This is a fight against a human blight.
A careful walk on swinging long tightrope.
This unique day became an eerie night...
but not without the rays of brilliant hope.
The streets are silent sans the blaring horns,
the air is clear sans nauseous smells of gas
and the sky has painted again the sacred morn,
unseen by moderns; as clean as polished glass.
The devil is out alone spreading on streets,
swinging a giant dragnet in million hands.
Our standoff foils its plans and silence beats
her vile advance with fast mutating strands.
At last let's clap and ring the holy bells
of togetherness, where devil never dwells.
(About CORONA virus)
She is at large
a devil or an angel?
Solitude among kith and kin...
like cutting cruel chainsaw.
mute behind face masks
Street dogs singing doggerels,
birds chirping first time
in human jungle,
and vermins creeping on roads
in procession, like royal entourage.
they redeemed their lost domains!
gang raped a multitude!
Michael lives with his lovely wife, Catherine, and still-precocious 17 year-old daughter, Jenetta, in a house with a magnificent Maine Coon (Jill) and two high-spirited Chihuahuas (Coco and Blue). He is an educator (like his wife) residing in the Coachella Valley near Palm Springs, California. Some of his recent poems, either published or included in print anthologies have appeared in the Coachella Review, Pioneertown, Better Than Starbucks, Poetry Pacific, Anti-Heroin Chic, and The Literary Hatchet.
These Are the Days of Covid-19
“We can never have enough of Nature.” –Thoreau
(Nowadays, there’s no dining out),
These are the days of covid-19.
Stuck inside of a quarantine
(While garden seeds begin to sprout),
It’s a good time for going green.
The Op-Ed page is no longer seen
(Chalk one up for media drought),
These are the Days of Covid-19.
Just like some Dickensian scene,
Another family goes without
(It’s a good time for going green).
A virulent sheen —unfelt, unseen
(The coronavirus spreads throughout).
These are the days of Covid-19.
What will all these changes mean,
(When it’s over will we go out,
Or stay at home and just go green…)?
Hold onto hope like a magic bean
and look within, become devout
(It’s a good time for going green);
These are the days of Covid-19.
Ndaba`s poems have been widely anthologised . Sibanda is the author of Love O’clock, The Dead Must Be Sobbing, Football of Fools, Cutting-edge Cache: Unsympathetic Untruth, Of the Saliva and the Tongue,The Gushungo Way and When Inspiration Sings In Silence. His work is featured in The Anthology House, in The New Shoots Anthology, and in The Van Gogh Anthology, and A Worldwide Anthology of One Hundred Poetic Intersections. Some of Ndaba`s works are found or forthcoming in Page & Spine, Peeking Cat, Piker Press , The Ofi Press Magazine ,SCARLET LEAF REVIEW Universidad Complutense de Madrid, Amazon.ca and the Pangolin.
A Conservationist’s Cough Of Concern
a tour, he thought about green
beauty in relation to the ugliness
of dead beasts, fishes, birds,
insects and leaves-- lost lives;
his name was Jabu Mtshana,
as he caught sight of the debris:
the destroyed homes, he felt
a certain mass of sympathy
and pain pinch, weigh on him,
and he remembered how folks
used to probe, ask him whether
ecosystems shaped and served
as an agent of positive change
and regeneration and titivation,
he thought about prescribed fires
and how they support wildlife
by creating new habitat or
improving existing habitat;
but he looked around and saw
devastation, dismay and death,
wildfires had consumed it all--
wildlife habitat and timber, all gone,
the conservationist visualized
and sensed adverse developments:
an upsurge in air pollution , eye
and respiratory tract irritations,
coughing, nose and throat rage,
a decreased in lung function,
a rise in stress, soil erosion, floods
and landslides, a climate change crisis,
he saw losses of shelter, food ,money,
ashes ,hospitalizations ,burns, injuries;
and an increase in carbon dioxide
into the sky, into the atmosphere ,
and felt the tang ,smell of wildfires;
he coughed, coughed and choked
on the swelling plumes of the smoke
A Pretty Prodigy From Binga
off by prophets of doom
who define and confine
one based on their whims
hailing from deep down
in Binga, rustic and poor,
the diviners of disasters
looked down upon her
but professors professed
that her sharpness was
on a raised, rare podium,
an acuteness`s stadium,
and her accessories and
clothing were intuitions
on a rump, Ntombi cruised
and danced and devoured
a feast of words, a fashion
show of figures and facts
a studious student studied
like a supermodel catwalking
to high acclaim on a walkway
of elegance and intelligence,
her confidence conferred rays
of sunshine, polish and poise
on the pages of assignments,
exams and heavy cogitations,
she shamed scholarly schemes
and hypnotized her professors
A Cute Queenly Choreographer
like a dazzling mermaid born
in the lake of high-tech and info
her movements in dance or staged dance
are a descendant of real royalty and ease
a colossal appetite for soul and mbaqanga
she epitomizes art or practice of designing
choreographic sequences, as she marches
a march of history that glows with memories
her dance compositions are an archaeology of diaries
that sail with my mind to the Christmases of yesteryear
her moves collaborate in real time with a seamless skill
Searching For It High And Low
waters that she had been engulfing, soaking
in had spanked her out of the slick of sobriety
onto another planet , one of high hilarity--
when she strode about like a stand-up
comedian and gushed: where`s my pup?
my mind has decided to disappear
with my dear pup, it`s my sphere!
when I weighed in on it with: real?
that means as we speak, it’s official
that you`re mindless, or rather irrational,
she denied with: no, no, I just feel very free,
I added: makes sense, you’re sloshed or high!
but she went on: it must be on vacation on another
planet, the fact of the matter is I don’t have another,
I’m looking for it everywhere, and if you bump into it, bind
it or tell it: dear mind, mind your business, she`s solely sound,
why buzz away from her with her pup? why?, or except if you find
joy in jostling her into a mindless queen, that`s mean and unsound!
No Blues In Bluethoothing Fun And Feels
technology-savvy ,lazy ,dozy fooling fella
dreamed of an explosion of interest
in bluetooth, then he had visions
sending his beautiful burly bride
whose nest was in another city
the freshest of food & fun plus
cute ,costly confectionaries
and decorated dictionaries
of fondness and fondles
Please No Games
“please just honorably tell me
that you’re not ready and willing
to pay up, so that I could savvy what
to do, I`m tired of your games and lies”
the debtor responded, “then sir, don’t play
those games, so that I could grasp what to do too”
smooth plastic tubing.
Wrinkles on the hospital
gown itched my thin frame.
A pillow felt like a child’s
rubbery toy but scented with
disinfectant. My toys once
smelled of my mother’s
Shalimar not Clorox.
Was I supposed to believe
the person watching blips
on monitors affixed to
smooth skin was
Summer/fall 2013 SNReview ©2013 Lois Greene Stone
reprinted Shemom Winter 2013 issue
some emotionally unavailable,
and some where the love was never balanced.
But I’ve never felt this haze in my room,
I’ve never felt this in-sync,
As if you’ve been in here with me hundreds of times before.
You know when to get on top,
and I know when to slow down.
We don’t have to talk about it but we do anyway.
The lights call our names and the sheets pull us in.
Let’s never go to bed,
let’s stay in it all night.
The way he snaps his fingers when he can’t collect a thought,
and exhales when there’s too many.
I want to pick his brain.
I want to know how he came to be the I’ve met,
and how far he’s come from the boy I knew.
“The devil’s in the details”, he said.
Ruin the Friendship
watching you laugh at one of my jokes,
I’m remembering how good it was.
When we weren’t afraid,
when I thought there was a chance,
and when the sex took my breathe away.
But since we’re moving on,
we decided to put that to the side.
Where’s the line that we shouldn’t cross?
As I sit across the table,
remembering how your lips felt,
I’m wondering what would happen if we crossed that line.
I wanted to continue running my fingers up and down his chest,
Kissing his neck.
Because being with a man that I don’t love was better than being alone.
But I did.
My heart is on the line.
I got up
And went home at 1AM because I thought of what it felt
to feel alone in a relationship,
and that feels much more empty than an empty bed.
walk on the sand,
and fly above the waves.
To not have a worry in the world.
But I’m not a seagull,
I have worries,
I cry more often than I should,
And some days I just don’t want to live.
I wish the world was quiet.
But when it quiets down the voices in my head get louder.
Oh how wonderful it would be to be a seagull.
Life Isn’t Beachy
To the Women of Millais’ Mariana
I see you rising from the table.
Your fingers move about your hips,
Kneading the soft flesh taut with centuries of work.
I see you stitching.
The colours of your mind bleeding into your needle,
The needle working the colours onto cloth,
So as grew dreary your mind,
The brighter grew the fabric
And the designs more intricate.
You who await Angelo.
Which Angelo do you wait for, I wonder,
The one that never comes?
Or the one that comes for all?
O nameless Marianas awaiting nameless Angelos,
Who had come for our grandmothers?
I was in China after my husband left for the war,
Left me smiling,
Left without noticing the little quiver trying to pull my lips down.
It rained one day.
I was there, and there was this flower.
Nothing out of the ordinary,
Just like me.
Then, suddenly, I could see through it.
And I wept.
Wept the tears I could not weep
When my husband left with so many husbands, fathers, sons.
With heavier eyes and lighter heart,
I looked at the flower.
Rain had cleared us both.
He came in late at night.
I was afraid,
Drink makes beasts of men.
This one remained a perfect gentleman.
‘Where’s home?’ I said- my shift was almost over-
‘Won’t you go home?’
‘Over there’, he said, arm stretched towards the doorway.
‘Go safely’, I said. ‘There’s a storm brewing’.
The manager handed me a note the next morning.
‘Damned right you were about the storm’, it said. ‘We’re heaving anchor before it hits’.
On a cloudy day,
I’ll go up to the terrace and ask the sea,
‘Has he made it home yet?’
Reaching for Adam’s sons,
We call them the Polar Lights.
Jack Homer is a computer simulation modeler and public policy analyst who lives in New York’s Hudson Valley. More of Jack’s poetry may be found in the small collections, “Idle Chatter: Poems of the Daily Grind” (2016) and “False Equivalents: Dispatches from an Angst-Ridden Land” (2021), available through Amazon.com.
Brings pears picked from the old tree,
A tree that was here before we were.
We must snare the pears before
They fall to the ground,
Clanging off the tin roof of the shed
In their descent to the soil,
Soon chomped by the greedy deer.
Eve has claimed a paltry few,
Spotted, uneven, and hard
Sitting in the little terracotta bowl
Trying to ripen on the warm back porch
Of late summer.
Not so great eaten whole, she says,
But maybe we could make pear chutney.
Still, even a week later, they remain hard as rocks.
Ten summers have passed in our little yellow house,
And the tree has never produced pliant fruit.
Let’s face it, I say, it’s a crappy old tree,
Despite its numerical bounty and craggy good looks,
Providing sustenance and shade
To the does and their wobbly spotted fawns,
Appreciated by our porch pooch and other sunset spectators,
But of limited usefulness to fancy country folks like us
Looking for finer fare.
Two weeks after excision of the starboard testicle.
And there, by gar, is his human counterpart,
Signor Deflato, the pirate,
Former master of the seas,
Finding it hard to sit still for long,
Seized up inside and walking the plank,
His baggy eyes covered by a bloody blindfold.
Ancient animal, ancient mariner,
Both need the rush of action,
Else drag them leeward, land ho,
Put out to pasture
Under a picturesque headstone on the hill.
Will whale and pirate rise again?
Can they overlook the gouging
That has rendered the wrinkled flesh and the sagging spirit?
Can they move on to delight again in the waves
In spite of their weeping wounds?
No one understands the will of a whale,
Nor that of the pirate backing off the plank
Stepping back into the frigate, his hairy heart intact;
Stumbling over to the portside deck
To salute his blubbery nemesis
And to begin (shouting hell with them all) again.
When the alternative is self-serving blather.
So many of these words say nothing solid or illuminating:
The saplings are too green,
While the thick-trunked send out no branches.
Who is there to value the substantial and oppose the common noise?
To separate the thoughtful from the muddled,
The straight from the distorted?
The noise clogs our senses
And infects our speech.
We are full of the noise and,
Wishing to be heard,
We make more.
Be here sometimes
A 6-year grueling mega-marathon,
I thirsted for escape to exotic places,
To see my face reflected in some murky global water,
Far from Massachusetts, far from an Institute, far from Technology.
For four months in 1983 I tramped solo through south Asia,
Two of them in India experiencing big-sky highs and dysenteric lows;
I became acculturated and tanned to the point that some in the south mistook me for a visitor from Delhi or Mumbai,
And I read modern Indian philosophy and history books during the evenings and the long train rides.
I was intrigued by Jiddu Krishnamurti
Who says that freedom and fulfillment are found in being unattached,
Choosing nothing, planning nothing,
Being here now.
But ultimately it didn’t ring true.
My free mind doesn’t always want to be here;
It wants to move from present to past to future and back--
Taking apart, putting together, assessing, accepting,
Spinning inward and inward, then outward and outward.
I know that the mind can get trapped,
Bogged down in reliving the past
Or worrying about the future.
So, then, be a little goalless, be here more,
Let go—but realistically, just for a spell.
Because really, who can keep being here now?
Only one being I know, my bouncy puppy,
Whose exuberance knows no bounds,
And who would (if I let him) chase the ball across the street
Without looking left or right.
It’s good he has an owner
Who thought ahead and bought a leash.
So there I was in 1983, this wandering human,
Congenitally cautious but youthfully curious,
Walking by a lake, caught in a Rajasthani rainstorm,
Invited into a tent, tilting my head to say yes,
To sip hot chai ladled from the urn on the dirt floor,
Saying dhanyavaad with wet palms pressed,
And exchanging a few simple words in English
About how I walked there and where I would walk afterwards.
A memorable moment, of course,
But I knew I would never see that place again.
I returned to my path back home,
Got back to work, back to the obligations;
Those leashes that help provide an arc of meaning,
Though in the end we are not here at all.
If it’s all the same
The other time
I left things this way
There was no Sturm und Drang
Nor suggestion that I was a villain
But still every word left someone
Twisting in the wind I blew.
What do you mean, “fun”,
And do you think it can be induced
When all the world is sobering
My insides like shifting sands
Or waves rolling over the main deck of
A ship in a nighttime sea?
It should be easier to move on
When everything is about moving on
Roll with the punches, say experts,
But no feeling person masters this
Not because the punches foreshadow Death
But because each one is a death in miniature.
A throwback to the thought of a future
Populated by clear-headed folks
With mirror neurons intact
Feet on the ground
Eyes soft with compassion.
But never mind,
It was never going to happen.
The benign invisible hand was crushed
By the weight of billions
But more so by the clever ones who thought
They had a better idea
To speed the propellers faster.
It was something to do,
And it felt like progress
While it lasted.
I’m ready for an answer
Or at least an indication
Of what is working and what is not.
The anointed ones say there are no answers.
Well, hmm, they say many things and
In the end are as limp and confused as anyone.
Listen to your heart blah blah blah,
Be sure to blah blah blah blah.
Why say more
When the added words don’t awaken or inspire anyone
Except some adolescents and addled older dreamers
Giving them shallow hopes soon enough dashed
On shoals of—blah.
It was fine for a while
And then it just ended--
No pain, no gain, if it don’t kill me
Then surely it’ll make me better
At swallowing it the next time.
I’d better mess around somewhere else.
Maybe that’ll be better;
Yeah, I bet that’ll work out fine.
I tried to build a nice square frame
A kind of raised bed
For the toes that needed aligning;
The perfect structure but
The feet didn’t make their way to my door
And I had to venture out
On a mission to capture by persuasion
Or by stepping on the toes;
But my heart wasn’t in it
And I sat stone-faced alone,
Because one must not be self-pitying.
You hoped for fulfillment
In a never-ending conversation:
Diverging, converging, encompassing,
Giving meaning beyond the mundane,
Pulling upward not sideways.
Instead, you got a yo-yo life, the best available.
Poet-translator Lorraine Caputo’s works appear in over 250 journals on six continents; and 18 collections of poetry – including On Galápagos Shores (dancing girl press, 2019) and Escape to the Sea (Origami Poems Project, 2021). She journeys through Latin America, listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth.
barks a pack of isolated dogs
each caged in its own house
down the streets
A lone car passes
through the desolation
The music, the voices of a late, late movie
filter from some darkened room
its windows closed against the chill
Water in the plaza fountain
tumbles, spilling upon worn stones
Heavy clouds make this
city’s night lighter
A distant church tolls the
Then a nearer one
a nearer one
The deep solid clangs
resonate down narrow alleys
down these empty streets
lightens the sea-
misted sky, silhouetting
Below my balcony
a pace of burros
the dry forest
barely heard above
the surf’s wash
At a distant
a cock greets
the borning day
Stephan Tashoff has been writing poetry for more than thirty years. He writes to remove the constraints of the common form of poetry. For Stephan, writing is a path, a means of getting his feelings from one place to the next. There is nothing more enjoyable than linking words together, cleverly, to create a moment. Whether that moment is filled with love or sadness, both can lead to a significant moment in Stephan's poetry that the reader can partake in.
Stephan believes there is a uniqueness in his writing. It strays from the commonalities of the mainstream. In every sentence, Stephan tries to embark on a romantic journey with words.
Stephan has a fondness for love, and when he writes, love’s life flows in between the words he strings together. A blank screen to Stephan is like a fresh white canvas to a painter. The story does not exist until he links his thoughts to words on the screen.
Stephan has published several poems in poetic journals. Stephan enjoys writing for the love of creation. He hopes you will enjoy his work. Stephan chooses to push the limits of his use of language and takes risks in all that he writes.
The Great Schism
When noon tolls,
darkness encroaches the borders
of my soul.
There is a March on the corner
of my greatness.
Yet the smile from a flower’s stem
can send me weightless.
There is a chance for upheaval
In every beginning.
Though, I plant my dreams in soil.
Nurture is through practitioning.
There is a shatter in the crease
of every minute.
That which is far greater than ourselves
then we could have ever imagined.
Mirrored time is merely the epicenter
of one’s ending
to another’s beginning.
There is a line of spotted glory
earmarking our own schism.
Love is threatened
to the left of our searching, while the right,
the brightest side clings to our love’s story.
When Night Cannot Sleep
the day can’t stay awake.
I can see it behind
the inside of my eyes’
It is the brighter side
of light that remains elusive
to absent hands in the darkness.
What champions life
are the buttresses
of sovereign love.
the waves that crash against tempered glass
softens the face of strength’s anger.
Regret is temptation
from an egos laughter burgeoned from failure.
What is coupled to a smile?
Is knowing we can do better.
Something Worth Promising
the catch of lace against your skin.
My eyes cannot pin
the relevance of your curves to my heart’s prism.
In a heretic’s wisdom
With a pinch, reality mutes my vision
Our bodies promise illusion
In an underpinning collapse of our symmetry
I feel of your body’s poetry
What is given is received in the synonym of delight
It is my lips that are in twilight
A soft glow atop as we lay supine
you have speared mine
amongst angels afloat.
I grip and let go,
and fall from the sheets of divinity.
I rinse in your serenity. I chase the Sol of your expression
glancing touch of affection
A performance steeped in flatter!
Between a second parallel of time and emotion
A confluent ocean
brimmed in the majesty of our own animation.
Better than my own imagination
My gait...shuttered with fatigue
I lasted for a league.
Never once did we have to enjoy something missing
You are something worth promising.
Silence awoke me.
My panic increases, and I cried out, but my voice was taken. My breathing became more rapid, but my chest felt constricted like a rubber band was around my lungs. I sat alone, though Silence was in the room. Then Darkness arrived and sat with me. Humbly I lowered my head, and like sound, words escaped me.
Moments past where I could neither see nor hear! Then my emptiness deepened and began to fill the void. I questioned how nothing could fill up something? Then clarity came into focus... Silence can be heard, and Darkness can be seen! And as quickly as they arrived, Darkness lifted and stood before me. My voice returned, and I asked, "Where are you going?" I watched as its mass narrowed and light peeked around its body.
I remained at the foot of the bed. I could hear my breath again and my heartbeat. I still was not sure what I was experiencing. Was I dead or alive? But something else was coming; my fear rose in anticipation of its arrival. I stood up from the bed and turned around behind me. I turned back, and I was no longer in my room but rather in an open field. I was still barefoot, sweats, and no shirt. I looked up; skies were blue and not a cloud in sight for miles. I looked down and around and as far as the eye could see were soft rolling hills of bright green grass perfectly landscaped to the same height.
I began to walk forward slowly. It was useless to pick a particular direction because there wasn't a landmark to help me determine a destination! Step by step, I walked to nowhere. I looked up, looked down, then around, and repeat. Over and over! It seemed I had traveled for miles, then at some point, I had looked down at my feet, and I was no longer alone. I froze, and I looked to my right, and Death was accompanying me! Its form was not crisp, and I could not distinguish its face, but its presence was light and not heavy as I would have imagined. We walked together without a single word exchanged. Then eventually, my tension with him subsided and I felt compelled to share what I had written about him before. I slowed my pace and recited this line, "Death is a closed-door we're afraid to open up. Too frightened to be curious about what it might show us!"
Immediately afterward, I gained nothing from him. It was as if my words went unheard. Then slowly, I began to sense that what I said soothed him. His step softened, and the space he took next to me seemed to have gotten smaller. We walked together for what seemed like hours until we reached a point wherein the distance I could see the leaves of a tree rise above the hills. I ran away from Death as fast as I could. Exhausted from running, I fell to my knees at the base of the tree.
The wind picked up, bringing the tree alive by rustling the leaves. But in the leaves moving, I heard Life speak to me. It sounded like a whisper in the wind passing my ears, saying, "Your life could not exist without you!" I understood what it meant. Your Life is not yours alone. You share a part of yourself with everyone you love. You are always relied upon, and you're giving impacts the world around them. It could be considered the most selfish belief that one's Life is solely their own. I stood back away from the tree, taking in everything that had been revealed. Then all four rose before me... Silence, Darkness, Life, and Death. I got a sense that they were pleased with me, for through them I had come to know me!
Her smile, so clever; even today it brightens the sky's mind outside.
I saw the pause in her question before it escaped, "Why do we breathe?" her arm shot up toward heaven's ceiling, fetching my hand.
I spoke words as soft as a Spring flower's breath...so that we may live to Love, Zay!!
There's a kingdom on the moon that lives in the hands of morning Sunshine, surrounded by an ocean that glistens like blue dimes. And inside, you will find the dreams of a child's laughter.
And in that same vein as grandeur are row upon row of polished orbs touched by celestial gold.
These ornate spheres rest in vanilla oak trays Until the arrival of a star pronounces your name.
For there is only one ball cast for every soul behind heaven's gate. And when these gates open, you can hear the orchestra summon the march of winged saints. Escorted by summer doves flickering in the moon's dust.
Love begins with the soft grass whistling under his feet. It is the tickle of his flesh from your heart's joy that he's remembering ever since he was a boy.
Because an August love occurs with every birth and in that love, there is another on the moon that coalesces with yours on Earth.
If you could only see what takes place when each of your orbs is released with swift speed, falling like autumn leaves from a Vermont Birch tree.
The colors, the silence that moves through the air, the roll of each sphere on its marble run, with beautiful chaos and its climbing peaks, watching your ball descend as if life was pushing you two to meet.
With near misses, collisions, all of which were meant to put you back on track.
France was just the beginning...love took a deep breath and whispered in your ear for you to say, "Yes."
And in that precise moment, just as the seas rush from the shores of Galilee, your orbs converged in a solar eclipse at the bottom of the run. When the world looked up, your love was etched in Bailey's Beads encircling the Sun!!
NGOZI OLIVIA OSUOHA is a Nigerian poet/writer/thinker. A graduate of Estate Management with experience in Banking and Broadcasting. She has published over one hundred poems/articles in over ten countries. Her first two longest poems of 355 and 560 verses titled THE TRANSFORMATION TRAIN and LETTER TO MY UNBORN published in Kenya and Canada respectively are available on Amazon. She has also featured in over ten international anthologies/books/blogs. She is a passionate African ink.
VOICES OF THE MARGINALIZED
Yearning and yawning to be heard,
They are hidden, stigmatized
And some truncated.
See, they die in trauma and with trauma
They are sick of trauma
Down, downcast, downtrodden in downtown
They look yonder and they wonder
Because they are marginalized.
Hunger, poverty, segregation, discrimination
Hate, bitterness and greed against them,
No one ever cares to hear or save them.
Voices, chants, prayers, wishes and dreams
Visions, missions and assignments
They wander in chaos
And wonder in bias,
Life dawns darkness on them.
Look, hear them roar, listen, help them soar
They have wings like eagles
Let them live without shackles.
CHILD AND WOMEN ABUSE
They bear talents and dreams
Lineages hook and line along them
Posterity anchors on them.
We kill them by actions and inactions
Abusing lives and misusing gifts,
We keep them far from peace.
We bring war carefully
And crush them carelessly
Mess them up for pleasure
Ruining futures carelessly and carefully.
Abuses, curses, and fates
Barricading hopes and love
Silencing peace and unity
Demarcating the world.
Children see hell, before being sent to hell
Women taste hell before trekking to hell
The world just hurts.
But we can keep them safe
Develop and love them better,
Children and women are lovely
Great gifts from nature
Beautiful treasures to be cherished
Yet we harm them cruelly.
THE FOOLISH MAJORITY
Garnering raw courage,
Rolling in ignorance
Causing huge nuisance.
Wayward women on gear
Speeding without fear,
Jerking at random
Wishing for stardom.
The foolish majority
Rising against the minority,
Riding on the wings of gang-up
Sliding through frame-up.
Uncultured, unmannered, untrained
Insincere, inhumane, insane
Free for all, abusive
Uncoordinated, unconstitutional, repulsive.
See them in kinsmen
See them in semen
The foolish majority
A family of bandits,
The portable entity
A family of dirty habits.
They have a goal
So dark like charcoal,
They dig coal
Just to burn up truths.
They steal dowries
And sell cowries,
They swallow moons
And swear by noons.
FAR FROM THE MADDING CROWD
They think you are possessed,
When you are far from the madding crowd
They call you a witch.
They call you names
To cover their games,
They paint you black
To gather their back.
See, look, listen, and hear
They live in darkness
Staggering in hate
And swerving in bitterness,
They hire mates to lay siege.
When you are far from the madding crowd
By being sane and sound,
They cook diverse holes in whole
Just to scatter and shatter.
They block and mount roadblocks
They are snipers and whisperers,
Shooting, and murmuring
Looting, and devouring.
They are evildoers
Doing wrong, piling up insanity,
Divers of ugly trends
Trending horror and terror.
They gather for evil
They backbite, gossip and blackmail
Scandals give them blood
Slandering and defamation inspire them
Character assassination is their sole aim,
They jubilate over crimes they perform
And celebrate their atrocities.
Far from the madding crowd, heroes are
Giants become ashes by these foilers
Legends turn crazy from them; toilers
So the foolish majority sound like thunders
Instigating, inciting, indicting
But a day of reckoning is coming,
Let them not cry foul when visited.
DEAR MIKE EJEAGHA
We shall give thanks that you lived, yes, we shall. Out of your generation, you stood unique and outstanding. You challenged nature with pure nature and matched it with reality. Thank you so much for the brave march.
Dear Mike, how did you do it? How were you able to shine so tremendously well that darkness even appreciated you, evil acknowledged you, and reality honoured you?
See, your tales speak philosophies, mysteries, puzzles, and imaginations. Your tunes turn situations, and your teachings tear blindness apart. How did you overcome ignorance in such cruel a world?
Please blow me some kisses, and send me some roses, let this your love over-here smile through storms as well.
Your legendary style is several scores and many dozens weird. How do I imagine that you ever aged, dearest Mike?
If no one ever wrote you love letters anymore, take this from me, and let it ride you home. I would be here smiling in harmony at your melodious rhythms when you are gone.
Dear Mike, love knows no age, brighten up once again, you are deeply loved. Uwa mgbede ka nma.
If this meets you well, it would be published in other countries to tell boundaries that generations are yet on the way.
Remember that words are swords, balms and rivers...in them all, you fought and won.
You came, you saw, you conquered. Mission accomplished, purpose outspoken, and destiny fulfilled.
Thank you, dear teacher.
Your little strange love,
Ngozi Olivia Osuoha
It is a puzzle that I cannot comprehend,
Power surprises me
It is a wonder that I cannot fathom.
Power humiliates more than it elevates
It suppresses and oppresses
Power intimidates and annihilates
It confuses and bruises.
Power keeps me thinking
It leaves me even sinking,
As I try to decipher
All I see is Lucifer.
Power shines bright
Tending to bring light,
But it shows might
Challenging the poor to fight.
Power is cruel
It is a fuel
Burning and fuming
Killing and betraying,
Power troubles me a lot.
Loud, bold, tough, and rough
Never getting enough
Rude, crude, raw, tearing each jaw
Power mesmerizes humanity.
Be kind, be gentle, be humane
There is God
There is future
Life is uncertain
Take a deep breath, dear power.
ALEX ANDY PHUONG
AUGUST ROSE CROTHERS
LOIS GREENE STONE
MICHAEL C. SEEGER
MYDAVOLU VENKATA SESHA SATHYANARAYANA
NGOZI OLIVIA OSUOHA