Featured Poem: Threnody: For An Old World War Soldier

Featured Poem: Threnody: For An Old World War Soldier - by Martins Deep

Threnody: For An Old World War
Soldier

My arm has become too feeble-
To lift and wave the flag-pole.
Too weak to manly grab the sword.
Too numb to feel the trigger of the
riffle.

Home so distant : bullet closer to my
heart.
No lover. Mother dead. Except
brownie my three-legged cat.
I seek solitude on an old bible for
warmth.
I am pained to my bones for the light I never got in my youth.

The stars twinkle no more to invite-
My youthful limbs to the heights.
My prided rank has turned sour.
There is no bet on me for the evening fights.

The voice of the grave now within
earshot
Cold and dreadful its call like a dark poet's.
There is no future to pursue or dream on.
Except as it is believed; my spirit will fly from this house of dust.

They'll sing a favourite hymn of mine-
And etch an epitaph with an elegiac
rhyme.
My corpse shall teach the transcience of life.
And this shall I attain; to be alive in their hearts for a season and time.

- Martins O'Deep

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...

Letter To My Son

Dear Son Try to forget that nothing waits in the dark, raise your shoulder high wave off the frea and step into that lane. Won't you rather be gone in there than stay out here playing the coward? Get up now, son everyone falls. #Pengician #SSA http://bit.ly/2haEhoj

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...

Jaachi Writes

Search This Blog