Mama,
I did not know the promises
I made
I simply chose the boxes you said were right
A rebel,
I sought after a dream
but could not be all the other things necessary
Who knew passion misplaced
Could be an affliction,
a storm?
My love and fear collide
Fighting for primacy
A broken promise,
I have become
The storm I couldn't weather.
Aug 30, 2020
Aug 30, 2020 at 10:36 PM UTC
The land lay desolate,
marred by its caretaker
who rent it for a fortune.
The land lies desolate
gutted by the undertaker
to bury the one who lived in the moment
but forgot the adage:
The land was borrowed from our children's children's children...
Sep 16, 2017
Sep 16, 2017 at 10:55 AM UTC
Crestfallen, he searches a brumous world
for a part he ripped off her.
She bleeds, forsaken, bereft.
Part of you dies with those you slay.
Sep 16, 2017
Sep 16, 2017 at 10:53 AM UTC
On one bleak day, a fetid drop landed on my raiment;
A large bird of prey soared the clear sky,
Then plummeted towards us like a thunder bolt.
In a flash, it had my hapless little Roquie on its claws.
Like an irate child in a brat-ish tantrum,
I chased and cursed that endangered ******* to its eyry,
But all I got was the sound of dining steel claws and beak,
Complemented by fading whimpers, and dripping blood.
The idiot of prey was oblivious, even to my vicious Appolonia;
Overwhelmed by hopelessness, I tumbled, and wept.
Reflecting on it, I feel for the lowly Have-nots of society;
The plight of being helplessly preyed upon by Haves above.
Appoh's gloomy eyes search the doggy heavens for retribution;
For rare hazy days when the idiots break wings,
When they fall prey to prey.
Maybe one bleak day...
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 3:27 AM UTC
I hail from lands that might seem strange to you my dear
So I have many things to tell you
But I waste much time in trying to make the story short
and encoding it in the language you understand
Sometimes I get lost in poetic mazes of my own making
As for my bloodshot eyes
it's just a thing that comes with writerly insomnia
But you see
the thing with writerly insomnia is life threatening:
I have been staring at blank pages for hours
pondering:
the ink I put, wont it only yield blotted pages?
©victorpoetry
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 6:20 PM UTC
I looked as you got out from the house
I was suddenly swayed by your manliness
So lovely and rugged in your checkered shirt
Dark beard so scruffy and muscles so rippling.
You slowly walked towards me like a panther
The birds suddenly sang ting a ling a ling ding ****
You slowly stretched your arms and whispered
Huh? But I cannot hear what you say, what is it?
Are you going to **** me at this very moment?
With just your looks you can but I beg you don’t!
You sized me up and down and I was scared but then
Thank goodness you are simply a Lumbersexual.
You opened the zipper of your worn-out jeans
Ooohh! What a huge “hatchet” you have there
You poured everything and I accepted silently
I cannot complain nor retreat for I am just a tree!
Oct 23, 2016
Oct 23, 2016 at 8:29 AM UTC
Life’s tide was too high,
But I was calm and content;
As the raging waves steered me on the right path
Then I heard her husky voice,
She sang of hurt; of hearts bruised by my kind,
I got curious, and cruised off course to her.
I found her; a dark and ominous angel,
She is a stunning hour glass, from waist to chest,
With enchanting long raven black mane.
On that day she wore tight fitting floral-prints,
Her ***** overstretching her flimsy bodice;
Honestly, that is all I could see there and then,
Deep in my heart, though, I wanted to see beyond that,
To behold the beauty of her heart,
But as I got nearer her,
her voice became deeper and harsh, with emotion,
She flinched, choked on her lyrics,
And started bobbing in and out of the water
I thought she was drowning,
And wanted to dive in for her;
Being from the land, I could not swim,
But I let myself fall for her, into the icy water,
I clung unto her; shivering but subdued.
We held for a moment; she breathing heavily on my ear
And I on her nape,
Kindling a fire I knew I would never douse
We swayed to her tune, during that priceless moment,
Her fish tail grazed my legs; I cringed,
So she flinched sheepishly, slid off my hold and swam away
Leaving me to the vices of the sea;
Only her beautiful face remains vivid.
Her song was still resonant in my heart as I expired;
She sang me to death.
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 6:09 AM UTC
The sun is risen above the summit of a mountain- a Dwala-
Beaming, chasing darkness away;
Rejuvenating the veld as the dew shimmers,
Pasture assumes its deep brown lustre
As if trying to blend with the golden sun’s rays;
The Dwala – where it had momentarily perched-
Has slowly set it free for its westerly journey
My Tropical Savannah is a beauty:
Deep brown pasture in summer, clustered bushes, umbrella trees
Irregular footpaths run across its plains,
I assume one of them leads to you,
But as I trace them, they shy away at a distant horizon,
As if the sky is eating them up
***
The sun brings a light breeze mid-flight,
It blows softly on my quill,
Making a melody with the fur;
Whistling a song on the brim of my inkwell
On one footpath, I spot two love birds coming from the well,
The damsel is balancing an earthen calabash on her head;
My lips crease into a marvel-smile at their chatter and carefree laughter
I am surprised at myself for sharing their moment of bliss,
But then, it is always easy to share happiness.
Bliss is…abstract,
*As the beauty and radiance of our sun
But the burden of sadness is…concrete,
*Something I can share with you,
Only after I trace these footpaths beyond the horizon
***
The dying sun perches on a faraway ridge like an alter offering
Its deep brown rays permeate the foliage.
By and by, colours fade away with darkness.
The veld now looks old and beaten, almost gothic,
The sun is gone, leaving a trace of a blue-brown spectrum;
I hope it has come to you my dear,
With the same happiness it brings me
***
Darkness sets in.
Though my sentiments are hurt at the thought of having to close my inkwell,
I love the sweet calmness reigning in harmony with the sound of nocturnals,
Besides, seeing another beautiful sunrise is enough consolation.
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 2:49 AM UTC
Glory be to You Christ for these blooming Jacarandas
with ramified leafless branches
pointing up to the clear welkin of this Savanna noon,
their delicate purple flowers scattered
all over the school courtyard,
they stir my memory of a time
at this same place,
the days when I was still little
and I had to cross a stream which was much ordinary
than the brine before me
Thank You Lord for this invisible air
whose existence is a mystery
yon’ what my mind can fathom,
yet its presence is tangible
as long as my heart beats,
even at rate lower than this:
the beat from the choir percussion,
and adrenaline much higher.
But the caprices of my heart,
with a faith so feeble,
distance me from You my Lord.
Have mercy on me oh Christ
and carry me across this brine
lest these days become a poignant memory
that will haunt me till I sleep
Eternal sleep.
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 3:20 AM UTC
The outsiders bid farewell to you Little-London,
Fire on your pasture forces them to flee
To sweet home, home sweet home
They all come to you for different reasons,
And with different intentions,
You lure them all,
The cruel and the kind,
The hardworking and the lazy,
The educated; and even the illiterate,
You ****** them all
They try to calibrate themselves to your society,
Your culture,
Your dressing,
And language,
They make homes away from home,
Mingle and fit in
Where you do not want them,
Like an uninvited jilted maiden
At an ex-lover’s wedding anniversary
They receive privileges forbidden them,
They are a wandering flock
Grazing on forbidden pasture,
Breathing the air
Meant for your flock,
They are the alleged cause
Of your own follies;
Of climate change,
Of children skipping school,
Of the highest rates of divorce,
Of the highest rates of early, unplanned pregnancies,
Of the highest levels drug abuse among teenagers;
And of abortion,
Of the highest crime rates,
Of unemployment,
Of the infamous strikes and demonstrations
That result in blood being shed,
Of power cuts,
Of guns in schools,
Of the..!
There is a lisp in the outsiders’ assumed calibration,
It sets them far apart from your flock,
It is a tattoo on the forehead;
It identifies them,
And they stand out as aliens, to be condemned,
To die in the most excruciatingly evil way:
Death by fire, by knife; and by stone,
More painful than pain,
Your flock set fire on your green pasture
To burn the outsiders,
With a flame so vehement the whole world has eyes upon you,
Lovely Little-London, were your pastures green
Would they burn so vehemently?
Beautiful Little-London
The cure for the chaos in you is not chaos,
The solution to the gangrene on your heart
Is not infliction of pain on guilty innocent outsiders,
But look deep into yourself
With an unblinking eye,
Have you been faithful to yourself;
And to THE MOST HIGH?
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 7:21 AM UTC