"centerpiece" poems
Listen my dear daughter, to my first song of caution
Earmarked for you my wonderful sire, come and listen,
That tall old man with white hair all over his head
Standing over there is not good; he is gnomish in the mind
Be careful with him, he is not human in the heart
But a mermaid of Yoruba poetry, just like Thespis of Greece
Even the pecuniary psychopomp of Sweden gave him an accolade
His heart is selfishly full of avarice; he wants everything for himself,
Don’t recite him any of your poetry, lest he spells an abyss
Against your juvenile poetic talent, he will fool you with a gift;
A white sheep or a scarlet goat for your birth day anniversary
Please don’t take it or anything else from him, as nothing from him is genuine
But only machinations of evil spell aimed at mahyeming your talent
Finally to decimate your girlhood and life, this is my caution
For you dear little African girl.
Listen my dear little daughter, to my second song of caution
That short man in a Muslim gear loafing yonder, is suspect
The Muslim beret on his head is merely a smokescreen to aghastly behaviour
He is in no way an avatar of god of love and humane piety
He is a terrorist working with Boko Haram and Algaeda
He is an Alshabab that is bombing young girls in Mombasa and Nairobi
All over Kenya he has killed the young people; his long egret-white sari is not for holiness,
It is merely a nefarious sanctum of grenades, other tools of work in terrorism trade
His loudly prayers, body movements and pocket bursting monies are only a stunt
To have you kidnapped into death conduit, once you goof to join his courts,
His sanctimony is a total picaresque film, (s)heroes of terror the centerpiece
And thus, this is my caution for you dear little African girl.
Listen my dear daughter, to my third song of caution
Those tourists thronging our streets are deadly *** pets, they also skulk ****
Their handsome outlook is not a stamp to any good conscientiousness
They derive pleasure from poverty and *** tourism; they yearn to see a girl in poverty,
Often rarely will they help an African girl, out of milieu of beggarly squalorism,
Instead they go straight for the purse between your thighs,
Regardless of the legacy they leave out of this lewdness, they are showy,
They regret not in their Byronic broadcast of *** and fatherless urchins in the poor streets
Foundation for their further poverty tourism, this is my caution for you dear little African girl.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 4:20 AM UTC
i was a hermit,
and you dragged me into
the never-ending metropolis
of your lives.
i was content in isolation,
and you introduced me
to birds of prey and
astronauts.
i was an entertaining centerpiece
for a day.
i was an entertaining delay.
i was the perfect way to segue
him back to his place.
i was a hermit,
and you bled me
to see how much
was left of me.
i was glad to see,
you were dissatisfied
with the amount.
i was a writer, a liar,
i was a dreamer, a denier,
i was a scapegoat, and the angry judge at your throat.
i am a hermit
with no place or person
to go.
i am a hermit
with no individual
soul.
Sep 12, 2010
Sep 12, 2010 at 12:04 PM UTC
You are the centerpiece
All the crystal fragments of your perfect self
Refracting light like a thousand diamonds
Dazzling and mesmerizing me into a
Blissful trance
Strong enough to hold yourself up
A beacon in the vastness of the
Dance floor of my life yet
Fine and elaborate in design
You reflect stars into my eyes
Even though you aren't a galaxy
I'm ensnared in the cosmos
Of your radiance
Far above me is
Where you reside and I
Am but an onlooker like the rest
Continually startled by your brilliance
When all of the guests leave
My hall and take but a memories
I will remain spinning in
Circles alone
Unable to see anything but
The most marvelous part of it all
You
My chandelier
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 11:05 PM UTC
He lay on the floor
Head smashed in with the
Centerpiece that was their
Wedding gift
If only we had cared
Enough to stop him
He was her husband
And he had gone mad on her again
She stood by his body
Teary eyes transfixed on his
Blood as it made its way
To her shaky feet
If only we had not said
He was her husband
She was his wife
For it was theirs to resolve
His fist no longer balled up
Her screams abruptly seize
His belt around her neck no more
Her consciousness crawls back in
If only we had made
It our business, seeing not
Violence as discipline, saving her
Would have saved them both
©Belema .S. Ekine
©belemascribbles
Apr 13, 2018
Apr 13, 2018 at 7:20 AM UTC
The esophageal chill of fresh rain paired
with Bozek's tire stove undertones
slipped through the chain link tennis court.
Love all, love-fifteen, love-thirty, love-forty, game.
I love you, service box Suns, fault one fault lines,
Grandma's crochet centerpiece. Cornucopia coping
with *deuce, add. in, deuce, add. out, deuce,
you get it.* Lost ***** in the transformer pen beside
the playground where I watched my classmates
fall off the monkey bars and expose themselves daily.
Racket strings like pantyhose girls surrounding
the sink applying lipstick and stabbing each other dead.
They don't need monkey bars to show off.
Slice serve pizza at Pudgies to kids barely making it.
Grades lower than the pepperoni from the seedy
gas station they sit in and thumb-spike quarters
into each other's knuckles. The "grown-ups"
buy instant lottery and feverishly **** the tickets
with misplaced pennies, and then toss the moneywastes
when they score a free ticket. Free ticket to what?
The tennis match in Addison so far away?
A clear view through chain link?
A wet, elm bench some kid made in shop class?
An alternative to what we waste our lives on?
****** marijuana, drinking at the basketball court, and
flicking cigarette filters into Berger Lake like we're hot ****
We are **** not the ****
Just ****
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 11:59 AM UTC
I'm the Afrocentric Gift
you been waiting and dying to open ..,
Christmas came Early just for you this year,
I'm the Thoughts in ya head,
Mind blowing the
Essences of Sexuality,
Wisdom,
Knowledge
and a
multitude of Feminine Power,
Prowling and
Roaring for your affection,
I'm every Women,
Just not to night
I don't want to share,
Be my one & only..,
I am the
Architects building
the bridges back to ya heart,
My Prominent Black African King,
Mr.Sexy as ya wanna be..,
I Dreamed of this many times at night & also for some weeks,
Thoughts of you Thought of us become " We"
Teaming up and Doing
What lovers do,
But
I want more,
I want your heart too,
I see it in you,
the artist ;Your words caressing me,
Like painting and drawing,I'm just one of your sculptures..,
But
I'm the centerpiece of this mental non-nocturnal dream,
Your the
Author writing a great masterpiece only I'm the Main character...,
Chapter one we began slowly as our bodies
mesh&entwined...;,
Can you distinguishes between Fantasy,
I'm here and these feelings are real.
Lust so passionate you'd think you
conjured me up from your imagination.,
I'm un reasonable when it comes to you,
I want to give you unquestionable pleasure.
Be the Concubine you desire & you shouldn't have to wait,
Not tonight anyways.,
Come here and let me show you,
Be mines....,
Sacrifice yourself,
Be my love salve and come away with me..,
I want to give you this
Delicious yet delicate sweet
Afrocentric Gift!
Speak into me poetically,
Mentally blowing my mind ,
touching with words as you hurt me gently
Yet pleasing my body..
take me
cuz
right now
I'm for the taking,
I'm ready and waiting,
open me,
for
tonight I'll be your
Latin mist
You Puerto Rican *** ,
Come get drunk off my love,
Let me sooth you
and
caress you into submission.
Take what's been given.
This Mix, and blend it with you ,
dance to my song
as
I open for you.
I'm ready and willing
to be what you want me to be.
Give
me pleasure
release the yearning
deep with in me...
I'm yours ya Afrocentric Gift!
Always me Ayeshah
Copyrights © 1977-2010 Ayeshah(A.K.K.C.L.N)
All rights reserved.
Feb 2, 2010
Feb 2, 2010 at 10:28 PM UTC
An exit for expression
An admittance with no fee
A mind free from excluding
An exhibition without end
The centerpiece- an installation
Ever moving within its frame
Its contents constantly disappearing
To reveal a blank canvas to be filled once more
The artist turns out to be me, and me alone
Leaving my post is an improbability
As the gallery holding me hostage is my own mind
Yet in truth, I find happiness in this prison cell
Without sleep I find energy from passers by
Who refuel my passion with their coins
Thrown into my hat beside me
Tokens of positivity that they cannot directly give
The door is always open
Even to those who find fault with the artist
Who tease me in my chained feet
And hurl their abuse with intent to delay completion
Yet still, I welcome companionship of viewers
Without noticing the deviants who scratch away at my painting
My selflessness renders me unable to notice evils
Blinding me with the future I paint before my eyes
My piece is never mastered
For I am distracted by evils constant approach
Presenting me with gifts of seeds, that grow in my soils
Only to blossom as weeds, and eat away at all goodness
But my grounds are open, and my job demands time
Rarely do I have the time to look upon works accomplished
But I steal a moment as sun and moon change shifts
Only to be met a view that gives no happiness as before
My stubborn positivity keeps defences up
Protecting myself from taunters and ghosts who take refuge in corners
I am distracted by my own optimism, the joy of what I do
But it hinders me, in ways I cannot defeat
My ability to seek vengeance was never yielded nor encouraged
So instinctively as always, I turn not to the voices behind me
And paint upon the canvas once more
The doors still open
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 4:33 PM UTC
t'is a seasonal custom of us,
**(you did notice that us
is the centerpiece of c-us-tom?)**
that in December, not November
when turkey precedes...
I take my slip of a gal
for a big bowl of pasta
and white truffles from France.
the eyetalian waiter knows
he made the sale when her eyes,
crinkle wrinkle when I ask,
upon which pasta
does the ristorante serve the
white truffles from France?
fettuccine, naturalmente!
in ritual grandiose,
the mushroom grated before our eyes,
shavings and specks scattered and disbursed,
part one of the us in c-us-tom done.
me, I grew up lower middle cheap,
Ronzoni rigatoni and Heinz Ketchup,
not just good enough, but a treat,
and I did not from truffle oil eat
nor speak.
two thirds of the way,
part two, I say, hey!
you know you don't have to eat the whole thing.
with eyes adoring,
she fesses up her tiny tummy was full
about half way through.
but she knows
me, I grew up lower middle cheap,
hate to waste the money,
that comes so hard.
part two is the part of the c-us-tom
she forgets about, but the part that
she really loves me for,
so who cares how much truffles cost,
as far her eyes are concerned,
they crinkle wrinkle at the taste,
of my remembering part two.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 1:13 PM UTC
the sol and solitude
scalpel~dissect layers of tissue,
marrows of nuclei separate,
the warming is discomforting
dismayed and dissuaded,
cannot be in two places,
either/or/or simultaneous,
my centerpiece is a-kilter
wavering and waving,
my balance is mis-weighted,
teetering and tottering, in a land
lightly and thickly discriminating
between bodies and disembodiment
I am neither
I am both,
therefore,
I am invisible
to eyes that are shut by
obstructions of
willful
blindness
Nov 26, 2023
Nov 26, 2023 at 8:39 AM UTC
A flickering illumination in a damp-aired room.
This lonely, glowing aura is the centerpiece of a dark abyss.
Crevices of this dungeon hide walls adourned with filth.
Suddently, wax drips from the candle reverberating an eerie echo.
This startles the only creature thriving in this everlasting, sinister darkness.
Awakened by the cease in silence and intriguied by the flame,
The moth leaves the safety of darkness and innocently begins to fly.
As he gently flutters towards the flame the moth feels something foreign --warmth.
Instinct tells him to continue flapping towards this otherwordly glow.
As if blind from birth and finally given sight, the moth now feels alive.
The combination of heat and light is addicting, he carniverously lusts for more.
Once innocent, the moth has now been corrupted by sheer ectasy.
Now, ceremoniously circling the flame basking in its heavenly glory.
Drunken with greed, the moth hastily swoops within inches of the flame.
A snakelike hiss consumes the room. --Darkness.
Its ravenous haste extinguished its short-lived salvation.
Now, cold as one-thousand winters, the moth can only dream of his lost savior
It can only wish that it had gone up in flames along with the candle now. . .
that pain would last a millisecond.
This pain is eternal.
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 12:13 AM UTC
what a pretty sky
on a pretty day
not a cloud in the sky
the sun beams down
a single cloud
on a pretty day
alone
the sun beams down
perhaps I am the cloud
alone by myself
never surrounded by peers
a spot of paint
perhaps you are the sun
with me
pulling me up
hugging me
the universe turns
with you
orbiting a centerpiece
we can't name
a lone cloud
on a pretty day
no other in the sky
the sun beams down
another cloud apears
no more loners
in the sky
the sun beams down
perhaps you are the sun
and I am the cloud
how do you feel
I am not with you
the universe turns
you tear me apart
we grow big
you grow dark
rain in the sky
on a windy day
so many cloud in the sky
no sun beams
perhaps I am the clouds
and you are the sun
I move on
you continue to turn
a pretty sky
on a pretty day
no cloud in the sky
the sun beams down
the sun beams on
the universe turns
the sun beams on
the sun beams
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 7:09 PM UTC
My beau’s eyes are pins on an atlas
To all the places I’d like to go
Andorra, Saint Lucia, Underwater Atlantis
Colombia, Christmas Island, New Mexico
His body is a masterpiece
Just thinking of it makes me want to shout
I have never seen a more exquisite centerpiece
As when he sits on the table with flowers in his mouth
To describe his kisses is a foolish thing to do
There are not enough words to express
How the taste of his tongue as sweet as honey dew
Are enough to make the soul undress
And yet, with all these things considered, I know he is not The One
For him I feel a thousand feelings, but not one of them is love.
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 4:58 PM UTC
Tempestuous pestilence of manic depressive tendencies invested in a message cocked and loaded as a centerpiece
Unfold it, if you will,
The beast lives in these pages
While the people all went home to their own separate cages
Locks become phones that never ring
No bars but still encasing, these cells are in our genes
Its a prison of DNA strands unlocked with a paper key
Held firm by words written within the world awaits to see
Oct 30, 2017
Oct 30, 2017 at 3:09 PM UTC
For they complement moments of
happiness, affection, grief, praise,
in ceramic vases
as a simple centerpiece
in order to add beauty to a setting.
They seem to appear most beautiful
when tucked between the curve of your ear
or framing a crown on your head
in equated colors.
Beauty coordinating beauty
is quite breathtaking.
It is difficult to decipher
which ornament makes the other appear more alluring.
The sight of you
with hued florets laid neatly on your hair was
blooming. Florescence in clusters-
I have lost my train of thought
as each feature
leaves me at awe.
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 10:24 AM UTC
I really, really don't like myself sometimes. Most times. I like coffee, books, birds and flowers so much better. I've been listening to Ready, Able for the past four years. I'm still not alright. I'm no good at most things. Introspectiveness is not a talent. If I were a porcelain centerpiece, I'd scoot myself to the tables edge. My mum has reassured me that my head is not on right. My head, my least favorite accessory. I've yet to master the proper way of sock-folding. I've yet to master how to configure my heart. In less than five months time I'll be twenty-one. I get stupider with age. I like it when wine makes me dizzy. I wear old crazy-cat-lady coats in the summer because I can. My noir Remington is starting to build up dust. What use is it if not put to use? Useless, useless, useless like a harmonica without blow holes. I want to melt like ice cream in the sun of your pupils. Instead I sit here far from absent-minded, alone. I cannot be held still or perhaps I simply choose not to. If you wait too long for the others, I'll still be right here. Here, in the corridor of the memories we never had. I close my eyes in hope of seeing matters clearer. The world is composed of messy closets and ***** hands. Many youth wasted behind closed doors. Can we ever be sweet again? Will you hold my hand and mean it? Hollow voices frighten me but not as much as hypocrisy. I don't need to understand you, but I want to.
Lover, it's worth crying in your sleep if you've got somebody to dream about.
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 5:04 AM UTC
I cried myself to the shower last night.
I used boy shampoo over the arms that I’ve been scratching for hour, four hours spent trying to get the blood I hated so much to come up and sit on my skin like it was their art gallery, hanging on for display.
It never came.
I run water over me burning tears into camouflage,the words of an empty life stung to my head as if the thoughts branded it here on me permanently.
I’ve had nights like this before.
Nights where I put on the loosest pajamas I could find, the ones with ESPN written written as read as the books on my old library shelf. The ones I took when my brother went to work and left me by myself, the ones that made me feel manly, even if I didn’t look like a man.
I wouldn’t put a shirt on.
My chest was bare, not in the way I wanted, but I couldn’t tear off my breast and give them to a girl who wasn’t born with them, I’d just have to stare till my stomach growled and tears streamed down my face, fears of a life unloved and unlived made me put on a loose shirt and tell myself I wasn’t hungry, so instead I thought of you.
You, with your crooked smile when you see me at your doorstep with the sun’s colors draped in a bouquet. I show up in a fox shirt, the one I call lucky, and you count each and every one and you point out how dorky I am.
You, with your back on the mattress of the cheapest apartment we could find, reading love letters I’ve written to your baby sister over the phone, telling her of all my love in the distance of thousands of miles. I try to pretend I can’t hear you from the kitchen as I make you tea, the lemon juice coating it bronze with the color of its juice, your vase holds out bright sprouts of happiness as a centerpiece.
Daisies plague my mind on nights like these. They’re scattered at your funeral & my own on our graves, at the fifty yard mark.
“We’ve been rolling together since we were 25.”
Nights like these remind me that my masterpiece is so far, even if the dasies are so close, so near.
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 1:28 PM UTC
the perimeter remains
a puzzle
without its centerpiece.
as at rest
as an
open beat.
a fist full of meat.
a trophy
of
atrophy.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 8:48 PM UTC
I am not the object of your affection,
when you show that affection only in
the presence of others. Or that affection
is never shown, but are merely empty
words spoken out of a societal-induced
sense of "obligation".
I am not your most prized centerpiece
that you can place in a room to invoke
the ooh's and aah's that make you the
envy of strangers. And
afterward, I'm placed in a corner till
the next time I'm required.
I am not your "main attraction"
put on display. I don't dance nor
entertain so you can bathe in the
attention of the people who, once
this is all over, won't even
remember your name.
I am not an object!
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 8:20 AM UTC
The flowers still smelled quite sweet from her garden at least.
Aromas rose up from beside the patio, lingering under her nose.
Warm all around, in the air, in her skin.
Something cold clutched her conscience, made her bones shiver.
With nothing to celebrate misery waits.
A lonesome porch swing the centerpiece for mourning,
sways lightly at the breath of phantoms.
Looking forlorn into the yard, all was hidden by mist.
It seemed the proper atmosphere to finally release her tears.
The night played tricks upon her eyes, conjured figures in the dark.
For the sake of her heart, for it to carry on, she will believe
a ghost wiped away everything while she cried.
May 2, 2012
May 2, 2012 at 1:26 AM UTC
When I close my eyes,
I can picture myself being ****
I wrote down my ideas on my naked body
not the perfect curves, for an outstanding silhouette?
but my body, my canvas,
I created this literary masterpiece:
a little something for you and a little something for me,
I scribble a stanza or two on my chest,
and I watch as my body heat melt the words away
without allowing a poem to be created
My ****** tattoos open up like rose from the poem
Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose one from Gertrude Stein famous line.
Outline my words with admiration,
until my mind accept the connection
My body, my canvas, my visionary centerpiece, my satisfaction,
Like sand through an hour glass,
I have created this body of poetry.
Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 5:58 PM UTC
I was once your heart’s centerpiece,
petaled in alluring scarlet,
your very darling little starlet,
skin the color of ivory,
with lips like blooming roses,
my love for you evergreen,
encased in a body like a vase.
*
I braid flowers into my hair,
Spray the room with gardenia perfume,
Clothe myself in red silk,
I cinch my waist,
try to recreate myself,
Try to become a bouquet.
in the body of a vase.
*
But you don’t care.
To all these things you’ve become immune.
And I wilt,
efforts gone to waste.
My sweet infidel,
you leave and isolate,
run away from me in all haste.
*
I’ve cut the heads of the roses.
Bended the stems until they were broken.
Shredded the petals until they were tatters.
Let myself bleed scarlet red,
pricked by your thorned bed.
*
The vase breaks and shatters.
Jun 3, 2019
Jun 3, 2019 at 2:26 PM UTC
A poet is sitting by the riverside
I can see him staring at me
A gaze full of pity and disdain
As if I am the one to blame
Once there was the promise of harmony and creativity
Now I am trapped in his lack of singularity
And there’s only one poet to blame
One man who deserves the centerpiece
In this game of shame
For I am just a battologist’s shade
I am unable to avoid
The faults in his eyes
The tedious and battering curse
Of wasting precious potential
So I see the man whose reflection I am
And the way his eyes are fixed on me
And I see the proudness
Being devoured by the sadness
And I’m glad that I’m just a reflection
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 5:08 AM UTC
Fresh wounds of recent realization conjoined to the weathered scars of regret.
Gashes opposing multitude, otherwise deep while of illest intent.
Wounds forged by life itself.
A blade driven home by the flick of a loose tongue concealing words unspoken.
Scars held past vision.
Rather a mental centerpiece
Hardly recognized yet stationed in plain sight.
Evident only to the scrutiny of kin or to whom committed to pry.
Dec 17, 2012
Dec 17, 2012 at 10:49 PM UTC