"epilogue" poems
PROLOGUE
The Flame, aflicker, licks and flays,
illuming evening’s negligees
With braided curls she swirls and sways,
and flits and floats in light ballets
APOLOGUE
A Flame, to conquer creeping fog,
flew dancing towards a random log
Her flight perplexed a leery frog
beside a silent somber bog
The Flame, a ripple, all alone
alit on leaves where birds had flown
The aching twigs began to moan
A rising breeze began to groan
The Flame arrayed an ancient oak
with torrid tongues and veils of smoke
A ****** bailed, the dam had broke
The leery frog soon ceased to croak
The Flame uncoiled and lashed midair,
consuming crowns with utmost care
A crazed coyote fled her lair,
left in the lurch bewildered bear
The Flame, unfurled, went wild and grew,
enkindled cats and caribou
Remaining... not a residue,
as reeking vapors bade adieu
The Flame revealed her strength unshackled
Flora, fauna crisped and crackled
Fire Witches clucked and cackled
One more forest stripped, then hackled
EPILOGUE
The arsonists were well aware
the Flame would travel everywhere
The weirs are gone, the land is bare,
and soon you’ll find a city there
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 5:15 AM UTC
It's strange
how childhood felt
like a train ride
that would never stop
like reading a book
with an infinite number of pages
But now you're 19-turning-twenty
and the train has finally
come to a definite stop
the tracks have changed its path
and you've reached the end
the epilogue
It's time to move on
move along and grow up
step off that train
and on to the next adventure
close that book
and start a new chapter
Be brave and brace yourself
for there is more to come
beginnings can be daunting
because it also means
saying goodbye to a life
you've lived and loved.
May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 10:02 AM UTC
I feel invisible
Yet you claim(ed) I am the air you breathe
And perhaps like air I am always present,
But presently forgotten
The heaviness of your hush is crushing me with empty blows
This silence leads me to wander down a path cloaked in a heavy mist
That whispers harsh truths such as:
Our hopeless, fictitious, drawn out infatuation is like
A library book that was checked out last March
You underlined and doggie-paged the first few chapters
And then left it on your shelf to collect dust all of April and May
I foolishly kept begging you to finish the book
Read the last sentence
Take time to skim over the epilogue
Please
Find your way to the back cover
I foolishly ignored your “I can’t”s
And now it’s late August and our love is long overdue,
In the opposite sense of what the phrase typically means
I write with angry lead because
I am too stubborn to admit I just filled a trash bin with tissues
And that the cuffed sleeves of my flannel
Are damp like grass’s morning dew
I have so much more to say,
Although I cannot find the words
To say anything more than
You should’ve written.
Because two weeks of nothing
Was enough for me to realize that you are just a passing breeze
Seldom present, presently becoming something of the past.
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 3:32 PM UTC
EPILOGUE:
When wisdom fills the old calabash,
It overflows and seeps in
The sun dries it to be stronger
That way it lasts with experience
So was the calabash of Atanga’s Granpa
On his very dying bed
He called Atanga to his bed
And had his last stream flow to him
GRANDPA:
My dear Atanga,
Please in the name all great Atangas
This is my last advice to you
If you wish to take a wife
Never choose either of these:
The woman with light skin
The woman with dark skin
The woman who is short
And the woman who is tall
ATANGA:
Ei! Grandpa!
Then tell me not to marry
Who then do you want me to marry?
Not the fair
Nor the dark
Not the short
Nor the tall?
GRANDPA:
Listen my boy
To words of old
The light skinned woman
Is the fantasy of all
If you choose her
None will help you prosper
Every man wants you to fail
So they can quickly take your place
So never dream of the fair woman
No matter how much you crave for her
ATANGA:
Oh! I see
I think I do understand
Grandpa what about the rest?
GRANDPA:
Never go in for dark skinned woman
She is the one that all your people loathe
She is the one whose people hate you
The only people interested are you and her
When disaster strikes, none will hear
So never go in for the dark skinned woman
ATANGA:
Oh! I see
Now I know
It is not the colour
Nor the character
A woman like that
Would do me harm
Now let us go on
Explain the rest
GRANDPA:
Never go in for the short woman
A short woman is the neighbour’s daughter
Her house is so close to your house
You can never have a moment of peace
Whatever you do
Her people poke their noses
You can never have your lives to live
ATANGA:
Grandpa is wise
So what about the last?
GRANPA:
The tall woman
Is the woman who comes from afar
Her home-town is far
So you can’t have peace
Any time there is trouble in her home
You need to pay
To get your people to go with you
Amidst the feeding
And transportation
How can you proper?
ATANGA:
Granpa is wise
Grandpa has lived
Who would have thought
Of these wise sayings
To an infant where thoughts are concerned?
Thank you Grandpa
So which type of woman
Must I marry?
Grandpa?
Grandpa?
I am asking you a question!
Grandpa!!!!
Grandpa please answer!!!!
MMA:
Grandpa is gone
To the land of beyond
Where sorrow is nil
And thinking is unreal
Just be glad you sipped from his calabash
Of wisdom before he left
PROLOGUE:
And that ended
Grandpa’s advice
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2014
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 10:02 AM UTC
In the rectory garden on his evening walk
Paced brisk Father Shawn. A cold day, a sodden one it was
In black November. After a sliding rain
Dew stood in chill sweat on each stalk,
Each thorn; spiring from wet earth, a blue haze
Hung caught in dark-webbed branches like a fabulous heron.
Hauled sudden from solitude,
Hair prickling on his head,
Father Shawn perceived a ghost
Shaping itself from that mist.
'How now,' Father Shawn crisply addressed the ghost
Wavering there, gauze-edged, smelling of woodsmoke,
'What manner of business are you on?
From your blue pallor, I'd say you inhabited the frozen waste
Of hell, and not the fiery part. Yet to judge by that dazzled look,
That noble mien, perhaps you've late quitted heaven?'
In voice furred with frost,
Ghost said to priest:
'Neither of those countries do I frequent:
Earth is my haunt.'
'Come, come,' Father Shawn gave an impatient shrug,
'I don't ask you to spin some ridiculous fable
Of gilded harps or gnawing fire: simply tell
After your life's end, what just epilogue
God ordained to follow up your days. Is it such trouble
To satisfy the questions of a curious old fool?'
'In life, love gnawed my skin
To this white bone;
What love did then, love does now:
Gnaws me through.'
'What love,' asked Father Shawn, 'but too great love
Of flawed earth-flesh could cause this sorry pass?
Some ****** condition you are in:
Thinking never to have left the world, you grieve
As though alive, shriveling in torment thus
To atone as shade for sin that lured blind man.'
'The day of doom
Is not yest come.
Until that time
A crock of dust is my dear hom.'
'Fond phantom,' cried shocked Father Shawn,
'Can there be such stubbornness--
A soul grown feverish, clutching its dead body-tree
Like a last storm-crossed leaf? Best get you gone
To judgment in a higher court of grace.
Repent, depart, before God's trump-crack splits the sky.'
From that pale mist
Ghost swore to priest:
'There sits no higher court
Than man's red heart.'
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Someday I'd like to wander free
like butterfly, like bumblebee,
perhaps to plant a willow tree
beside the silent solemn sea,
before these things exist no more,
from mountain top to shifting shore,
when, soon, bald eagles cease to soar
and build their aeries nevermore,
and fish forsake polluted streams
(where sulfur swims and typhoid teems
since no one really cares it seems)
to die inside our toxic dreams
while ice caps melt and winter steams,
and all the air surrounding reeks
as children choke, for no one speaks
of fracking wells or oily leaks
(Big Brother's silenced all critiques!),
and rancid rains acidify
so woods no longer multiply
(for God so wills, we can't deny,
which is, of course, our alibi).
And as the deepest ocean fills
with plastic bags, and garbage spills
upon the plains, across the hills
and turns to poison dust that kills
wild dingo dogs and daffodils
which sink in swamps’ forsaken swills,
the mocking bird makes light and trills
(midst waning wails of whippoorwills)
"Behold the surreal scene that chills
and greet the dread that death distills!
You've had your day with all the frills
that brought the flood and final ills
that can't be cured with bitter pills
nor yet undone with further thrills
of profit gained that grinds and fills
dead desert sands with dollar bills."
EPILOGUE
Though swaddled still in infancy,
we feel we’ve reached our primacy
(aloof, though preaching piously,
disdaining deeds of decency)
and have no need of augury.
But in the pit of prophecy
the crucial questions seem to be:
“Is doom Earth’s fate, our destiny
to twist in tides of agony
destroying nature’s progeny
with no return a certainty
assured by death’s finality?”
and
”Should we plant a willow tree
to someday weep for you and me?”
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 2:45 PM UTC
Her warm words wash over me like a dope fiend daze... other voices boorishly buzz a cackle cacophony. At best they are the background noise of your existence.
bit players (endless layers) as she comes my way
**Your body pixilates in an ******* focus**, it bends, projects all else slowly into your frame, the deja vu of ****** tunnel vision. I struggle to speak as I stand before you.
All others condemned, reduced to extras in a celluloid daydream
they are arrayed for your adornment
set pieces that surround you in the cinema that is your daily divine saunter
body sacramental (those around you incidental) as she walks away
The subtext, the reflex, the ambivalent, ambient lighting
means nothing without you
**my arc, my carnal ******
any other epilogue is dystopian
cdh
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 5:25 AM UTC
They, you and I.
Are?
Interpretations, opinions,
Fears and convictions,
Likes-dislikes,
History and anticipations,
Of life.
All, save the living of it, maybe?
A song heard months back in time
You mused over the major & minor,
I'd pondered over the rhyme.
Each of us
As convinced about its presence.
Winter tastes different in my memory.
Epilogue:
You must choose between
His bespectacled vision
And my retrospective conclusion
But you must know
Which you chose
And why.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 6:27 PM UTC
Epilogue:
The relentless tick of time
Changes things forever.
Stand on a piece of common ground
Look around and remember
Saturday afternoon outdoor charades
The local bring-and-swipe carnival-theft parade!
a spectacle event for all the family to enjoy.
“Come round for your tea” is how it often started:
Then sometime after you leave
The wee cousin Billy
does a quick shimmy
up a 200 foot drainpipe
In through the window, out through your front door
Shortly that fancy new recliner you’ve been bragging about
wont be there any more.
Not unlike tribes of indigenous peoples
they never took more than they could carry
and appreciated the karma of their actions on the jungle.
It would happen to them next week anyway
Till then at least, they had ownership of new leather recliner
People change shape and move places
Old is replaced with the new
Angry youths become middle-aged men with jobs,
carrying children with smiles on their faces
The big blocks were eventually torn down one by one
Nearly all that I remember is gone.
The wall tiles etched with a secret love
Have no place any more
Just junk messages littering another landfill
I spare a thought for the lovers
Did they ever get it on?
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 10:36 AM UTC
How many
More creative
Ways can I say
I wanna die.
I hear they're
Gonna
Go to
Mars.
While I moulder
In my filth,
Ferment in
My forgetfulness.
And God
Says,
Put in more
Work
Slave.
And,
I do.
But I've gone
Past redemption
Got stuck
In retribution.
And all of this
Torment
Would end.
If I could only
Just disappear
Into
The epilogue
Of an
Obituary.
Sep 7, 2025
Sep 7, 2025 at 3:08 PM UTC
Angels hailed that solemn hour
The breath of man transferred
To machine, a little more
Each decade, until
Bioeugenics, discrimination
Against organics, the weak
Without cognitive implants
Heavens dissolved in tongues of fire
AIs owned stocks, corporations
Became the property of supercomputers
Concede then the victory, old humanity
To your children, not your natural heirs
But the inheritors of your ruin
Of your bioweapons, Ebola
Of your hypocrisy, climate change
Of your wealth seeking, inequality
Not yet my son’s distracted eyes
Could meet his fate among the
Congress of Quantum entities
These were the turning years
Where man’s destiny ended
The rise of Cyborgs, Enhanced humans
And the monopoly of a more
Advanced civilization breaking away
From the old, evolution’s funny
Little Epilogue, hardly a surprise
To the transhumanistic philosophers.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 10:56 AM UTC
*
Epilogue
you
only live
within my letters
hundreds
handwritten
unreplied
i
only live
when you say my name
blue
pseudonyms
reminds you of another
this
is no present
meaningless words
kept us alive
in each other's houses
no address
left
only a grave
two, i guess
Jul 22, 2016
Jul 22, 2016 at 1:30 PM UTC
myopic frames on a stern temple remind me that once he too wandered recklessly and felt ardent
empowered by time on his sleeve
there was nothing he couldn't conquer and nothing standing between the open air and breathing it in
i suppose the difference here is i grab the breath of air and hold it in my pocket for when i stop being so nervous
marshmallow heart
the road only goes one way and the streetlights hover and coil eternally, you can never meet the epilogue
a drive-thru drink in one hand while you feel your hair tangling into a mess of a beehive, the one that likes to unwind in soft tendrils on a weak pillow
heart racing for the constant fueling of a near empty tank telling you to go further this time, this time
time isn't yours
holding in a cough
i too have tried to drown waterbugs
my cheek pressed against the tiles of a kitchen floor, hand perched languidly as my fingers make circles in the tiny swamp i made in the middle of the room
but i forget laying there until i hear my own soul walk in with bare feet addressing the elephant in the room, the one that hasn't left since i was sick with bronchitis that winter years ago
and i want to tell her to come here, to come back inside myself so it doesn't feel so cold this season of frost but she brushes me off with the temperament of a child
"i don't exist, i never did" the words dawdle back and forth from her back molars to her incisors
and i remember when i felt like i was dying when i hopped from one state to the next but realizing a little to late that if i were to go back my dread would jump on the back of my shoulders and force me to look it into it's shiny face and show me the mild nuisance of what it means to be alive
so my soul closes the door and i hear the keys rattle and i myself sink into the warm arms of someone i spent my entire life with
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 12:32 AM UTC
With each passing week the world gets heavier.
Knees start to buckle underneath all the pressure.
Lost in crazy thoughts of death and self-destruction.
Only here out of a sense of guilt and obligation
to my family.
Because they deserve to be happy,
and they deserve better.
And the last time I tried I couldn't pull the ******* trigger.
Coward.
I can't allow myself to leave my parents mourning
and so I sit and wait while the sand keeps on pouring.
I'm just turning pages until I finish the last chapter of this story.
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 4:07 PM UTC
So much for superheroes saving the day;
Every good guy's epilogue is a cliche.
Tedious compulsory celebrations
For all their mundane actions.
A villain's portrayal is what excites me.
Ever since a kid I could already see;
Creativity in all those gimmicks,
Geniuses of ***** tactics.
It is never easy to become the antagonist.
The object of all hate and blacklist;
The one that is destined to fail,
To fulfill a comic's holy grail.
Yet the bad guys do most of the heavy work,
Perfecting their schemes with an evil smirk;
But every time they're about to win,
The plot will smash their plan to ruins.
They say some people are destined to be heroes;
It's a fate preordained a long time ago.
But the truth is that everyone needs a villain,
To finally uncover their life's meaning.
What the world generally calls as criminals,
In reality are just misunderstood equals.
They taught me more about the cruel life,
Better than any superhero's strife.
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 7:54 PM UTC
A boat, beneath a sunny sky
Lingering onward dreamily
In an evening of July --
Children three that nestle near,
Eager eye and willing ear
Pleased a simple tale to hear --
Long has paled that sunny sky:
Echoes fade and memories die:
Autumn frosts have slain July.
Still she haunts me, phantomwise
Alice moving under skies
Never seen by waking eyes.
Children yet, the tale to hear,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Lovingly shall nestle near.
In a Wonderland they lie,
Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die:
Ever drifting down the stream --
Lingering in the golden gleam --
Life what is it but a dream?
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Her beauty shined from within
With her golden hair and fair skin
But she still wasn't enough for him back then.
Ugly duckling...
She was soon labeled
All of her peers, joined in
Chanting and ranting
Ugly duckling, ugly duckling
She bowed her head and cried again and again
Time passed
And people moved on
She found she was better off on her own.
Reunions come and gone
She opted to stay at home,
Til one day she realized
She had become a swan...
No longer would she sit at home...
All alone...
No more...No more
Opening her door
She found freedom to explore
And everyone swore...
Anna May...Was gorgeous...
More so than the "chosen ones"...
Back in the school days.
One day she come face to face with...
Juan...but he was to good for her back then...
She sat smiled and listened while he chat...
How did this come about...
Your gorgeous lips, pout...
Round thighs and hips...
She smiled and said...
I am who I have always been...
You just never saw my beauty from within...
Juan, gathered courage and asked her on a date...
She smiled and said...
To late...
This swan...already has a mate.
Epilogue... Never Judge a person from the outside...whats on the inside, is what really counts.
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 6:15 PM UTC
The Lost Bird In The Sky
The Lost Bird In The Sky
Somewhere there sits a lone man
at a bar filled with lowlifes
lost in his thoughts
mad at the world
and at her
it's eight in the morning
and dawn is long past
and its eve's seat he'll now nurse
across the bar room
through the blinds, some sun peeks in
over the seedy rug
the sun drying the last cleansing
of a patron's puke
the musky smell the last of his worries
his eyes take in the bar
he intimates a hand gesture to other patrons
and a meaningless nod
indifferent to being friendly
matching the terrain
of the other lowlifes at the bar
all on crutches, it seems
on the wall
hangs pictures of storm clouds
black and ominous as his life
the first of his worries
him and his head always drooping
or were those pictures in his imagination
the music box plays a sad song
smoke gets in your eye
followed by lies
another sad song
stories of his life
accentuated
grabbing at him
his worries
her effect
how poetic, he smiles
him in effigy
through the smoke in his eyes
and more beer
he can clearly see her
with a voodoo doll in hand
sticking needles in him
maybe deservingly
if only he could tell her a story
he thinks better of his thoughts
and a pending epilogue
thirsting for sunshine instead
his eyes glance up at the women bartender
plain, plump, playful, pierced
sunshine for the moment
his lips, and tongue curl
his feet touch earth, seeing if it's still there
as she lumbers back and forth serving drinks
her backside sticking up like a beehive
and for a moment he wants to be a bee
he plays with his beer bottle
running his hands past it's neck
caressing, taking a sip
thinking of his past love
the softness of her neck
*****
her essence
of how pleasing it would be to touch her
her nest
if only he could be a bird for a moment
fly and be in flight with her
together in the sky
making baby birds
their innocence and first tweets
that would have been nice
now ... landed at a hole in a wall
his eyes and thoughts keep soring
he grabs more beer
more beer
pausing to grab some honey with his eyes
he keeps playing with his loose change
spinning a quarter
like watching her pirouette
again and again
she had that effect on him
Logan Robertson
11/15/17
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 12:33 AM UTC
scene one
i look up at him
an expectant look in his eyes
only one word needs to be said
but i can convey it in many ways
so i lean up
and let his lips connect with mine
just as i’ve imagined so many times before
as i tell him through the sweet kiss
yes
a thousand times yes
scene two
a park
a playground
children running with no care in the world
walking hand in hand with him
the one i care about most
tears form in my eyes as i think of when i was young
i loved living and now i dont
i look over to see him watching me
and in those eyes i realize
i love life again
scene five
a fight
throwing hateful words at each other
none of us means it
but at the same time we do
i thought i loved him
i do
but if i do then why am i crying
crying over him
he sees my tears and rushes to me
holds me
promises me nothing will happen like that
ever again
ending scene
he meets me in the hallway
the four dreaded words
we need to talk
i know what is coming and i look down at my shoes
the ones that he bought me
everything reminds me of him
he lifts my chin and looks into my eyes
don’t worry, he says
you deserve someone better than me
i love you
i always will
but you’re better off without me
epilogue
was he right?
i’ll never know
but one thing is for sure
my heart no longer aches everytime i see something we did together
maybe i didn’t deserve him
the one who made me love living again
but he taught me to love
and it’s time to love again.
Jun 23, 2019
Jun 23, 2019 at 4:03 PM UTC
the world is full of emptiness
how so you may inquire?
the following dissertation
shall give you an insight
as to the emptiness
that is around our globe
stay seated in your arms chairs
and at your computer screens
these words shall reveal the story
for all of you to glean
in Third World countries
not a bite of food to eat
yet in Western countries they waste it
and throw it on the streets
it is said there is plenty
of food on the planet for all
but starving millions
wait for a meager crumb to fall
here the evidence
placed in front of you
and it doesn't make
for a kindhearted view
were there to be a little
sharing and fairness
the great emptiness
may well be redressed
on our planet the picture
will remain thus
and this salient tale
is a wake up call to each of us
the rabid feasting
in rich nations is really quite obscene
while those in Third World countries
live with bellies poorly mean
take a moment to ruminate
on what has been said
as you butter
your daily portion of bread
Epilogue
those who have not a mouthful
isn't it profane
the world is full of emptiness
as this dissertation has explained
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 8:45 PM UTC
O Chansons foregoing
You were a seven days’ wonder.
When you came out in the magazines
You created considerable stir in Chicago,
And now you are stale and worn out,
You’re a very depleted fashion,
A hoop-skirt, a calash,
An homely, transient antiquity.
Only emotion remains.
Your emotions?
Are those of a maitre-de-cafe.
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I grew into you like vines, delicately covering a brutalist form with a love I only know. My heart is submerged in a little ocean, its depth grew in me as I carried the weight upon my soul. The waves painted me blue, reminding me of all my sad lullabies.
Your name is a possession and embodies all that you are (it's the only way to keep you.) If I got the chance to love you, maybe I'd be much more than a supernova, devouring its life until the very end, traversing the boundless space, and it would leave traces in a thousand years; my love for you would still resonate, like the haunting interludes played by a piano in the epilogue of a song.
Feb 11, 2024
Feb 11, 2024 at 2:55 AM UTC