Skip to main content

The Miles Between Us | Stefn Sylvester Anyatonwu



POEM 351: THE MILES BETWEEN US


i have come to realize that 

i always love that which is miles away 
from roving copters and floating trains

my inability to commit to that
which is as close as my nose
to my face than my toes

the fear of holding love in scarred hands 
and having it too close 
it becomes thorns, this rose

so i let go of the gold at hand
and reach out for silver at bay

could it be that i love the thrill 
of love found across gleaming oceans 
of starlight plucked off the sky
instead of settling for candlelight?

could be there lies safety, by default,
that distance makes heart overtly fond,
but distrust stares me in the face
and whispers, 'heartbreak is your fate'

though goodnights awful be 
because cuddles i wouldn't feel
but the love that burns inside
covers many a thousand miles

from where i dwell to where you dwell 
is a bridge that spells out our heart
in letters that wear the shape of trust
and hum the vocabulary of love

but why do your lips tremble
whenever the tingly strings are pulled?
shouldn't the miles between us
be a never slacking bond?

and why do i over words, stumble
whenever the chords of passion are pulled?
but what i feel pleases my soul
this ours to share and own

from the streets of Uyo
into the suburbs of Aba
Imma, i'd love to know,
would you love me from afar?


Enjoyed reading?


Please leave a comment and share with friends. Thank you! 
 

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

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....