God's Acre
In a field, not far from here, I see millions of lit candles
But only at night, during the day, it is a potato patch
A man, you can call him God if you like, walks along
The candles and, every so often, snubs out with his
thumb and index finger, a lit candle, with fingers
sore from this arduous work
He is heading for the part of the field where
The candle wax has burnt out, but the wick flickers
like grey smoke in still air
When dawn appears on the eastern mountain
The field turns into a potato patch
Where a man is harvesting spuds
In the midst of a desert
a voice cries out
Woe to him who snubs
a hungry hand held out
On a crowded subway platform
a different voice rings true
Hand over your wallet, sir
~ If you value your life, you do
I respect not the cruel world!
Brickbats at me it ever hurled!!
As a human, me it forgot!
The cruel world, I respect not!!
I do not know… how I survived!
Parental love I was deprived!!
Many snubs I did undergo!
How I survived… I do not know!!
As a stray man, me people stamped!
My freedom wings, they ever clamped!!
Upon me they did place a ban!
Me people stamped… as a stray man!!
I shoulda seen it comin’ my way -
The Judgment Day
Bears the brunt of judging as gold
Rakes piles of entries, old and new
Insists - "completely up to you"
As long as you do as you're told
Note, read the blog to make it through
Submissions, like lava, pour in
Tempting many soupers to win
Review as you give it a shot
Ace of Judges snubs dull and bland
No to acrostic, rhymed or not
Dare I disobey Brian Strand
Strand’s contests I deem Brian’s Blast -
Meaning high praise and no shade cast!
January 4, 2023
It has been a short - lived career,
Former ones tried on Black Maria;
To soon start bearing A Pariah,
His story the same in Syria,
Which he had judged land of Moriah,
Jesus Christ leaving for Sharia
Stopped prayers for his Diarrhoea
A life of uncompleted jobs
With a strong heart that dully throbs
Two eyes that wouldn't see the snubs
And a right hand that nostrils rubs
It's a Jimmy Cliff's Foolish Pride,
So the setbacks he'd swept aside
With a radio as tireless
As its system is wireless
Reaching station of the tactless
For the funny and humorless.
Far beyond the supermarket workers and the gardeners building their own allotments, the boy soldiers and the coal-miners with dusty lungs, the women helping mould silver bullets for wars and the ministers off with their leather bound Bibles walking through jungles, past the jolly sailor, the fish-wife and the cook. All carrying their little note book.
The blacksmith and the hunter come back again, over the gulf to hunt through the flamey caves, with their knife and the deer.
And somewhere further afield, the star shines bright, the clasp fastens together our tiny pearls, egg to egg through the mother.
A cluster of gemstones rolled, and still rolling, milky marbles on every continent's slant floors, hungry snowballs, gathering photos of diamonds, postcards and jobs, gathering qualifications, silver-grey hairs and snubs, and forgetting, as those who came before us forgot, to bless those who brought us here, who passed us the torch and stepped back. Now we are brighter flames, but not with fire, with the beauty of knowledge.
Grief comes uninvited, like a marauder,
like a one man army charging,
he makes an unexpected onslaught.
A thief in the dark who comes stealthily,
without pausing to seek permission
and settles in the heart like an intruder
His stay is long and tedious.
He eats away our vitality,
sups on our vulnerability,
sucks our life sap and fattens on our gloom.
Like a tenant who hasn’t paid
a single dime as rent, he invites our wrath!
Even under threat, he would never vacate
It is at night, he revels
and makes the most fierce onslaught
He snubs out our sleep, disturbs our calm
Wide eyed, we have to watch
the nasty antics of this tyrant
He drives out all hope,
battles with our cheer,
evicts all positive vibes,
and invades the entire space.
Weaving sticky gossamer threads
to ensnare all happy thoughts
which come our way and like an ugly spider,
he arrogantly dwells in our heart!
__________________________________
Sept. 11.2022
~ Placed First~
Pick a Title, Vol.32. Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Edward Ibeh
Mr. French poodle sips a Beaujolais
Snubs a nose at the bourgeoisie
So middle class with a café ole in glass
A puffy bulbous tail wags in approval
Groomed to perfection at the salon
It purrs at the proletariat’s amusement
Smiling at the working class
An upper class agenda will not prevail
Is this a pussy cat transgender at last?
Is this man’s best friend about to mate
Or make a puddle by trade or mistake?
Oh what a tangled web we weave
When once we practice to deceive
If God is alive in all His devices
All men would be turned to mice
How nice!
The ten of clubs,
The card of snubs.
And always passed on by.
For if you care,
To see it there,
You groan a little sigh
The value place,
But not the face,
Of kings and queens and jacks.
Yet still outranked,
And not as thanked,
Just slipping through the cracks.
A diamond shines.
The heart confines,
A game upon it’s own.
The pointed spade,
Much like a blade,
Is feared when it is thrown.
But not the club,
A rounded stub.
A suit not as reviled.
The ten of which,
Has carved the niche,
Of cards, the middle child.
Those that praise my pen too far and quick,
Innocent but perhaps make me weak.
Those that scraps and crumbs about me keep,
Slights and snubs of theirs do make me sick.
Journey’s end— end of all juice we sip,
Thanks Lord, ways of life winding to keep.
Willingly whose shoulders bear huge load,
Repeated rounds on load alas reap.
Showing me the way— where, how to walk,
Stumbling stones do love me all so deep.
Clueless worshipping chants those that rant,
Not vain is devotee’s temple trip.
Better be I feel my bare ego,
Not those that pride’s false airs puffed-up keep.
_____________________________________
In anapaest tri-meter, this piece was inspired by a Gujarati poem by Vicky Trivedi, but is no translation.
Ghazal |07.10.2021| Introspection
Poet’s note: World is nothing but illusion, they say. The ways of this world elude comprehension. What we see is no reality, and the reality is never seen. Apparent contradictions after all may not be so. This poet has a point to make on our world duality.
Real feelings.
Those niceties! Those smiles! Fake words to cover the long, lonely journey of miles!
Glass eyes - trying to be warmer but trying in vein!
Flow through, dinner and drinks.
Polite sounds hiding real feelings and real - still real raw pain.
Talk, talk, talk - with no feelings, pardons or sins.
Soft sounds - not prepared to breach the dam wall and let the real talk begin!
Tension, slowly building as the barriers begin to weaken and fall!
A hug signifies the evenings end. Warm clothes cover cold bodies trying to pretend that there is no malice or ill feeling here at all.
Drive home. Analyse the evening from the start to the end!
Hidden meanings, snubs, sharp stares and smiles through fury at full bend.
Misinterpretation - why did he have to say that?
Slow ride - why does it take so long to get back?
Reflection - stand in quiet and look deep in your eyes. Another wall - to protect the truth with your lies.
my virtue bowed a humbled head
stripped from my gut leftovers bled
wolves sought carrion pursuing a shred
fervor severed splayed by a silver thread
baring deepening ruts of dejection
an animated face mirrors rejection
soured sweetened candied confection
snubs a reflection pursuing perfection
stone lilies from the crypt exhume
a life sprouted in a pitch black room
blossoms wither failing to bloom
fate is a dark sealed tomb
Work, work, work ... write, write, write
Pour your dark, deep, love-scarred being out
Put all the imagery, phrasing and thought you know into each line
Craft each word and phrase and stanza with careful creativity
Go the extra mile with each element required
And then go even further - format, title, attending image
Stand back, finally, and be proud of the result
For it is your heart and soul there on paper
Though others may not see it ...
Learn to recognize the excellence and insight
And all that you've invested in that piece of your spirit
Because it's guaranteed in this wonderfully wide and jaded world
That it will be marginalized and snubbed
So take that bitter pill and swallow hard, thus
And let it be the drug to motivate and enrich you
Even more ...
Let disregard be the whetstone ... that sharpens your pen!
I rest
I rest on a stump
the trees gone
My tree
I planted it
watered
nurtured,pruned
Watching it grow, sturdy and determined
against life's insults and snubs
My tree
I left alone because it reached the required height, I took care it didn't get Dutch Elm disease or some other blight.
Still this healthy tree has felled surely as if by a lumberjacks hand
I rest on the stump because I am tired
and it is what I know,
It's what I do now.
This mussing, its not a
"Giving Tree" fable,
cautionary tale or lecture about randomness.
It's a spotlight on my illusion of protection
I can't really protect him against much
maybe
a winter flu
or Dutch Elm.
certainly not Schizophrenia
Every dawn starts an extreme desire
A desire to have her by my side,
May be cuddle her,not even kissing
That alone can quench my thirst for her
I know she doesn't love me
She has proven it severally
But my heart won't listen
It's firm and stubborn for her.
It lures me to calling her at night
To disappointments,no answer
Just like she didn't answer last night
'May be she's doing the dishes'
My heart would murmur to me
But frankly its much late for dishes
'Then may be she's out to pee'
It'd respond quickly.
She snubs me, deliberately
I've seen her go out with Ivan
And yeah,I confirmed they kissed at the party
My best poem ever,I wrote to her last summer,
I found it in the dustbin, ramshackled
She's called me a fool,idiot,gobshite
Moron...let me conceal the rest
But my foolish heart won't listen
It's firm and stubborn for her
It's called desperate love,
May be you're a victim
But your heart just murmured
'Of course you're not'
Just to blindfold you.
What can I do?
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