Featured Poem: Vanity At The Door

Featured Poem: Vanity At The Door - by Martins Deep

Featured Poem: Vanity At The Door - by Martins Deep

You can hear the market noise

And in the very midst detect that voice.

Stories available are all a tragedy.

At the door knocks Vanity.

A guest unbidden is at the door

Beckoning the victim of want to venture.

"Go away!" You bark at it

And curse him with no regret.

He's passing by your block again

His rich perfume heralds him

The beast within

That barked yesterday is going lame.

Your needs attends you

Weeping in your empty teacup

You sip and spew

And vow to keep your door locked up.

Life turns out to be a guitar on one string

And circumstances have changed the lyric of all that you sing.

Midnight and you are nursing a wailing stomach

Ears intently poised to hear the guest's knock.

You unlock the bolt and let the door ajar.

He turns a friend that was a stranger.

You kiss his brow and apologize

But man is here for business. He tells you the price.

There is no going back. You've got wheat, oil and silver

Your eyes wide open, you can now see

You should have waited in hunger

And hummed on "best beer is for the thirsty."

Your joy is taken and Vanity cares not a little.

Your peace is wrested with cold hands.

Frustration ends it with whispers most subtle

and calls the crowd proudly saying "there the fool hangs"

Vanity breaks not through the door

Nor steals through the window.

Its wares are beauteous when one is poor

And unwise to wait a little longer in hope.

Comments

Fiction | The Tripod Effect

THE TRIPOD EFFECT The Smiths were unable to conceive children and decided to use a surrogate father to start their family. On the day the surrogate father was to arrive, Mr. Smith kissed his wife and said, "I'm off. The man should be here soon" Half an hour later, just by chance a door- to-door baby photographer rang the doorbell, hoping to make a sale. "Good morning, madam. I've come to...." "Oh, no need to explain. I've been expecting you," Mrs. Smith cut in. "Really?" the photographer asked. "Well, good. I've made a speciality of babies" "That's what my husband and I had hoped. Please come in and have a seat" After a moment, she asked, blushing, "Well, where do we start?" "Leave everything to me. I usually try two in the bathtub, one on the couch and perhaps a couple on the bed. Sometimes the living room floor is fun too; you can really spread out!" "Bathtub, living room floo...

RIP: Return If Possible (Ode to my High School crush)

She would wink at me from the corner of her eyes. She would dare to slap the tallest in my class if he dares bully me for penning his name in my list of noise makers. She would share her pen when mine is spent. She would help me take notes when sick I lay in bed. She played my advocate even when I least deserve it. Her height, though intimidating earned more of my admiration. Her fingers Her palms though long and bold compared to my petite own were my favourite to hold. She was loud and noisy not never made the list. She would speak Igbo and wink 'you dare not write my name' Her drawings, I did when others I snub. JSS 3 to SSS 1 I crushed on this pretty girl But I was too shy to ink that poem. I left without letting you know how much I care. Had no time to appreciate your kind gestures undeserved defense... You were my crush. Augusta, When I found first Facebook you were the first I searched to add... In vain I searched You were not found. I stalked the walls of our cl...

Featured Poem: What Happens When A Poet Falls In Love - by Martin Deep

Dusk brings the charms to my lips It would seem. The moon is here and My tongue is ripe with whispers. I can whisper now For my eyes are weary From telling poetry. How you were enchanted with the rhyme my sighs poured when I touched your fountain head! The candles have gone all out The muse has drunk up the oil of the lamp to the last droplet. The innocent wigs dies noiselessly. Is this what happens when a poet falls in love? That my trashcan becomes the graveyard for my pen That lay like thankless knights That have bled to please their mistress for quests unsent. Is this what happens when a poet falls in love? That the innocence of papers are stolen? How so many have cried in the merciless flames sentenced thus 'bearers of unworthy words' So pure our love is my love. So true. A cherub perhaps is ravished and he cries to God to have him be our ring bearer . What other fulfillment is greater than our spirits soaring in each other's eyes? Is this what happens when a poet fal...

Jaachi Writes

Search This Blog