Posted in Poetry

OLD DAYS

The wind blows, the sound is nostalgic,

Of the old days when rains, used to be plenty

And children played outside, and herded cattle in the fields

The trees whistle in the forest

In a reminiscence of the whistling of the herder in the green fields

When the herd was plenty and the rain dropped from the sky

The land was fertile and the plains were never dry

 

The rain drops, on the metal sheet

Very intense but for a short time

Unlike the old times when, we had more than plenty

When we had bumper harvests and our granaries were ever full

 

Now on the wind blows, and brushes past the dry trees

The trees whistle a mournful sound, like a funeral procession

the raindrops are scarce, and very feeble, like a candle fire in the wind

The children never play outside, they are never amused by the sun and the desolate land

And the fireplace has no fire, only ashes remain, because the corn has since dried in the farm land

 

Adopted words,

Anonymous.

Posted in Poetry

THE DATE

After three hours of sitting down looking at each other

Feasting on the sacred moment of pure honesty and truth

Paralyzed to have a sense of time

Him staring at her curved bowed lips

Her… well, what about her?

She was definitely mesmerized by the cool eyes

So curious, searching, looking…

He asked her then, to pour him a drink

 

Heard by the eavesdropping birds, the words were weightless

To her, they were whispered words wrapped in petals

That floated gently into her rib cage and settled at her centre

It was a simple request, but her heart took it as a plea

Something changed, in a second the environment changed

The trance was broken, and the locks snapped

 

A harsh fell and the silence shouted at the top of her lungs

Confusion was written on her face

Wondered if he knew that she was just a picture

With a broken frame

A voice commanded her out of the state

Be everything your ego is afraid to become

Your existence is tied together like shoelaces.

 

Her eyes held so many tears, unshed for so many years

He said, “Rain on me”

Chosen not to be wiped, chosen not to be held back

She tasted her very emotions, a mixture

Of anguish, pain, bitterness, frustration and happiness

And it was the best wine he had ever had.

Posted in Inspire, Poetry

WHAT IS BROKEN IS WHAT GOD BLESSES

The lover’s footprint in the sand

the ten-year-old kid’s bare feet

in the mud picking chili for rich growers,

not those seeking cultural or ethnic roots,

but those whose roots

have been exposed, hacked, dug up and burned

and in those roots

do animals burrow for warmth;

what is broken is blessed,

not the knowledge and empty-shelled wisdom

paraphrased from textbooks,

not the mimicking nor plaques of distinction

nor the ribbons and medals

but after the privileged carriage has passed

the breeze blows traces of wheel ruts away

and on the dust will again be the people’s broken

footprints.

What is broken God blesses,

not the perfectly brick-on-brick prison

but the shattered wall

that announces freedom to the world,

proclaims the irascible spirit of the human

rebelling against lies, against betrayal,

against taking what is not deserved;

the human complaint is what God blesses,

our impoverished dirt roads filled with cripples,

what is broken is baptized,

the irreverent disbeliever,

the addict’s arm seamed with needle marks

is a thread line of a blanket

frayed and bare from keeping the man warm.

We are all broken ornaments,

glinting in our worn-out work gloves,

foreclosed homes, ruined marriages,

from which shimmer our lives in their deepest truths,

blood from the wound,

broken ornaments

when we lost our perfection and honored our imperfect

sentiments, we were blessed.

Broken are the ghettos, barrios, trailer parks where gangs duel to death,

yet through the wretchedness a woman of sixty comes riding her rusty bicycle,

we embrace

we bury in our hearts,

broken ornaments, accused, hunted, finding solace and refuge

we work, we worry, we love

but always with compassion

reflecting our blessings

in our brokenness

thrives life, thrives light,

thrives the essence of our strength,

each of us a warm fragment,

broken off from the greater

ornament of the unseen,

then rejoined as dust,

to all this is.

by Jimmy Santiago, 1952.

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized

A PSALM OF LIFE

Tell me not, in mournful number,

Life is but an empty dream!”

For the soul is dead that slumber;

And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!

And the grave is not it’s goal;

“Dust thou art, to dust returnest,”

Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

Is our destined end or way;

But to act, that each to- morrow

Finds us farther than to-day.

Art is long and time is fleeting,

And thou our hearts, thou stout and brave;

Still, like muffled drums are beating

Funereal marches to the grave.

In the world’s broad field of battle,

In the bivouac of life,

Be not dumb, driven cattle!

Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!

Let the dead Past bury its dead!

Act, act in the living Present!

Heart within, and God overhead!

Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime,

And, departing, leave behind us

Footprints on the sands of time.

Footprints, that perhaps another,

Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,

Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,

With a heart for any fate;

Still achieving, still pursuing

Learn to labor and to wait.

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Posted in Poetry

LANGUAGE

What the… How dare you… What is wrong with your…
Anger, Frustration, Sadness, Hate, Emotions, Oh my!
It’s just a strict map of impersonal facts, I say.
Umph! Whatever, just shut up. You say.
It’s just words that are rhetoric, dismiss them for superstition. I say.
It’s a creative force that gives wings to perceptions. You say.
Language, it aspires to sciences natural condition. I say.
Haaa!! The arrangement is poetic, literature illiterate. You say.
Well, aren’t you just a humanist. I say.
And aren’t you just a positivist. You say.

Mind your language!
Hold your tongue this instant!
Language tends to form a framework around our ideologies,
Philosophers gain a skill to pattern words to seek their implications.
Its twists and turns tend to form a mathematical equation;
A decoded puzzle of grammar hard to some and easy to others,
Linguists in their peculiar solidarity so enthusiastic that it seems a wordplay.

Posted in Poetry

THE AFRICAN LADY

She was wearing an African blue print couture dress
Fully defined edges that brought out her delicate hedges
That cover her Alice in such a magnificent wonderland
I think she got it from Etsy, just saying (whispering)
Her voice, “Oh! That voice”, I can’t forget it
It was so coarse, so coarse it seemed like…
As if it was ragged by the rugs of her past.

Well, to be frank with you, I love her, I really do
I know she has loved me for her entire life
But you see, I’ve loved her for my entire life
So that’s like how many years now?
I think I can say I know what love is
So original, so… not perverted by the external forces
Just speaking from experience here that’s all
If only I could give her one thing in this life…
I would give her the ability to see herself through my eyes,
Only then! Only then, would she realize
How special she is to me.

Posted in Poetry

DOWN BUT NOT OUT

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Living day after day, till it feels like, we are just surviving.
Holding on, to a string that may give in and we fall down to a bottomless hole.
Seems like, the way down never ends, it goes on and on and on.
Our eyes clear as crystal though we are surrounded by destitution.

Tears have been shed so often a time that,
It seems pointless to continue with such a pitiful act;
Our hearts beating at an accelerated rate as if its on fire yet its so freezing out here.
Our history showing a few victories, but far in between our lowest points.

This challenge before me whose breath seems to dim the sun with it’s fumes…
It raises so many a wounded thoughts that I find hard to endure;
Reliving that day over and over again till I can’t take it no more!
Can I please just teleport to another dimension where am free from my own conscious?

Well, I might be down right now but am not out,
A stubborn spirit you might think I have,
A naive one perhaps to not realizing my predicament.
I believe I know this situation better, for its mine you see?
Say no and I will surely carry on.

Posted in Poetry

A CONVERSATION.

Would like to make a conversation

About our lives and nature with its function

All this spinning and cycles bring frustration

Yet everything happens for a reason.

 

A little advice from you is all I ask

For my life is like a ship in a raging sea

Will I see the sun set in the horizon?

Or I have already completed my mission?

 

What kind of a person keeps such an organization

Entangled it seems, to this life with a strong emotion

That clouds my capacity to even make a single decision

Yet am I, as highly expected, to fulfill my vision?

 

What I thought, I felt, I believed

Do I deserve more from you than integrity?

For all I hold dear in my hand strongly departed

Now they blur to visions that are long forgotten.

 

Do not speak thy kind words dear sir, I beg you

For thy words only bring more confusion to mind

Unheard is my heart’s desire for rationality

That thy mouth is full of deceit?

Posted in Poetry

COURAGE OR COURTESY?

Don’t know which to choose,  courage or courtesy?

Can’t be able to choose,

for one is a resolution without fear,

and the other a liberality above custom.

For as the moon borrows nothing from the sun but light,

I borrow nothing else from you but your strength

 

But to choose is a duty that I have to perform.

A way to determine my destination,  lest I suffer if I conform,

The allure of choice can be tempting nay confusing,

But in the end I have to decide,  even if I keep refusing.

 

It’s a controversy how natural causes, should, work supernatural effects

I cannot by natural reason,

give a reason of the ebbing and flowing of the sea;

which makes me in the depth of my heart,

to cry out to a cause higher than me.

 

I blush to a weakness am not ashamed to confess

Might my words crave pardon  and my counsel credit.

I would discharge the duty of a subject for so I am to God

and the office of a friend for so He says I am.

 

 

Posted in Poetry

ANGER

You say anger is a normal sensation and its okay for it to be,

Well, anger is a disease which spreads like a virus once it gets freedom,

I allowed it to thrive within, feeding it and made it satisfied, it was my baby,

I allowed it to contaminate my system and flow through like an electric train

Doing an all round trip

Seemed like… No! All traces of rationality had aborted like an army losing the war

Leaving me there so confused and blinded in my own built frustration.

When she came to me and just asked a question with genuine concern

It revived the virus in the system the red button had been pressed,

Felt a rush, you can call it an anger rush, filling and taking charge

Like a captain taking over a sinking ship in the middle of the sea

No word was said, No thought was thought…

The events followed each other in a sequence that I couldn’t…

With regret came approach,

An apology followed suite with its tail between its legs.

I remember the sensation had abducted my body and mind

Letting me into a world of irrationality

What just happened?

Twas just an anger rush I said.