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MY FROG MASTERS

How thoughtful were the rainfalls
To water our gardens and flowers
The flowers spread wide garments
To celebrate their terminal beauty

The joyful frogs occupied my pond
To orchestrate their vocal prowess
They taught me to take blind leaps
Like lightning bouncing in the skies

Squatted, stretched, beeped down
I was a millstone on the pond floor
My slippery pond mates wondered
How soft I was in the maritime arts

Mortally rescued in a muddy mood
The clouds sent in rescuing showers
To confirm my firm loss to the frogs
Like a grain of salt cast into the seas


673. MONEY BAGS IN THEIR BODY BAGS

The money bags shopping for their body bags
Waggled through the makeshift supermarkets

Their ancestral homes they plotted modernity
Like the general gathering fine forces together

To the villages they made to return with pride
Like pregnant elephants caught up in the mud

Their desolate villages are deep and sickening
Glowing flamingly in the crucibles of local gins

The dusty and gravy pathways are like furnace
Burning the leather off from their frozen souls

Traditional birth attendants cut off their cords
And zipped the money bags in their body bags

674. A GLORIOUS DAY

The new day spoke powerfully
Like a war making superpower
And his voice roared forcefully
Like the skies forced to shower

The sunrays came dynamically
Like love responding to silence
Beauty crawled in submissively
Like the mixed arts and science

One eagle soared energetically
Like lions feuding in the colony
Far clouds relocated peacefully
Like souls betrayed to harmony

The breeze sighed thoughtfully
Like horses galloping on the lea
Inspiration unfolded thankfully
Crowns monuments with a pea

675.  THE FOG BANK

The sun had gone to pay our bill in the fog bank
The world foggily crawled into the strong rooms
Darkness demonstrated her strong mindfulness
Provided for the strong gale with lurking shrieks

The black paint billers snowballed to our dreams
With the bill of exchange for wild sunny excesses
Ghostly bats emerged with the bill of indictment
In demonstration of our acrophobic dispositions

We packaged the sunrays for our folk memories
To reassure the day of our eternal followerships
We cherish our follow-throughs in our dark beat
To usher the sunlight out of the hollow fog bank

676. THE PROTRACTED INTERNECINE FEUD

These things had happened before we were born
Like sulphur deep into our fresh hearts they burn
Now we stumble on the bumpy terrains in horror
Like one frightened by ghosts in a standing mirror

The internecine feud has razed our men of valour
With their carcasses dumped in their cold parlour
Our community cattle graze in the barren pasture
Like the unrepentant sinners awaiting the rapture

For our plight the once glorious sky is grown pale
Like the ***** fetching territorial waters with pail
The storms have rolled off the catalogues for rain
All our efforts to mop up the mess end up in vain



677. THE AREA LEADERS

They cracked coconuts on the heads for the crown
And embraced our days with their castaway pollen
Sadness and sorrow have dyed our garment brown
With the strongest song sung when night has fallen

These are the blinding dusts from our barn’s grains
They breed cunning serpents in the soft pasturages
They are failed cargoes on our broad societal trains
They dedicate our common committee to outrages

Now our days seek deliverance from their tentacles
Like the colourful fields immersed in gloomy beauty
They play our eyeballs with the stenciled spectacles
With our consciences to sight and found us off duty

To rescue us the colossal clouds were born gadarene
Our communal life was willed to pageants of gaieties
Then moonlight stories held us for a larger gathering
Now all the objects we sight dress up like cold deities

678. THE LAST DESCENDANTS

The rapacious thunderstorms ***** the skies for their tears
The hot embers were born to glow mourning the late forest
The moon crawled out of the blue like a great grandmother
Cuddling her descendants wrapped up in her ancient shawls

The wild waves were weird weavers weaving withering wails
The captioned wigs gyrated on stunning shoes upon auctions
The little creatures crouched in primeval baskets of the night
To gnaw at the generational tubers in the creative farmlands

The dazzling specimens of dentitions relaxed in water basins
Like bright red artistic architectures on potent ocean boards
Golden hearts glow in the threatening prisms of the furnace
As beautiful sunset defines her beauties in her nightly corset

It had been a sweet pill for the past descendants to swallow
Depending on the colonial masters for loaves, lore and lures
Our creativity had been packaged in their mortal depravities
Like the tranquil days resting sorrowfully upon the dark oars

The centenarian thunders downgraded our minute whispers
We had been kept upon our toes by the eternally sworn foes
At last our worthy artworks have worn their wormy catwalks
The refreshed dawns greet our easting days in their greenery



679. VICTIMS IN THE VALLEY

The victims in the dark rally
Caged, dried and browning
Therein their meanings tally
With waves born drowning

In the depth of a cold valley
Horrible nobles are cultures
Like pilgrims in the dark alley
Willed to ravenous vultures

The victims all robed in tears
With hearts like potter’s clay
For pains they have no fears
Only mimed games they play

For victory awaits the victims
Alien to a blind mimed game
Glorious are eternal rhythms
For death Christ died to tame

680. THE GIANT SCARS

These are our giant threatening scars
Engraved on our demonstrative heads
Our sympathies crawled on superstars
Weeping for us on their moonlit beds

They threatened us with nasal sounds
Like thunderclouds seasoned to burst
For us their galleries are out of bounds
Behind the iron bars plagued with rust

Our patience passed their wildest tests
Like the lions roaring in the thick jungle
On the heart of the Lord our faith rests
Like numbers posted on the right angle

681.  A LADY

In a lady’s handbag
Is her hidden hunchback
Stuffed with her heart ache
For the pains relieving groom

In a lady’s tender smile
Is hidden miles of similitude
Marked with the zebra crossings
For the ever winning marathoner

In a tender lady’s heart
Is hidden her cowboy’s hat
Soaring within the white clouds
To soothe the earth with the latter rains

682. BRING BACK OUR GIRLS

Bring back our homesick girls
Their vacant cradles are bleeding
Bring back our innocent girls
On the chariots of fire descending

Bring back our suckling girls
Their feeding bottles are weeping
Bring back our infant girls
Their mothers’ ******* are heavy

Bring back our harmless girls
The united universe is thundering
Bring back our dewy girls
In the sharp sun rising in the skies

Bring back our beautiful girls
Like light plucked from darkness
Bring back our glorious girls
Aboard the shore-bound waves

Bring back our worthy girls
On their fresh faces our lights seek to glow
Bring back our living girls
Our fountains of joy are bubbling to burst

For our returned girls the skies shall bear
Roaring rivers, singing seas, chiming clouds
With gongs and songs, pianos and praises
Dulcet dulcimers and documentable dances
With healthy hymns and eloquent embraces
All nations shall into a common cathedral flow

683. ****** GENEOLOGIES

They electrify their demonic high tables with old fears
Only their ****** genealogies are bookmarked to reign
The sight of their portables whetted our eyes to tears
We are reinforced by the clouds born to the later rain

Our skins have renovated the sickening cattle wagons
With our dreams flying upon huge smokes in the skies
Beneath their tables we abridge their creaking jargons
Upon their floors with our generational landmark tiles

The dew drops dropped like old crops upon our brows
To soften the veils falling to the flaming edged swords
The flaming hearted sword of the penetrating sunrays
Born to pluck us alive from our hotly bandaged bruises

684. LET US SPEAK UP

The light is climbing downstairs
And danger is sprouting abroad
Our feet are listening for a word
Let us speak up lest they go deaf

The light is melted on the glades
And terror grazing our eyelashes
Our feet are listening for a word
Let us speak up lest they go deaf

The light is late and lately buried
The mourners are on danger list
Our feet are listening for a word
Let us speak up lest they go deaf

The light has divorced the grave
Her grave clothes are dew dyed
Our feet are listening for a word
Let us speak up lest they go deaf

Silence is a forgotten tombstone
Lost in the din of cold morticians
Our feet are listening for a word
Let us speak up lest they go deaf

685.  THE SUN

The sun smiles on all prescriptively
Like the waves spreading on shores
The green grass glows descriptively
Like the full moon upon dark sores

The sun is a tailor fixing the buttons
Preparing the sky for incoming stars
Like the weaverbird weaving cottons
To conceal the day’s damnable scars

The sun is a marker on diurnal pages
Tall grace he bestows on the flowers
The sun retains his graces for all ages
Bees and butterflies are his followers

Our common laughter is endangered
When sun bows down in big setbacks
All mortals have the starlets fingered
When the night comes on drawbacks

686. UNTIL HERE

(For Lou Lenart and his team)

Their floods came seeking Jewish bloods
Like streams they roared for our dreams
They emerged as columns of soldier ants
Like whirlwinds they zoomed towards us

Until here we were crumbs for the reptiles
Until here we were like airborne cloudlets
But here the sudden change unveiled to us
From here the elusive victory embraced us

With skeletal jets we fought like bold lions
Soared like eagles and spoke like thunders
We conquered columns of invading armies
The bleeding armies turned back and blank

From here we turned from victims to victors
From here enemies’ defeat our greatest feat
Upon this memorable bridge it all happened
Victories leapt upon our pool like joyful frogs

687.  JOY UNLIMITED

The fledging sun offers its rays
And the rays offer golden trays
For our joy a platform to spray
Rowdy paratroops like thunder
To scoop roses from pure oasis

Our joy is ripe upon celebrations
Our celebrations with decorations
Decorations with documentations
Documentations for all generations
Generations in our joyful habitations

688. ANOTER RAINING DAY

The dark clouds are wandering river basins
Spiral bounded by breakable outer casings
The rivers and the seas display empty cups
For the swift blessings descending the tops

The rains come as defense troops’ missiles
And the drowning lands look like imbeciles
Now we are groaning in the watered claws
With the liberated scales marking our flaws

The retreating clouds crawl away in a belch
Dumping the missing cargoes on the beach
The winds bow in a state of shock in a cord
Praying and fasting for a visit from the Lord

689. GRANDMOTHER

Grandmother, please wake and get up
The sky is quarreling with her husband
Soon they will spill their freezing sweat
On our bodies for us to catch dead cold

Grandmother, please sneeze not louder
The sky and her husband are quarreling
Soon they will send old floods like gales
To sweep mankind away from the world

Grandmother, you are everything I have
My moon, my sun and my morning stars
Provoke not the couples with your cough
Lest they refill their greasily wraths again

Grandmother, the big reptiles have come
With their lethal grandchildren following
They are laced with secret burial shrouds
With sympathetic tears tearing their eyes

Grandmother, I kiss you a shaky goodbye
With broken pains roaring within my soul
Grandmother, where are your groundnuts
To conduct my solo heart as you sing away

690.  A NIGHT WALK THROUGH THE FOREST

Lured away on an alluring dream by fables
I trudged along the grassy paths with fears
Upon my steps spilling the prevailing dews
The shadows bowed their heads in silence
Like the soul issued with a death sentence

The night crawlers emerged above boards
Throwing light upon contrary communities
In their hearts and eyes were painful tears
Crawling down their exaggerated eye *****
Like a handbag filled with rotten cosmetics

The shadows were bold animators’ shelves
Stage managing the horror motion pictures
In the ghostly commodities I met wild hosts
Lifeworks evaporated from my fresh breath
Like foreign tragedies in common comedies

The sorrowful shadows cast away their veils
Like the candles letting go of the weird wax
Sadly I sat in the sack for conflicting fetuses
Another sun appeared like a serial divorcee
Counting the testicles of another naked day

691.  SUBJECTIVE SUBJECTS

The sad sun descended upon her haunting melodies
Reeling from mysterious layers for electoral riggings
To harden the flowerbed for flower girls born tender
Disenfranchised voters came weeping in barren polls
Dressing the blank nest for the fat electoral parodies
With the mourners the faulty bells they came ringing
Like the angry water castigating a ****** port fender
And the smokes climbed upon their wide aerial poles
Arching over the emptied shelves with liberal singing
They subjected their subjective subjects to all objects
Now when the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared,
Alcinous and Ulysses both rose, and Alcinous led the way to the
Phaecian place of assembly, which was near the ships. When they got
there they sat down side by side on a seat of polished stone, while
Minerva took the form of one of Alcinous’ servants, and went round the
town in order to help Ulysses to get home. She went up to the
citizens, man by man, and said, “Aldermen and town councillors of
the Phaeacians, come to the assembly all of you and listen to the
stranger who has just come off a long voyage to the house of King
Alcinous; he looks like an immortal god.”
  With these words she made them all want to come, and they flocked to
the assembly till seats and standing room were alike crowded. Every
one was struck with the appearance of Ulysses, for Minerva had
beautified him about the head and shoulders, making him look taller
and stouter than he really was, that he might impress the Phaecians
favourably as being a very remarkable man, and might come off well
in the many trials of skill to which they would challenge him. Then,
when they were got together, Alcinous spoke:
  “Hear me,” said he, “aldermen and town councillors of the
Phaeacians, that I may speak even as I am minded. This stranger,
whoever he may be, has found his way to my house from somewhere or
other either East or West. He wants an escort and wishes to have the
matter settled. Let us then get one ready for him, as we have done for
others before him; indeed, no one who ever yet came to my house has
been able to complain of me for not speeding on his way soon enough.
Let us draw a ship into the sea—one that has never yet made a voyage-
and man her with two and fifty of our smartest young sailors. Then
when you have made fast your oars each by his own seat, leave the ship
and come to my house to prepare a feast. I will find you in
everything. I am giving will these instructions to the young men who
will form the crew, for as regards you aldermen and town
councillors, you will join me in entertaining our guest in the
cloisters. I can take no excuses, and we will have Demodocus to sing
to us; for there is no bard like him whatever he may choose to sing
about.”
  Alcinous then led the way, and the others followed after, while a
servant went to fetch Demodocus. The fifty-two picked oarsmen went
to the sea shore as they had been told, and when they got there they
drew the ship into the water, got her mast and sails inside her, bound
the oars to the thole-pins with twisted thongs of leather, all in
due course, and spread the white sails aloft. They moored the vessel a
little way out from land, and then came on shore and went to the house
of King Alcinous. The outhouses, yards, and all the precincts were
filled with crowds of men in great multitudes both old and young;
and Alcinous killed them a dozen sheep, eight full grown pigs, and two
oxen. These they skinned and dressed so as to provide a magnificent
banquet.
  A servant presently led in the famous bard Demodocus, whom the
muse had dearly loved, but to whom she had given both good and evil,
for though she had endowed him with a divine gift of song, she had
robbed him of his eyesight. Pontonous set a seat for him among the
guests, leaning it up against a bearing-post. He hung the lyre for him
on a peg over his head, and showed him where he was to feel for it
with his hands. He also set a fair table with a basket of victuals
by his side, and a cup of wine from which he might drink whenever he
was so disposed.
  The company then laid their hands upon the good things that were
before them, but as soon as they had had enough to eat and drink,
the muse inspired Demodocus to sing the feats of heroes, and more
especially a matter that was then in the mouths of all men, to wit,
the quarrel between Ulysses and Achilles, and the fierce words that
they heaped on one another as they gat together at a banquet. But
Agamemnon was glad when he heard his chieftains quarrelling with one
another, for Apollo had foretold him this at Pytho when he crossed the
stone floor to consult the oracle. Here was the beginning of the
evil that by the will of Jove fell both Danaans and Trojans.
  Thus sang the bard, but Ulysses drew his purple mantle over his head
and covered his face, for he was ashamed to let the Phaeacians see
that he was weeping. When the bard left off singing he wiped the tears
from his eyes, uncovered his face, and, taking his cup, made a
drink-offering to the gods; but when the Phaeacians pressed
Demodocus to sing further, for they delighted in his lays, then
Ulysses again drew his mantle over his head and wept bitterly. No
one noticed his distress except Alcinous, who was sitting near him,
and heard the heavy sighs that he was heaving. So he at once said,
“Aldermen and town councillors of the Phaeacians, we have had enough
now, both of the feast, and of the minstrelsy that is its due
accompaniment; let us proceed therefore to the athletic sports, so
that our guest on his return home may be able to tell his friends
how much we surpass all other nations as boxers, wrestlers, jumpers,
and runners.”
  With these words he led the way, and the others followed after. A
servant hung Demodocus’s lyre on its peg for him, led him out of the
cloister, and set him on the same way as that along which all the
chief men of the Phaeacians were going to see the sports; a crowd of
several thousands of people followed them, and there were many
excellent competitors for all the prizes. Acroneos, Ocyalus, Elatreus,
Nauteus, Prymneus, Anchialus, Eretmeus, Ponteus, Proreus, Thoon,
Anabesineus, and Amphialus son of Polyneus son of Tecton. There was
also Euryalus son of Naubolus, who was like Mars himself, and was
the best looking man among the Phaecians except Laodamas. Three sons
of Alcinous, Laodamas, Halios, and Clytoneus, competed also.
  The foot races came first. The course was set out for them from
the starting post, and they raised a dust upon the plain as they all
flew forward at the same moment. Clytoneus came in first by a long
way; he left every one else behind him by the length of the furrow
that a couple of mules can plough in a fallow field. They then
turned to the painful art of wrestling, and here Euryalus proved to be
the best man. Amphialus excelled all the others in jumping, while at
throwing the disc there was no one who could approach Elatreus.
Alcinous’s son Laodamas was the best boxer, and he it was who
presently said, when they had all been diverted with the games, “Let
us ask the stranger whether he excels in any of these sports; he seems
very powerfully built; his thighs, claves, hands, and neck are of
prodigious strength, nor is he at all old, but he has suffered much
lately, and there is nothing like the sea for making havoc with a man,
no matter how strong he is.”
  “You are quite right, Laodamas,” replied Euryalus, “go up to your
guest and speak to him about it yourself.”
  When Laodamas heard this he made his way into the middle of the
crowd and said to Ulysses, “I hope, Sir, that you will enter
yourself for some one or other of our competitions if you are
skilled in any of them—and you must have gone in for many a one
before now. There is nothing that does any one so much credit all
his life long as the showing himself a proper man with his hands and
feet. Have a try therefore at something, and banish all sorrow from
your mind. Your return home will not be long delayed, for the ship
is already drawn into the water, and the crew is found.”
  Ulysses answered, “Laodamas, why do you taunt me in this way? my
mind is set rather on cares than contests; I have been through
infinite trouble, and am come among you now as a suppliant, praying
your king and people to further me on my return home.”
  Then Euryalus reviled him outright and said, “I gather, then, that
you are unskilled in any of the many sports that men generally delight
in. I suppose you are one of those grasping traders that go about in
ships as captains or merchants, and who think of nothing but of
their outward freights and homeward cargoes. There does not seem to be
much of the athlete about you.”
  “For shame, Sir,” answered Ulysses, fiercely, “you are an insolent
fellow—so true is it that the gods do not grace all men alike in
speech, person, and understanding. One man may be of weak presence,
but heaven has adorned this with such a good conversation that he
charms every one who sees him; his honeyed moderation carries his
hearers with him so that he is leader in all assemblies of his
fellows, and wherever he goes he is looked up to. Another may be as
handsome as a god, but his good looks are not crowned with discretion.
This is your case. No god could make a finer looking fellow than you
are, but you are a fool. Your ill-judged remarks have made me
exceedingly angry, and you are quite mistaken, for I excel in a
great many athletic exercises; indeed, so long as I had youth and
strength, I was among the first athletes of the age. Now, however, I
am worn out by labour and sorrow, for I have gone through much both on
the field of battle and by the waves of the weary sea; still, in spite
of all this I will compete, for your taunts have stung me to the
quick.”
  So he hurried up without even taking his cloak off, and seized a
disc, larger, more massive and much heavier than those used by the
Phaeacians when disc-throwing among themselves. Then, swinging it
back, he threw it from his brawny hand, and it made a humming sound in
the air as he did so. The Phaeacians quailed beneath the rushing of
its flight as it sped gracefully from his hand, and flew beyond any
mark that had been made yet. Minerva, in the form of a man, came and
marked the place where it had fallen. “A blind man, Sir,” said she,
“could easily tell your mark by groping for it—it is so far ahead
of any other. You may make your mind easy about this contest, for no
Phaeacian can come near to such a throw as yours.”
  Ulysses was glad when he found he had a friend among the lookers-on,
so he began to speak more pleasantly. “Young men,” said he, “come up
to that throw if you can, and I will throw another disc as heavy or
even heavier. If anyone wants to have a bout with me let him come
on, for I am exceedingly angry; I will box, wrestle, or run, I do
not care what it is, with any man of you all except Laodamas, but
not with him because I am his guest, and one cannot compete with one’s
own personal friend. At least I do not think it a prudent or a
sensible thing for a guest to challenge his host’s family at any game,
especially when he is in a foreign country. He will cut the ground
from under his own feet if he does; but I make no exception as regards
any one else, for I want to have the matter out and know which is
the best man. I am a good hand at every kind of athletic sport known
among mankind. I am an excellent archer. In battle I am always the
first to bring a man down with my arrow, no matter how many more are
taking aim at him alongside of me. Philoctetes was the only man who
could shoot better than I could when we Achaeans were before Troy
and in practice. I far excel every one else in the whole world, of
those who still eat bread upon the face of the earth, but I should not
like to shoot against the mighty dead, such as Hercules, or Eurytus
the Cechalian-men who could shoot against the gods themselves. This in
fact was how Eurytus came prematurely by his end, for Apollo was angry
with him and killed him because he challenged him as an archer. I
can throw a dart farther than any one else can shoot an arrow. Running
is the only point in respect of which I am afraid some of the
Phaecians might beat me, for I have been brought down very low at sea;
my provisions ran short, and therefore I am still weak.”
  They all held their peace except King Alcinous, who began, “Sir,
we have had much pleasure in hearing all that you have told us, from
which I understand that you are willing to show your prowess, as
having been displeased with some insolent remarks that have been
made to you by one of our athletes, and which could never have been
uttered by any one who knows how to talk with propriety. I hope you
will apprehend my meaning, and will explain to any be one of your
chief men who may be dining with yourself and your family when you get
home, that we have an hereditary aptitude for accomplishments of all
kinds. We are not particularly remarkable for our boxing, nor yet as
wrestlers, but we are singularly fleet of foot and are excellent
sailors. We are extremely fond of good dinners, music, and dancing; we
also like frequent changes of linen, warm baths, and good beds, so
now, please, some of you who are the best dancers set about dancing,
that our guest on his return home may be able to tell his friends
how much we surpass all other nations as sailors, runners, dancers,
minstrels. Demodocus has left his lyre at my house, so run some one or
other of you and fetch it for him.”
  On this a servant hurried off to bring the lyre from the king’s
house, and the nine men who had been chosen as stewards stood forward.
It was their business to manage everything connected with the
sports, so they made the ground smooth and marked a wide space for the
dancers. Presently the servant came back with Demodocus’s lyre, and he
took his place in the midst of them, whereon the best young dancers in
the town began to foot and trip it so nimbly that Ulysses was
delighted with the merry twinkling of their feet.
  Meanwhile the bard began to sing the loves of Mars and Venus, and
how they first began their intrigue in the house of Vulcan. Mars
made Venus many presents, and defiled King Vulcan’s marriage bed, so
the sun, who saw what they were about, told Vulcan. Vulcan was very
angry when he heard such dreadful news, so he went to his smithy
brooding mischief, got his great anvil into its place, and began to
forge some chains which none could either unloose or break, so that
they might stay there in that place. When he had finished his snare he
went into his bedroom and festooned the bed-posts all over with chains
like cobwebs; he also let many hang down from the great beam of the
ceiling. Not even a god could see them, so fine and subtle were
they. As soon as he had spread the chains all over the bed, he made as
though he were setting out for the fair state of Lemnos, which of
all places in the world was the one he was most fond of. But Mars kept
no blind look out, and as soon as he saw him start, hurried off to his
house, burning with love for Venus.
  Now Venus was just come in from a visit to her father Jove, and
was about sitting down when Mars came inside the house, an said as
he took her hand in his own, “Let us go to the couch of Vulcan: he
is not at home, but is gone off to Lemnos among the Sintians, whose
speech is barbarous.”
  She was nothing loth, so they went to the couch to take their
rest, whereon they were caught in the toils which cunning Vulcan had
spread for them, and could neither get up nor stir hand or foot, but
found too late that they were in a trap. Then Vulcan came up to
them, for he had turned back before reaching Lemnos, when his scout
the sun told him what was going on. He was in a furious passion, and
stood in the vestibule making a dreadful noise as he shouted to all
the gods.
  “Father Jove,” he cried, “and all you other blessed gods who live
for ever, come here and see the ridiculous and disgraceful sight
that I will show you. Jove’s daughter Venus is always dishonouring
me because I am lame. She is in love with Mars, who is handsome and
clean built, whereas I am a *******—but my parents are to blame for
that, not I; they ought never to have begotten me. Come and see the
pair together asleep on my bed. It makes me furious to look at them.
They are very fond of one another, but I do not think they will lie
there longer than they can help, nor do I think that they will sleep
much; there, however, they shall stay till her father has repaid me
the sum I gave him for his baggage of a daughter, who is fair but
not honest.”
  On this the gods gathered to the **
Julia kRu Jan 2010
*

Cargoes of thoughts - yell.
A siren, like a storm, - wails.
Desiring you.

(c)kRu, 08.10.2008
RW Dennen Sep 2014
An inland blockade from Israel cut off life
giving supplies to the Palastians in Gaza.
This happened around 2010.
Formulated was the "GAZA FREEDOM FLOATILLA".
Their strategy was to dock in Gaza-away from land-and deliver much needed life saving supplies.
However, the flotilla was seized- on the sea -by the Israeli
Navy consisting of one hundred and fifty sailors.
Around ten people from one of the flotilla ships
were killed and  brutality reigned supreme. ( a Turkish ship fought back )
Incarcerations from the floatilla to Israel's jails took place.
And so I dedicate this writing to these wonderful people of
conscience and their brave hearts upon the sea...

Days of siege
Days of conscience
Days of hope
Sailing to their destination
Days remembered
Day's compassion
Days remembered these needed cargoes held

Engines turning on paths of caution;
love is carried on sailing symbols
Each ship and boat will shout her name
Will shout in spirit dear Rachel Corrie,dear Rachel Corrie
Will shout in spirit dear Rachel Corrie

Brave hearts you suffered so upon the sea
Brave hearts you fought for truth, hope and dignity

Brave hearts on floating love
Brave hearts you are that peaceful powerful dove
Brave hearts you are our guiding light
Brave hearts you pierced that darkened blackened night

Brave Hearts upon the sea...
In addition, The good ship Rachael Corrie was named after
an Irish lassie. She was an activist in Palestine. She was bulldozed over trying to save a poor family's home.
She got in front of it and was plowed under its merciless
tracks. This brave act claimed her and now she belongs to the ages...
580

I gave myself to Him—
And took Himself, for Pay,
The solemn contract of a Life
Was ratified, this way—

The Wealth might disappoint—
Myself a poorer prove
Than this great Purchaser suspect,
The Daily Own—of Love

Depreciate the Vision—
But till the Merchant buy—
Still Fable—in the Isles of Spice—
The subtle Cargoes—lie—

At least—’tis Mutual—Risk—
Some—found it—Mutual Gain—
Sweet Debt of Life—Each Night to owe—
Insolvent—every Noon—
Mohamed Nasir Jun 2018
I love watching swallows
Gyrating and playfully swirls;
Mingle above over the river
Forming in a malee a ball.
Swiftly riding the thermals
Scooping the swelling water.
They shriek wheeling freely
Like boisterous little girls.

I came to see the lively acrobatics
In graceful motion of symmetry.
See enormous body of water flow
Pour itself into it's wide open mouth.
Slowly eroding shaping contours
And lives living along it's banks.
Constantly foreboding danger
And yet beauty and the mighty
Together in harmonious chemistry.

There I was many hours
In thought. What do I ever get?
At the jetty by the imperious
River where until dark I will be.
Time spent the opportunities
Passing by I have no regrets.
I'm like a ship from harbour
To harbour of a predestined life
With cargoes of worthless experience
Till I rot at the bottom of the sea.

Laboriously river meander and flow
Agile wings twist and turn in the air
With invisible brush of arcs and lines
With a vast sky as an open canvas.
The two characters, elements
Of nature, demonstrate their part;
In the theater of strength and grace.
While I am but a nameless intruder
Grateful of the kindness forever last.
This is an old poem written a long time ago when I was a young lad. Rewritten certain parts as I had grown older better as a writer.
Ivan Brooks Sr Apr 2019
If yesterday was an old man,
He would be old by now.
His hair and lashes would
Be full of shining grey hair
And walking with a Kane.
He would probably be frail
And proudly speaking of the
Good old days marred with
Conquests and exploits from
From his youthful adventures.
The intricate details of his flamboyant
Years and youthful antics and shenanigans would bring sparkles
To his old wrinkled face.
There would be tears in his eyes
When lamenting on love and sorrows...
Squinting his eyes and fumbling to
Find faded photographs hidden away
In ancient boxes from dusty shelves.

If yesterday was an old man,
He would speak between bad dentures
With shaky voice of an aging legend.
He would go on and on with tales
Of all the places he has been and
Calling the old names of cities and
People long gone but alive in his
Now on and off and fading memories.
He would talk about voyages taken aboard old vessels packed with ancient
Cargoes and Slaves and whale oil barrels.
He would recount stories of monsters
At sea and great beasts that once roamed the earth when it was young
And green and void of pollution.
About places and people and various
Cultures ,would be captivating stories
That young people would only imagine and listen in absolute awe, almost to a point of envy for his rich stories of a good life once lived in the past.

If yesterday was an old man, he would have a repetoire of ancient skills and knowledge that no one has today.He would talk about locomotives and steamships captained by bearded old sailors with horse drawn couches driven by hardened cowboys and couch men.
 If yesterday was an old man, he would talk about world war one and two like it was just yesterday.

If yesterday was an old man, he would know more of yesterday than today.

#IvanBrooksPoetry ©️
4.16.2019
Yesterday as an old man means everything new would be looked at through the old way.
Anayo Oleru Apr 2016
HEARTBEAT OF DELTA STATE
The rain has fallen again,
The streets are isolated,
Everyone is filled with sadness.
Houses and shops have been abandoned,
Villages and towns have been inundated.
Bags and cargoes floats unsteadily,
Cars and buses are deeply buried
deep into the water in a hazy manner.
People, animals, all are transported
by little wooden vessels.
With no idea of when
to take over their properties,
With no idea of where else to go.
The cities, their streets,
houses and cars have being flooded,
Properties, expensive
and extra expensive have been left over.
East Delta had been covered
by the unmerciful ocean.
Precious lives were gone
and more were at stake.
Families and close friends- divided.
Farms with large crops- destroyed.
Hunger and thirsty, hugs my people with sadness,
begging for aid.
Sickness and diseases fill people
with sympathizing outcome.
A land of peace is now a land of disaster,
A land of Labor is now a land of turmoil.
May peace always reign,
May ignorance be neglected,
For the dying heartbeat of Delta.
Wrote this poem when one of the Elaborate Village in the some part of Delta state in Nigeria, had a terrible disaster attacked them. Leaving some homeless, hungry, even death. Its a lyrical poem.
Andrew M Bell Feb 2015
You should practise joy more often,
it becomes you
and the radiance in your eyes
when you receive what others take for granted
is, for me, the greatest gift
and the deepest sorrow.
For you should not have to live on the crumbs
and these small kindnesses are your due,
what you deserve
not what you should have to crave.
I cannot understand how one so giving of her love
has received so little in return.
So, like a beautiful antique bureau that has been moved
too many times by careless owners,
your burnished mahogany heart
has been chipped and scarred and
my cargoes of love often find anchor in
a harbour of doubt.
My words may fall short of your hesitant ear but
perhaps your mouth believes my kisses,
your body believes my arms
and in my eyes can you see how your joy
begets my joy?
Copyright Andrew M. Bell
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2017
when I turned eighteen
sadness filled my cups,
for carefree was now gone,
laying side by side
with all my companion figurines,
off to rest in a boy's toy chest
in a backyard cemetery hid,
certainty assured
all that I was, so far,
all that I will be,
uncalming coming forevermore,
unwilling borne upon
the newly time redesigned,
heavy load shoulders of adult responsibility

when I turned thirty,
sadder now by the means and meaning of accumulation,
having thrice now measured the length of a stick of life,
denominated as a decade,
wiser now that the children underfoot,
certainty assured,
would have to pay
bills of lading for cargoes,
not of their own choosing,
indeed, selected unwisely,
by men like me, and men before,
all too old or too gone,
to be prosecuted now for the
short sightedness of reckless timidity

when I turned fifty,
the shoulders slightly stooped and gently curved,
my gait and pace slowed by weight,
pockets laden with undesired memories,
unfinished arguments,
dreams that morphed and morted into
failed schemes that with the
certainty assured,
the tallied ache of known losses
will always weigh greater
than the
unknown of opportune

now with seventy,
so near, onrushing to the sounds
of old men and their noisy excuses
of babbling, ironical,
eerie similar to the parental smiling hushing
of a newborn's squeaking,
a youthful brook,
happily to an open sea arushing,
hurrying in the fullness of innocence to
it's demise

the line of sight to the horizon,
far shorter now than ere before,
with greater certainty assured,
that near my god than thee,
my sadness daren't hope to dissipate, nor lift
as once it did,
an early morn mist rising off the river, 
freshly sun burnished, then miracle banished,
sacrificing itself as a hopeful oracle of a new born day

recurring haunted words
like rest, best and tried,
the only legacy remaining to gift,
but one thing yet measures a comforts,
a red cross blanket round the shoulders thrown that with
certainty assured,
the marvy joy of life all in,
be our given right to err and learn wisdom at our own pace

so here I freely confess
with wry, sly smile that we


proved ourselves to be
victims of our unintended tendencies,
successful in being

**all too human
Jan. 11, 2016
It still takes me awhilst to Sense your Name
With such Plus-Speeches curry to a Song
Yet ask if I - stopper the Current - same,
I wonder how many Words will last for long
Or Syllables, in your own Hands depend
With Numbered Cycles ask Keys for those Locks
Perhaps we Run - and Combination amend
Or affix those Cargoes left at the Docks
Demand it so, or leave a Martyr's Plaque
Which at Risk shed the Janner's Blood portend
Else dull the Banker; Then add his Funds lack
To decode his Wealth so long been Content.
Merry-be-Jolly, which Virtue discerns
The Olive still Grows; The Student still Learns.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
Five pounds a day, pay
five pounds a week B&B; with dinner thrown in for free
and twenty pounds a week for me.
Result,
drunkenness more or less
and carousery down by the sea.

'71 long gone but ships and cargoes linger on in dockyards spent of full employment
and there is no enjoyment to be had by thinking of those bad decisions made.
Ghosts laid to rest
and memories test the patiences of greater men than I.

Where have the stevedores all gone?
Containerised,
and everyone moved on
except for me
I stand beside the open sea
waiting for the ships to come home
to old stevedores like me.
john p green Mar 2016
Getting off the plane my bags nearly dragging the ground just like my shoulders.  I'm not looking for it.  Cuz "it" was left behind with the one I thought loved me.  Now my only welcome home comes from the pelting rain hitting my face as terminal doors swing open to my reality.  Don't care that I'm soaked to the bone, taxis laugh me by and screaming siren slows its tone with the dying rhythm of precious cargoes heartbeat not unlike my own.
Ken Pepiton Aug 2021
Heal the earth… kinda crazy, but it makes good sense
the message on the label in tiny type,
and the smell is heaven on earth,
peppermint after rain

A nod to Dr. Bonner, shouting in the distance
with the thunder over Laguna {no name}
high above long valley mountain
south of the valley we occupy,
we thunder resonaters, making me think you

know how we think
we mortal messengers are doers of evil
deservant
of natural resourceful sources wrath,
and bitter life worth attacks, dis-easing the peace
--acts of God the English insurers of ships said.
-- Real life.

Ida known, seen on the weather channel,
I asked for some of her water,
as a twist in the spin of the eye
of the storm,
in the per-ifery
of rich and learned influencers
twisters of eddies
in thought named
nought or ought points,
in the long game
of spirits riding winds, with heirs
of the times
when answers changed from wind to words

Ghost Riders in the Sky, I swear
the song made something of me, when I danced
this dance - this after the rain
smell and feel
in love
of the slightest touch
of Ida thunder resonating, ring of re
cognition, ignition, be ware heir
of wind, re allowed tall tales,
Pecos Bill, if y'will, re
son-ate, wait, set arope ona tornado,
with a gentle, look-up,cauughtcha houlihan.
{ hey hedgehog, were you looking for a horse?}
Gentle, think the stupid metaphor holds more hints…

and let goodness and truth tame y' tongue.
Ida reached out and kissed me.
phugginay-ee ha
say see
cloud dancers come to make me believe
I asked for this.

Thunder, echoes, no lie, as I imagine
you laughing, felt it too, just
then high up,

see, the thunderbird
from my story,
I told you, wait and see, many things that seem
good are,
always far better than the lack - after
grip loss on con science use
of their wisdom--
ouch,
imagine that
would become, as a festering sore,
should we not resonate the joy
of rain in
thunder peace, no anger-making-fear
declaration sound,

crack of
thunder is the world working
right, on time,
like attention, pay now, play later.

Hey wind talker, can you send some to Dakota?
We could
think so.
I think
it takes time,
but soon we shall agree we know the way
of riders on the storm,

the ice will finally melt, the waters shall rise,
wetter us better, deserts agree,

Rain and wind in Baja in August,
cold truth laughing back at me, think
what you wish were true were true then

do what you do.
Laugh with the singing pines.
Laugh with the whistling pine's cones sailing
trailing soggy webbing with cargoes
of peace from my valley, washing
over me, as I laugh at the madness,
this appears to be,
were any mortal
to see.
It flows, this river of no return==It took an artist to set the type on the label
of Dr. Bonner's Castile hemp peppermint soap,
prior to Adobe's Venus on a halfshell Postscript patent
allowed the letters to be kerned and set as code,
vector lines to frame each symbol of sense

-- trippy hard to read teeny tiny type, but

with these tools, hypertext linkt:
https://www.sloww.co/dr-bronner-soap-label/
- expand your horizon read a blogger
Tria Corpuz Dec 2015
A ship sails from oceans apart
Alone, unaccompanied, and lonely
Carrying with it cargoes of hope
Heading towards a voyage to success

Determined to bring home containers filled with happiness
The cruise goes as far as it can reach
But the whole journey doesn't remain peaceful
There were also moments when it was on the brink of sinking

Nevertheless, despite the challenges it encounters upon its navigation
The ship continues to battle with bravery on the vast body of blue
Pursuing its errand as firm as a rock
And returning ashore with great pride and honor

t.c.
Lawrence Hall Jan 2021
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                             “My Temple Stands in Ephesus”

                                            -Pericles V.i.241

“My temple stands in Ephesus,” the goddess says
I don’t believe in goddesses, of course,
And stern Saint Paul would cut up rough about them
But we could wish them so, temples and gods

We could board a ship with a seeing eye
A ship of wonderful cargoes safely stowed
And let there be “Lords, Knights, Gentlemen,
Sailors, Pirates, Fishermen, and Messengers”

To speed our stories and our very selves
To where a temple stands in Ephesus
A poem is itself.
Yenson Jun 2021
the worst of humanity
arrived in  unfeathered hues
eyes shimmering like quarry pebbles
snarls carrying teeth brown and broken
with long sticks firing thunders and death

the villagers ran like does
but blood ran and fear froze flights
the mad ghosts plucked them like ripe pawpaw
to chain them as cargoes for export to cotton fields
take the strong and able teach the rest to worship ghosts

fetch us two nubile virgins
one for the bed and the other a foot stool
loot all those gold and bronze artefacts and symbols
bring their rulers and elders to bow and wash our blades
show them that unfettered power and guile has no conscience

we are gods and goddesses
we rule the waves and on land we own it all
and to exploit and brainwash we call on the God of Rome
as we pray to gold silver diamonds and every treasures we see
dare protest or resist the might and power of the soulless slayers

we have plundered and looted
***** despoil incarcerated and divided
now we seize their minds use them as we've always done
our working and serving Punches and Judys on our sunken soil
And God help that one that kept his mind and dared to refuse to represent as a slave
It was in the mid-1930s, and Fred was 15. He was out at work one day when a posse of white men turned up at the family home. Where was the boy, they demanded. A little white girl had been pushed off a porch and her father, incensed by such disrespect, had decided it was Fred who did it and had to pay, even though the girl swore it was someone else.

When the men were told that Fred wasn’t there, they left a message. Tell the boy we’ll be back for him tonight.


There was no doubt what they meant. Fred’s father knew, as all black townsfolk in Gadsden knew, what had happened to Bunk Richardson.

The 28-year-old had been seized a few years back by a local mob of white men in relation to the ****** of a white woman in which he had played no part. They took him to a railroad bridge over the Coosa river on the edge of town and flung him over, leaving him hanging from a rope for several days for all to see.

Fearful that the same fate awaited him, Fred Croft fled. His father told him to leave town as darkness fell and never come back. And he never did.

At the age of 15 Uncle Fred fled north, never to return.
sheila sharpe Feb 2022
You are a flower of many names
Woodbine twisting around bright haws
Irish Vine with blarneyed whispers of sweet scent
Honey bind and Goats leaf
and Faerie Trumpets with a call to reassure
that steadfast in love shall admirers be
I shall welcome you into my humble home
that you might bring gold into my coffers
and into my garden to give protection from evil
In my hair shall I wear a wreath of your florets
that I might of my future true love dream
around my doors to cultivate good fortune
your tendrils I will surely wrap
my children to be shall bite off your flower ends
thirsty as they will be for drops of your honeyed nectar
come, let me bind you into ropes for pack ponies
to carry sweet cargoes of you to colonise
all of the fast fading and forsaken hedgerows
my Father and my Mother forbade me
to bring you into my Garrett bedroom fearing that
your heady perfume might young untested passions ignite
but now I will pluck of your sweetness
and will your honeyed sweetness into my home invite
to make an elixir for the rasped throats of Preachers and such
I will seep you in fragrant oil warm and soothe coldness with you
Now I beg of you to bring all that you own to me
Yenson Feb 2022
there was neon at the office do
there was wine and cakes ambushed proceedings
                                the management was there and
needed no neon to see to see for real
neon is dim and dull
              and for the red-light districts and underground dives
where nonsense and fuckall are now locked down
                         for the down and outs
who know nada about rock'n'roll

elsewhere headboy is supping bottle beer
                   after a works meeting he says
the blues are cracking 2020 Mouton Rothschild,
                 and hors d'oeuvres from Fortnum & Mason
while a poor old lady is missing her dear dead husband
                                 and counting unspent millions at Coutts & Co

the peasants are mad on full or half pay
                                  getting drunk and fighting their partners
moving from Golders Green to coastal towns in their dreams
            neon flicker dim and dull
momentum at a standstill
          they are working in the garden as one does
someone has made another baby
covid does not affect blue *****
the blues can see proper and do it proper
                 no neon required
leave that to the underground and the strange cargoes
here's a gin and tonic
Yenson Jul 2022
Our Unions of Western Cargoes
and Red Social Engineers
who in philistine alchemist craze
are but of course
renowned experts in relationships matters

So we are not overly surprised
gregarious primal deeds
for in their esteemed scattered brains
good men are animals
raving monsters who deserved to be banned

I already told you in plain sight
them both hate eachother
how can the superficial in plastic life
know reality and truth
when real honest emotion is not bottled

Wounded incensed so-so goddesses
frustrated by their lame ducks
hate with a passion the real upright male
truthful dependable and honest
such must be besmirch slandered and destroyed

See them dip their oars and paddles
watch seeding of negativity
unhappiest do not deal in joy and positivity
pray tell how can they
even the most beautiful woman was some man's ex-reject  




ULRIKA JONSSON
article 09/07/2022
" I hear with growing frequency from other female friends — particularly those on dating apps — that they, just like Amber, are considering “swapping sides”.

The complaints all seem to echo the same grievance — and if I may sexually stereotype for a moment — that men are notoriously inconsistent and unreliable.

They display a reluctance to engage in honesty and have an inclination towards the ­modern phenomenon of “ghosting”.

They appear to have an inability to express themselves.

They tend to treat women as increasingly dispensable and have become masters of what can only really be termed “emotional constipation”.

They can be fickle, those lads, that’s for sure.

After more than a year of putting myself out there on dating apps, that is certainly my own, personal experience, too.

These do appear to be male traits.

And it’s for this reason I hear time and time again that women are contemplating changing what they are “looking for” on the apps.

Women are clearly feeling exasperated."
Read my poem...."where have all the good men gone...."
Yenson Aug 2021
always blundering in
the ceramic captains of earth
we have it all
we know it all
we **** for fun much less war
yet again there it is
yon herdsmen from the mountains
shows its not what you know
its who you
its inner spirit
less guile like serpents
who crawls to bite
or rings apple luscious and ripe
only as always
roll out tail in mouth disgraced
banished from paradise
carrying polluted cargoes out
but ye gods the captains have answers
forked tongues is best for double speeches
we won the war
we have the honeypot
do as we say and you get honey
and they never learn
that in the mountains and dusty trails
a lone voice said long long ago
man does not live by bread alone
Yenson Dec 2021
Blowing in the w/c....
If for a second your opining's matters
there are but to yourselves
for do the skies gaze wistfully for shelter
when the sun heats up a storm
ubiquitous minds grazing in echo chambers
but to hear their resounding dins
for in emptiness volume is the usurpers finding homes
and log fires for burdened nonentities
in markets of the unknowns words are cheapest cargoes
raining prodigiously from raw fevered minds
there're trillions of stars in the universe of here and everywhere
but most are too dim to be noticed or viewed
orators talk words but who guarantees that words don't talk orators
here's chin-chin to the unhinged in the gutters of cheap speech
Yenson Aug 2021
I just barely glance
the ancestors of Slave Traders
now even more broken and bankrupted
propped up and carried by stooges & indentured slaves
madden inherently and worthless in presence faffing about
in inglorious penance for all their losses personally & mentally
one sees cripples unvictorious prancing lamely at the beggars ball
slaves auctions now woke trade in western cargoes mostly bleachers
do not blame the man who sees and write your heinous stories for you
Darl! Let's go to Manhattan beach,
There we can catch some fish,
Then you'll cook a nice dish,
That we'll eat under the Beech.

This time, if Jennifer goes,
She'll want to eat a lot of Mangoes,
Then we'll send some by cargoes,
Like we did when we were on hol's in Fargo.

Oh! That reminds me, dearie!
Can you help me cut down this Cherry?
I am not going nuts;
'Cos I earlier made you climb that Walnut.

Just like on Long Island, If not for Jennifer;
I would've broken my spine,
When you wanted me to cut down a Connifer,
But I still got injured by a falling Pine.

Long Islands! That's where we saw many Rowans,
In a forest originally planted by the Romans,
I thought I'd find some of their treasures,
It would've made our memories more to measure.

Those are not Rowans, they are Hawthorns!
Hawthorn? That tree I climbed was without thorns,
Anyway, there's a lot of fun playing with trees,
There's no such adventure that nature gives more free.

— The End —