statues keep their marble vigil
shadows pooling like old thoughts
history holding its breath
Midnight, faced again,
after failing once more to let yesterday go,
feels familiar—
like a night’s shadow resting,
its hands heavy with darkness.
Stung by the hard glare of a streetlight,
my shadow—myself—stretches out
and deliberately rummages through
bitter memories
blooming like pale gourd flowers.
The long night should leave
only after shaking loose its faded past,
yet my shadow keeps searching,
not ready
to let it pass.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
a wooden body with steady onyx eyes
fixed through the warm, festive glow of
glimmer-strung branches heavy with ornaments
crimson ribbons curling like frozen candy canes
stalwart he stands, gray musket upright
at rigid attention guarding wrapped promises~
stern eyes track the vintage train’s circuit
buzzing relentlessly round tree-rooted tracks.
devoted guardian rooted in pine needles
preserving whimsy’s last spark in tinsel-strewn shadows~
protector of wide-eyed wonder when snow silences streets
keeper of memory’s embers — cinnamon, carols, and cold cheeks.
no mouse king approaches, no cracked walnut threatens;
yet, still he stands watching over Christmases present and past~
a soldier of sentiment safeguarding the fragile, the glitter,
the longing, the ache in the throat when the last bulb dims.
The mountain stands, so tall and grand,
A silent vigil, on the land;
It does not claim the skies above,
Nor drives away the birds of love;
It weathers storms, invites the breeze,
And hosts creatures beneath its trees.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
a wooden body with steady onyx eyes
fixed through the warm, festive glow of
glimmer-strung branches heavy with ornaments
crimson ribbons curling like frozen candy canes
stalwart he stands, gray musket upright
at rigid attention guarding wrapped promises~
stern eyes track the vintage train’s circuit
buzzing relentlessly 'round tree-rooted tracks.
devoted guardian rooted in pine needles
preserving whimsy’s last spark in tinsel-strewn shadows~
protector of wide-eyed wonder when snow silences streets
keeper of memory’s embers — cinnamon, carols, and cold cheeks.
no mouse king approaches, no cracked walnut threatens;
yet, still he stands watch over Christmases present and past~
a soldier of sentiment safeguarding the fragile, the glitter,
the longing, the ache in the throat when the last bulb dims.
I just wanted you to know that I love you, I did my best to do what's right,
It took from me my ego, I gained long and sleepless nights,
I just want you to know I miss you, and I tried my very best,
But the world is old and broken, a toxic angry mess,
Someday I'll make a difference, because I refused to simply quit,
For everything that I have lost, my broken heart still fits,
I know you didn't leave me, you've simply gone ahead,
In truth, I wish that I had left, the toxic world instead,
I wouldn't quit tomorrow, and I couldn't quit tonight,
for every other one I saved, gave reason for this life.
I wasn't born so healthy, I wasn't born to wealth,
I was born to go with god, and help those with no one else.
Little lights shine
Through darkness
Church bells rings
Down streets
Hand in hand
Sparks rise
Embers glow
From the flame
Of electric candles
Showing the way
Inspired by He Has a Name, by Suzette Richards (2021)
I. Ink and Ashes
Steeped
in the pain
of his slain countryman,
surrounded by the t u r m o i l
of real fears
laid bare —
exposed —
on the s.t.o.n.e - c.o.l.d
T A R M A C.
A poet dipped his I N K
in the spilled
T
E
A
R
S
Hero
or
Zero?
He had a name —
he had a name …
II. The Son Who Stood
A mother’s S O N
stood up
to be counted
in a time
when voices
were made
M U T E;
indoctrinated —
to the edge of
S T U P O R.
A poet watches.
Waits.
Remains
R E S O L U T E.
He had a name?
He had a name.
III. No Monument
NO statue
would be erected
in his name
because he wasn’t
the first man to be
s*l*a*i*n.
At the next
roll call of
C I V I L U N R E S T
this poet’s words
E A S E
some of
the N A K E D P A I N.
He has a name!
HE HAS A NAME!
In the quiet corners of his own mind,
he walks alone,
a poet whose pen drips with moonlight.
He counts the hours by the hum of his thoughts,
each one a lantern swinging in the wind.
A thinker —
he weighs the weight of names,
dreams of the laughter not yet born,
imagines a tiny hand curling around his own.
In solitude,
he builds worlds of words,
hoping one day a child will wander in,
pick a flower from his sentences,
and plant it in their own heart.
The waiting is a long horizon,
but he watches,
because even a lone soul
knows the fire is not for himself alone.
THE WAKE WITHOUT VIGIL
Time longer than rope
Chokes hearts dangling
In the reality of struggle:-
Grieving mothers and widows
Veil their grief in sagging bosoms
As they wail in excruciating silence:-
Fragments of men, void of hope,
View and count communal graves
Swelling with dirt burying the dead:-
(Buried are “The Wretched Of The Earth”)
In the neap tides of sorrows,
Mourners wade the airy blood
Of the children of Pilate’s hands:-
In the stale winds of time, “woe is me”
Cries the forsaken land–lamenting scriptures—
Echoing Freneau: “They saw their country’s woe:-”
Stacked like molded bread slices,
Decaying bodies release spores
Of death to weary eyed mourners:-
Like an aching bosom’s colloidal tears,
Life sags on, and Sisyphus-like children
Sit under the warrior ghost of lingering hope:
(Indeed, “At this wake…none keep vigil…None:-”)*
*A line from the poem, RECESSION, by Wole Soyinke
In this charming retreat,
the silence of nature and hills talk to me,
whispers of forgotten tales in the breeze,
of hidden secrets of times bygone,
an era of luxury and grandeur,
where every stone holds a story untold.
In the marble statues and king-size portraits,
etched in elegance, they gaze through time,
their faces frozen in an eternal grace,
gripping the pulse of a golden age.
Laid in every nook and corner of the mansion,
they speak of grandeur
of feasts and whispers in the halls,
of laughter echoing beneath crystal chandeliers.
The velvet curtains, the blinds drawn in quiet reverence,
softly filter the light, casting shadows of tranquility and peace,
the swimming pool in the front yard
girdled by palm trees standing tall and erect like silent sentry
the mango tree laden with fruits drooping over the pool
a visual treat for hungry eyes sore with city life.
and outside, the hills stand,
ancient and proud, keeping their vigil.
on the idyllic retreat
where wealth and wisdom reign in peace.
and time slows, and memories breathe.
Time longer than rope
Chokes hearts dangling
In the reality of struggle:-
Grieving mothers and widows
Veil their grief in sagging bosoms
As they wail in excruciating silence:-
Fragments of men, void of hope,
View and count communal graves
Swelling with dirt burying the dead:-
(Buried are “The Wretched Of The Earth”)
In the neap tides of sorrows,
Mourners wade the airy blood
Of the children of Pilate’s hands:-
In the stale winds of time, “woe is me”
Cries the forsaken land–lamenting scriptures—
Echoing Freneau: “They saw their country’s woe:-”
Stacked like molded bread slices,
Decaying bodies release spores
Of death to weary-eyed mourners:-
Like an aching bosom’s colloidal tears,
Life sags on, and Sisyphus-like children
Sit under the warrior ghost of lingering hope:
(Indeed, “At this wake…none keep vigil…None:-”)*
*A line from the poem, RECESSION, by Wole Soyinka
Through the curtain chink a ray
Shines across the darkened room
At the end of sunless day
Snow had fallen in the gloom
Later on it will melt down
But the early snow is there
Is it warm, or cold in town
Can be either way, who cares
Clocks are ticking in the night
Time goes by, I'm sitting still
Looking at the strip of light
Flowers on the window sill
Cast a shadow on the floor
I am counting ships at sea
Like I did the night before
Shall I stand and make some tea
But the tea will make me pensive
Anyway it's time to sleep
Talking now becomes expensive
Silence better, and its cheap.
Sitting death a corpse of times loss in drips
I'll wait, she said in eons voice while zealots rage
His source of pride lay as dust once adorned
Pendulums swing marking time dresses in rust
Her echo of words speaks in his minds hollow
Soon the decay will banish her to tumble
The bend of limbs absent flesh to move
The signs of sanity melt the madness of his face
This shining vigil remains on a promise of return
His decrepit chair and spinal pour becomes one
The morass of synapse dissolves her face.
Banished the last of a believed memory
Halloweens gestures come and go in spectres
Why do I remain? The question roars
Last command with thoughts to leave results
.....in a quiet elbows creak.
Today is here, tomorrow is never promised,
Yesterday is gone , but never forgotten. Things happen for a reason no matter the season.
All good things come to those who wait, never does it it hesitate. Green and blue, black and gray blessed to have another day.
So remember today, pray for tomorrow, learn from the past or have you forgotten?
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