Hamlet developed in stillness, stillness torn by warfare,
Warfare ricochets through jungles, jungles drop their brilliance,
Brilliance once lit the skies, skies now propagate blur,
Blur cries hangout the basin, basin bewails inside.
Inside the aggrieved acreage, acreage naked of its emerald,
Emerald fields turned to debris, debris wound the prospect,
Prospect of broken streams, streams dry and bare,
Bare mounts stand as spectators, spectators of desolation.
Desolation mists the firmament, firmament once peaceful and azure,
Azure dreams now are devastated, devastated hopes fictitious,
Fictitious peace feels gone, gone by the fire,
Fire of unending animosity, animosity leaves its tag.
Tag engraved in regret, regret pigments the terrain,
Terrain longs for rebirth, rebirth seeks renaissance,
Renaissance of mild restoration, restoration calls for nimble,
Nimble shall patch the village, village recovers its picture.
Poem by Mugisho N. T
...All back-and-forth the fight raged through the morn,
men dove to hide, bushes off branches shorn,
ricochets rang as they bounced off the rock,
made it hard for Alistair to take stock.
At least two down, the others were scattered,
three of their foe lay lifeless on the earth,
but six more can, guns blazing, eyes alight,
Pritchard howled, seemed immune to all fright.
Alistar rose, and drilled him through the chest,
three guns barked back, slugs ripping through his vest,
He shot again, caught one man in the leg,
but slumped, knowing he was already dead;
just breathing hurt, all his body felt cold,
he dropped the gun, his mind no longer bold,
clutched a big rock, all dreams of money gone,
replaced by all he had done…and done wrong.
His dying through, before the final fall:
Perhaps Dan had been the smartest of them all…
In savage streets it’s hand to hand
once shrapnel rips the air that’s damned,
no sin of ego in this land.
Baptismal bloodshed echoes
through rust and rebar ghettoes.
There’s bullet swarms and rocket rain
but infantry must hit terrain,
forget I’m sane and rupture veins
with melee-trench-knife flashing,
the bane of peace doves, slashing.
I wear their red of death and drive
my blade abuzz in hellish hive
to stay alive! Yes stay alive!
The apathy of killing,
and twisting morals willing.
My heartbeat kept, a victory,
it pounds just like artillery
but prized, despite the misery.
A witness to destruction
and holy soul’s corruption
and christened by the selfishness
of presidents with negligence,
we soldiers march with evilness.
The narcissistic leaders,
the preachers and the breeders
of rhythmic spates in drumbeat hate
unfurl their nation flags and fate
in bloodlust war… while heads of state
stay combat clean in bunkers.
I witness gurgling utters
your last and bloody gasp for “mama”.
I grasp with greed my breath in chest.
Thought ricochets inside my skull;
I’m still alive! I'm still alive! I'm still alive . . .
It’s always the last of the booming sounds.
That, which ricochets slowly into the tunnel of
Our souls —that hard, wavering metallic
Whisper —wafting high and solemnly — from the belfry,
Floating through the spikes of Gothic sails,
Frightening gargoyles and hushing magpies,
On its way down to the audience of Sunday.
its whimper sounds like a whisper, it slips as it slithers away
the loud fear it left on my mind still spins my spine
i run, forgetting my heart is still hanging in my mouth~
it pounds like a tornado blowing through my veins
the ricochets of its anger shudder even my tiniest nerves
our nights and days will never cross paths again.
How I hate it when they call me a clown,
Yet I can't help but make people laugh.
It comes unbidden, needing no invitation —
As though a trove of jokes is placed in my throat.
Often I try to bridle my face and talk tough,
But when a flume of gloom drowns spirits deep down,
Then my sense of humour becomes their salvation —
A spring of joy that quenches sorrow’s drought.
Time has taught me that humour holds a balm ~
It lifts the weight boredom lays on minds.
It brightens paths in life's dark forlorn mines,
And lifts me too, when others' jokes make me smiles.
Humour sheds tears when no cry’s in mind,
It soothes loneliness with enduring calm.
A cashless payment offered sorrow as a fine,
A thrill that ricochets through veins for miles.
A chapter of me should wear the clown's toga proud,
Since joy and radiance my humour brings to faces,
A talent that needs no stress to express,
The reason my presence delights all and sundry.
"The darkened sky stole my tears,"
replaced the heat of hurt with jewels,
specks of lunar-glazed silver dust,
to see me sip rose-wine reveries of midnight,
where procrastinated promises
and dusky dreams of the heart linger...
Perhaps, I knew not my need ~
to be saved by the burning shimmers
and silken shivers of your silhouette
drifting through indigo azure in silence,
like flickers of love long veiled in haze ~
a reflection of nocturnal thirst.
If only you could undress your lyrical lens
to speak the unspoken ache
inscribed within infatuated ink ~
hidden beneath cerulean hymns
then I would not carve kohl lines,
of sleepless sighs lost to time...
So unlock the garden of galactic secrets
breathing within the soul of stars
twinkling russet tales of twin-flames.
There I'll reside, where your voice ricochets,
as the devoted black diamond ~
forever engrossed in dews of desire...
Staring into the stratospheric abyss
Cumulus clouds swiftly drift along.
As I stand at a dusty precipice,
The white-hot heat of the sun beating down,
Microscopic gravel crunches beneath questioning feet.
A flood of overwhelming emotions washes forth,
Whilst a broken heart is drowning.
The last words you spat at me, stuck on repeat,
Play like a needle scratching a broken record.
Cupping my ears, I try to shut out the incessant noise,
But it just ricochets like emotional shrapnel,
Piercing into my tormented psyche.
Reliving the vital few seconds of a scene gone so wrong—
Have we somehow traveled past the event horizon,
Becoming an implosion of complete annihilation?
As the wind whips past, sending ripples through the air,
I frantically search the debris for answers.
Grasping at particles of dust—
Invisible atoms of desperation.
But they're unattainable.
It is to be our downfall,
Just as a resolution to this inquest
Disappears with the sun
As it wanes over the mourning horizon.
Leave the ground to fly upward forever
a quintillion atoms blasting astray
It’s April 20, Crack open an Easter egg
be careful not to drop, if a Fabergé
Celebrate Apollo 16, NASA’s high point
also light a candle down Columbine way
Luna doesn’t judge beyond her influence
so can’t be complicit in the price we pay
Deepwater horizon, fades into distance
not to mention some Dictator’s birthday
What marks a memento of lasting impact?
recurring dates in an almanac of ricochets?
Every once in a phase, flies by April 20
she turns her face, but cannot look away.
A whiff of my kitchen, a medicinal pill,
the side order of rain drools at a windowsill.
An utterance precedes a service; the rumble,
the window slides itself shut. A bumble
bee ricochets off a glass pane
moaning louder than our train
of thought waylaid with bacon sizzling up a storm.
There's an anxiousness trapped inside as warm
as indoors petrichor's marshmallow mood
steamed under nostrils fused above burned food.
A swirl follows itself in a perfect circle
on a smartphone screen. The attentive middle
of somewhere where I don't know where I am headed
while time and place are forgettably wedded,
O lips lit up, no doubt, by the whitening screen,
words digitize what would otherwise burn green.
my mind is an abstract vase,
adorned with
crystal gold lines~
from pixelated pearls
homing
whimsical wishes
and
blue-rose reveries,
a Picasso paradox
painted
with
sculptured serenity...
but as violin warmth
of melancholia
ricochets in
hypnotic cadence
listen to the
lethargic starlight
orchestrate a concerto ~
depicting this tired tongue,
s e a r c h i n g
for a major chord
of magical mellifluence
to summon the
silver
of your
citrine moon...
for when i n k
flows between
sun-blushed seas
in feisty meter
I still trace your
blue-blaze vibrance~
drawing an ardent ambience
of l o v e
before the r a i n...
to be a success
takes an element of luck
a big sledgehammer
fortuitous ricochets
unlike me ~ know when to duck
A-rush
In a feather ruffling frenzy
cooling the flamboyant sunrise
muffling the warblers
with waffling winds
chilling the audience
in an ice-like stare
your shivery essence
ricochets through the canyon
startles the cliffs
bellows amid the echoes
of yesteryears challenge
stirs a red dust devil
they call you cold, December
for they are frail
and cannot bear the sting
of Winter’s hoary kiss
Komorebi 11-8-23
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Komorebi
Sunlight dashes through boughs adorned
In autumn’s scent of red orange crimson
Tossing diamonds of daybreak from their limbs
Into the borning air of dawn
To litter the forest floor in clutter of crystal auroras
Playing hide and seek with shadows,
Awakened by the roster’s first blush,
To prance across branches on tip-toes of brindled magic
As the moon and sun, the darkness and dawn,
Change places in daily do-se-dos,
Leaving fingerprints of light, in moments of intimacy,
When fingers of dappled warmth push back shadows
With celestial sighs of radiance
And flutter like a sparkling flute of luminosity
Cascading in ricochets from oak to elm to evergreen
Until gleeful pandemoniums of white fire
Give birth to awe in strings of burnished zephrys
Draped in jubilees through boughs of dawning beauty
Woven in strands of light as sunshine thinks on loveliness -
Decorations of celebration!
When symphonic waves crash on soundless shores,
Listen to the cadence of silent seas,
He's a virtuoso of voiceless woes,
orchestrating pre-written faith, at ease.
For every tainted tide, transpires a tune,
If you lend your ear to the unsung sighs,
perhaps sonorous currents too would croon,
amidst ringing reasons that fall and rise.
There's a fine song for every shipwrecked heart,
entrenched in rhymes from the soul of sand dunes.
Healing comes through searing sirens as art,
rhapsodizing themes of roaring runes.
As waters whistle, hushed air ricochets,
resonating the melody of a dulcet dove,
breeze beneath ripples rewinds and replays,
in divine dialects through language of love.
Whilst chorus of crickets swiftly unfold,
allow nature to compose musings of the ocean.
Words can only whisper deep scars untold,
in poetic crescendo, that translates intense emotions.
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