sorrows, halts my trials.
Talks me out of situations so dire,
It designs me into a gentle man.
My mouth asserts love to those I admire—
Hence my union has a long lifespan.
It only hurts until you cry.
The slammed door quietens,
your baby eyes grow old,
in the dark, where no one sees
or cares.
"Life!" She said,
"You blink and it's still there,
waiting for your next move."
'Keep going!" Say’s the shopkeeper,
of your worn-down wares,
and you wonder is he,
a digitally created memory,
your ancestors sewed,
into your dreams.
The bedpan has been warmed.
A nurse throws up into a toilet bowl.
Father comes back,
catches you singing,
in your boxed-in bedroom.
slams your ears.
with wall-busting words.
"Cut!" The Director shouts.
The camera's keep rolling,
A movie now squats,
in an empty room - waiting,
for more directions.
The hurt has crawled back,
into its featherbed,
where mice still nibble
last year’s leftover straw.
I am weary of conflict,
arguments battling across
bloodied ground.
The dead
always come back
as ghosts to haunt
the dark arena of sleep.
Life becomes defined
by armaments.
I shall find a place
in the lull of an evening
where the wind quietens
into prayers whispered
along leafy avenues
and storms no longer claw
at the stone walls and pillars
of the temple
but become gentle rain
soothing the city
with its long fingers.
There, on the steps,
I shall leave a fragile
offering for you.
If you come, come quickly
for the sky carries
a reddening glow
and the hearts
of many are beginning
to harden.
"Poetry is a life-cherishing force. For poems are not words, after all,
but fires for the cold, ropes let down to the lost, something as necessary
as bread in the pockets of the hungry." ~Mary Oliver.
Poetry is like the ripples in a placid pond,
Like the burst of inspiration…
Seize its beauty before everything quietens down.
Nimble-footed, the poetic muse,
barrels down on you like the runaway train,
Like the moment of passion,
Like the glimpse of a beautiful face
in the milling crowd,
Like the flash of lightning
in the dark foreboding clouds,
Like taking a dip in the flaming lava
and emerging fresh like a well-watered lawn.
She ensnares you in her web
stinging like a wasp…
Dazed, you would let her lead you
into a labyrinth knowing you’ll get lost.
Unable to woo your muse
you would stare stupefied
at the blank sheet of paper,
Like getting fatally stabbed and unable to die,
Like running out of paints just
moments before completing your masterpiece.
Poetry is the staple of life
Elixir of mind
At once, captivating and liberating.
~11/19/22
~Contest: Poetry is a life-cherishing force
~Sponsor: Sotto Poet.
A cold wind shreds
into moans
through the gritted branches
of apple trees then quietens
to a yawn rippled
across the waters of a lake.
Further up the valley,
half the trees have been uprooted
and mounded into bonfires
that smoulder through
a moonless night.
Nearby, long lines of traffic
pass on a highway where
lives, cocooned in comfort,
barrel by through drifts of smoke.
One hundred years ago
and a hemisphere away,
young men from here
stood propped in trenches
in fear of a more
lethal smoke.
Folded over
a bypassed road, an avenue
of trees commemorate the dead.
Each bears a weathered plaque.
A century on, the names
have been hollowed out
and no longer live in a memory
housed in the mind of a parent,
wife or child. Come April,
in the pre dawn mist,
they are lifted high above
their earthly station to become
the saints of a secular nation.
By: Ckolwethu Mthethwa
For this poetry serves as my medication...
A Prescription I take so in my mind there can be a separation
Between what's real and my overthought delusions
Best part Is I can never overdose on these stanzas
My soul consumes them infinitely, still my body stands
For this poetry serves as my therapist
It knows my struggles and it shows me sympathy
It has mastered the skill of empathy
I come to it heavy with stresses,
but after a one on one my problem tank empties
Pop pills and heal your body, your heart and mind remain in turmoil
I turn a page, and allow my pen to spit at it the venom from my thoughts and feelings.
My breathing slows and the tension in my muscles eases
My brain quietens and my heart relaxes
Unlike the pills you pop
This poetry serves to heal the body and soul
Sedating me without risk of a seizure
Bringing me peace beyond measure
Making me stay calm under all this pressure.
Thoughts turbid & uncontrollable
So why make complex the simple
If lower mind wishes to play, let it
With but one condition: don’t let it sit
No sooner thought grasps an object
We send it off on another quest
Thus thought being unable to stagnate
Quietens on it’s own into stillness sedate
It is not the movement of thought per say
That cause any divine connect delay
Rather it is its tendency to grow roots
Which we need to stop, getting it to reboot
16-August-2020
Living life
because of my fear of death
Enveloping black with something darker
Hunger for my private tears
and hiding lies in the sunlight
This crumpled mask shelters the nothing behind
The wrinkled smile lost to the night
Hope turns
Silence never quietens
And pain trickles over the numb
Squeezing breath out
and clutching at the little deaths
between breaths
I am not
I am nought
My truth no longer sought
Hope turns
Silence never quietens
And the numb
is all i have got
I can't weep the sadness from me
it trickles inconspicuous
and never quietens the volume
Blurred sight making passing vehicles
headlights spayed and sprayed
across the oil black asphalt
like orphaned sprites in the deadened night
Looking for myself in the periphery
Looking for the moments when the pain
can be felt
Just looking to feel
Furious purple pen
Seeking sassy strawberries
A black fly in the coffee
The pen waits and waits
In case a gale grows and gathers
Sticks to shake the branches
Fervent pink pomegranate
Offers a warm handshake
Pen quietens
The poem crystallizes
The scorching soil seemed seamless
For the drooping-headed ones
Tongues tell the tales
The thirsty throats fail to utter:
Spotted, sored, nightmarish
Gazing at the slowly sliding soil
Stars of the faces are dimmed,
Lighting no more the darkening dreams
Feeding no more the wearying wings
Yet the oasis lies near
Its beckoning shimmer heave
Behind the mist of frustration
Its whispering waves die
At the gate to the fallen flags
That hang from the drooping heads
If only…
The stars could shine
The flags could rise,
But the oasis never quietens
As long as the heart beats,
The oasis never quietens
I lie back in the weather-proofed green chair
To gaze up at the flowering maple tree.
Now, touched by sun,lungs full of scented air
I embrace with joy the beauty I now see.
Old celandine show brightly by my feet
Neglected currant bushes straggle round the path
There is no birdsong yet a silence sweet
Soothes my heart and quietens my wrath.
For my heart's sore and anguished is my mind
Yet in this little wood I feel deep calm.
My eyes are shadowed and my face is lined.
May this green spring bring me a gentle balm.
For even in depression and deep grief,
The mind makes healing medicine of a leaf.
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