Trees tilted,
Weighted by bodies hung,
The truth sits in the branches above,
The stench of death burrows,
Rotting the soil,
Growth killed by injustice itself,
Heavy is the tree who screams with no mouth,
Heavy is the tree with tears turned into a drought.
Swinging back and forth,
Onlookers filled with joy,
A Black body, a Black boy,
No more will he smile,
Just an empty shell -
Well, well, well,
A story as old as time -
A Black boy found dead in the south,
The story they will tell -
He hung himself.
The truth shall set you free,
And yet freedom only works when white holds the key,
The truth is ugly,
But dressed in a white cloak it becomes pretty,
The tree -
A silent witness to this tragedy
Ah ! Distance became an illusion when your
Light called me Home — brandishing dubious screens
furnaces of fiery fingers fathomed my
fidgeting spirit …
Mesmerising muses you opened my eyes
Sun of Love ! — I could not move itching soles
transfixed you Heart never to falter again …
radial pristine
I surrendered dreams as your veils tore my own
carefully sown to wrap disputable masks
how was I to know, unaware you will call
light years awakened —
Most Galactic Sun ! I stood like a congealed
clot of blood as dust mites sparkled luminous
within rays implacable — I bowed my head
heeding blazing flame
Humbled before flickering fractal within
initiated then attuned — cells aligned
confined were its braces, muted its voices
your truth cutting Core
Cry I no longer, Beloved sings cradled
contained every morn I seek your heartfelt touch
distance vanishes when Sun's palms open ruth
bronze chest, orbit nests —
I can With honey words and flower kisses
And the dew of sweet half-truths
of old quaint love-tales foredone.
in the twilight I sit in whispers
as far-heard bells.
have I known that gay youth that is gone
As the shadow of wind.
Nay, I am ever swept upward
To the centre of all truth
So must I Rapt into this flame
"Follow! Follow!"
And in the power be reborn.
together this power must we,
Cry eternally:
"I come, And again,
"Follow,"
we may not tarry.
(Blackout of The Summons by Ezra Pound)
Accountability is like a signature
that puts one's name directly behind a promise;
When the stamp of fault has left its mark,
the hands of guilt cannot hide the mess.
Accountability is like luggage
that carries the consequences of what we choose;
The suitcase of error exposes the blunder,
revealing what the bearer tries to refuse.
Accountability is like a camera
that captures and preserves the evidence;
When the lens of mistake witnesses the crime,
the picture of proof reveals grave offense.
Accountability is like a hook
that lets results catch up with those who do wrong;
The snare of slips silently sits and waits to trap
with a string of detection, swift and long.
Accountability is like a calculator
that computes the end result;
When the keypad adds every miscue,
on the screen, it will display the fault.
I float along the peaceful stream.
Will I stay put? I cannot scream; I’m only a petal, a petal can dream.
It’s bliss like the rays,
From the river to the bays,
Why am I so afraid?
For I glide and paddle my way to my feet; every raindrop sounds what I cannot keep.
When darkness looms,
My nothingness blooms.
Shadows create devils, hell’s gate.
I float along a peaceful stream, a petal can dream, but this petal screams.
The Tenant
I gave the darkness horns so I could point at it.
I gave it a face that was not mine,
a throne outside the skull,
a name to curse when the night went wrong.
But look at where it sits:
inside the gold curve of my own head,
close enough to whisper,
one clawed hand cupped over the eye
that would have shown me everything.
It never crept in from outside.
I fed it here. I called it enemy
so I would never have to call it mine.
Every blame I handed off to hell
came back by morning, wearing my voice,
the same old flattery, the same old fear,
the same small pride that could not bear
to be the one who did it.
The eye keeps burning through its fingers.
It has always been open.
It only asks that I stop looking away.
So let the horns come off.
Let the mask slide down to a mirror.
The thing I feared was never at the gate.
It was the hand that wrote the story of the gate
and sat here all along, still holding the pen.
Calm is your nature so fair
O maiden of meticulous metaphor
like the white lilies in the garden, balms soft air,
amongst autumn’s signature rustling leaves
upon dried maples once green
In warm tones of terracotta her spirit roams free,
on earth she manipulates the mariposa monarca
butterfly migration in Michoacán’s fir forests,
clusters color trees with golden orange tones
trimmed in black lace philigree
skies are filled with beating wings
like a flurry of a rain's pitter-patter
O butterfly if you flutter by, I’ve left you aster
for your returns refuel in my yearning yard
Tonantzin our venerable Mother, goddess virginius
of virtue of vim, and vigorous Miss
Q3 keeper of chaos and order,
I’m forever thankful for your service ~
THE LOOKING GLASS
(Down The Rabbit Hole)
To wish someone
You've never met
You'll never hold
To great regret
For time and space
To shrink and swell
Down the rabbit hole
You fell
Where Rabbits late
Will not wait
On questions
Quaint, so trivial
Where Queens insane
Would ask the same
But take your head
And soul as well
Hares and Hatters
Serving tea
With manners more
Than empathy
Where Turtles cry
A Phoenix flies
And dives
Into the burning sea
A Walrus wails
His empty pail
Fills with guilt
When all else fails
Where presents past
And futures last
The answers in
The looking glass
Nod to Lewis Carroll
.
long legged sacred
haunch observes
a veneration in Ancient Egypt
speaking beak in Thoth-Hermès hands
first feathers released from Ark
fertility symbol hailed by Moses ~
The Rebel
Evening flames falter and die
Suffocated in the night’s cool embrace
A bed of sleepy orange embers
Gradually give way to blue ash
Beneath the hush of silky starlight
A solitary glow persists
Holding against the encroaching dark
Refusing surrender
In daybreak’s velvet breath
Veils of ash, like petals, drift aimlessly away
While the ember defies obliteration
With subtle inner-warmth
In the gall of yesterday’s ruin
It burns for promises never spoken
What remains, quietly transformed
Exhales and ignites something new.
9/17/2026 - For The Rebel Poetry Contest hosted by Unseeking Seeker
a sugar maple leaf slips free
counting toward One proof
the Seven Mysteries
God, I count prime gaps
I watch prime numbers growing
only primes orbit
a rule sends one step
loops return periods double
recursion counts One
an iteration
within fluid smoothness frays
water turns inward
can you see the curve
study elliptic rank shifts
findings test the rank
questions spiral out
unknown patterns circle back
pi bends into sight
a proof can be checked
still search cannot prove it now
checking outruns search
every loop turns east
the count folds back into form
through form, God's Haiku
the sugar-maple leaf settles on frost
children of the corn start to awaken
i remember the day
i saw my belle.
stood before a great glass window
and oh, she was pretty.
young eyes, innocent cheeks,
one little, beautiful heart.
my glass belle,
whole,
smiling right back at me.
carried carefully
everywhere i went.
she's a delicate one, my belle is.
if my belle were simply older,
she would be worn at the edges.
but no -
broken is the little glass doll inside of me.
hurled,
dropped,
hammered.
and now, all that remains are shards.
and yet, i prize every shard.
especially those that make me bleed -
those that will never heal -
i will cherish those for eternity.
Before the city grew teeth of storeys,
Every road was once a footpath of dark earth,
Every skyline a village dream feigning height.
The whirlwind arrives like an ancestral drum,
Beating zinc roofs into memory,
While the soil drinks without question.
Maize rises like angry dust,
Crops sleep beneath the earth like buried wealth,
The old iroko keeps census of generations.
We call ourselves urban, as if asphalt
Could bleach the village from our blood,
As if language could divorce us from reality.
Every man carries an ancestral footpath,
Every woman a forgotten rib in the bones,
Every last name is a door to somewhere rural.
The city is only a village that learnt to disguise itself,
And civilisation, perhaps, is merely distance,
From the stream that first taught us to swim.
When the rain smells of the earth,
Listen keenly—the village speaks through you;
Everyone is a village man, even in hired suits.
From Vandeikya to Eko sluthers the same rhythm,
Only the midriff of imagination pats on them.
Do you see the serenity of my
misshaped machete?
A moment mistaken for a musical mystery,
Hold no hopes for this ballad my blade sings to you;
She only reflects the dreams on a dimmed dawn you once drew,
Foolishly flourishing for the finely crafted chaos,
When the writings on her walls bleed for the bruises you prey on,
Rest on the reflection she wove for you,
A closet you’ve locked, she wiggled her way into,
Do the realistic corners of what you seek have no light?
Did my mahogany mirror make you feel a little fright?
Was holding the hands of an echo a suggestive thrill?
Or would you rather have a minute and relearn the drill?
Dare not blame my beastly blade, wear no shade, since you stayed,
So lay your cards and pay the price you played.
Drip drop pitter patter,
Not even a storm can hide the sound of blood splatter,
Down her leg the drops glide,
Like the moon chasing after the evening tide,
Flooding freely without a care,
Out it sneaks from the dragon's lair.
Precious stream with a story to tell,
Promising heaven, delivering hell,
Bathe in moonlight,
Dance in the woods,
Smear this red on your riding hood.
Bloody countess, Sanguine sensation,
Blessed crimson revive my vocation,
I invoke your messiness to hearken my rebirth,
I am now the drop that falls to the earth.
Symbolism Categories
Definition | What is Symbolism in Poetry?
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