"carted" poems
December, 1870
After the beef was gone,
after the pork and the lamb,
and the fowl and the fish
and the dogs, and the cats,
and the rats in the gutter,
the butchers turned to the zoo.
We ate the wolves.
We ate the wolves
broiled in sauce of deer,
the antelope truffled and terrined.
We ate the camels
with breadcrumbs and butter,
and when they were all gone,
we sharpened our knives
and primed our guns
and came back for the elephants.
The gunsmith Devisme did the deed,
hurled an explosive ball
through each of their docile heads.
They fell like mountains,
like the pillars of Dagon
pulled down by mighty Samson,
and then we hacked them up
and carted them away to the kitchens,
to feed the wealthy and the rich
in the clubs of bright Paris.
Dec 29, 2011
Dec 29, 2011 at 4:51 PM UTC
(Holding fire and water together)
I don't know why the rain keeps writing the
name of Nigeria on the ground in every corner.
I don't know why we are this broken and
tortured like the fragments of the dust.
I don't know why the Dapchi girls returned yesterday while their chikbok friends are
still in captive.
I don't know why every street in Nigeria is
known with an imprint of good leaders.
I don't know why we cry yet point accusation. fingers back to ourselves, who is fooling who?
I don't know why the sun cry here with a
closed lips.
I don't know why we keep writing love stories
while our brothers and sisters perish in shame!
I don't just know why but I think you should know.
Are you not the one that collected a cup of rice, clean notes and Abrahamic lie from them?
I won't speak ill of this land again, I won't!
I won't judge any one, no, I won't for the
sake of my unborn children.
No, I won't for the sake of what happened to Dele Giwa and Saro Wiwa.
We poets are abnormal psychologically.
We paints abstraction from the abstracts creating fears that might hurt those true patriots.
My muse fell out from me yesterday night,
When my television opened to a scene of genocide.
Men on pants, women on trousers painting out the tears made for people inhabiting hell.
Their laughters and smiles were printed to be archived among themselves.
I won't speak ill of this country, no, I won't!
Because of my unborn children,
I won't!
But I will tell just one tale for them to remember
Of how monkeys carted away with our monies!
Of how Snake swallowed our currency!
Of how good our leaders are, I think you know!
I have been holding these demons in me until last night they came out horribly in fierce protest to revisit this land again.
To tell of those girls ***** under the bridge,
To ask why boys like me are named after me,
To speak against shadows of death lurking here and there.
Nigeria is grey and black, red and violent,
Retrieving this oceans of mysteries from the hidden abyss of grave corruption is the passport tabled on the pyramid top to recreate a versatile muses of a lyrics calling for a right to write our rights.
Take a walk to memory lane pass your shadow, that of your father, mother & grandmas
You will see a Nigeria in another angle trying to free herself from the grip of corruption, then, revisit her tears and struggles you will know we are the cause of our own misfortunes.!
©John Chizoba Vincent
From_A_Pen_Refusing_Frustrations
Jun 30, 2018
Jun 30, 2018 at 5:00 PM UTC
A calendar knows little of a day,
Of any day; its arbitrary squares
Mark seasons as they amble on their way
From holy Advent ‘til the harvest fairs
When summer’s crops, all red and gold and blue
Along with piglets, ducks, some well-fed hens
Are carted squeaking, squealing, creaking to
Saint Michael’s fields in the Anglian fens
Old Father William lifts a pint (no less!)
With farmers selling cows and chicks and corn
For he is merry too, and quick to bless
The laboring marsh-folk on this autumn morn
Earth, sky, and air mark seasons as they fall,
And soon comes Martinmas, joyfully, for all
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 2:20 PM UTC
There was an old man, I once knew
Peaches was the name he used
He was the drunk, set on our trunk
his body old and abused
Sharing his beer with an old horse
who caroused in the end stall
Each day by three, they'd walk by me
and stumble but never fall
His liver was a lace doily
alcohol pickled him thin
He'd been turned down, all over town
no one ever took him in
He drank his beer with ole Nellie
she could tip a bottle too
Swig and sway, like Don Quixote
as they staggered, swirling, brew
We were headed for the races
this blustery afternoon
Each planned the trip, we had to ship
I knew we'd be leaving soon
From where we trained at the fairground
we carted them to the track
Where all would race, and take what place
each earned in front or in back
Peaches rode in back of the truck
so he could drink the whole way
My uncle said, he'd soon be dead
drinking had seen his decay
We sat apart from others there
he and I were best of pals
He'd tell me tales, of life’s travails
while I ogled all the gals
That day he shared a sordid tale
of pain he caused his own son
He had shouldered blame, bore the shame
for this thing that he had done
Back when he was just a young man
a pillar of support
He took his boy, his life’s great joy
to play their favorite sport
They went to a picnic that day
he had drank one too many
On the way, to watch his son play
of fears he hadn't any
His boy was riding in the back
not thinking they skipped the seat belt
He'd rolled his car, the door ajar
surprise was all he had felt
His boy was tossed out in a field
sweet clover of timothy
The child's light hair, seen lying there
remembered so vividly
"I was a Veterinarian"
said Peaches to my surprise
"I went insane, called out in vain
but God never heard my cries"
"So now I ride where I belong
In back of my self-made bar
Hoping he, will come to take me
by tossing me from the car"
Just then a tear fell from his cheek
the pain enveloped me too
Here cried a man, much deeper than
any of us ever knew
Tate
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 2:12 PM UTC
The knife of life carves indiscriminately without warning
said the runts of the pumpkin patch now lined in mourning.
A farmer plucked biggest one, cutting vine, as the runts cried
a black harvest, Mama being carted off, as she died.
Sad black crows circle the day and night sky abreast and stressed
as the winds of fate wielded its teeth at the oppressed.
A blur of orange is all the crows saw amongst the quivering patch
as the farmer tiptoed the pasture wide-eyed on getting his ******
Now at the hour of her death angels play harps of fruition
in wake of the wide-eyed farmer's wayward act of abscission.
Billows of black smoke followed, taking to the ominous skies
as the incinerator took matters in its own hands as she lies.
Then all that was left were the ashes and whispers of the past,
a eulogy, as her quivering kin sat in the storybook downcast.
Pages cried out, tears filled the chapters of a great pumpkin patch
her roots holding each on the vines with love that's hard to match.
No day came off, of a jack-o-lantern smiling in a window frame
for in this family house cancer snatched mothers life just the same.
Logan Robertson
8/4/2018
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 9:39 PM UTC
I remember what we used to be
Swinging and climbing up every tree
That time when everyone would go outside just to play tag
Now all we got is 8 year old kids complaining about too much lag
And all those ballin' teenagers saying 'We got so much swag'
Now one of the only things you see
Is teen girls selling out virginity
25$ at one time you could've almost caught a taxi ride from here to Tennessee
I feel sorry for the next generation
Swag ballin' COD players running this nation
Now just give me one second of concentration
heavy intake of breath
Sorry, all the violence in the world has sent my mind through so much rehabilitation
I realized everything we thought was right was wrong
Simple math, it shouldn't have taken us this long
But it doesn't matter cause everyone's taking a hit from the nearest ****
These geniuses go and call others ********
Thanks, we're all mentally unstable and needed an excuse to be carted
To the nearest funeral home
Cause no one ever put us under loves dome
Ding ding ding we have a winner
Obviously the one without a ring on their finger
Forever alone because others see them as a sinner
When all they're trying to do is get another night's dinner
22 years from now we'll all be middle aged
Stuck in a job wanting to be uncaged
The worlds resources steadily going down the drain
An we're all stuck on a one way train
To hell or up above
That's when you wish you'd just been born a dove
Life's quite tough don't be late
It seems today is quite an important date
Though you've already come so far
One day you'll be crying in a bar
Thinking about your past when it was so easy
Every day the wind was cool and breezy
And you were swinging and climbing up every tree
I remember what it used to be
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 4:37 AM UTC
Thrift Shop Confessional
Old carts squeak down re-sale aisles
"One of," "two of,"
Sometimes "three of" items
Tempting treasure-sifting shoppers,
Bargain-needing families,
Women seeking up-brand names at low-brand prices...
Our wives, followed by their husbands,
Acquiescent, but quiescently seeking
Seeking a thrift shop oasis.
A cast-off dining set beckons,
Sturdy enough, if a little battered,
To make us solemnly content to wait
Carted clothing trundling
Off to fitting rooms.
He shuffled up with a foolish grin.
"I think I'll join this convocation of
Waiting gentlemen.
My wife is a shopper...
She'll close the place down."
I moved a chair and gave some space;
Strangers become brothers in this place.
Five minutes on,
I knew he was a vet:
Army, Vietnam Nam...
"I don't like to think about it,"
Cleared his throat,
"Never can forget."
I turned to look at him.
"A little girl came running,
With her hand behind her back.
She only stood this high," he said,
And showed me with his palm her height,
"They carried grenades that way...
All of 'em...couldn't tell which ones...
Sergeant told us, 'Don't ever check...just shoot.'"
The voice trailed off....
I sat sweating in a thrift store,
Captive of my own politeness,
Half a century,
Half a planet,
Transported in his words
into a soldier's Hell.
"So I shot...
Nothing else to do."
Silence then.
A total stranger staggering
under the weight of having
Murdered his Albatross....
Of having carried this thing,
This memory,
Inside him all these years,
Of finding me,
The unsuspecting thrift shop guest
Who'd listen to his lonely tale,
Perhaps so he could earn some rest....
I, his unwitting Confessor,
Uncertain what to say,
Certain something must be said...
Certain nothing could be said...
Sat dumb, but understanding
The wisdom of confessional dividers,
The private comfort of two booths
Where prayerful exchanges
Intersperse uncertain silences,
Present in the overhanging need:
Demanding sorrowful returns,
Impending memories of sorrows...
And lonely trudgings home....
(Connections with Fr. Laurence's "Riddling confession finds but short shrift," in Romeo & Juliet, and Coleridge's "Rime of the Ancient Mariner")
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 5:39 PM UTC
Music of the street
Reverberates loudly
Out the dumpster,
From the tiny mouth
Of a screaming
Baby
Wrought in the wombs
Of filth, injustice,
Foggy rage.
Tongues ripped out,
On the floor, tastebuds that
Know the pang
of blue blood.
Rusty nails and overused syringes
***** the fingers,
Softly.
The people yell, maniacally,
Yet remain unheard.
Pain becomes evident,
Written on the faces
Of the unwholesome.
A wafting scent of
Their rotten morals,
Forgotten dreams,
Floats, as hot steam,
from the pavement.
Unable now
To decompose.
Across the road,
A pregnant woman holds
Her cigarette, which
Smells of cookies
And cream soda.
Jesus was enlightened,
Not too pious
For the poor.
Yet more than pain
Was written
On their faces,
Missing tongues, missing eyes.
Laid together
On the piss-stained mattress,
Feet to head and head
To feet.
Nonsense was confused
As words, that danced into
Non-platonic humps.
She kissed him, because
She wanted to feel
The texture of his brain.
Pick her up with
Golden hand, though
She may see you.
And the sad image of
Dollar bills
Inspires the mind,
Making it immobile.
Here, where the **********
Stands, more holy
Than the monastery.
Crawling, as they do,
Through unpainted,
Rented walls, like
Hungry little cockroaches,
Creeping for a bite.
The small infant still
Lays on metal, each
Moment crying softer
For warmth.
Though you will not
Hear her tomorrow,
As she’s carted off by
Garbage men
Who, each week, remove
The undesired
Remnants of yesterday.
Hope for sweet
Needles to sooner bring her
A different relief.
Life is so simple
When struggles
Are never-ending.
Mi amor pequeña,
no llores más. El fin está cerca,
aunque no entiende
mis palabras.
Though the buildings
Surrender with
Decay and the sun decides
He doesn’t want
To keep on caring
The music still plays mournfully,
And only the baby can hear.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 7:24 AM UTC
spirited ferret
rare, ear hair tipped white
frightened pip carefully snaring
darting pairs flipping
clipped wings, carted
shipped riggings sing
lark songs
darkness brings
wronged Nips
angered and singing
ears ring banging hangers
tearing string Narcs protest
ingesting *** freeing boxes
rocks bling
****** tracks shear hearts
parked rack blesses
black guests
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 3:45 PM UTC
the Egyptians of ancient times
worked in the sun for few dimes
they slavishly carted square blocks
to ***** temples and pyramid docks
as the sun streamed down
upon their heads
the workers in stone
wanted their sun god dead
they offered orisons
to Ra telling him he'd gone too far
by sending forth an over abundance
of hot solar bars
so the laborers of ancient Egypt
took refuge from Ra's heat
in the pharaoh's cool crypt
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 7:29 PM UTC
Molasses is
The most red
The most gold
The most vibrant
Least cold
Fall of my life
And it’s a new ****
Maybe he wears a trucker hat
Or maybe he wears bibs
Maybe he’ll be some dark horse
New candidate
I don’t know yet
He could be one of these
Over mountain men
Filtering through the woods
Appearing in the hills
Ghosts of Hatfields past
Fur on their faces
Instead of skin
Strong and sturdy
Growing up from the ground
Like the cane we’re cutting
Down
And it ain’t about money
Out here in God’s country
We’re just willing and
Able
Enjoying the rich soil
And machetes
Carving calluses
While the sugar’s pressing
Staining, straining
Green and sweet
Skimming, boiling, browning
Finally draining
Into glistening mason jars
The day is going dark
Sail away ladies
Sail away
And say darling say
Playing banjo
In a moonshine-induced
Hallucination
Till all the bread is gone
The molasses gets carted off
And now it’s full dark
The spooks come out
All the wicked witches
Spitting hairballs
At their victims
That thing making noise
Moving in the bushes
Might be Matt Kinneman
Tells me I’m a good woman
I’m a human wall
And my pigtails make good handholds
When someone needs to reach his knife
The mountains grow
Apart at night
And the hollers pull us in
Molasses tastes like being
Home again
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 2:28 PM UTC
People ask me why I always write disgusting sexually explicit poetry
well the truth is
after being carted off to the ****** bin repeatedly
for fertilizing eggs at the supermarket
i realized my true calling
was to scream out fuzzy wuzzy in public
as i fertilized everything insight
i guess i just have an egg fetish
and like babies
i decided to learn everything i could about the subject
so for those who may read my stuff and
find it's flavor not to their taste
like my new poetic extravaganza yet to be published
" if aint painal it aint ****
please forgive and understand
this is simply the thing I know the most about
and feel obsessively compelled
to share it through my poetry
yes
you guessed it
i'm one of the worlds leading sexperts
and hold a
PHD
from
Copulation University
in
INTERNATIONAL CLITERATURE
after years of in depth hands on research
courses in clitanomics, clitologic
social and clitural humanities
the great take away is this
"shove it
where you love it"
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 3:14 PM UTC
She’s gone! The nurses came today
and carted Mother far away
to give me peace to kneel and pray
before the cross
Don’t think me harsh if I should say
she’s no great loss!
That endless screeching banshee wail
can carry on to no avail
the staff will hear but surely they’ll
not bend like me
And now I’ve peace to find the trail
to Calgary
Oh holy vision, cruelly slain
Your endless love is not in vain
I pray and understand the pain
of sacrifice
for no reward (except to reign
in Paradise).
Such selflessness I can but follow
(not like that ***** who’d lie and wallow
spit the pills she had to swallow,
curse and choke
Think yesterday would buy tomorrow -
some ****** hope!)
Take her diploma off the wall
what it was for I can’t recall
she never needed it at all
the lazy bizzim
But come - and heed the joyful call
the Christ is risen!
Dec 28, 2011
Dec 28, 2011 at 2:32 PM UTC
I was sitting at my computer
All intelligent and nonchalant
When a personality profile test popped up
In the most interesting of fonts
I decided this might be fun
So I clicked onto the site
And right away started answering questions
On what I did and didn't like
As soon as the test was over
With my feet planted firmly on the floor
I hit the button enter
There was immediately a knock upon the door
What appeared to be three business men
All in matching suits and ties
With darkened sunglasses all around
Like Hollywood Movie Stars in disguise
Before I knew what was happening
They threw a hood over my head
And carted me off without the slightest word
Not a single Howdy-Do was said
My new found friends threw me into the trunk
Of a waiting limousine
Where just as quickly as they arrived
We all left the scene
We came to a run down abandoned Army base
In the middle of the desert
I had the feeling that what it was that was to come
Most certainly wouldn't be pleasant
They set me in the middle of a room
As men circled all around
I knew this had to do with the test
And wondered at what it was they found
When in walked "The Bossarooni"
And said don't worry son we're not here to mistreat cha
We're just curious as to why
You like anchovies instead of pepperoni on your pizza
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 7:26 AM UTC
The rain stopped,
the sun was gone
Mercy was in
short supply
Smoke hung over
the trenches
A bugler in the mud
with his cry
Bodies were being
carted off
New songs were written
to the dead
Just another day in
World War 1
That started and ended
in dread
Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2014:
Opening page to my new novel, 'Death From The Sky.'
Nov 30, 2016
Nov 30, 2016 at 9:32 PM UTC
We were, almost, inseparable
They thought us twins
Before I went off to school
Leaving you behind
We had adventures
Wondering wild
All around our tiny home town.
We farmed monster *****
We carted around
Building them dams
In someone's muddy back yard.
You put the garden fork
Right through your foot
And ran all the way home
On your own.
I wonder if there is still a mark there.
I'd ask if we still spoke
Of anything other
than the weather like adults.
I'd ask
If you remember
The creature in the dam
That roared up out of the dark water
But turned into the quivering old bull
Who fell in.
He was still magical
And caught us that fat fish
we took home
And cooked up for supper
Hoofprint and all.
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 2:17 AM UTC
Randy was a roach
Of the american cockroach variety
He was a deep brown and had a sickly shine
To his wings and antennae
And he studied both of us
From a perch in our suitcase
In my girlfriend's East Harlem apartment
In the early hours of a sunday morning
**** it! Get it out of the suitcase!"
My girlfriend yelled
Flailing her arms
As Randy reclined on our valuables
His antennae twitching
As in most crisis
I hesitated
And Randy burrowed into the suitcase
Past the underwear, collard shirts, and sunscreen
I dug in a frenzy
Rending my girlfriend's meticulous packing plan
And scattering clothes about
All in the name of meaningless destruction
But I couldn't find Randy
"He's probably in the collar of one of your shirts, or in a pair of my shoes"
My girlfriend speculated
And I started shaking the clothes wildly about the room
Wanting more than anything to extinguish Randy's life
To sterilize our newfound stowaways presence
But I never found him
And Randy boarded the plane with us to ***** Cana
While our plane painted dizzying contrails over the ocean
We speculated about Randy's
Most likely devious activities
"I bet he's eating the granola bars under my bikinis"
"I bet there is more than one in there"
"Maybe he's dead?"
"I bet he's laying eggs"
We both pondered over the fact that Randy could be Rhonda
And that we would open the suitcase to a scattering of near microscopic progeny
And we clutched each other in the cold, recycled air of the cabin
When we got to the room
Past all the tin shacks and open air bars
Where the locals sat in plastic lawn chairs
Staring at the tourist shuttles
That carted pale skin behind tinted windows
To decadently decorated rooms where the towels were folded into swans
We opened the bag to see if Randy
Had surfaced, died, or multiplied
But Randy was no where to be seen , a phantom
We unpacked everything under the utmost scrutiny
Not trusting any of the items we had packed so lovingly and repacked
Shaking cover ups and tee shirts like the wind shakes the leaves in autumn
But he never presented himself
And we saw none of his foul brood
We even unzipped the lining
But Randy had simply vanished
Evaporating into the humid, tropical air
I like to think that Randy is somewhere on the island still
That he has impregnated or has been impregnated
That he spends his days under the intense sun
And cottony wisps of clouds
Sipping Presidente
Sitting under an umbrella made of dried palm fronds
Happy to be away from the honking horns and crowded subways
Just like we were
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 3:25 PM UTC
The chimney on top of hill
with tumbleweed surrounds
Wind-scarred handfired brick
red as Autumn's dress
Ballast stone adorned foundation
carted from far distant shore
Stones once stored in hold of ships
from even further lands
Stones mined by strangers
speaking many languages
except his own, the builder
of this chimney, forlorn marker
against the sky
All that remains of his home
Well balanced, builder
Well founded.
r ~ 23Mar14
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 9:18 AM UTC
Child custody battle
herded like cattle
child not given a choice
lives with the loudest voice
Parents argue continuously
child listens listlessly
carted from pillar to post
who loves me the most?
Please listen to the child
their emotions running wild
stuck in the middle of a fight
seeking peace with all their might
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 3:03 PM UTC
The Red Curtain Parts
JUNE
The world was gray that morning
Sticky dew on the ground
Like sleep in the corners of my eyes
Feeling Empty and cold
I hear her departure
The Final Act of Chasity Donloe had begun.
SCENE ONE
A rainy day, in a harsh city
In a steely room that smelled of iron
Was when she took
Her final bow.
Wrapped in white, Accented in red
Was a mask
The face of a Love
Many Loves
Enveloped in fuchsia hair
Soft, wide lips, and cold
The audience sighs in recognition
The mystery solved.
SCENE TWO
Carted away on steely wings
Hearing the cry of a lonely mother
Feeling the grip of an angry brother
I forget my line
And the curtain
Is Drawn
The end of Chasity's Act.
No Applause Please,
Not until all
Have made their exits
Thank you.
Jun 27, 2011
Jun 27, 2011 at 12:06 PM UTC
for those nights when i shattered at my wrists
looking up at apathetic skies
blinding sunshine moonshine
stars matching the layout of
the cones in my pupils
i remember the tears pooling at the corners of my eyes
as i looked down and up
clutching my wrist
digging my nails into deeper impressions and
grooves left by knives past
biting the inside of my cheek hard enough
and the days when i used my hair
to hide my eyes
and dodged around people
unable to bear
with putting on a face
strong face happy face getting-through-life faces
those days
i felt barely human
for those days
i remember impressions left on my feet and my hands
as i stared holes into them
through the blur of tears on my eyes
i felt the clench of my heart and my stomach
and i remember digging my nails into my guts
trying to hold myself together
and the struggle of remaining upright
trying to not crumple into a ball
into as tight a space i could manage
under tables beds metal frames
left dusty with spider webs and mis-
disuse over ages of forgetting
for reasons better known to those others
for those days
when i could barely look into someone's eyes
and acknowledge myself as a person
or a human or a thing or a creature
and i felt like a whisp on the
shadows and springs of death and blankness
those days
when all i felt was the grave the tombstone
of my body
as i carted it around
the world and the whole world
leaned in but i leaned out
i leaned out and
and my spine was not strong enough to carry this tombstone
but my shoulders were
so my shoulders hunched and my spine broke
and i carted it around anyway
those days when
everyone
came back in dreams and nightmares
of worlds falling apart
and people lying dead in ditches
people killing themselves in hidden roofs
where i had once resided
and i recalled a
a particular
peculiar impression
of orange smoky skies
with menacing black jets over my head and i thought
i thought
and i believed-
"This world has come to die"
and that wasn't even the scary part
the scary part was when i
i stood and opened my arms wide
laughed and said:
"i've been waiting"
i remember those nights
i remember those moments
and my stomach crumbles
my eyes cannot handle their weight anymore
my spine shatters
my shoulders overflow
my wrist shatters
and i
i look up at the blinding
sunshine moonshine
and i open my eyes wider
and laugh laugh laugh
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 4:11 PM UTC
I went to Walmart this morning - yes, it was very brave.
My dander was up - I was on high alert - for active shooters and the unmasked.
Then I saw him! A man on the cookie aisle - he looked like he had the monkeypox!
So I kicked him in the nuts and ran - you can’t be too careful out there.
It turns out that he was just an 80-year-old retiree wearing a polka-dot shirt.
I apologized - from a safe distance - as the paramedics carted him away.
It felt like a close call.
May 25, 2022
May 25, 2022 at 10:10 AM UTC
I was sitting at my computer
All intelligent and nonchalant
When a personality profile test popped up
In the most interesting of fonts
I decided this might be fun
So I clicked onto the site
And right away started answering questions
On what I did and didn't like
As soon as the test was over
With my feet planted firmly on the floor
I hit the button enter
There was immediately a knock upon the door
What appeared to be three business men
All in matching suits and ties
With darkened sunglasses all around
Like Hollywood Movie Stars in disguise
Before I knew what was happening
They threw a hood over my head
And carted me off without the slightest word
Not a single Howdy-Do was said
My new found friends threw me into the trunk
Of a waiting limousine
Where just as quickly as they arrived
We all left the scene
We came to a run down abandoned Army base
In the middle of the desert
I had the feeling that what it was that was to come
Most certainly wouldn't be pleasant
They set me in the middle of a room
As men circled all around
I knew this had to do with the test
And wondered at it was they found
When in walked "The Bossarooni"
And said don't worry son we're not here to mistreat cha
We're just curious as to why
You like anchovies instead of pepperoni on your pizza
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 5:33 PM UTC
Well, so they tell us-
the political gladiators and
heavy weights. That in permanent
servitude we must remain.
They create a void in our stomachs,
which they momentarily fill with
what they carted away from us.
Just for their self will and whims
for another leap year's tenure to
be entrenched.
They widen the capacity for evil
of the canines they have intentionally
starved.
For a bone's morsel, the canines
viciously their draconian orders
execute.
Just for their masters' sit-tight
bid to be guaranteed.
Restrained with the servile chains
of their desperate overlords, they bark
ravenously at the oppressed,
who have come to liberate themselves
at polling units.
Each time the unworthy is by the
ballot box overthrown, the ravenous
canines at the hands of feeble
patriots gnaw.
A pound of flesh they take
from the down-trodden kingmakers,
to usurp the power they have
in good governance vested.
The umpire with filthy lucre gratified,
raises the hand of the fraudulently
triumphant political Brahmin,
who for another leap year's tenure
subjugates his dalits with utter
deprivation; ASUU strikes, poor infrastructure,
incessant power cuts, poor health delivery,
persistent insecurity, unemployment
and the cancerous bad governance.
With fat cheeks and stiff neck
that is well sunken into a robust torso,
he regularly raises the sides of an
African attire of elitist renown,
set once more to amass more spoils
of political office for a privileged
family dynasty.
Jun 30, 2023
Jun 30, 2023 at 6:53 PM UTC
Chirruping birds lay in wait; as we passed, the flowers flushed,
Frivolously through the woods we ran- heads occasionally kissed by the dew,
In my petite hand, a rose red of hue, the fountains of love loudly gushed.
As Spring cast her spell, nothing would change, I knew.
The cruel scorching sun, the scathing hot winds a cruel blow delivered,
Gravely, she shook her head, reassuring words the Doctor sought.
A pearl of sweat adorned his brow- he feared.
As Summer dawned, nothing would change, I thought.
The bitterly cold flakes of snow, the surging sinister cold,
His beautiful eyes, shut, were shielded while I wept and moped.
The blink of an eye; the reassuring smile he attempted spoke of a heart of gold,
As Winter imposed, nothing would change I hoped.
The leaves tearfully from the naked trees parted,
A surrendering smile, my name on his lips grew,
The final breath, our bond severed- his bed away was carted.
As Fall struck, everything would change, I knew.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 11:06 AM UTC