Featured: Cold Letter - Poem by Martins Deep

COLD LETTER

There were fireflies like genies with lamps

And the wind that played harps

For the forest's slow dance.

Did we ever return without new songs?

There were battles to vanquish sleep

We yearned the fields of mystery our sickles to reap

Who would soon forget the kiss of heaven

That nightly turns owls into joyous bards and maestro the raven?

Home held cascades for inner refreshing

Old books and mother's hymns unending

Father always ready, stories of war to tell by the furnace

Karn and Evangeline with science obsessed.

Here I am before the mirror, half myself reflecting

My soul has eloped offshore with my peace

I must seek it and what was so enchanting

That I pay dearly with broken hearts and brooks of tears.

I must seek it wherever the stars will lead

With my cruel captain to be the tempestuous wind

With grief do not our hanging castles destroy

For I will return to be your little boy.

Cry. My tears from my end a confluence with yours will make.

Lie. I will from my end in my dreams you to warmly embrace.

Sing. Duet will belive coals to keep the cold away.

String the waves into sleep while I sail.

Smile and be like the lighthouse guiding me home.

Pray I return not myself a shadow

Vile will be the days you do not say a prayer

And I a ready meal become to the great sea monster.

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...

The Curve And Colors Of Hate | Uwen Precious Ogban

The Curve And Colors Of Hate When the evening news had broken Father spoke with a tone of pain and anger “Nigeria is a whore,” And my mother agreed Painting sensual scenes giving you pleasure of what looks like a garden that hides a landmine. And how trying to walk through it becomes slippery A journey asking for crimson libations, full of fractures and ‘Had I knowns’ while you looked over the fence for greener pastures Her sighs spoke of a menu full of thrills but you are served double horrors She, Nigeria, abhors you later on when it relinquishes you of value, Truly, she is an old ‘Whore’ My Father picked it from there, “Nigeria gets hard as rock” Wants of men despised Sullen moods recorded in poems, speeches, and events, snubbed For as long as it makes sultry suplex’s on a comfortable ring – Nigeria is satisfied “Son, Nigeria is you, your mum and I” Guilty to a fault Pained by happenings that come with fire and brimstone Let loose from bellies that should hold patriotis...

Featured Poem: Slavery In Africa - by Uwen Precious Ogban

SLAVERY IN AFRICA We believe they rowed their boats of tumults into our region; carrying with them bags of conundrums, while we drummed our drums and jollied to their, intonation. The way they dressed, the way they addressed us Made us mime to the harmony and yearns in their speeches of a dawn to civility and hale: that was a start of the course of slavery in Africa. We still thought they were our brothers, because our chiefs rolled floridly with their proposals While we were mockingly disposed of In the field, or given to bespoken tailors as apprehends; as helps; in servitude; ‘posed to carry out orders as the come in flicks. We became babies in our own motherland we became cartage of their foreign plans. We cleared our huts so that they could find comfy and build on our strengths draining our tears as they wryly whipped us on our backs. Their wisdom their prowess They used to molest And we gazed in cluelessness Cause we still didn’t see it as slavery then – but as pain, so enjoyable....

Jaachi Writes

Search This Blog