Ngozi Olivia Osuoha is a young Nigerian poet/ writer and a graduate of Estate Management. She has some experience in banking and broadcasting. She has published some works abroad in some foreign magazines in Ghana, Liberia, India and Canada, among others. She enjoys writing.
THE LABOUR OF OUR HEROES PAST
Dazzling, crystal like a golden eagle
Young, green like a green eagle
Gentle, calm like a super eagle
Confident, relaxed like the big boss
Hopeful, lively like tomorrow
Keshi, you broke my heart.
You were better than an idol
Taller, higher than an icon
More conspicous than a beacon
Wider than a model
Wonderful like a citadel
The captain, the coach, the champ.
Your smile charmed defeat
Your courage shone on a glass house
You exhumed classy aura
None expected that you bow now
Our first world cup, you were there
Rasheed Yekini, Uche Okafor
A squad too unique to be gone,
Sam Okoye, Sam Okwaraji, Shaibu Amodu
A battalion too sophisticated to be conquered.
The flight of death crashed your fight
The plight of nature took your sight
The pain outweighs the gain
Yet the gain stampedes the pain,
A hole worse than a vacuum
An abyss so unfathomable;
You left in our heart.
Bore the cross of a boss with less loss
Shone dignity and integrity
Half mast flags, twenty gun-salute
Medals of honour, immortalization
All; some volumes and editions
You remain a statue and of monument
You shattered the domain of sports
Stephen, the football martyr.
I wished you became a sports' minister
To fix the pieces of the glass house
I wished you became a soccer god
Or like adidas, puma and nike
I wished you became a better Bora
Or a mightier Clement Westerholf
I wish your wife never died
I wish you were never gone,
Left unannounced, unprepared
Keshi, you broke our heart.
More than a hero
Far, yet close like a friend
This tune of june
Heavy pain, heavy heart, heavy ink
Delta, Nigeria, Africa, the world
This piece is so empty
Because Keshi broke my heart.
My Captain, My Coach
My Boss, My Legend
You were a patriot so sound
A compatriot so resounding
If you still have eyes
You would see us devastated
We pray you find perfect peace
Stephen, a saint from his labour, rests.
IN MEMORY OF SOK (1962-2016) AND ALL OUR FOOTBALL LEGENDS WHO FELL ASLEEP
DEAR CHINUA ACHEBE
At night, in the village square
At gathering for moonlight tales
I tell the dwindling hope of my people,
In a theatre it unfolds like a movie
I see their agony,
In a theatre like a sugeon stitching a torn flesh,
I feel their pain
I watch them wail and weep
As they swim in aches and navigate the trauma,
Penetrate the pores of hardship
And permeate the rocks of starvation
Because the center holds no more
Things are falling apart
And they are no longer at ease,
They mourn like a widow mourning her murdered son
And a virgin weeping for her slain soldier.
From the river bank i watch
As the storm disband fishes
And wave blow up beaches
I watch tide sweep the shores away.
Titanic, yet sinking
Rowing, yet steady
Floating, yet drowning
Coagulating debris and fungi
Dead, like a dead sea.
Far from the madding crowd
I watch the struggle
As they labour and toil in vain
Harvesting vanity and waste
The outrageous disaster,
And the flooding blood
A rhetorical question
None dares ask nor answer.
Dear Chinua Achebe
Things are falling apart
I think there was a country with the arrow of God
Maybe they kept it like those that captured "the ark of covenant".
The banner of illiteracy engulfed our land
And chain of ignorance betrothed our fate,
The fetters of superstition clouded our peace
Then came the egocentric god to rescue
The god that indeed came against us, used us against us
The stranger that bought our ancestors
Enslaved our fathers, married our mothers
The tyrant that we served, guarded and worshipped
That one, that broke our center
Cracked our wall and made us fall apart
The one that sold and bought us for nothing.
Dear Chinua Achebe,
He bewitched us to practise witchcraft on ourselves
Till now things remain fallen apart
As though our womb bore no talents
As if our land was thorn instead of crown
As though we had no patriarch of gold
Brave and bold,
As if there was no matriarch of ruby, sacred and consecrated.
Robin Wyatt Dunn lives in Los Angeles.
this great confusion
hums my voice into being
I am mighty in the evening
when everything is gone
except the past.
the past is in me; present.
I am mighty when I send you words
hearing the thought glean its essence in the fade from right to wrong
and love to heartache
in the motion of lips into the sound
I bless your thought too;
though I have never met you.
Still, this is a greeting,
for your tomb.
she speaks over the earth,
like a fountain
giggling in her rush downwards to the sea
she isn't here
but I can feel her in my head,
this dizzy weight.
Men feel the absence of a woman as this headache;
suppurated under the scalp,
little mountains pushing up from the salty waters
men know to construct a logic for the woman's absence;
that though she is gone there is hope for her return
because he can feel her absence,
and this sense is her
willful midnight and rain
all the barky poems of youth, groaning to its musical party.
the black plague of education
and our bedfellows,
nourishing the rot, and the reign of our games.
all the pretty things glow quietly at night,
when we are tired,
and the rush of the rain glows over my glasses,
and we pretend.
I'll smile and slip under your cuff
like a smoking prank under the hood of your car
to remind you how glorious it is to laugh at your own misfortune
this game life plays on you,
I won't go
when I go
I'll stay here
when I go
when you go
I'll stay here
and say I was you
I'll go as you
and tell you to stay
so I can go too.
I'll go with you
when I stay
so you can leave
and I'll know all the things you saw
she's dancing near a fire
I can see her eyes; a ghost
ghost, come closer
I want to hear you breathing
In August 2015 Alan Britt was invited by the Ecuadorian House of Culture Benjamín Carrión in Quito, Ecuador as part of a cultural exchange of poets between Ecuador and the United States. During his visit, he participated in the international literary conference sponsored by La hermandad de las palabras 2015 in Babahoyo, Ecuador. He served as judge for the 2013 The Bitter Oleander Press Library of Poetry Book Award. His interview at The Library of Congress for The Poet and the Poem aired on Pacifica Radio, January 2013. His latest books include Violin Smoke (bilingual English/Hungarian): 2015; Lost Among the Hours: 2015, Parabola Dreams (with Silvia Scheibli): 2013 and Alone with the Terrible Universe: 2011. He teaches English/Creative Writing at Towson University.
ALAN BRITT: Library of Congress Interview:
COLOR OF LOVE
The color of love?
As if, as if?
As if that easy.
As if banal
as TV advertising makes
it out to be.
as though an earthquake
rocks a birthday party
not fit for a queen, exactly,
but the spitting image
of a queen.
Blood, like Old Faithful,
spews molecules & atoms,
& it’s the atoms, or parts
of atoms: protons, neutrons,
electrons, quarks flirting like quarks
did before Darwin,
quarks in your walnut eyelashes,
in your lips, quarks that escape
the razor wire of your smile,
quarks massaging atoms
causing them to magnetize
every square inch of flesh,
synapses like a Chinese
4th of July or Baudelaire
upsetting a bourgeois military
celebration, quarks with minds
of their own,
Below my right lung, in a lexicon reserved for family, crow chortles the sunrise. Baby daughter, Nat Geo antennae aslant folded wings, waddles my liver scraping sleepy beak against her mom's feathers gleaming like moonlit tar. Mother’s beak sifts black rainbows beneath daughter's icicle neck, seeking lice, ticks & naive politicians. Snatches a governor from Arizona & deposits her into the concrete artery feeding my stomach—I belch & awaken the entire nest.
Papaya sun bleeds stringy walnut branches lining the perimeter of a pasture. Six crows cross foreheads, yellow-spotted, russet & watercolor rose, the dewy foreheads of oaks & elms, joining murder in a maple to observe moments of silence for young male broken by UPS truck yesterday noon, pausing for ritual, proper service for this young'un who chased dragonflies & sounded the chilly alarm for goshawks on the prowl. One onyx feather graces the desk of a poet who loves crows . . . others scattered by a pomegranate breeze across gravel just before, in unison, all fifty-five crows explode like flecks of pepper into the bloody dawn.
Steel clip, black beak with silver jaws
of machine oil crushing fingernails.
Eyes, blue Monet lilies, cloud my living
room, speaking of past, present & future.
Well, Canadian Goose who forgot
to fly south, you're in a pickle.
Enough or too much, Bill reminds?
Sometimes, enough is enough.
THE INDUSTRIAL REVOLUTION
This one takes you to the dust, grinds you
into a smooth, stained longleaf pine warehouse floor,
inner Boston, 1850’s,
for the bustling Industrial Revolution.
This one takes you to the limits of credible sensibility,
as though, as though.
This one thinks time is a button
on the crinkled collar of an all-cotton
button-down pinstripe spinning wheel.
Moses bobs beneath the apricot bug light.
This one tastes like genocide to a lowland gorilla.
This one’s askew, unless one considers interspecies love,
a la that senator from out west.
This one takes you to the dust, grinds you
into a smooth, stained chestnut warehouse floor,
nestled along the banks of the Charles, 1850’s
or so, for the bustling Industrial Revolution.
I’m worn out.
I’ve been in love for a long time,
feels like forever,
but now I’m worn out.
Have mercy on my shoe salesman’s soul,
plus a few designer infidelities.
I only want the good life.
You know, one that includes gypsies
in sea slug Spanish dancer dresses
rippling the currents of imagination,
not that I’ve known a gypsy firsthand--
supermarket romances exaggerated--
but believe me, no one in his proper attitude
would fall for an Italian banana slinging
cans of stewed tomatoes using Russian
analog controls from two Cold War
gunboats built back when the world
hissed like Mount St. Helens.
Sorry about the forever—nothing changes
forever—I’m just too worn out to know
Ken Allan Dronsfield is a Published Poet and Author originally from New Hampshire, now residing in Oklahoma. He enjoys thunderstorms, walking in the woods at night and spending time with his cats Merlin and Willa. Ken is the Co-Editor of the new Poetry Anthology titled, "Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze" available at Amazon.com. His published work can be found in Journals, Magazines and Blogs throughout the Web including: Indiana Voice Journal, Belle Reve Journal, Scarlet Leaf Review, Peeking Cat Magazine, Dead Snakes, Bewildering Stories and many others.
Winter storm of inglorious snow
finding a home in higher lands
melting to an harmonious tune
slowly cascading in icy rushes
granite rocks and rough water
telling tales of highland woes
journey to a bluish of oceans
from wood, swamp and glade
pious path of fearless doubts
wildflower's hum in rhymes
seers decree honored vows
life giving blood to all nature
reverent thoughts move along
scowls and frowns devoid here
beauty and mystique whisper
a mountain stream runs down.
Rainbow wings upon a terracotta roof
pink or yellow houses bright in the sun
chickens squawk as the lazy dogs nap
goats and pigs run awaiting their lunch
breezes from the harbor welcomed by all
fisherman along the beach cast for dinner
marshmallow clouds moving very slowly
island in my dreams, come talk for awhile.
Raindrops of falling magic
spatter upon a metal roof
melodious sleeping tunes
warm tea welcomes tired lips
fluffy pillow and comforter await
carry me to a restful fantasy
pup is fed and candles smolder
slide into dreams, cat at my feet.
To sleep, to sleep; the moon yawns.
the stars softly whisper adieu, adieu.
(First Published, Whispers of the Wind Blog)
leaf strewn empty lot
little children absent
numbers in color chalk
laughs from yesterday.
bike rack bent & twisted
fences missing and rust
kids watch from the steps
question looks, zero trust
police car resting, tireless
oak tree darkened by fire
windows smashed, silence
ode to those fallen, lifeless.
Impatiently waiting for twilight's final gasp
a Summer's heated feted night sings away
breezes of lightness bend grasses so softly
ducks needing rest, now land upon the bay
lighting a Camel and watch the smoke rise
into a star filled sky of a darkish purple haze
sitting on the porch as the small waves crest
while an airliner high in the sky heads east.
citronella is lit as mosquito's now swarming
a full moon reaches towards a nervous sky
drifting in thought like a misty fog passing
in a blink of an eye, candle wicks dance.
life brings to boil memories of time gone
years spent in poor health, minus wealth
as I've never been the most important thing
to friends or anybody, not even to myself.
Jenny Santellano is a poet from Chicago, Illinois. Some of her other poetry can be found in The Beatnik Cowboy, Section 8 Magazine, Random Poem Tree, and Dead Snakes.
Happy Smiley People
Life hinders living,
and I don’t have
to die to prove it
I’ve got forty eight
years of evidence
People hate truth
They rather stay
silent or smother
their fellow man
in comfy lies
They think that
makes them wise
Don’t raise your voice
or lose control
God forbid anyone
should actually hear
what you’re thinking
They might label you
insane, lock you up,
or throw another
bottle of pills at you
Humanity is staying
calm, cautious, and
are being sold as
sex slaves, heads are
being severed on live
tv, and cops are killing
kids for looking at them
the wrong way
I should keep my mouth
shut when I hear others
saying stupid shit
“Turn the other cheek”
Mind my own business
Dreams are hidden in second chances,
Runaway, no food or clothes
A drug dealer no-show
Singer with no band
Money, no hands
One bad trade
The Canyon of My Heart
The canyon of my heart is filled
with angst, joy, and pain
It is deep as it is vague in memories
of moments that have passed
Sorted sorrows sift soulfully through
timeless truths that travel tellingly
At the bottom lies love, languishing,
hopeful, wishing for harmony
Rising to the top, lingering around
the edge, is you
You, who knows the secret path
to the door that leads to nowhere,
an empty, dark nothingness,
where the answer is what it is.
Poet FETHI SASSI was born on the 1st of June 1962 in Nabeul Tunisia . A writer of prose poetry and short poems. He participated in several national literary meetings. A member in the Tunisian Writers' Union. And member in the Literature Club at the cultural center of Sousse. His first book of poetry entitled "A Seed of Love" was published in the year 2010. The second entitled “ I dream …. And “I sign on birds the last words " in 2013. The third book of poetry " a sky for a strange bird “ in Egypt. And a short poem book entitled “All the universe is only the face of my beloved”.
A wild woman
Poem Arabic translated by Monia Zguidi
I say ...
Why don't I go astray Burdened by winter
Probing into the realm of the poem ?
That's why my mother told me :
Don't drink milk with the jerk
Ride towards the north of the night ….
And drink her face ...
No shadow left you ; but what befalls you
Is the alienation of exiles upon the last cloud
That splintered in the tavern of the night
In fact ….
you desire nothing but a wild woman ….
Bones of a tree that changes its clothes for your forthcoming wedding
And a poem that wets the hair of water with a ballad ...
Thus we parted like a hug ….
Therefore, my son you have to woo your wound ...
So that you pick up an amazement from her lips
Come in and let the sun bathe her face in your hands ...
Let the coal of the story blaze with your longing
Dwell in fire to warm up the poem
On the shadow of the factors
Definitely the lightening will dwell stealthily in her cup of coffee.
So you become ....
The stature of roses ... and a tavern of tears
Then at the extremity of the threads of poetry
Bathe in the salt of her lips
Lay the absence on fire ….
So that the rose grows old with her bleeding fragrance
And the poem peeps on my fingertips
The evening smells the metaphor
excessive in counting its fingertips
The spikes yearn for the call ....
And the story remains like a tattoo on the shoulder of
Poem is Arabic translated by Fethi Sassi
I do not reflect on eternity
But all the history is that I rebuke
the wind in the introduced poem ….
I roistering as god does in the poet‘s funeral ceremony
I lie down on a tree border embracing baby fruit
embroider my face on my shoulder
and scatter climates of nostalgia …
For suckling desire from bundle talk
But the milk cries if breate history is gushing out
a dream lost on the sly with peeps stars …..
I have no face to wet my confusion in a sky
for a new happiness
I will seclude in the bottom of the absence
And scratch his extravagant night …
Intimidate the silence to the resignation of
and collect pebbles to court ache flutes ….
My name is Moses Chukwuemeka Daniel, I am from Ebonyi state Nigeria, Africa. I am a young African writer and poet.
'Echo of our girls(chibok)
chibok where are thy girls?
Chibok where is thy pride?
Just yesterday we felt her smile,
Today she is not in sight.
Do you hear the boom boom!!?
I bet they are now in gloom,
Which architecture designed this doom?
Will tomorrow sweep us all like dirt too ?
I hear in that place,
Those who see don't say,
Those who say don't live,
Really they Do not leave.
every night they get clothed with fright,
Every night they get cuddled by cries,
They see men but no one to call father,
They sorrow as they beg the night the beauty she once had.
everyday dreams and aspirations get broken,
Every night the pride between the legs get stolen,
Sometimes it seems the journey is never ending,
But they never stop praying and wishing.
Every beginning is like it's end,
Even the ground is no longer a friend,
Our girls get saved from their saviours,
Just to get hidden from the beauty of tomorrow.
Every night I hear her voice,
That endless banging in my heart,
Every night I feel her love,
When I spin over and she is no where to be found.
Chibok fight a good fight,
We don't say good morning,
Until the night is over,
Always remember tomorrow will be fine.
What is love?
What is love when brothers stab at back?
what is love when all we get are broken hearts?
what is love when a mother sells her child?
What is love when life is a waste of time?
Love is but hate when it bears envy,
friendship is but a game when it lacks truth,
brothers are but animals when they decide to kill,
the world is a jungle when humans are choped like fruits.
What is love in the hands of care?
What is love when we leave in fear?
What is love when we know no change?
What is love when a heart can't feel?
In the clutches of ripe wickedness,
when man finally stops caring or sharing,
sin feels the air with throes,
what is man when love is the answer?
When man sleep with one eye shut and other lit open,
when men are charity in the hands of death,
our original beauty are hidden in rage and hate,
what is man when love is the answer?
Richard King Perkins II is a state-sponsored advocate for residents in long-term care facilities. He lives in Crystal Lake, IL with his wife, Vickie and daughter, Sage. He is a three-time Pushcart nominee and a Best of the Net nominee. Writing for six years, his work has appeared in more than a thousand publications including The Louisiana Review, Bluestem, Emrys Journal, Sierra Nevada Review, Roanoke Review, The Red Cedar Review and The William and Mary Review. He has poems forthcoming in Hawai’i Review, Sugar House Review, Plainsongs, Free State Review and Texas Review.
The Soldering Point
As when living is the newest thrill
roots becoming rooted
I begin to consider first words,
an initial impression becoming intimacy--
it’s you and it should be you; my partner
in beneficent laughter and the bestowing of rings,
comforting with chrysanthemums
and the nectar of hummingbirds.
But within exhilaration and discovered serendipity,
respiring bells offer perpetual intervention;
the completion of a full circle, the soldering point,
a small crown resting infinitely above you.
The rich bruise of deepest space
pulses with sacerdotal smiles
upon the ludus of your skin,
the exigence of your willing capacity.
But if you’re trying to assert the shibboleth
of your demi-humanity--
waiting for sanguine completion
in a form
only you can envision;
then I’m only a sad approximation
or even a total apostasy
of all that you once imagined.
Still, if there’s a possibility;
something beyond chemicals and science
and the farrago of simple faith,
I will come to you in that
wearing the guise of your childhood prayers
and press myself
into your sad absence
until your throat sighs
and you believe in a moment of eternity
and that the laughing gods of infinity
are somehow satisfied as well.
Breakdown of the Given World
When I was asked what other era I’d live in if given the choice
I said “Any dystopian future. The war against the machines,
zombie apocalypse, alien invasion, gamma world or thought-police state
would all be acceptable.”
I thought I was being funny but I’m usually not
so I’ve been forced to take my answer seriously--
I’ll do best in a time when lying, risk-taking and guiltlessness
have become first-nature.
In a handful of years, when the first few billion are enslaved or dead
and I show up at your cave or bunker, I’ll tell you that I’m here to help.
My smile will appear as a fowler’s snare of sincerity.
The feathers wedged in the corners of my mouth will be ignored.
I don’t remember what you said that first night--
slenderly in light extinguished,
the curving pleasure of incalculable intimacy.
I’m learning to enjoy the soft rain
and the tenuous tresses on my skin
as you fill my lungs with color and gratification.
The dissonance of our carillon
splinters the metaphor we thought we were--
strains of human moonlight swooped upon earth.
But this is only the other side of something blue.
We’ve become a distortion of understanding,
advocates of a ruthless love begging mercy.
You tell me that you think we deserve a testament
filled with burgeoning powerful clarity like we found
last night in the flesh reverie that could only be now.
When time crawls sideways
I experience your neck, back, breasts, thighs
in infinite variety--
a hallucinogen in starlight;
and in the background
the old man sings on
with poetry surpassing finite.
Chaitali Gawade's writerly musings are fuelled by tea and coffee. Her work has been published by Unbroken Journal, Duckbill Anthology and Vagabondage Press, among others. She blogs at chaitaligawade.com
I peel layers of earth,
lay pipes big enough
for the canal to turn course
as the sun breaks out,
harsh cries of crows pierce
vehicles rush by.
It's time for lunch when
the sun rides above me.
I sit under a tamarind tree,
it does all it can to offer solace
through its sparse leaves.
Puddles from yesterday's rain
keep me company as I eat
curd rice from a tin plate.
Some distance ahead
a street dog rummages through
a large garbage dump
searching for lunch.
Finding none he moves on to
My tattered purple saree
hangs from a sturdy branch,
a temporary cradle
for my baby girl, her
face towards the sky.
I am caged in words
that soothe me,
peel onion layers
of blackened bruises
from my orphaned skies.
Their sound rushes
to embrace my
well used soul,
they jump at me
like monkeys on rail tracks.
My flowers are drenched in letters
raining words into my existence.
Bulbuls in pairs on lamp-posts,
drenched in sudden
Don Beukes is originally from Cape Town, South Africa where he was born, raised and educated in the last two decades of Apartheid. He is a retired English and Geography teacher, now weaving words and have only been published since August 2015, writing about global issues affecting our global village and trying to adjust our moral compass. His work has appeared in Indiana Voice Journal, Prachya Review, Tuck Magazine, Dissident Voice, The Voices Project, GloMag and others and is to be a featured Contemporary World Poet in Asian Signature in the June 2016 issue. He has been published in two Anthologies by Creative Talents Unleashed; 'Shades of the Same Skin' and 'Poetic Melodies' and the forthcoming 'Selfhood' anthology by Transcendent Zero Press.
The 'Aapstrak' Quadrilogy
Gnilegnoj- Part One
They call me Gnilegnoj
I’m aware my features disturb
you just cannot help yourself,
with breath gasping
hands frantically clasping
your whole being not grasping.
Your heart instantaneously a wreckage
battling to absorb the message
questioning my metamorphoses
was I constructed by dark forces?
My UFO eyes leaving you mesmerised
your thoughts a galactic black hole
clashing with your brainwashing -
You mock and chastise me
my traumatic existence not free
my uniqueness not celebrated -
My kind universally
My forefathers a vicious circle,
My ruby fiery blue blood flow
gushing onto my biological glow
so there you are
Here I am
their clown confiscated,
My kind intrusively stared at
like a monstrous pre-historic
If you could only take the leap
your prejudice streak,
You might look at me and see
your blinding reflection
wouldn’t you agree?
I am you,
They call me
Egnis Ednarg - Part Two
As I retreat from yet
another mayhem mission
I fail to purify my veiled vision,
My position dictated
by royal commission
I yearn for a renewed identity -
Who is this murderous
My pulsating heart no more
a sacred sanctuary
I am all seeing
all knowing -
Oh, the curse of an anointed king
enforcing the reviled royal sting!
My stained ancient face splattered
with the spoils and coils
of senseless savage wars
not even I remember the cause,
Sheepishly abiding to our extinct
defunct porous laws
with its obvious catastrophic flaws.
My mission a clever ruse
showered in ruby rouge
if only to aimlessly amuse,
I do what must be done
in order for us to thrive
Furiously battling to survive
as I gaze over
the cancerous carnage
I am overcome by echoing emotion
amidst the confused commotion,
Lamenting our rumination and ruination,
Clinging to a false legacy
overshadowed by a tainted tribal ecstasy.
I am known as Egnis Ednarg
I have served my time,
bleeding multi-coloured blood,
Our ephemeral state
not truly sublime.
Volcon- Part Three
My fiery baptised name is Volcon
I have beady piercing fire-rock
eyes like a falcon -
My spiral temper burns and
erupts like a gurgling volcano
if you dare to look at me
adjust your gawping gaze
or I might blind you at this stage.
My title was sparked by
the royal Egnis Ednarg,
What he does not suspect
is my steaming hatred
with immediate effect,
His heir is rumoured to
be announced for sure,
He is known to me and you
as that disgusting freak of nature
I dare not share my murderous thoughts
or even divulge a slight hint
what do you think?
The elders often meet in secret
sharing vicious tales
and prophesies most sacred
igniting my swirling atomic anger
confirming my secret
bloodline and crowning
as rightful future defender.
My dead-stare pearly midnight eyes
witness things you dare not believe,
Am I entitled to take
what is rightfully mine
disturb the current order sublime?
You will most probably never understand
my inner turmoil and heritage grand -
It drowns me in a bottomless hole
tears me apart
my heart dark charcoal,
Venomous rumours puncture my loyalty,
The time has come to
annihilate false royalty!
No time for regret the trap set
left with no choice
my challenging flag to hoist,
My jealousy no confusion
it feeds my chosen mission -
I dare not falter now
my crown awaits,
are you with me
to witness unimaginable
Gnilredou- Part Four
At first glance
you might think I'm
in a geriatric trance
or perhaps my war-torn physique
dilutes my proud nation's mystique -
I share a bloodline regal and rare
powerful warriors born from my lair.
I am Ouderling
fondly known as Gnilredou
the royal heir Gnilegnoj,
His brittle life in
imminent mortal danger
disturbingly not from
a foreign stranger,
My physical state
might just dictate
my ultimate foretold fate
although history dictates
it will suffer from
jealous related hate.
The elders have secretly gathered
to speak of an unknown dangerous heir
I supposedly fathered,
Known amongst us as the devious one
none other than that opportunist Volcon!
In hindsight I now regret sending my
grandchild to war -
He failed miserably
to settle that ancient score,
His defeat pitifully punctured
my tired heart,
I do not mourn the slain king
Our legacy will echo eternal
our leadership to remain
purely paternal -
If you dare to look more closely
you might even possibly see
the omnipresent face of my ancestor,
Valiant true defender
The enigmatic and heroic