joseph-ogbeide - Hello Poetry

The crunch Of the leaves that Carpet the earth Beneath me Is not music to My ears. Yet, The still light Of a demure sun on The scattered shades of brown On gold, and gold on the wilting Crisp reminder of a season Just gone, is a Beauty that should leave one Amused. Yet on this day, When the sky holds No clouds, and the air, with the chill of death itself, Takes every breath and gives one the colour of the dead. I can not help but think Of what One very tiny spark might do to all This... Perhaps Anguish, fear, destruction and maybe even despair, and then Again It might not even burn too far. But I know that if such a flame should tame the wind, the heritage it might leave for us; ashes, soot, charred wood, Though the first of things to come, Will be in time, the least of our thoughts. Many new days shall come, With new joys, fears and sadness In humble mix. But on this very tranquil day I only imagined what a small flame could do to the last vestiges Of a season past.

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Sep 13, 2014

Sep 13, 2014 at 8:36 AM UTC

One Morning in Harmattan

The crunch Of the leaves that Carpet the earth Beneath me Is not music to My ears. Yet, The still light Of a demure sun on The scattered shades of brown On gold, and gold on the wilting Crisp reminder of a season Just gone, is a Beauty that should leave one Amused. Yet on this day, When the sky holds No clouds, and the air, with the chill of death itself, Takes every breath and gives one the colour of the dead. I can not help but think Of what One very tiny spark might do to all This... Perhaps Anguish, fear, destruction and maybe even despair, and then Again It might not even burn too far. But I know that if such a flame should tame the wind, the heritage it might leave for us; ashes, soot, charred wood, Though the first of things to come, Will be in time, the least of our thoughts. Many new days shall come, With new joys, fears and sadness In humble mix. But on this very tranquil day I only imagined what a small flame could do to the last vestiges Of a season past.

37

No more lies the hope That we will be witnesses When your dreams unfold.

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Dec 18, 2013

Dec 18, 2013 at 12:01 AM UTC

Goodnight My Friend.

No more lies the hope That we will be witnesses When your dreams unfold.

3

I'm dreaming in this nightmare, It's a jungle out here, The market's full of bulls and bears Fighting for who gets the lion's share No one cares, The human soul is dear No more. Life's an unseen war, We're at war with us, Our kids grow in a world so vicious, Everyone is the competition They've got to outwit every competitor If they don't want to be eaten, So our little ones grow To love only those in their pride. Welcome to life's own roller-coaster ride There's more terror than amusement.

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Feb 8, 2013

Feb 8, 2013 at 4:24 AM UTC

Dreaming in this nightmare.

I'm dreaming in this nightmare, It's a jungle out here, The market's full of bulls and bears Fighting for who gets the lion's share No one cares, The human soul is dear No more. Life's an unseen war, We're at war with us, Our kids grow in a world so vicious, Everyone is the competition They've got to outwit every competitor If they don't want to be eaten, So our little ones grow To love only those in their pride. Welcome to life's own roller-coaster ride There's more terror than amusement.

17

Here for The charms of many tomorrows Today's splendour, And a Blossoming before We wilt with The reminscence of yesterday's fading. Returning, To enrich The times For those beyond.

0

Jan 7, 2013

Jan 7, 2013 at 3:59 AM UTC

Untitled.

Here for The charms of many tomorrows Today's splendour, And a Blossoming before We wilt with The reminscence of yesterday's fading. Returning, To enrich The times For those beyond.

10

We shut our minds from the reality of that which there is, then we delve deep into unassumed perceptions, not without thought but with utmost self denial. The truth becomes art painted by our very hands, which more often than not is the abstract we do not comprehend, but yet smile in appreciation of. Not to be considered foolish, we succumb to this.... pleasurable nonsense of being one like all. I look at us and I smile because I see that We are frail, we are weak, we are foolish, we are human.

0

Nov 26, 2012

Nov 26, 2012 at 11:58 AM UTC

We.

We shut our minds from the reality of that which there is, then we delve deep into unassumed perceptions, not without thought but with utmost self denial. The truth becomes art painted by our very hands, which more often than not is the abstract we do not comprehend, but yet smile in appreciation of. Not to be considered foolish, we succumb to this.... pleasurable nonsense of being one like all. I look at us and I smile because I see that We are frail, we are weak, we are foolish, we are human.

24

I am what I was not. Yet to be what I will. I am, so I shall

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Nov 26, 2012

Nov 26, 2012 at 11:56 AM UTC

Becoming Me.

I am what I was not. Yet to be what I will. I am, so I shall

8

This darkness has always been, and from it he comes, to give us heaven. This moment short as it is is the only salvation he knows, for he dies often and resurrects for moments ephemeral. Our cheers sedate his anguish, evoke his passion and then only then can he reach the depths of his soul. Here, he can go on no more. Curtains are drawn, Lights go off, ... and it is dark again.

0

Nov 26, 2012

Nov 26, 2012 at 11:55 AM UTC

Blind Pianist.

This darkness has always been, and from it he comes, to give us heaven. This moment short as it is is the only salvation he knows, for he dies often and resurrects for moments ephemeral. Our cheers sedate his anguish, evoke his passion and then only then can he reach the depths of his soul. Here, he can go on no more. Curtains are drawn, Lights go off, ... and it is dark again.

28

Is the man the artist? Or the artist the man? Are the strokes the man's and the works the artist's? The man can paint but so does the artist. Does the work betray the man in the artist? Or the artist in the man? The work we see was done by who?

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Nov 26, 2012

Nov 26, 2012 at 7:50 AM UTC

Birthed By Who.

Is the man the artist? Or the artist the man? Are the strokes the man's and the works the artist's? The man can paint but so does the artist. Does the work betray the man in the artist? Or the artist in the man? The work we see was done by who?

11

This short stint beneath the sun has seen me stretching for the stars, for nothing other than knowing that before the earth shades what I must shed I took a chance to reach for what seemed beyond me, if not for a thing at all to savour the joy of labouring to be more than what I might have been.

0

Nov 26, 2012

Nov 26, 2012 at 7:49 AM UTC

Ahead

This short stint beneath the sun has seen me stretching for the stars, for nothing other than knowing that before the earth shades what I must shed I took a chance to reach for what seemed beyond me, if not for a thing at all to savour the joy of labouring to be more than what I might have been.

18

You shall don no silk gloves, tailcoats or even a tophat, all you'll have is an assembly of a scattered and yet attentive audience, and you, the performer. Pleasantly it is not fear that will make you nearly light-headed, it is the demand that you must perform. a few breaths in, and a smirk on your face, and voila.... Your act, miserably enchanting as it has been, is amazing to those only simpler than yourself. Much in the same way as you are taken by something more grand. Few tricks here, few tricks there, is all the magic we have to get us by.

0

Nov 26, 2012

Nov 26, 2012 at 7:46 AM UTC

A few tricks

You shall don no silk gloves, tailcoats or even a tophat, all you'll have is an assembly of a scattered and yet attentive audience, and you, the performer. Pleasantly it is not fear that will make you nearly light-headed, it is the demand that you must perform. a few breaths in, and a smirk on your face, and voila.... Your act, miserably enchanting as it has been, is amazing to those only simpler than yourself. Much in the same way as you are taken by something more grand. Few tricks here, few tricks there, is all the magic we have to get us by.

22