Hope - Stefn Sylvester Anyatonwu

Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life. - Proverbs 13:12

POEM 106: HOPE

It's a year on the verge of almost

that I have not seen her glow

rising from behind the mountain over there

to smile on me when I wallow in my mire.

It's a year on the verge of almost

that I have not heard her sweet growl

running beside guitar chords

to tickle my heart when I sob.

It's surely never, never, never

the possibility of falling over

into the warm embrace of her arms

for succor when reticent I am.

Thunderstorms are louder

Nightmares are scarier

When will the blue sky be bluer

and my sun patched garden greener?

Oh how high my hopes were

Lo! how low reality dives!

Yet I know someday, she'll appear at the horizon

and smile down on me with sweet glow of her song.

It's a year on the verge of almost

almost throwing in the towel

but her last song whispered growth,

it's said 'it shall be well'

So happy my saliva I swallow

and in this mire I wallow

because it's at the verge of almost

my heart shall by hope glow

It's a year on the verge of almost

Oh here comes the whirlwind of hope

...and this cloud of thickened doubts

shall away be blown.

- Stefn Sylvester Anyatonwu

#365DaysOfPoetry

#Pengician

#SSA

Enjoyed reading? Please help my blog grow by leaving a comment and sharing with friends.

Thank you.

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