Lento is the rhythm our hearts once beat.
Mementos we idealized from the past.
Tempos orchestrate our crushing defeat
Crescendos into what could never last.
Of course, we loved the blessed symphony
Endorsed sacred songs mutually shared.
Divorce brought along its cacophony
Forced a melody of chaos unrepaired.
Judges and lawyers pulling wicked strings
Trudges to the beat of our tragic age.
Grudges hammering the half-notes that sting
Besmudges our reputations with rage.
We shall forever cherish the sweet lento.
The easy swing of love so compliant.
Sheet music must come to an end though.
Be in separate beds lone and silent.
THE VAN GONE MUSEUM
A gleaming, extravagant building.
Filled with jewels of art.
The brainless herd pile in at
their allotted time slot. No thoughts
Zombie tourists flock into the Van
Gogh museum. It doesn’t matter
how many nationalities are there.
Everyone does the same.
Observers drone from one gallery
to another.
Their eyes not even focusing on the
painstaking art.
The portraits and landscapes stare
back at the viewer in
disbelief and disgust.
Please comprehend what I am.
The constant shutter of a camera
can be heard but not the slightest
intellectual thought can be even
fathomed amongst them.
Those photos they taken cannot
even echo the detail of the brush stroke
or slight colour difference.
They are a false facsimile at best.
The painting now a lifeless corpse.
A digital copy is what remains on a
seldom used SD card.
Never to be looked upon again.
A gravity trudges the cattle toward
the famous sunflowers ; not for
artistic merit but for bragging
rights and social media selfies
Although Van Gogh is long dead, it
seems apparent his legacy, his art,
his life’s work is now
Van Gone….
The footprints of an ant
as it trudges in the dust
The fluttering of leaves
stirred by a windy gust
A stratus cloud
silhouettes against the sky
There's a flock of coral red head brolgas
in casual formation as they fly
The stunning streak of rays
as the sunlight breaks the dawn
Signals that another magic day
once again has just been born
The billowing of large clouds
suggests an imminent storm
The arching of a rainbow
a constant structured coloured form
Ripples on the water
of a tiny bubbling stream
All these enchanting patterns of nature
mesmerised, time to rest, just daydream
spring blossoms appear
as summer trudges in
pulling on the reigns
A lone knight slowly trudges across the snow-covered land
Shooting pain raced down his left arm, for nothing went as planned
Blood poured from a large gash on his leg that had expanded
Winning yet broken, he wished for a death that had felt grand
Approaching his stronghold, choking thick black smoke filled the air
Dancing across the Barbican were wild red orange flares
Realizing they marched not to war, but into a snare
Quickening his pace for there was not a moment to spare
Arriving to find nothing but death inside the fort’s walls
Wine colored land told of the violent fight for the fall
Fighting back tears, he wore each slain’s memory as a shawl
Vowing before God he will avenge the deaths of them all
Crashing loud noise informed the knight that he was not alone
Pushing aside the pain, he moved swiftly from stone to stone
Seeing his foe, drawing his sword, he soon would stand alone
Praying, he charged for the enemy’s woven fate was sewn
The draft dips downward, limbs swaying in the wind;
fearless butterfly hovers over a branch.
Listening too late, one strong gust of wind
propels her towards an overhanging tree.
She grabs hold; hunching under leaves; she waits it out.
What a story she'll have for her kiddoes tonight.
Audacious bee is busily engaged
stockpiling nectar from nearby crocus blooms.
He hears the wind's howl and quickly crawls to safety
deep inside a budding flower blossom's petals.
"Wind's too strong to risk flying back to the hive;
I might land in Timbuktu or the Sahara."
Hard-working ants had set out on their quest early;
word has it that there's treasure on Ridge Rd.
Hauling crumbs twice his size, along the dusty path,
weary ant has made three trips already by noon.
More slowly, he trudges along with his last load
and gets wind of a blast coming his way.
Dropping cargo, he cowers to a crack just in time.
An anvil hangs above my head
Life trudges on in silent dread
Watching waiting for the drop
Another day it doesn’t stop
In restless flux I float unknowing
Another dawn the coffee’s flowing
Aroma thick thoughts start to stall
Waking slowly but no rest at all
An anvil swings with quiet might
Still no relief no end in sight
Same routine a looping thread
Each thought heavy in my head
Coffee brews the mind delays
Trapped inside a familiar haze
Is this just a bad day’s theme
A nightmare stretched from a dream
Or is it simply will reprised
Endurance cloaked in thin disguise
Deep in the desert, on a desolate trek,
in the distance trudges a lonely speck.
Lost, not knowing where, in this life, he's bound,
he has never known the comforting sound
of a tender voice, or a loving word.
His unsure eyes see only visions, blurred.
What looks like water, is just a mirage,
while apparitions form his entourage.
So, how, on this rocky beach in Malibu
did this man, on that day, discover you,
where surf crashed and he gazed in your face,
and "the silence faded with a soft embrace?"
Can anything be colder than a day
When clouds of winter make the sun’s embrace
Become a shadow of its former grace
And summer’s verdure gives in to decay;
When snow like burial garments shrouds the hay,
Bleak nature trudges with a mournful pace;
The winter’s gusts make sharp cuts on the face
With blades concealed, as though designed to flay?
Yet, when love’s ardent flame burns out in vain,
The silence answers all unselfish pleas,
The tired wings can’t find their resting nest,
Not even death can ease the inner pain.
Thus, winter’s cold feels like a summer’s breeze
Compared to what remains inside my chest.
In poverty's desperation
She finds the old organ
Where it's stored under the stair.
It belongs to the man who is gone
Leaving her and his children alone,
This cold winter turned into despair.
Frozen air surrounds her,
As she grinds out the tunes
Almost alone on the street.
The warmth of windows watch her,
Their families safely ensconced
As she trudges home.
She knows
Her children will eat only turnips
again.
“when that that never was dies ~
consciousness flies to new highs”
we walk on a lonely road
alone in the midst of a crowd
each soul trudges under a heavy cross
fake smiles camouflaging destiny’s dark shroud
we seek solace but there’s no safety in numbers
inane game of one-upmanship now dreary
heads or tails, either way we lose
our bones have grown weary
from dark dungeons of despair
where fear of freedom has us bound
we beseech the gods in far away heavens
to show us the way how ethereal bliss may be found
our entreaty unanswered, we find ourself again alone
with all hope lost, we cease to struggle and strive
turning attention inward in the void of silence
we find within our heart a divine bliss hive
as affirmed in all the ancient scriptures
we recognise we are love and bliss and light
unbound is our delight beholding our true essence
self-existent light, pulsating unendingly by day and night
trees along the fence line strain
stretched tight by the wind
turning inside and out
leaves in all directions
buffeting and thrashing in the howling gale
sheets of horizontal rain hammer the paddocks
through the knee deep mud
sodden cowprints overflow with water
still the rain pours down uncontrollably
and the wind roars over the hills
scarred with open clay slips
raincoat and gumboots
barely visible in the gloom
the farmer trudges home
after evening milking
The world on his shoulders,
He trudges along,
Standing amid the crashing sea,
He pushes on,
In gloom’s embrace,
He pulls away,
He believes lost time can be redeemed,
He has seen a path none around can see,
He walks on grace’s path,
They don’t bear the periscope,
They can't see through the veil,
They can’t see him inside out,
Courage props and supports,
Hope has not left him in the lurch,
He walks every mile in
unflinching determination,
Brighter days are in his view.
June 23, 2022,
Brace for Impact,
This or That, Vol 12 Poetry Contest,
Edward Ibeh.
Long-legged ruminant
So, you think a camel is an ugly animal
with kissable lips and the eyes of
Marilyn Monroe, and yield low-fat milk
I bet you didn’t know this.
When four wheels stop in the sand of Sahara
the camel with padded feet trudges along
The beast smelled like hell, but who cares
when it brings to an oasis.
Sweet dates, cold water and languor under
palm trees, a dream come true
It was the trusted camel who found the way.
Have you ever tasted camel cheese?
She sponges her face to brightness.
She has been depressed before
but this trench her mind trudges through
is full of a clinging dark mud
and she can't get out of.
At work she has to teach her hands
to do things she has done a thousand times before.
Then there is the mirror,
she cleans and wipes it constantly
but at each glace she sees her face blurring
as it leaves for nowhere.
She eats alone, the restaurant erupts
with an air-conditioned laughter
that makes her head spin.
Back home she drinks and drunks.
Her friend calls:
"That guy in Section D,
wants me. Last week still hurts.”
“This morning I almost didn’t.”
she replied.
There is a long pause,
duct tape holds together the center -
just.
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