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AE Aug 2021
I once poured my heart out onto some letter
Read it whenever you find yourself reminiscing about your childhood
On my tongue remains those words, the ones we stole from the graves of poets
They try to take shape into conversations, reaching my lips but still falling short
So they live out their days,
Becoming old memories
leaving behind the bitterness of sea salt

Words we never exchanged
Kurt Schneider Feb 2021
Like graves
In the end
are laid out before all
to walk by and see
and say:
“that won’t ever be me”.
From the ashes and dust
We rise again
Bearing the scars of death
As we count our lost
From the bones and graves around
Many have fallen
And the sword is red

We march through the village square
Bearing more corpses
Looking for a place to rest
From the raging sword of the invaders
We seek the face of the gods

Why do we dance on their graves?
Like masquerades in the village square
The kings come from afar
And we take them to the shrine
The invaders helped us built
And none shed a tear…
None raised a wail…
And none grieved
Because it’s not their lost

They said we wail too much
For the lost was small
A tiny drop in the ocean of blood
That has flooded the land

Our contribution was small…yes, small contribution
Or how else could we justify this ceaseless carnage?
So they took more
More women…more children
More boys…more girls
Some pregnant…some suckling
A sacrifice to make up for the rest

We thought our shrine was big enough
To pacify the gods and save their wrath
But we were wrong
Their white regalia is not red enough
The blood is not deep enough for a swim
But why desire blood as one seeks for water in the desert
Oh sword! When will you rest?

The king is coming
Maybe he will see the mountains of graves
And the waiting dead—candidates for mass burial
Maybe he will say it is enough
And the priest can take the blood
And pour on the altar of the gods
So the living can rest
And the land will know peace
And the sword be no more red
May the gods be pacified
This sacrifice is enough
A reaction to the many killings Fulani Herdsmen in Benue State and the nonchalant attitude of the Federal Government to the situation. And the political pilgrimage that followed afterwards to the site of the mass graves of the victims.
annh Jan 2021
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‘The past is somewhere we can walk with our memories
Never with our footsteps’
- Mimi Novic, The Silence Between the Sighs
Nickolas J McKee Nov 2020
So sweet the daffodils,
You placed upon my grave.
Thinking of us all timed,
Lost soul to you to save.
Darling, where were you, all,
So close to me of thine.
Floating, flying, the rose,
Away from a birthed vine.
You placed the wrong flowers,
Thinking you cared for me.
Hand sprouting from below,
Grabbed upon you to see.
So sweet the daffodils,
For you & me to share...
Khoisan Sep 2020
Live love hate forgive
while reapers are having tea
the earth is calling
Seranaea Jones Oct 2020

it was, for her~

a question, a dare to venture into a
place that few would ever visit
more than once in a lifetime

walled with earth, rock, twists and
turns, shadows that move—
bones that lay still

a smart phone was recovered there,
the woman who left it is somewhere
deep in the lower chambers

it recorded her unapproved descent into
miles of dark passages which multiply,
divide, intersect— mystify

images steady at first, a wonderment
of sheer expansiveness, these arteries
go on forever and ever !

"i need to tell someone !"—
                                               "ohh, no

a "sotto voce" begins questioning confusion
as her disorientation becomes a
measure of breath

curiosity now relinquishes to a desperation
of sharp huffs as the camera aims about
in quick jolts, straining to see the
next hopeful opening—

the light stops

minutes later she realizes her affiliation
with the underground brethren has
been met with tacit approval.

her phone is eventually abandoned with
all remaining composure, as a new

and permanent member commences
a delirious marathon down
the corridors of

the recording lasted awhile before
her drowning cries dissolved into
resolution of a sealed fate—

underneath and silent,
amongst thousands

                            of opened mouths...

s jones
© 2020

that urban legend (or maybe not) of a camera
found deep in a catacomb somewhere in Paris—

"Seranaea—nized" for your hopeful enjoyment...

(remembering Sasha Rey...)
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