"compatriot" poems
Silver Beach: Always the Sole First
familiar white fishing boat, up with early light,
seeking sustenance and pleasure in = measure,
anchored ‘bout quarter mile east of my under-the-coverlet,
(of course! as the crow, raven or scavenging osprey flies),
it’s precise location amazingly exact, but alas, soon daily
familiarity breeds no secrecy, and now joined by a
farther out, smaller version, a compatriot in spotitude,
of the best spots for harvesting the early running
brackish bay water favorites, striped or black sea bass
what persistent fortitude these fisher-peoples display,
early to rise, first to depart, when others crowd its “spot,”
(amazed by its knowing precision the exactitude of “spot”)
this ship, always the sole-first, invokes a first poem of the day,
always a soul-first, an unburdening of deepest gratitude that
one more day granted me to imbibe this vista, awake to its
soothing silent heavenly serenity, absent machine or
electronic interference with my delicate sleepy wakefulness,
when newly minted words come into my mind, my
secret spot
Sat AM June 3
Jun 3, 2023
Jun 3, 2023 at 8:46 AM UTC
What am I to do
Oh my fair skinned sister?
You are family to me
Yet I fear I may be forced
To bring the news
That I'll not be returning
I fear that if I do return
It will be on my shield
Not with it
As the Spartans used to say
Here I stand as Leonidas
Foolhardy and bold
I watch as I crumble
As my phalanx fold
So what am I to say
Oh my fair skinned sister?
How long will you mourn my absence?
Before you forget
And carry on?
What am I to think
Oh my dark haired sister?
What am I to feel?
You have been my guide
What am I to be
Oh my bright eyed comrade
My cheerful compatriot
My dearest friend?
Sing to me
Oh my fair skinned sister
Some sacred sonnet to save me
Play for me
Oh my fair skinned sister
Some long and lingering lyric
Some sweet melodic line
Some hypnotic harmony
To save me from my mind
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC
There’s nothing I remember, so I shall invent a life.
It all starts with a dichotomy. Speech, lack of speech.
Logos, preceded by the lack thereof.
A heartbeat, maybe, echoing to form a vowel.
And then a sigh, with inexplicably twisted tongue.
“I”…
I…
I’ll tell you. Raising a finger from my desk.
I’ll tell you how it began. I was in the dark, and decided I had had enough of it.
I flipped on a lamp at my side and began to write.
There weren’t any words yet, but there were symbols for sounds, and that was close enough for now.
I pressed enter, and the message flew to a compatriot.
Or an enemy. This flush dichotomy of forms abounds!
I hold my breath and wait.
Waiting, for a response.
Waiting, to imagine words I’ll never hear.
And the light hums.
I…
What is it, inside that filament
which speaks?
What is every minute morsel of matter telling me about my beginning?
I’m not sure I want to read it, when my phone shakes.
But that’s what that behavior dictates.
A laugh, a cold analysis, a response.
This could go on indefinitely.
I don’t even know where you are in the world.
I’ll never see you.
I think of a more advanced dichotomy, I read about.
It was attributed to Freud.
A baby masters the objective universe through two utterances
in a ball game.
Fort… gone.
Da… there.
For now, these words are silent, but if I were in a crib
You would be the breast I long to devour,
The meaning I would choose to fill my mouth with
Muffled exclamations:
DADADADADADADA!
And I cry. But I don’t know what this all means to you.
Because I haven’t told you with electronic signs.
I’m not sure the word “to cry” carries any meaning.
It just stands in for fear.
Fear of being alone in the world, with the dark,
And no logos.
But I could go on for days reading walls of text on webpages developed by people
who have long since died.
I can summon the likeness of every celebrity onto a screen
rubbing my ***** while I look at them.
I can hear the music—
I CAN HEAR THE MUSIC—
Of all the world, vibrating. Rhythms contracting, like vulvas after birth.
And the silky, black discharge is this emotion in my brain after I think of you.
I created you with my words.
I illuminated my world with the thought of you.
And now I have nothing to say to the creature I created.
I am in horror before you.
Fort, fort, fort, away!
You have left me, without ever being present.
You were here, you were gone, I had no control.
And when I weep, the fear drowns the sun’s luminescence
The clouds hide the sky
The air sculpts my lungs
With emptiness
after words have come out.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 3:42 AM UTC
i was drinking orange ****** ***** with Kitty
the mushroom cloud destroyer,
my compatriot, my downfall
the sky was purple and the grass was red
and we plotted the end of the world
we fought for dominance i lost
sat on my street corner
stealing kisses from
passersby like a magpie,
plucking the shiny buttons off coats.
when I became the queen of sheba,
decked to the nines in brass buttons
confiscated corroded combustible
i rode an elephant called shiva the destroyer
and sliced long cuts with a sword into my legs
and the white scars were like hope.
i played backgammon and chess with multiple lovers
and they all lost because i was an impenetrable fortress.
I wore the red crown and stabbed out their hearts with my pointed teeth.
then i sat upon the edge of the world alone,
tore out the cores of a million and four sunflowers
and watched all of the people riding trains
and walking in the parks holding the hand of someone else
someone who isn’t cold Kitty
as the violet sun began to set
i dreamed of what someone else’s hand
bones skin muscle corpulent sinew warmth
and I slept like an obsidian stone.
Jun 6, 2010
Jun 6, 2010 at 6:58 PM UTC
*alas, the same promise,
yet again, broken, no more writing of
the lightness of perfection so real,
it cannot be a truly,
a man's one more poetic homage to improve upon nature's gift,
nary a single craft to be seen,
tho somewhere, a motor hums nearby,
a mechanical reminder that men
will intrude, even if unobserved,
not necessarily then,
a picture complete
the sun 7 o'clock afternoon sky low,
warmths the world, as did its AM reciprocal,
a dozen hours earlier,
both on a low heat,
a sky stove top
'keep warm' setting,
a desirable global warming temperature
that promise not to burden you
with a hundredth scribing of his
lottery luck, this poetry nook and the
idyll of its surround,
it's childlike insistence,
stomping on the greenest sea grass
of this portly world,
"write of me, attention must be paid!"
the lightest breeze of excellent sufficiency
asks the trees to shake
their compatriot leaves
as if to applaud,
one more time, a lord of the ring serenade,
an evenstar song of
the solstice of perfection
a cloudless night but for
an occasional wispy white blemish,
hinting that the orb's final bow will be
a forever remembered,
standing ovation performance
in an hour, to the dock we'll go,
joining the congregant gulls
in appreciating the edging lower of
an immaculate inception
of a dying day's deceptive departure
my troubles, those that
furrow and till the brow,
105 miles away, as the crow flies,
for now suppressed into non-existence,
as we drink to
la vie en rose,
our wine, snatching the salmon pink
of suns rays rippling and reflecting
upon humans, who too reflect,
upon their good fortune,
this single and singular
peeking at the peaking of their perfection,
each wishing this be
their journeys end, their final solstice,
to walk into a funnel upon the water,
into the sun and the
horizon in attendance faithful,,
alighting upon the wings of the most glorious of inviting, dying rays of setting,
answering the question, a long last finale,
here, here is shelter!*
Jul 22, 2017
Jul 22, 2017 at 3:03 PM UTC
I am a creator,
a builder
a maker.
Bringing substance to the void,
brings me the greatest sense of joy.
A blank page.
A clean slate.
I draw out form,
and bring forth shape.
And I am a musician,
a lyrical magician.
The man.
The myth.
The mission.
My own unique rendition,
In every composition.
BUT
Can you identify my theory?
I'll be shocked if you're correct.
If this is sonic engineering,
then I'm a sonic architect.
And I am an inventor
A leader,
A dissenter,
A believer,
A protester,
A deceiver,
And a mentor,
A compatriot,
An apprentice,
A confederate,
An accomplice.
And I am a teller of stories,
of horrors, and of glories.
And I am a writer of tales,
of triumphs, and travails.
And I am a creator.
A builder.
A maker.
A musician and a writer.
Not a lover, nor a fighter,
Not a fixer,
Nor a breaker.
Not a giver,
Nor a taker.
No.
I am a creator
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 10:48 PM UTC
It breathes.
The centre is a heart, beating, pulsing, living.
I cannot find my way.
It shifts.
The movement confuses me, bending, twisting, changing.
My mind is uncertain.
It deceives.
I search because I am lost,
I am lost because I search.
To find what?
Myself.
My soul and my identity are calling, beckoning, luring.
I am afraid of what I will find.
The helping hands.
One my sage, the other my compatriot, smiling, listening, encouraging.
I know I must walk alone.
It knows.
For I am the maze,
And the maze is me.
Feb 18, 2012
Feb 18, 2012 at 12:36 PM UTC
If perchance
we stumble in
to this mortal dance
and swing
and dip
across the tip
of life’s ledge,
If we dare
to venture on
beyond
simple reflexes
past poor pretenses
will we meet
and dance
in poetry?
Sweetly
and discreetly
we will bend in
words that mimic
ballet movements;
Feathers flapping freely.
I see you before me
and I adore thee
as a true friend
as a poetic compatriot
because you are great at this
sharing the depths of
our heart that write and love
all the world
below, around, and above.
Mar 13, 2017
Mar 13, 2017 at 10:44 AM UTC
Have we become
So OBdurate
As to believe
Only by OBedience
Can we create
A future
Therefore all must be
OBedient servants ?
Encouraged
To OBey
Those visionaries
Who show
Through
An OBsfugated vision
Fraudulant validation
By an
OBiterdictum decree
"The OBjective
tolerates no OBjections !"
OBjugation
By those convinced
OBliging ...
Is an OBligation
Without any thought
To the OBlique they seek
To completely
OBliterate
Somehow convinced
OBlivion....
Complete OBliteration
Will heal this nation
OBlivious
To the fact
That this
OBlong view of history
And how often
We've seen this OBloquy
Cast it's shadow across nations
When OBnoxious
And OBscene inhuman beings
OBscurantist regimes
Lead their people
From OBscure into OBscurity
Wherein massive OBsequies
Are ever present
As are the OBsequious
Willing patrons
OBservable by
The nature of their ignorance
As they believe OBservance
And being an OBservant
Faithful Compatriot
Is equivalent to OBservation
Where in reality
Their darkness... so complete
They could no longer
See...the light and glory
Of the stars
From an OBservatory
Following the OBsessions
Of the exaulted Leader
They come to OBsess
Compelled
To seek and destroy
Dissenters and freethinkers
Who are to be made OBsolete
By their very existance
They are
Considered OBstacles
OBstinate non- conformists
With OBstreperous
OBstructionist agendas
Seeking to reverse course
By their Obtuse views ...
And philosophies
Believing that the Obverse
Must be seen
Or a time will come
When total OBviation
To save this nation
Becomes....
...all too...
.....OBVIOUS !!
Nov 29, 2016
Nov 29, 2016 at 1:18 AM UTC
Speak up
Speak Nigerians,speak for you poses a mouth that heals a nation.
It is in thine voice of thy mouth and thy vibrations on thy body that remedies spring forth.
Speak Nigerians,speak against the calamity that befall your land.
Speak against the hand that hurt thee.
Speak against the innocent blood spilled to please others.
Speak Nigerians in a united tone so your voices can be heard.
Speak to tell your fears.
Speak to make it clear.
Speak to put the nation right.
Speak to put an end to police brutality.
Speak to put an end to misappropriation of funds.
Speak to put an end to intimidation and High-handedness.
Speak to put an end to deteriorating health facilities.
Speak to put an end to weak institutional structures.
Speak to put an end to electoral misconduct.
Speak to put an end to unemployment as a normality
Speak to put an end to poor social amenities
Speak to put an end to injustice
Speak to put an end to oppression
Speak to put an end to sectionalism played by our political elite
We are tired of freedom of speech guaranteed but freedom after speech denied
Arise o compatriot
Arise fellow comrades in the struggle
We clamor vehemently to put and end to bad governance
So our future can be secure
Ojuolape Isaac Mfa
Oct 21, 2020
Oct 21, 2020 at 4:42 PM UTC
Differences draw boundaries
and there are words for it:
baby, child, man and woman
red, brown, yellow, stupid and smart
black, white, compatriot, barbarian
We know all about it
there is a reason
that we are innocent
and others offenders
There are words for it
and answers too: punishment, pest
crash, bombs and grenades
manslaughter, hunting, gas and fire
all within the boundaries
of own laws first
At home, on this side and
at home, on that side of the border
people wish for peace
Mar 25, 2022
Mar 25, 2022 at 3:06 AM UTC
Words are unstoppable
Words may be spoken
Words may be written
Words may be thought
Night falls over the day
Night falls over the block
Night falls over the hood
Night falls over us
First as the dusk
Then as the stars
We can see nothing
Street corners light
Streetlight too bright
We can see nothing
Too bright but never enough.
We can see nothing of hope in the cosmos
We carry our blinded eyes in our hands
Buy me a knife.
Buy me a gun.
Find me behind the barrel,
I'd rather be first in line,
I will secure first place.
Buy me a knife.
Buy me a gun.
Find me shaking the iron sights,
I'd rather be running away from the system,
I will do what I must.
Take our education, expect us to grow.
Take our nutrition, expect we maintain.
The gatekeeper looks less like St. Peter
Than it looks like a bank.
Make it for money,
Expect we be happy
For the physical.
Make it vanity,
Expect our diminished state
Be aspiration and dream enough.
Words are unstoppable,
I know this to be true.
Where are the words
We need the most?
We cry for each other in night,
Each broken compatriot
Each potential confidant
Convinced we're abandoned
Convinced we're at war with the poor
Then at war with ourselves
Expending bullets for the clout on the shelf.
I am in here just as you so put that down.
I am in you, and I need your words to tell,
To touch, to show,
Those with nothing know what more there is than this.
May 9, 2018
May 9, 2018 at 5:24 PM UTC
"O my beloved, my friend, my compatriot!
Do not betray me being my friend"
Sep 7, 2021
Sep 7, 2021 at 4:09 AM UTC
the bird pecks the acorn,
fighting through the casing's steel,
the bird breaks his beak and falls to the floor,
the rainbow of his wings failing in spiel.
the floor becomes a deep red,
the acorn waggles and girds in its success,
not realising that his compatriot he had spent all the moons with was long dead,
and it falls with the passing winds of distress.
It hit's the floor in the same place,
bouncing off the stone statue corpse,
the acorn stares to the bird's face,
knowing that it won’t peck anymore marks in its force.
the acorns rolls next to the bird in solemn shifting agreement,
knowing that it's barrier and breakdown is imminent for its bereavement.
Nov 10, 2020
Nov 10, 2020 at 6:16 PM UTC
Quivering moon
a reflection of your
old self
penetrating a bus window
or two
so bright aflame
I want to dance to you
as you dance alongside
your compatriot being
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 11:56 PM UTC
an open mind can see fires yet unlit
befriend those who are readily unfit
stroll pastures moist with dew
break apart and add many to few
cruise on pathways in pure delight
sit quietly as day journeys into night
bump into walls sturdy and tall
seemingly steady but ready to fall
arise in passions so bravely met
win on a loser and lose a sure bet
flounder solemly at loves’ doorway
put loss and revenue off another day
shed light on most pressing of things
place rainbows in stones and cast them on wings
embrace strangers’ sternest of glarings
put things in places, in the most odd pairings
stumble through friendships with utter spite
hug a child tenderly to fend off a fright
cast a pebble to a tidal wave
fall to forgiveness when failing to be brave
shout at a naive then honor a guardian
knowing full well those clothes you have been in
remember how foul ideas can be
herald a compatriot, get ready to flee
for once opened all hell it can fill
eyes, ears and mouth fashion its will
full of fantasies and wildest things to tell
like a Pavlovian pup awaiting the bell
Aug 28, 2016
Aug 28, 2016 at 8:28 AM UTC
Our Sweeney nurses his Falstaff,
Joining his hail-and-well-met fellows in mirth
This man of hearty life and laugh,
His fingernails rife with the stuff of earth and labor.
Outside, the moon’s reflection
In the sluggish and slatternly Canisteo
Is a portentous dot-and-dash thing,
Its light here-and-gone
As incongruous evening thunderheads,
Great wavy pompadours rolling off the big lake out west,
Growl sullenly as they move through;
Sweeney pays them no mind, as he has other fish to fry,
Regarding a frowzy pair from the sisterhood of round heels,
One of whom, catching his glance,
Crosses the room, mounting his lap and mussing his hair,
Purring ‘Jus wanna see how your lap feels, Hon.
At which she falls on the floor
(But softly, in the manner of an old campaigner)
Thereafter taking a moment to pull her skirt up just so
To adjust a stocking (black, with a run or two on display)
As her compatriot stands nearby,
Making calculations and considerations,
And with a barely noticeable nod to her co-conspirator
The pair head to the bar
While Sweeney, grinning the grin
Of a toreador expectant of victory and its spoils
Rises to join them and, just as suddenly, pauses,
Perhaps cognizant of the old poker saw
That if you look about the table
And can’t figure out who the mark is, it must be you,
Or perhaps it was the ringing of the bells on the hour
From Our Lady of the Valley
(Normally inaudible inside the tavern,
But the wind had made an odd swing to the southeast,
Allowing the chimes to occasionally outshine the jukebox)
Or perhaps something else intangible, inscrutable,
But in any case Sweeney bids his congregants
A hasty farewell as he saunters to the doorway,
Exiting into the humid, fecund evening,
And as he negotiates the sidewalk homeward,
He notes the odd evening singing of birds,
Their songs, even though he is part and parcel
Of this small city and its streets to his marrow,
Unfamiliar to the point of bafflement.
Nov 17, 2020
Nov 17, 2020 at 1:35 PM UTC
In order to shoot
an invading bird
they define an air space
with searchlights
In order to shoot
a fleeing compatriot
they ***** a paradise on earth
with tall walls
Oct 7, 2016
Oct 7, 2016 at 1:59 PM UTC