I paused me on the unstable deck of inquisitiveness
Jailbird the mind is but seized in the remorseful cell
To be learned thyself I bought the grace of flower
It sold me in the furnished market of hatred press
Reformatory house reformed me all through seen
But unseen I breathed the furnace of vindictive vein
I regained the pause which declared an inner war
Against me, I won the self- except the love I’m fiend
No defeated phase of the soul I met and found there
Human as man and woman- a respective cycle of creation
Though divisions dyed the eyes of thinking thoroughly
For the peace, all illuminated the harmony in the nature
With love, I wanna stand on the peak of natural beauty
Where every heaven is built as a room of humanity
© Mahtab Bangalee
Chattogram
11/05/2023
His heart has sensed.
Rebels against,
his own ego.
bye, amigo.
Leaves the reformatory.
Honors his own history.
Hungry for a change.
Seek to rearrange.
With complete humility
takes responsibility.
Doesn't look for blame.
Plays part in the game.
Works on Self-reforms.
Uses Art as arms.
He is Inspiration.
Takes part in creation.
I’ve stood on your balcony beside your Bald Eagle.
Wolves prey on the lonely souls lost in the night.
I’ve seen your attraction to the dark side flowing.
You have no more room for regret and no more
ways to fill up your abundance.
I’ve stood on your ledge beside your hallowed
dungeon. The more I close in to the edge the
more I see the pain of falling. I will not reach for
your corrupted hand to pull me up and save me.
You have your way, I have mine.
I’ve stood on your citadel beside your house of
detention. Clearly you don’t feel the loss I feel
when you hang your hands out to dry in the rain.
It isn’t fair to lose the battle after the game is over.
I have good intentions, you do not.
I’ve stood on your reformatory beside the bed
where you weep. Times have changed and the
avenues driven are way too far to let go of pain.
Curiosity fumes at my brain while the wind blows
into the nothingness of my black hole.
Written By: Laura Loo
Date Written: April 25, 2016
By GILBERT MAPENGO MWANGUKU
Rotten and forgotten
Mealing once a day
As if they are on a fasting session
Jam-packed as they sleep
Like maggots in a filled latrine
Stinky is their world
Can’t even remember their toilet pose
As the bucket on the corner waits
Ticks host a party on them
No where to escape indeed
In white as they handle the donkeys job
Making one believe they are angels
Scars cover up their bodies
Addled with the most miserable pain
Invoked on their mare skins
By the so-called caretakers
Masked with only one hope
Better days are yet to come
As they testify the hell on earth
The place called a reformatory
Is now meant to be a deathtrap
The Reformatory
Cottage needs a lick of paint
but the old man isn´t bothered
let flakes of paint blow
away layers by layers as
calendar years.
Let wind and rain strip cement off walls
till the old stones appears
a skeleton ancient as the land.
The old man has bought new shoes
but they do not give
springs in his steps, and feet ask
for the trust carpet slippers for
he will not go out in the rain
get his face wet in youthful jubilation
Old age has made his home
into a maximum security prison;
there is no escape.
stubborn at the most
unfortunate moments
and quick with a
flabbergasted wit
he ambushes me from
the alleys in his mind
from behind
where four strikes
are uncommon
and frequently
commented upon
let's try to ignore the
inane flattery and take
into consideration
three screwdrivers deep
the fantastic premise this
is situated upon
apart-heid
has rendered my fat
and substance unfit
avocados are for brains
still, lavender for calm
we come together
in spite of
differing points of
perspective
expatriated breaths
gasped and sighed at
in the dwelling I somehow fancied
as a home has suddenly become a
jail/reformatory/pilgrimage
a complex and refracted
reflected gallery of smiles
and countenances
not discourteous
simulateously entertained with quips
and the locking of eyes
with the neighborhood bulldog
he arrives again
with breath like linament
stale tobacco and promises
we bicker and yell
no promise as of yet has transpired
above a certain hell
of vacuous emotion
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