Voting
Jun 5, 2026Poems
LiftedLatestWhispersRediscoverClassicsThemes
🦋 🔄 🌱
Transformation & Change🤔 💭 🧠
Philosophical & Intellectual❤️ 💕 🌹
Love & Romance💔 😢 🥀
Heartbreak & Loss🌅 ☀️ 🕊️
Hope & Optimism😔 💔 🌧️
Sadness & Melancholy✨ 🌸 🎨
Beauty & Aesthetics🎭 😭 ⚖️
Drama & Tragedy⏳ 🕰️ 🌅
Time & Nostalgia💪 🌟 🚀
Inspiration & Motivation👨👩👧👦 💞 🏡
Family & Relationships😊 🎉 🌈
Happiness & Joy💀 ☠️ 🪦
Death & Mortality😂 🤡 😏
Humor & Satire🌲 🌊 🦋
Nature & Environment🏙️ 🚕 🌆
Political & Social😡 ⚡ 💥
Anger & Conflict😱 🩸 👹
Dark & Scary💋 🔥 🖤
Sexy & Sensual🧙♂️ ✨ 🧚♀️
Fantasy & Magical🔮 👻 🕯️
Mystery & Supernatural⚔️ 🛡️ 🎖️
War & Heroism✈️ 🌍 🧳
World & Travel🏛️ 📜 🏺
Historical & Ancienti have seen wildfires,
heard rumors
but nothing
spreads as fast as words on a page
when i write about you
#143
This was a road; an old map told me so.
A trail, I’d say, and sometimes less than that.
It’s hard to walk, and harder still to know.
It started as an even bed of chat.
A mile beyond the gate, it turned to clay,
And here the leaves have not been trampled flat.
I look between the trees to guess my way:
Among the oaks, a space one wagon wide.
Who drove here? Are their sons alive today?
And can I rightly say the old map lied?
The future’s not what maps are made to show.
Life’s like this road—it cannot be denied:
The way’s less clear the further in you go.
It’s hard to walk, and harder still to know.
#227
A little wind shakes
the tips of my
shoelaces, untied.
I see them dangle
in the pale blue skies.
Brief memory.
Forgotten times.
Shuddering realizations.
Rotten pines.
Yearning for the was,
for the used to be.
Futures lie fogged
like my face in the mirror
after a too hot shower.
Remember.
Forget.
Together.
Regret.
Tussled hair tangled
in the periphery.
A blurry smear
of inky shade
draped across
everything.
A tinge of tomorrow.
A solemn hue of sleep.
The color of the now
is too murky to see.
Too wet with mud and
too, too...
Too tired.
Too sick to be
of much use.
Too sick to be of much use at all.
#227
You’ve grown into me,
with roots in my heart,
each sprout in my veins.
I’ve felt your heartache,
with stones in my chest,
each breath into mine.
The shouts, the cries,
the tears and the blood—
all those nights, I see them.
There’s a quiet wind,
silencing your voice,
reminding us of the storm.
In the calm before,
you’re not forgotten—
I’ll sit with the silence.
Take my hand, my love,
hold on tight—
because I stand by.
I wait, behind silent walls,
for the page to turn—
and the light to reach you.
22
Palestine’s cries of joy
For girls and boys
Gaza that may become
The land of no Genocide
Where the people
can reside in the highest peace
Inside the chest and from East to West
Allah is the Best
Allah is Forever Undefeated
So we call for rest
20
You asked me
why I don’t write poems
anymore.
I write poems
when I feel happy.
I write
when I have something
to be proud of.
I write
when I am not afraid.
But now, how can I write poems
when I am covered
with guilt?
How can I write
when I am filled
with embarrassment?
What can I express
when all I am left with
is pain and betrayal?
All my life,
I have shared
love and happiness
through my words.
But now the words
struggle to come out,
as if no words
are left behind,
as if I have somehow lost myself
and no longer know
how to put my feelings
into words.
When I look into my heart,
I feel like I stand
in an empty battlefield
that has just ended,
nothing but destruction.
So how can I write poems
when I am surrounded by
smoke rising
from ashes
and a bloodbath
around fallen corpses?
And even my words stay
buried in the smoke.
19
I'm sorry I'm here.
I'm sorry I'm not here.
You with so many names,
I'm never sure what to call you.
A different name
for every predation
and infatuation.
Would you have made it on your own
without the chronic condition of boyfriend?
I'm sorry for the slowness
and stamina of time;
years like zombies,
dawdling toward a cliff edge.
I'm sorry.
You feared a moment of insanity.
Not locking the guns away
but keeping a steady eye on them.
You consulted the non-intervening moon
and her shifting moods.
You underestimate me.
I'm my own split mirror.
Here I am,
dating solitude in the doorway,
a chest cavity
occupying the premises,
a woven cage
of stark obsidian and blinding ivory,
refereeing a dispute between
survival
and self-control.
I'm sorry
for long nights,
intersections of memory
and obsession,
panic attacks
and conveyor belts,
clinging to reality
by a sinew of tooth.
I'm sorry I was absent,
memorizing Deuteronomy
for a taste of milk and honey,
pleading guilty
to inherited charges,
getting confirmed
as an antidote
to the evil core of me.
I'm sorry it was exotic
to imagine women like me
ending up in an asylum
coincidentally,
inevitably,
conveniently.
salvaged,
peristalsized through society,
brain-blown
and safely contained,
doused daily
in ice water,
electricity,
or disgrace,
temptations kept
far enough away
to seem imagined.
Like you.
My brave boyfriend,
fantastic prodigy
in a flowing ragged white bathrobe,
long black hair braided back,
a beautiful profile,
dark stone,
that unbreakable stare.
I'm sorry
I was ill-prepared
for your grubby mattress,
your comatose body,
submerged beneath
cheap *****
I'm sorry
that even I
developed feelings for you
amid adults
acting like it's okay
to leave you this way.
© 2026 IngaPink. All rights reserved.
17
Trust me,
I’m an overthinker.
I don’t love lightly.
My mind is full
Of questions,
Possibilities,
And fears.
I think about every word,
Every look,
Every silence.
I don’t fall easily.
I calculate every risk,
Every possibility,
Every move,
Every outcome,
Every way it could end.
So if I stayed,
It means
I already fought with myself
A hundred times
Before choosing you.
16
I knew her for a moment
like passages in rhyme
her heart a gentle flutter
her smile, locked in my mind
Nothing can be said
frozen now, in time
an angel not among us
having made, the final climb
I have no words, the sun has set
the moon no longer shines
everyplace is darker now
even though, she, wasn't ....mine
I wish, I knew her better :(
12
⭐ THE UNPOLISHED SEASON — Poem I
(A small morning rebellion, starring a mug that refuses to help.)
The coffee didn’t even try.
It sat in the mug, dark and stubborn,
informing me through a thin veil of steam
that it was done with the rescue business.
Apparently, I am on my own.
The steam rose in a slow,
disappointed shrug –
the kind you give a friend
who never learns.
Light leaned into the kitchen sideways,
squinting,
looking like it had slept fitfully
and wasn’t ready for a conversation.
The fridge hummed with the heavy,
oxygen‑starved solidarity
of a night‑shift worker
who just wants to clock out.
The spoon was useless.
It lay on the counter,
feigning a deep, silver sleep
to avoid being involved.
There was no grand epiphany.
No metaphor waiting in the shadows
to make this meaningful.
Just a room,
a cold caffeine resignation,
and the quiet realization
that the day isn’t a performance –
it’s simply a space
where I have to learn
how to stand
without being held up.
12
Lost in a world of reverie,
Longing to make your discovery,
I can feel it rise inside of me,
Roaring to a flame of ecstasy
Fingers imprison fingers, fingers imprison flesh
I am weakness beneath your bated breath
Lay claim to my clay, lay claim to my *******
Mold me over and over to collapse on your chest
I am yours with each command, each and every kiss
Till my maiden land, fill me with every inch
I can be your ***** I can be your *****
Heat, sweat, electricity traveling in between,
A valley full of nectar, as you consume my delicacies
Make me your subject, and bow to your Queen
Paint a masterpiece on my back, before you lick it clean
Stroke your brush inside my palette for another round,
Make liquid clouds come oozing from my swelling mound
Choking on clouds from my willing mouth,
Taking notes from your every sound
Opening my blossom on your vine,
Aching for our souls to intertwine,
Makes my eyes shine, drunk on wine
Take what is yours, I know you are mine
11
She rings the doorbell, smiling too wide.
Magazines clutched like life rafts—
inked promises of better lives, better bodies,
a better world.
Late thirties. Small *******
Strawberry-blonde hair.
Hands that look like they once knew dirt—
maybe farm work, maybe just hard years,
the kind that leave their mark
without asking permission.
Freckles begging for domestic bliss.
A black-and-white photo on the counter—
him and a dog, long gone.
She hesitates, eyes drifting,
thinking how long it’s been since…
The door swings open. Slow.
Beer gone warm in my mug.
The apartment holding its breath.
She lingers in the frame,
a little too aware of the space around her.
Then—just for a heartbeat—
her eyes catch mine.
Undeniable.
Pure animalistic heat, tamed somehow.
I know
what’s coming is already happening
in both of us.
Magazines shift as she sets them down.
A faint, heavy perfume lingers—
flowers, ancient, insistent.
Filling the small room
with something fragile,
something urgent.
The kitchen sink becomes a stage,
chrome catching the afternoon light.
She leans in; our mouths meet.
Skirt shifts. Edges sharpen.
Her hands brush my hips—
she can’t remember the last time
someone held her this way.
My fingers catch the strands of her hair,
kaleidoscope in the light.
This wetness is a vague memory.
The room folds around us,
every heartbeat undeniable,
every motion already written.
And we mattered.
At least for a few minutes,
to each other.
11
You can set fire to my rain
I know I won't cave
Sometimes burning goes both ways
At no time I thought we would be ashes of ourselves
Tearing every tree, breaking you free
Maybe we just weren't meant to be
Trying to stay up when you are clearly down
Two-faced moon
Glowing light, always in place
Knowing you never really cared
Meaningless words taking up space in our worlds
Two-faced moon
Hoping I can find you soon
Tell me what side to choose
Teach me how to be without you
Glowing light, always in place
Confess your feelings, strip me of grace
Will you ever cave?
Was this what you craved?
Two-faced moon
Give me a reason to stay, don't make me push you away
Two-faced moon
Bring me back to the thought of you
When our souls merged and our hearts cared.
11
There are cuts
straight and diagonal
all over my skin
Feels like I let my thoughts win
and broke all my promises
to my younger me
And maybe I did
Maybe I'm weak
Maybe I secretly care what everyone thinks
oh
Don't you know I'm sad inside?
Don't you know I'm satisfied
with when I bleed,
with when I bleed?
oh
Don't you know I love it
when my emotional pain shows up
all over my skin,
all over my skin?
never thought we'd be this way.
What the hell happened?
Why we cut ourself open?
I thought that we'd be happy,
we knew things wouldn't be easy,
but seriously?
You made me a promise
that we would be better
Why do you keep breaking it?
Why'd you lie to me?
We used to skip around the playground,
we used to shriek with laughter.
Don't tell me this is your version of
better.
Maybe we are weak,
maybe we secretly do care what everyone thinks.
oh
Don't you know I'm sad inside?
Don't you know I'm satisfied
with when I bleed,
with when I bleed?
oh
Don't you know I love it
when my emotional pain shows up
all over my skin,
all over my skin?
no,
you don't understand!
You don't know what they did to us.
You haven't lived the pain yet,
don't act all disappointed!
You would do the same.
It's not really our fault, kid
They made us like this.
They told us our feelings were valid
only to punish us.
They stuffed us in a box,
we weren't allowed to punch pillows anymore.
They told us to stuff it inside.
They said we were letting satan in,
so we learned to prove them right.
We gave them something to yell about,
something real,
something big.
And then we got tricked,
and our brain got twisted up,
we don't think the same way.
I'm so sorry.
I'm so sorry
I couldn't
save
us.
oh
Don't you know I'm sad inside?
Don't you know I'm satisfied
with when I bleed,
with when I bleed?
oh
Don't you know I love it
when my emotional pain shows up
all over my skin,
all over my skin?
Stop with the excuses.
What happened to
'I never break my promises'?
Is that only for other people
Did you hate us so much that you didn't care,
or are you trying to say you gave up?
What happened to
'we got this'?
What happened to
'everything will be alright'?
What happened to the nights that we would cry
and you would say,
'When we're older, things will be okay'?
Couldn't you keep up?
Is that why we always say
'i miss...',
but never finish the sentence?
Is it the younger us you miss?
Is it the time when we weren't like this?
oh
Don't you know I'm sad inside?
Don't you know I'm satisfied
with when I bleed,
with when I bleed?
oh
Don't you know I love it
when my emotional pain shows up
all over my skin,
all over my skin?
Yes, you're right,
I miss smiling in the dead of night.
Imagining this bright future,
where we were considered cool.
And we had tons of friends,
and everyone liked us,
and we had amazing parents.
But you have to understand,
we aren't gonna change
until our environment does.
We'll never be the same,
but we can get better.
And I'll make a promise right here,
we will get away,
and have an awesome life.
And maybe our scars will never fully heal,
but I promise we're gonna get help.
8
~
June 2026
HP Poet: Kalliopie
Age: 28
Country: USA
Question 1: We warmly welcome you to the HP Spotlight, Kalliopie. Please tell us about your background?
Kalliopie: "My name is Kay, I'm 28 and live in the united states. I'm a nurse, who comes from a long line of nurses and Healthcare professionals. I actually was pretty resistant to the idea of working in Healthcare my whole life but a nursing home ended up being the first job I ever stayed longer than 6 months at, so I guess it's where I'm meant to be after all. I'm a mother to one daughter and the oldest of five. I love, love, love cats and I have three!"
Question 2: How long have you been writing poetry, and for how long have you been a member of Hello Poetry?
Kalliopie: "I have always loved to write, I thoroughly enjoyed writing essays and any form of English assignments in school. I joined Hello Poetry in 2018/2019 and though I haven't always consistently posted, I've always been a reader of everyone else's work."
Question 3: What inspires you? (In other words, how does poetry happen for you).
Kalliopie: "There isn't a quiet moment in my head. My gears are always turning. I draw inspiration from a mix of situations I'm in, combined with what I see around me. I often think of a line and put it in my notes, where I'll finish it later. I'm heavily inspired by the moon and rain, it's just when I feel the most at peace I think."
Question 4: What does poetry mean to you?
Kalliopie: "For me poetry is therapy. It's creativity unleashed. It's being able to subconsciously work out my thoughts through rhyme in the name of art."
Question 5: Who are your favorite poets?
Kalliopie: "Embarrassingly, I don't read much these days, aside from what I read on Hello Poetry (there's so many amazing poets here). But I quite like Rupi Kaur and Atticus Poetry, I have a few of their books on my shelf."
Question 6: What other interests do you have?
Kalliopie: "My main hobby is video games; I love to get lost in a different reality. Over the past two summers, I have started to garden as well, nothing crazy. I'm not very good at it, but I enjoy it and my daughter seems to like it. I also really like to watch the hummingbirds, so that's become some what of a hobby, trying to plant the flowers they like and making sure their feeder stays clean. I never thought I'd make time to watch birds but maybe that's something that comes age, lol."
Carlo C. Gomez: “Thank you, Kalliopie, we truly appreciate you giving us the opportunity to get to know the person behind the poet! It is our pleasure to include you in the Spotlight series!”
Kalliopie: "Thank you so much for this opportunity!"
Thank you everyone here at HP for taking the time to read this. We hope you enjoyed coming to know Kalliopie better. We most certainly did. It is our wish that these spotlights are helping everyone to further discover and appreciate their fellow poets. – Carlo C. Gomez
We will post Spotlight #41 in July!
8
There are days
when the fat
rain beats the
tent like a snare
drum.
Sleep is impossible,
a distant
memory from youth.
Beautiful flowers die,
and green is quite
green enough.
It turns to olive brown,
then black.
People don't behave
and we can't make them.
I hope there is
rest when it's all
said and done.
7
A thin spherical layer,
vivid colors upon it,
rising above memory,
Drifting through the air,
such were we,
or perhaps we are,
young, brave, angry?
Branches pierce the bubble,
shattering it into drops,
the ethereal falling
to the solid ground,
Down there, we can still paint
not on the elusive walls,
but on a linen ground carrying
our skies and our earth.
7
Your voice reaches me
like a gentle angel,
drawing me nearer
without a single word.
There’s a quiet spark between us,
brightening with every word.
Our conversations stretch on,
wandering gently past midnight.
You look at me
and something settles,
something opens
a calm I didn’t know
I was waiting for.
On my way home,
my mind lingers on you.
Sweet dreams tonight,
I miss you already.
6
They drag themselves with a feeble gait,
none like the other, each its own.
In a corner of the skull, wet from the rain,
my hound hides from the world, alone.
It snarls no more, just quietly shivers,
as a swarm of words like a hoop draws tight.
Sometimes, a sharp revenge flashes through,
like a brief spark cutting the dark of night.
Misli
Vuku se nejakim hodom,
nijedna drugoj nalik nije.
U uglu lobanje, mokro od kiše,
pseto se moje od svijeta krije.
Ne reži više, samo tiho drhti,
dok ga roj riječi ko obruč steže.
Ponekad bljesne oštra osveta,
ko kratka iskra što mrak presiječe.
6
Walking with my fingertips
along your beaten spine
each vertebrae reveals a story
long since lost in time
Oh, how you laughed as a child
playing hide and seek 'til dusk
the way your rosy cheeks lit up
like flowers ripe to pluck
The bairns you bore, the one that died
forever loved eternally
held in your heart and in your breath
as waves upon the sea
Walking with my fingertips
we are together after all this time
words I speak do not do you justice
so I have sprinkled them in this rhyme
6
There was a hospital tent in a distant war,
stitched from canvas, laughter, and pain,
and though it stood in Korea,
it appeared each week in our living rooms
like the home of old friends.
We knew that catchy theme tune.
We knew the signpost at the crossroads.
We knew the choppers in the sky.
We knew the bugle at day’s end
and the surgeons washing blood
from hands that could not wash away war.
And we knew them ....
not as characters,
not as actors reading lines,
but as companions
who visited faithfully through the years.
Hawkeye, sharpening wit
against the madness of men.
B.J., carrying kindness
like a lantern through darkness.
Colonel Potter .... proof
that authority and decency
need not be strangers.
Margaret “Hotlips” Houlihan, discovering
beneath discipline a heart larger than duty.
Radar, hearing tomorrow arrive
before anyone else.
Father Mulcahy, tending wounds
the surgeons could not reach.
And Klinger .... dear, impossible Klinger ...
parading through catastrophe
in gowns, hats, scarves, and schemes,
making us laugh until tears came,
never knowing that before the hour ended
other tears might come instead.
That was the miracle.
Comedy and sorrow
walking arm in arm.
One moment laughter,
the next a quiet room
and some hidden chamber of the heart
gently opening.
It spoke of war,
yet it was never about war.
It was about endurance.
About friendship.
About carrying on
when carrying on was difficult.
It taught that humour
is not the opposite of grief,
but its travelling companion.
Week after week,
year after year,
the excellence never faltered.
The writing stayed true.
The humanity stayed intact.
The tent never became a set.
The people never became caricatures.
They aged beside us,
and we, without noticing,
grew older beside them.
Then came the evening
we always knew would arrive.
The final farewell.
The helicopters fading.
The camp emptying.
The roads diverging.
Goodbyes spoken.
That tune again, dwindling.
And millions sitting in quiet rooms
mourning friends
who had never truly existed,
except in that mysterious place
where fiction becomes family.
Since then, television has offered
masterpieces .... darker, larger,
more fashionable.
But greatness is not enough.
A show may earn admiration.
A show may earn respect.
Only rarely
does a show earn real affection.
Only rarely
does it become part of a life.
And that is why,
all these years later,
that old tent hospital
still stands in memory.
The laughter still echoes.
The tears still gather.
The tune still lingers in my ear,
The friends are still waiting ....
In that gentle province of the heart
where beloved things never quite depart.
And when we think of them,
we do not remember a television series.
We remember the event
of coming home to
"MAS*H".
[email protected]
1 June 2026
6
The very second
we wake from them,
they can be so very, very
far away; the harder
we try to hold, the
cruelly quicker
seems their
escape...
The gulf left,
so unbridgeable,
so enormous,
so peculiar,
when only so brief
a moment ago it was
so close,
so familiar,
so a part of us.
Can a man truly
love a woman
and a place exactly
as much at just the
very same time?
Trying to find an answer
to that question is like
trying to remember a
dream upon waking...
Though I've discovered
there is just enough room
in this one man's chest for
at least eight broken hearts.
*
5
The older we grow
the faster life goes,
priorities change
quality of living
and loving takes
precedent, over
self-indulgence
and material things.
Nothing as important
as family and friends.
It is racing now,
these fleeting days
and years, reflected
most in my grandsons
growing too soon from
children to young men.
For them, along with Steller
parents our little farm provides
a learning ground for teaching
life lessons that inspire character
and self-discipline, with Cows
and pigs to show at fairs, pride
earned with accomplishments
and Blue Ribbons to share.
So lucky am I having a ringside
seat, watching yet another family
generation ascend and grow,
Football and basketball
games to attend, Christmas
morns of excited children
clamoring down the stairs,
many birthday celebrations
with ever more candles aglow.
Memories all, retained and shared.
Perhaps the best part is,
these grandsons of mine,
still are up for hugs and
good night kisses, genuine
affection received and given.
Families are a true blessing
and a privilege, the only
real reason we are here.
All these things, remain the
sweet frosting on my aging
Grandfather's cake of life.
I sometimes wonder where
I would be without all these,
my reasons for being?
4
I walk the decaying alleys in the park
when the morning is still a promise
to catch the wild leap of the sun
the hopping fervour of the light on water
the ho'oponopono of the photons escaped
from a crushing core
when it’s cloudy I just imagine it there
a light looking for its unbound play
we don’t truly know what the water is doing with the light
we only know the quiet beauty of their meeting
to look closely is to realise how little we actually see
and how much more is gathered here waiting
both below the surface of our lives
and far above the reach of our names
we are naming the skin of things
there is more than the surface the ripple the sheen -
a vast breathing passing unseen
4
Before Ogun wore iron,
he wore music—
the same hands that forged the cutlass
tuned the strings of things unseen,
the same fire that tempered metal
learned first to temper feeling.
So when you came,
King,
Sunny as the harmattan sun
that burns without apology,
warm as the compound fire
that feeds the whole household
we knew whose cognomen you carried,
whose footprints you filled
without diminishing.
I met you first
not in a concert hall,
not in the amplified cathedral
of the wealthy and the ticketed,
but on the streets of Ibadan,
where the sun baked the laterite
into something almost sacred,
where my feet, bare and dusty,
carried the weight of a childhood
still learning what it was.
Your music leaked
through the louvres of strangers' windows,
spilled from the record players
of those who could afford
what I could only receive,
and I received it
the way the beggar receives the wind:
fully,
without owing anyone,
without the debt of purchase
diminishing the gift.
It was mine
the way Ogun's road is everyone's,
the path belongs
to those who walk it,
not to those who built it.
Your guitar,
not merely instrument
but griot's tongue,
oriki in six strings,
each note a proverb
the elders hid in plain hearing,
each strum a parable
the patient ear unpacks,
each lyric a lantern
at the labyrinth's entrance
the kind that does not say
follow me
but says instead;
here is what the darkness
is actually made of,
here is how to walk through it
without losing your name.
You were not merely musician.
You were blacksmith of sound—
Ogun's other trade,
the forge applied to feeling,
hammering raw experience
into the shaped beauty
of what can be carried,
what can be remembered,
what can be sung
when the original wound
has become something
the throat can hold
without bleeding.
Your voice
river of dark honey,
slow as a blessing,
deep as a wound
rose like incense
from the shrines of Ife
to the aerials of Lagos,
carrying the theatrics of the divine
into the ordinary afternoon
of a people who needed
to be reminded
that their ordinary afternoon
was itself a kind of divine.
You left scars of beauty on the soul
the specific wound
that only great art inflicts:
the mark that does not hurt
but illuminates,
that does not diminish
but defines,
that does not close
but becomes
the place through which
the most light enters.
From Syncro System
to Syncro Feelings,
you refused the comfort
of the already-known,
the warm repetition
of your own proven sound.
You reinvented
the way Ọṣun reinvents,
not abandonment of source
but deepening of it,
the river finding new channels
without forgetting
the spring it came from.
Her sweetness does not thin with distance;
nor did your sound lose salt by changing shape.
No predecessor sat
where you sit.
No successor
will sit there either;
the throne shaped itself
around you
the way the iroko's roots
shape the earth
they have inhabited
for a century:
the absence,
when it arrives,
will be
its own monument.
King Sunny Ade
today, as you turn seventy-eight,
the bata speaks your names
in rhythms older than your birth,
the talking drum remembers
what history forgets,
the Ifa of your art
stands open at the verse
that says:
a man who gave the people
back their own voice
dressed in beauty
they did not know they possessed,
this man has fulfilled
the griot's highest covenant.
The skies require no cannon
to honor such a life.
The music itself is the salute,
still sounding,
still finding the cracked louvres
of the houses of the poor,
still spilling into streets
where barefoot children
are learning for the first time
what they are.
Salute, King.
Your strings still remember
what your fingers taught them.
Your voice still carries
what your chest first learned to hold.
And somewhere in Ibadan
on a street the sun
still bakes to something sacred
another child receives your music
through a stranger's window,
not knowing it was ever
only yours to give,
learning only
that the wind belongs to everyone,
that beauty is not the property
of those who can afford it,
that Ogun's road is long
and older than the feet
now walking it
and that the music,
though it began before them,
begins again
in them.
© Lanre Adebayo
4
June is me.
She is a girl carrying grief inside her chest, praying that the loss of two souls does not completely break her.
Helen, fly high.
You suffered a painful death for the past two years, and even now it hurts knowing you are truly gone.
And dear Eny…
You never deserved what happened to you.
I never imagined life without the both of you in it.
But life happens.
Cruel, unexpected, unbearable life.
This is a new month.
My month.
But the heaviness inside my heart keeps reminding me that people can disappear so suddenly.
Sometimes I keep thinking,
“What if we lose someone else too?”
Helen never got the chance to tie gele for my wedding like she promised.
And Eny never got to see me become successful.
That hurts more than words can explain.
June 6th is supposed to be my birthday.
A day meant for celebration.
But losing both of you so close to June feels painful in a way I cannot describe.
Helen died on the 31st of May.
Neither of you made it to the first of June.
And somehow that breaks my heart even more.
Fly high, both of you.
And wherever you are, please know this:
you were loved.
You are still loved.
And you will never be forgotten.
4
Queens Loves Poets. (for Em MacKenzie)
———————————————————-
*Kings love making war,
no wonder, the people,
remember well fond
their femi-mine
rulers with femi-fervor,
Queens, who loved poets.
You fear Jesus,
Adore Mary,
generosity of understanding.
because it is hard
for woman to do
cruelty,
till she has been abused
by men who thought
they were kingly by being
beknighted, unbeheaded
for now at least.
Men who invented Brandy,
in the be of night,
were stupid men,
they forgot alcohol, the
Brandy of Channing,
is not fit for manning,
for it is a*
toxin, like me, like me.
3
***
She watched the soldiers disappear
Beyond the smoke and rain,
Their shadows fading through the mist
Across the shattered plain.
No trumpet sang, no banners waved,
No glory filled the air.
Only weary men with haunted eyes
Marching toward despair.
When silence settled on the field,
She slowly walked ahead.
To where the soldiers once had stood
Among the torn and dead.
The earth was churned by mud and blood,
By boots and shellfire’s flame.
And scattered there like fallen leaves
Forgotten letters lay.
She knelt among the poppies red,
Her trembling fingers cold,
And lifted pages soaked by rain,
Still carrying words of home.
One letter spoke of mother’s bread,
Still warm upon the tray.
A father waiting by the fire
At ending of the day.
Another told of sweetheart’s eyes,
And promises once made.
Of dancing halls and wedding rings
Beyond the war’s dark shade.
One spoke of brothers left behind,
Of sisters growing tall.
Of Christmas bells and childhood games
Beside an old stone wall.
Each page she read held hope and love,
Simple dreams so small.
Yet every word became a ghost
Across that broken sprawl.
Tears slowly traced her weary face
As twilight dimmed the sky.
For every letter seemed to breathe
With lives that did not die.
Then nearby in the muddy earth,
Half-hidden by the rain,
She saw a fallen soldier there,
Still silent where he lay.
His hand still grasped a final page,
Its writing left undone.
The ink had blurred beneath the storm,
The sentence never done.
She gently knelt beside the boy,
No older than her years.
And carefully she took the page
While fighting back her tears.
“My darling Mum…” the letter read,
Then suddenly it ceased.
The final words forever lost
In war’s unholy grief.
She bowed her head beside the dead,
The wind so cold and still.
Around them scarlet poppies swayed
Across the shattered hill.
Then softly through the falling dusk
She whispered low and true,
“I promise I will send this home.
I will remember you.”
“I’ll tell them how you fought with courage,
How you carried hope through pain.
How even here, beneath this hell,
Your heart stayed kind through rain.”
The soldiers marched far out of sight,
The guns began once more.
But she remained among the letters
Scattered by the war.
Gathering every fragile page
Like treasures from the dead,
To carry home their final words
And all the tears they bled.
For though the war would take their lives,
And silence many stories,
One soul remained to speak their names
And guard their memories.
3
All walks of life come here seeking knowledge
So many things they didn’t teach us in college.To radicalize hypothesize strategize and realize
Situational awareness not the curriculum material we thought we were going to learn
Until the gun is pointed at you it’s your turn
We didn’t know his name,
But we know something was up. Just the same.
When POP sounds rang out There was no doubt
People fled scared crying students shot dying
We did our best to be invisible hiding or trying
He instinctively reloaded and strategizing
He stood outside the Library recalibrating
His entrance we feared anticipating
our class trapped in the library we’re waiting
On a beautiful day under the warm sun, it begun
The students were being hunted one by one
His fingers wrapped around the gun
He linger on the trigger a little too long
The person next to me shot bled out gone
Hands on our mouth don’t make a sound Terror
about to unfold silent tears streaming down
What game is This ? That which he plays
Why these senseless shooting on this of all days?
Captives found No Mercy he blew them away
To make sense Students gather together to pray
His mission statement and manifesto shed light
He wrote Demons won carnage, nightly fight
********** was the name of HIS game
in bed or in life. They’re both the same.
Gaslighting triggers the ultimate cost
that pushed him over the ledge Mind LOST
Master and Servant Acceptance Observance
Now the Servant becomes the Master
Complete obliteration destruction, Disaster
He was a wiping post for bullies. Retribution.
to get even, Revenge Destruction of bullying
Vicious play. I’ll **** as many as I can.He’d say
The bullies will die on THIS my LAST DAY
The school was wrapped around MY fingers
No need to pretend I’ll be shot dead in the end
My final achievement my Crown of Gold
Cautionary stories about me will be told
Proud to shoot and **** as I feel indiscriminately
They’ll remember me the MOST kills in History
They’ll dissect past neglect suspect project blame
What will remain A ****** massacre in my name
Internet, nefarious, intent they maintain I acted alone
Conspiracy theory or is it??
Manchurian candidate empowered to overturn
established systems, destroy institutional belief
Attempted goal to challenge authority, subvert, expectations traditional ways of thinking.
What so we know? VS Think we know!
the school response time seemed
to take forever students 911 calls; pleading
Needing Bleeding Police medical responders
children dying, mothers crying
What is an acceptable delay? Acceptable loss.
Where do we go from here? What’s the next step.
What remains of the fragility of humanity?
What’s happening to our children is insane
Inspired Songs;
1) Wrapped around my finger By Police
(its a fitting song and perfect band name )
2) Starry Night By Don McLean
Vincent van Gogh a tortured soul
(Suffered for his sanity)
Inspired By
William A Gibbs, who wrote a poem Titled
When I Die (excellent read check it out)
His poem is a completely different aspect
However after reading his impeccable work
This poem came flooding out
Post Script
FYI When I went to look at this poem on the front board, I had a couple of words that were taken out. I’ve never had that happen before. But when I went to my homepage, the poem was intact. It wasn’t any gratuitous words I guess I’m not PC enough to realize.
I bring to light the senseless killings in schools they’re all over the news for a minute and then it’s as if it never happened. I know people want to put the pass behind but the kids will never get over this.Students Teachers Families need a solution More than barricading the children in
schools on lockdown..
Dealing with the aftermath
This is not the arithmetic children need to learn
3
So magical pitter patter,
Childhood fell in love with it, where some flaw never mattered.
Endless music of dropping pearls,
Adult clouds dance, showing off their curls.
Love for rain never got better,
Like splash of water, love can never be saved for later,forever.
Love vapours with time becomes forgotten like broken mist.
Childhood collects flaws as a list.
Sweet raw scent of early rain
Wakes up hidden verses my ink never want to claim.
Blue canvas holds pages of our name.
We are tired, still scribble something we can never name.
White fluffy wings carry the chain,
Some lines of poetry we will never explain.
Every drop tastes sweet scented,
As it is from home, so far away.
We spend nights to count, don’t wanna stay.
Every breath demands a fee, debts are paid and painted.
The joy of meeting you, dear rain,
Turns into tears ,how to explain?
Now no one wants to be wet.
Broken wings never sway,
and the sunlight missed the train, so late.
Erased by dark cloud of flawless fate.
Rain feels hazy, so good.
Hope gets lazy when it starts to flood.
When rain learns to befriend drops of tears,
Soft soul gets drowned by its own rhyme and thoughts, heavy to bear.
2
Scotland Beneath Endless Skies
***
Summer… purple heather blooming,
wildflowers dancing across the moors,
the scent of pine and sea air
drifting through warm Highland glens.
Ancient oaks and Scots pine stand tall
beneath endless northern skies,
their branches rich with life—
the mighty Kings of Summer.
Summer brings long evenings,
golden dreams,
and soft light upon the lochs.
Red deer wander through the Highlands,
seals bask along rocky shores,
while swallows sweep across the skies
upon warm western winds.
Summer is freedom and wonder,
bright colours and endless daylight,
a countryside alive with beauty.
Heather rolls across the hillsides,
rivers sparkle beneath stone bridges,
and Highland cattle graze peacefully
through green and open fields.
Puffins nest along sea cliffs,
golden eagles soar above Ben Nevis,
and dolphins break the waves
off Scotland’s rugged coasts.
Summer is adventure,
fresh memories,
new journeys waiting to begin.
A celebration of life itself—
new laughter,
new loves,
new moments beneath glowing sunsets.
Young robins fly strongly now,
their songs carried through warm evenings,
while twilight lingers softly
over Scotland’s silver lochs.
What a season.
What a land.
This Scotland of ours—
her mountains rich with living green,
her wild heart alive beneath the sun.
Glorious, glorious Summer…
A time to truly wander.
1