"dimply" poems
they say that darkness falls.
they believe it overtakes the
Sun, in all its brilliance,
at the end of every day.
in their eyes, the clutches of night
abduct the light that is exuded
on to our haste-driven,
humming lives.
per contra,
black waves have never conquered
the biting bars of golden sunlight;
instead, it has always billowed
from opposite ends of the Earth
to replace a fickle Sun, one
that forsakes stars and city stripes
for new moieties, and
new existences.
at night, a duvet of ink swirls above us,
blanketing bodies and nature alike
under enchanted, glittering tapestries
woven together with the glittering tears
of galaxies out of reach, sewn and fitted
to the quintessence of shadowed alleys,
whispering fields, even
the dimply lit room where two beating hearts
unify.
they say darkness falls,
when the truth is, it rises.
darkness always rises like the calm, gentle wave.
Sep 13, 2013
Sep 13, 2013 at 10:15 PM UTC
I don't know
Why when I mop
It doesn't glow,
Why even without a bottle cap
Your memories
In bubble wrap
I cannot pop,
And thinking
And missing
I cannot stop,
In my surroundings
There are simply
Everywhere treacheries,
Betraying you like Wingdings;
Or that too obvious undercover cop,
But in my mind you are fading faint
Forgot if your face is smooth or dimply,
Like my heart enveloped you in packing peanuts,
Left my straight jacket at home cause it's warm outside
But I know you know that I know that only for you I'm nuts,
And I await you like patient zero awaits a cure at the airport curbside...
© okpoet
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 1:53 AM UTC
The smell of something putrid
protrudes up through your nostrils
as you walk down these dimply lit streets.
You hear the fire crackling, you see the glow off the side of an abandoned building.
Is this one of those fires you see on the news -
set ablaze by anger and retaliation?
No.
It's the burning wounds along Jacob Blake's back.
It's the marks of oppression -
the scars we "distract" ourselves from.
There's a fire burning in America
and the source is plain to see:
while bodies line up along the streets,
people following along on their TV screens
say a prayer for broken windows.
They mourn items that are looted
as if it wasn't a life that was looted first.
There's a fire burning
and it melts the black skin right off their bones.
A skeleton has no color
yet they blame corpses for their own murders.
There's a fire burning
from Sanford to Staten Island,
from Louisville to Kenosha.
But those very flames were ignited
by the people designated to put them out.
Who watches the watchmen?
Who stands with the people?
The hammer has dropped.
The bullets have left the chamber.
As long as our brothers and sisters
have to fight for their right to live,
Red, White and Blue lives don't matter.
Aug 27, 2020
Aug 27, 2020 at 4:50 PM UTC