"geographical" poems
What is here so fine!
What does Nigeria define?
True democracy?
Mere literacy?
Good old days we praise
Today's faith we raise
Happiest beings on earth
Survivors, yes from birth
The world's awaited invention
Four Hundred and Nineteen(419) injections
Immune is the world, oh corruption!
Awareness a skin deep innovation
Rich geographical virtues
Hospitable family values
Wealth, milk and honey
Our destiny how sunny
Our hope the pride we know
Fulfilments the future we show
I applaud greatness oh!!
I hate Nigeria, No!!!
(c) obukov
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 7:01 AM UTC
If I said my heart was a cyanide laced pomegranate,
would that make its expressions any less ******
If I said falling in love was like throwing yourself off a cliff on a winter night and drowning yourself tumbling through the air blind like a bag of kittens, but I was quoting Kierkegaard,
would that make it any less of an awkward melodrama?
If I told you the western blocks blind attacks on the other,
kinda resembled Freud's account of the mother
of a miscarriages melancholia,
is that a condoning or a condemnation?
if I translated every meta-narrative of class relation, oppression, wage slavery, state violence, suppression,
into anthropomorphic allegories for a myriad of psychological phenomena,
would I be an academic or a shinto miko?
[and would the world be any better?]
if I superimposed on the geographical topology,
the political and then the existential,
would I have a sandwich?
Or a lasagne?
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 11:19 PM UTC
I love your curvaceous contours, whilst physiological precipitations calmly shoot their nectar across longitudinal and latitudinal expressions of ontology.
How seductive are your displayed features of blatant enticements.
I truly give thanks for your explicit revelations, where blatancy and discretion collide with dialectical icebergs.
So, my friend of uncertain deliberation, put it on the altar of sacrifice where botanical skies of elliptical infernos resound throughout the classical universe.
I love this revealing and scientific corridor of acknowledgement.
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 11:50 PM UTC
My hand smells of apple and
Iron in my blood begins to revolt.
A shadow puppet smirks, pulling blanket
Wrapped over the 14 year old little girl's thighs;
It's morning already, I've got to **** you,
I've got to **** you.
We found our bodies drowned at
The colorless side of the bottom of Gangga;
As if wars would soon start again
Like when we were older and you sang me
A farewell with such an emotionless voice --
The tuberoses had let you sing the sonnet alone
And since then you could not
Escape the karmic silence;
You began to replace Shiva with the ticking clock which battery's drained;
You ate the mercury, the mercury.
You began to carry your charger everywhere yet I kept
Failing to taste your tongue even for once;
For once I saw the clouds and they're blue
Like eyes of the blonde girl with plastic daisies tucked
On her hair and
Dried forget-me-nots grew on your wet heart;
The Mindanao helped me to get through
But such tight seaweed had tied my feet to you (to get me back to you, to get me back to you);
An island of fears, your homeland; mine; traditional songs and dances I refuse to learn;
City of fire was only your lies.
(I am sorry I got your name misspelled, carved on my soul.)
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 6:54 AM UTC
When it comes to strong form
When angles are always precisely norm
Grows an alluring mathematically touched creation
Inspired by pure calculated scientific divination
Such an alluring symmetry to behold
Causing the circle’s envy to unfold
For this angled beauty’s strength enforced
Its sold core mass equally divorced
It’s rigid looks captivating us all
Luring architects to its enchanting call
Ancient Greek hands carving stone shrines
Securing their beauty for all times
Its slight outer angles enduringly tease
Yearning us to brush with ease
Who came up with such design?
Was it indeed a gift divine?
However it did come to be
We all can enjoy with glee
Well all but rectangle and square
As they sulk with envious glare
Murmuring curses over hexagon’s slight curve
Endlessly plotting to mathematicians they serve
Scheme upon scheme developed to suppress
The sheer allure designed to impress
Despite all this the hexagon persists
Engaging us all in mathematical trysts
Never will we lose an eye
No matter how hard we try
For the beauty a hexagon reigns
Over the kingdom of geographical gains
Forget not what you see here
Our ancestors have made it clear
Line upon line attached in twine
Measured precisely from sips of wine
The hexagon is a wonder indeed
Allowing us our own mounted steed
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 7:43 PM UTC
If I'm the cowgirl,
courage is the bronco
and you're the stranger in the mask.
Call it geographical bias,
but I know we're both tired of tumbleweeds,
both allergic to dust.
So carry out,
carry on.
Spit and be brave, child.
This town ain't big enough
for our desert rose hearts to grow.
So give me land.
Lots of land.
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 8:26 PM UTC
Consanguinity: A Commissioned Poem
(How Well Do
You
Know Me?)
This request, from wolf spirit aka quinfinn, accidentally hit the spot of what was foremost on my mind.
Cosanguinity: A relationship by descent from a common ancestor; kinship (distinguished from affinity). A close relationship or connection.
Poetry, mine, yours,
Ours,
Invades my consciousness.
We write poems on the same subject,
Even the same title,
But a few days apart.
Insanity,
Coincidence,
or
Consanguinity?
Perhaps we are reading each other's stuff
Too much.
But that's crazy,
Or
Consanguinity?
Yet,
And yet,
We see the same things
So incredibly different.
That is the answer.
We see the same thing and I am
Struck down.
A billion sights.
A billion words.
Yet, the human computer,
Sorts, collates, and generates
A billion different writes
In a similar spirit,
Employing the same phraseology.
All right.
Alright.
Malaysia.
Minnesota.
East Coast.
West Coast.
Geographical differences.
Time differences.
No difference.
A billion differences.
The stylistic differences enable,
No, correction,
Ennobles us to coexist,
Value each other,
Learn.
Observable differences.
But more interesting,
More pleasurable,
are the incredible, visible, signs of
Consanguinity.
Mere affinity?
Kinship.
A poem?
Nah.
But at 1:11am in my location,
It's what's on my mind.
Now that I know the meaning of
Consanguinity.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 1:21 AM UTC
you ran with me through the terminal, fleeing
the tranquility of geographical association.
it was always the same: a surrender to the overcast;
we watched the sky fill with paper airplanes.
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 7:57 PM UTC
My living disposition leads me to assert that I am not dead!
Yet, my silence screams ancient transcriptions across geographical contour lines which are considered to be far removed from the metaphorical grid of contemporary societal norms, where the seductions of the vampyre and her haunting dynamics cast their eerie spells within this captivating fishbowl of galloping horses.
The Prince of Wallachia is able to explain.
Let us converse with The Count.
Whenever there is emphasis upon specific detail in this age of certain vanity, I find that, in 1456, I am truly bereft of valedictorian and flamenco odours, because this royal prince of acoustic arrangement has generated a harmonious expression which humbly corrects my intrapersonal assumptions across the mountainous regions of Transylvania.
Conflict resolution is therefore a mere figment of sociological and anthropological constructs, which fornicate with the façade of egocentrism and fabricates vain attempts to maintain social elitism within a blanket of darkness.
How do we find ourselves in the position of being so diametrically opposed to reality?
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 12:47 AM UTC
So this has been where you were
all this time. Especially the kids
that looked up to you.
In between being forced by your intelligence officers
to beat up your comrades
and then **********
or else die.
This dark uncharted
neglected geographical treasure:
your breathing heart's chamber.
Looking straight out
what is always here with us
regardless of all our lies and grand
machines of escape.
This is the price you paid
for being able to bring life and sustain it.
Until now, we are still trying to see through
this visual masterpiece: another drug mule caught.
Drugs, sometimes as if the sullen reminder of our collective
human attempt at remembering our real treasures
and how we have lost them: A grandmother has 7 packs taped around her body, like a parasite but also like a baby mammal,
or an omen of something else yet to be remembered
and said out loud.
One day or day one, a friend would always remind me
when sober. We step into understanding ourselves better
or we keep making things to express
unresolved fears and anguish.#
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 3:23 AM UTC
My name is stolen like a Spaniard
Inquisition,
My heritage barely a patch of fog,
What is the truth of myself unwritten?
" Your name is....You shall be called"
My father once said,
But I sign this name at the end of no poem,
Are you sure this is my name?
Have you navigated the flows
Of lava in my bloodstreams,
My geographical mind that beckons
A deep bitter valley,
Dark beautiful mountains that have
Reclaimed by nature what my people
Claimed her?
Can you see my subterranean pyramids,
My great moist jungles,
Gutting out advanced mathematical models,
Bleeding precise positions of stars,
I can cry the Winter Solstice,
Oh my proud heart pounds
Through my chest with dreams of then,
When the Coyote was sacred and the
Nature of all things was balanced
Even in the darkest days.
Am I Gonzales from the old Spaniard name?
Does my brown skin and hairless
Arms not cry for the Aztec of my ancient
Fathers?
The root of my root,
The flesh of my flesh,
The veiny branches of a family tree
Where wild flowers grow in
The words of the Aztec bark,
Bleeding its sap through me,
Is this Spaniard to you?
(I know the difference)
Let me ask my blood:
Do you not see the fire in my eyes?
Don't you see the fire raining tears
Of embers onto paper,
Every word a burnt offering?
Maybe one does not know of my
Great grandfather in the valley
Of Mixcoatl, there he lived as the last
Nocturne, his great scar along his back,
The last of a warrior
Where he died among the stars of his fathers,
The scar from a knife, a knife that
Stole his true name!
Has Olin and Ehecatl taken it
With a breath of wind?
I will take the Sun Stone with you Octavio!
Take me home.....
And I can see it!
The noble people forgotten
As time forgets all,
My voice of the Warrior grateful
And speaking like a shiny tip of
Spear piercing the night wolf!
I am no longer a riddle in the water,
But a pure flow of immenseness,
A profound respected beast,
I feel the purity of ancient things,
I dissolve into memory's ink,
My combatant blood boils,
The land flames of my fire,
The people of the Sun!
My ancestral blood with calloused feet,
My ancient jungles,
Tamers of beasts,
Oh the Aztec Dream,
Yes, I am what my blood says I am,
What's in a name?
The identity misidentified.
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 11:22 AM UTC
At times like these
I miss you the most
not with the pretentious serenity
of the night
but with the open ferocity of the sea.
I miss the salt in your
sweat mingling with
mine in the slow
melting surrender
of two soulless bodies
or two bodiless souls
I miss exploring
those geographical spaces
connecting me to your beyondness
under the familiar but
comforting garb of the mundane
(I just hate calling it history now)
But tell me
do you miss me?
Do you miss me
basking in the
obscurity of your shadows ?
do you miss the
salt in my tears…
for I suddenly remembered
I forgot even
How to cry ….
Nov 28, 2010
Nov 28, 2010 at 7:15 AM UTC
One night
The moon was high
As we said goodnight
With the longest goodnight kiss I've ever had
And the feelings I felt
All through that night
Had me hungry
Hungry for more
But here we are
Separated
By distance
Emotional and geographical
And I'm just
Waiting for the time
I can see you again
But till then
But till then
I'm hanging on a memory
The look in your eyes made me feel just right
Like I'm some miracle to behold
We fit just like puzzle pieces when you held me tight
Kissing my lips like they were yours
But here we are
Separated
By distance
Emotional and geographical
And I'm just
Waiting for the time
I can see you again
But till then
But till then
I'm hanging on a memory
I never thought
That I could ever miss someone
As much as I miss you
I never thought
That your picture could bring tears to my eyes
I never thought
That I would ever long to hear
Someone's voice as I do yours
Isn't that crazy, baby?
Yet here we are
Separated
By distance
Emotional and geographical
Just longing to be with you again!
But till then
But till then
I'm hanging on a memory
Hanging on a memory
Yes, oh yes, a beautiful memory~
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 2:45 PM UTC
Hello Poetry to me is just another joint family
How by a common bond, here we are strung together
Though separated by geographical boundaries
Distance has never been a hitch or a tether
Your relentless encouragement helps me aim for heights
Your heart felt blessings give me loads of happiness
Your poems open before me new avenues of thought
Your gracious company creates for me a new ambience
Before my eyes, a hundred smiling faces appear in a row
Some stand out as beacons of radiant light
With words of encouragement, you vanquish all my doubts
Revitalizing my spirit and leaving it shimmering bright
Through this forum we share our inmost thoughts
How close we feel though never been together
Many have left the scene leaving trails of footprints
And many join fresh to continue the endeavor
Irrespective of creed we are here at art’s sacred shrine
‘Poets’ we are called and we breathe the scented pride
We stand tall among many others of our species
Let us proclaim aloud our fraternity worldwide!
Nov 8, 2017
Nov 8, 2017 at 10:31 AM UTC
So, what are the options, my distant companion of presumption?
A blade of grass may stand with confidence between gravestones, but lichen yields her established presence over the course of history.
Grey hair, spectacles, and naïveté were encapsulated by marital convictions of questionable integrity.
Thank you, Mr. Jones, as you confidently spread butter over the surface of a slice of toast.
We truly have an anchor which keeps the soul, steadfast and sure while the billows role. It is an early 1980s destination, where the staunch sound of patriotic sectarianism prevails.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 2:23 AM UTC
The seasons are not dissimilar to laryngeal ******* where dark reptiles slink into the undergrowth of humanity, beside our deep intercostal deviances.
Are you registered? If so, then what is your range?
Perhaps a shotgun is incapable of reaching those harmonic octaves which rise above the shores of Neptune.
I beseech you, my lonely patron of inertia: let us meet in the middle of the Fertile Crescent where our ideas can blend into a kaleidoscopic vulnerability within the tents of promiscuity.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 12:15 AM UTC
She wasn't happy here.
She claimed it was because
Her people
Her lifelong friends
Were up there.
She blamed her depression on the city
And its early hours.
Her lack of purpose
Lack of stimulation.
But she's there now
And she complains of the same malaise.
Apparently the problem
Is not in her surroundings.
It's in her.
May 19, 2010
May 19, 2010 at 7:28 PM UTC
It's all too much.
I don't know how to say it better
than saying it like that, because -
How do I wrap all the ends
of the universe
into a napkin
and pass it over to you
without spilling something?
How do I scoop the depths
of humanity's depravity
into an ice-cream
that won't melt
down the sides
or crack from the pressure?
How do I tell you
how terribly awful
it must be
to have to argue
with people
about whether
mutilating the genitals
of 5-8 year old children
is right or wrong?
How do I tell you
about the terror that seizes you
when you talk to someone you love
who honestly believes
that pigmentation,
geographical location,
religious affiliation,
****** orientation,
are reasons
to be killed,
beaten,
detained,
condemned?
How do I describe that
sickening feeling
that I feel
when I'm going about
my coffee-cup flavored,
pill-prescribed diet,
acting like the day is normal,
when I know:
people are being bombed,
sleeping on the streets,
set on fire,
beheaded,
******
dying,
for doing
or being
the same things
I am going to do and be today
right after I finish my latte?
How do I live with that
knowledge
that girls are kidnapped
for going to school;
that four-year-olds
are holding assault rifles
when they should be
holding dolls;
that five-year-olds
are being trained as soldiers
when they should be
playing with toy soldiers;
that children
are giving birth to children;
that every 9 seconds
in the United States,
a woman is beaten
or *****
that I have an iPhone
that can do a billion things
and there are
food riots in India,
that -
That I could keep writing
until my fingers were whittled
down to bone
and I wouldn't finish
that list?
How do I describe that,
all of that,
except by saying,
it's all too much?
Mar 9, 2017
Mar 9, 2017 at 3:58 PM UTC
We have seen your greasy lips
Of supple warmth nibble our geographical space with relish
With your cerebral repertoire of Machiavellian tactics
A savage sage gleaning with resounding skill
And crafty navigational sail
Your masterstrokes through climes and tongues reverberated
With your sparkling craft of vile crypt
Across regions, tribes and locales
Of your fangs that foiled good governance
But this time…
Your gladiatorial glide on this political turf
Shall experience a firestorm of rejection
Your emissaries across territorial divides
Shall be hounded to delusion
For the masses shall maul your mushy mantle of self grandeur
To the abyss of dishonour
For your subsequent arrival shall be booed to your doom
Your waning clout shall swing you to judgement
Of abysmal invasion
We are watching your fragile trot through this fearsome terrain
Of your permutation in levitation
For Damocles’ fiery sword shall haunt your ambition
Your raging mist on this cloudy night
Shall encounter a violent tussle
Prepare for war!
The scarlet venom from your cruel camp
Shall cease with instant visitation
From the warhorses of this fearless infantry
Armed with the right tools to disarm your fortified fortress
As you dispatch your foot soldiers
Of monsters and Leviathans
To play a callous hoax like the cunning fox
Their morbid mien shall encounter an eternal fall!
Let the music begin…
Onuchi Mark © 2010
Aug 20, 2010
Aug 20, 2010 at 6:32 AM UTC
In theory, we're demoralized,
In practice, neutralized,
But with force we analyze
What happens around us.
Sanctimonious ********
Pulling our plastered limbs
To an ever lasting fight,
Against forces of evil? Where are we?!
Black veils on their faces
Dark tears in the traces
Marked by the graves that are left behind.
Apathetic pathetic pythons biting the bits and piecing the peace that pits you against your brother.
Pompous posers pushing pampered ideas into our polluted brains.
Anti-idealistic contenders competing for riches and a nice comfy throne.
Plausible pseudo-righteous imposers asking for an applause for all the ill-witted words they shed.
Rectify the wrong wriggled reason riddling wibble fed to feeble citizens.
We sit here waiting for divine intervention,
Well divinity's gone! Not to mention the tension,
All these factors and factions, the fact is we're dying, and they're not helping.
Something drives them, something we don't understand, but who has the guts to ask them what it is?
Our blood has become the dividend divided among the not-so-united lands that fall under a geographical, categorized country of hell.
In this hell we live in, we've become minions of liberal less-than-mediocre minds ironically not minding their own business, feeding off of ours.
Intertwined, undermined, understand the outer line, see the truth, feel the crime, freedom's yours. Freedom's mine.
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 7:08 AM UTC
Why do I
feel so trapped
in this crazy-busy
world of illusion
filled with
unimaginable confusion.
Trapped in love,
with the pain
of not having
love reciprocated.
Trapped in the
anger I feel
over the stupidity
of the old
bald heads
holding everyone
to ransom.
Trapped in this
bizarre mediocre
lifestyle that I hated.
Trapped in the
fear of being
lost without anyone
to rescue me.
Trapped in this
frail body
wondering why
I'm not a
superman with
incredible tremendous
abilities to make
indelible impact
in the world,
leaving a finger print
that no one
can be able
to rub off.
Trapped in my
head of living
unfulfilled life.
Trapped in this
geographical region
of the universe
hiding everyday
from the insurgents,
dodging bullets and
seeing horrible things
not meant for
a beautiful soul,
living from hand
to mouth with
rags as a covering.
How can I
get over all
this in my
lifetime.
I'm so trapped
I can't wait to
get away from
all these atrocities.
It's beyond
my comprehension.
I really need
to escape from
this trap.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Dec 20, 2018
Dec 20, 2018 at 5:22 PM UTC
Having borne witness to the attachment of wires around lunar geographical parameters, I am curious about the voltage limits of electric chicken.
In its southern-fried condition, I now draw your attention to celebratory flutterings around the Maypole whilst masticating upon ancient crop circles.
Apollo may be affiliated with Grecian mythological ancestry, but I have found harmony within the branches of dendrology.
As the seas of our sovereign forefathers cry aloud from palaeolithic runways, a multitude of timeless deities cluck amidst the hay of eclectic Kentucky.
It is only one minute to midnight.
We must depart now.
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 2:53 PM UTC
There is never an end unless
You prepare it yourself
Stopping everything and leaving it
Or just bringing it to a short pause
To catch your breath
Boundless domains of elation
Bottomless pits of wonder
Endless roads of fascination
The cohesive bond we all share
Unspoken to some, unheard of by many
A unifying of all beings
The blood that binds us separates us
The spirit that connects us penetrates us
I hear it and sprint towards it
To help my fellow man
To listen, to hold, to share
To pick up, to give, to know
No matter the distance
Emotional or geographical
I will come
That I promise
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 5:53 PM UTC
How did we meet,
Was it out there on the crossing paths of the street
Eye contact interrupted by the buzzing of the bees
A bus and trolly wafting a cool breeze through the air towards me
We could never know because it's only a single serving interaction
A single packet of cream on an airplane
A single serving packet of asprin
Something that will never amount to the idea of what my eyes wanted to claim
But in that moment stranded in time, away from everything else
The lock of two strangers eyes can amount to all that I needed to see
To help me know what I alone could be
The anonymity of your life to mine the mystery is what makes it a beautiful lie
Not a lie in the sense of a falsehood
But rather in the sense of placement on a fairway
The geographical landscape of our lives,
In which I can spot you and you can see me
But we remain never to interact
And live on our lives in the vastness of our own the sea of lies
Jul 31, 2012
Jul 31, 2012 at 3:02 PM UTC
Come fellows,
come friends,
to the circus of gnossienes,
where strikes of midnight signal our rebirth,
and from the womb of a pen,
we are ****** upon the parchment that sustains our selves,
as our hair sheds in tufts,
and our teeth dull,
we harlequin worms,
who suffer in smiles,
through geographical refuse.
We harlequin worms,
can love only ants,
who only bite and sting,
which we feel to our cores,
as we watch for the giants,
whom we are convinced,
will crush us on sight.
We harlequin worms,
essential but weak,
embarrassments to our forefathers,
refuters of shovel hypothesis,
wit is best to ignore our five hearts,
before we think ourselves human.
Harlequin worms,
proletariat of the earth,
lords of the soil, listeners of Satie,
Slaves to the insignificance of our own progress.
We shall go without want,
we will smile for thee,
the flies whom pay us no mind.
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 2:12 AM UTC