"homewards" poems
The moths followed the little square
Like he was a flame
The little square wrote a book about his despair
And the moths made a proclaim
The little square didn't like us
So he told the moths to find us, "the mess"
He told them to do it without fuss
'Cause without us his garden would be flawless
The moths came out to his garden
They found me and my kind
And pulled us out with a gun
Treating us like we aren't apart of mankind
We were put on trial by them
And thrown into fire
We were shoved into a room by 'em
And gassed because it was "prior"
Occasionally the moths were bored
So they played hangman with us
This was a game that they adored
All we could do was stare at the hanging carcass
They were our friends and family
They were the only medals we had left
We were too broken to be angry
So we ignored the theft
When the moths got rid of us
They went for the most damaged weeds
That often made us anxious
Because of it some did misdeeds
Some couldn't deal with the pain and fear
So those weeds jumped to the birds
On the floor they left a smear
The smears thought jumping would send them homewards
Though we saw death so many times a day
We were still able to eat and treat people with hate
It was because from our god we have gone astray
Maybe because we were all under weight
In our stomachs prowled lions
Our hunger was so severe
If we found stray scraps we would go for the ****
If you went for the food you were a volunteer
One time we ran out of food
So we complained even more
The moths got tired of our complaining mood
So we ran to a new camp door
We were often moved
We went from camp to camp
Of course we all disapproved
On the house that was based by our stamp
On each of our wrist
Was and inky black stamp
It was on the moths checklist
It was our name in each concentration camp
When we were saved from hell
We were all broken weeds
We couldn't even sleep well
But the ones that saved us answered our needs
The ones that saved us helped end the war
And some were normal citizens
Everyday we are grateful for their loving core
Even if we had great differences
Though the Holocaust made us different
And the memories haunt us
It was kind of a movement
Because now people won't walk into war without a fuss
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 8:40 AM UTC
Running amok black bellies of hail-clouds
divest their hard cargo
on near-ready harvest and thunder claps
in spiteful applause.
Scudding sails of racing white galleons
arrive to the rescue
and change weather's position as quiet
breaches gale's disorder.
Setting the sun throws magenta feathers
across dark horizon
and to settle the issue parades jade tints
as the landscape transforms.
Waiting small boats plod homewards in
fish-laden formation
while wives run to stoke hot-kettled fires
of ready bath water.
Lighting a pathway half-moon winks as
heavier catches in
hauled nets silver the harbour and men
start night's final performance.
Sating hunger with coming and going
sow-and-reap women know
the meaning of sharing male labour in
scaling and salting chores.
Fisher-folks' world begins and ends
with the vagaries and quirks of weather.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 9:32 AM UTC
The cur foretells the knell of parting day;
The loafing herd winds slowly o'er the lea;
The wise man homewards plods; I only stay
To fiddle-faddle in a minor key.
2.3k
Sewer rats bottleneck into a Carnival of Depravity. Due to the bizarre circumstance of their fingers, they allow their limbs to become limp. As Valkyries, they are aware of the juxtaposition of their clown pantaloons and their hobnailed mudboots. In this benefit carnival, a ferris wheel runs amok. Within it, GI’s holler their way through the vermillion skyway, zippoing the dented carapace with their M16s. In a true practice of youthful bliss, the 5.56 returns to the cosmos. However, the bullets, streaming out and homewards, are soon constrained to the circular path of the wheel itself.
“Centripetal farce!” goes Lance.
“Hey what, man?” whimpers Mr. Clean.
“Well, y’see: centripetal fOrce makes an overwhelming amount of sense. So much so, that when superimposed on the Carnival Cavalcade™, it must make no sense, for it’d shake us all up something mad.”
“So, the bullets aren’t real?”
“Oh, they’re plenty real. Just touch it, it’d melt you, starting with the neurons, cat. Other than little blue reality though, it’s out there. Its dancers are not chained to any concrete block of nature.”
“Oh, they’re sufferin’?”
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 11:38 AM UTC
That day after his birthday
my mind is tormented
by all those white walls
just like that long stare
cooled to bottles and blicks
so my mind is tormented
by all those long hours
thinking, re-thinking intoxicated
like wooden doors shed
to sit in the paint again, I bet
my mind is tormented
by all those minutes concentrated
like the Boeing's departure
penetrated
my heart is in deep torture
my soul deteriorated
three days have elapsed
since the last rainbow I detected
up above so many coloured impressions
memories coming to the surface,
many tawny reflections
all kinds of delightful expressions
darling, my mind is still tormented,
never stories told, no secrets ever unfolded
while driving homewards in silence
quite sad reminiscence
the rainbow on my right hand
on the horizon
is still a bright coloured band
but will soon be oblivion
like this partition....
© Sylvia Frances Chan
28th February 2014
23.55 hrs.p.m.WETime
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 5:50 PM UTC
Musk. Wind
whispers mysteries in the form of it;
it thickens thin air until it turns black,
black enough to
hush. Wind,
being black, absorbs your thoughts,
makes violent curls of them; thickens,
thickens thin air until it
transmogrifies
into pages and pages
stained black with disaster-
as if a hurricane crumpled
those could-have been white aeroplanes, potential
papered to fly, and flung them
into the pit of your mind to
sink
deeper
and
deeper
and
deeper
until
your poems were written and the casualties numbered:
each line a suicide of a thought that could have been,
each syllable ink-stained and bloodied black
by artistic integrity, or madness: the same.
This wind is your hair.
This wind is your territory.
Not mine. Never could I have met you here,
in this place
of your solitary being: where real poets exist.
I am not a hurricane: and I am not your disaster.
I have learnt and re-learnt how useless it is to define you
in terms of myself; how useless it is to define you
at all. A rationalist like me can never truly understand
what it is to be part of your endlessness, the sheer
mountainous immensity that constitutes your thrill.
Yes,
your hair fascinates me as much as any ancient,
spiralling, far-away Andromeda- but the fact
that even now, I've already tried to limit you
with words
shows the absoluteness, the solidity,
the density
of my misunderstanding of your... your...
And
real poets know that rationalists are fools.
You know
I am a fool.
I write these meagre verses
with unreachably cold computer technologies
thinking
that these words could somehow save us. Yet,
simultaneously,
I am some drunken nuisance knocking
vehemently
at your door, who turns and strolls
away
right before you finally
answer.
I am a fool
going home and seeing clouds
in the darkness. It is my first
time seeing them in the sky. First
time in nearly a month.
The moon illuminates the clouds,
and so do
the towers of highway lights in the middle of two roads.
One road leads forward, the other backwards.
As the car passes the towers,
the two lamps attached to each of their heads glow.
They streak on as the car speeds on homewards.
They leave fading tails like shooting stars, except they do not travel.
They are stagnant mind lights, peripheral memories; unmythical,
artificial.
They are not like you.
When I pass you,
You....
You...
You.
Please,
never believe-
for even a whisper of musk
to yourself;
for even a black hush,
to yourself;
for even one sliver, one strand
of Andromeda hair, falling
towards yourself-
that
Grahamstown
didn't mean anything less than Eternity to me.
It does.
I am not a hurricane. I am not your disaster.
You are far too much of yourself
for me to be even a zephyr
to you.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 2:58 PM UTC
When birds fly further further
as cloud in the sky shutter
the perfume in the air is heavy,
and accommodation of my is heavy
too heavy, for a sight like this
too corny, for a stride like this
But hence i walk, where to go?
Homewards i walk,
slow and slow
And creep i must through dirt
and put out the logs i burnt
turn stones or blast them
go round adversity or jump past them
I know where to go
Homewards i walk,
slow and slow
Adverse it is for me to say though
and no my friend no
i havent found my home
but i know where to go
its home and home alone
and i'll find in time though.
Marking the paths with chalk
Homewards i walk
slow and slow
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 11:58 PM UTC
And the silence
of the abbey church
overwhelmed me
and that solitary monk
sitting in the choir stalls
alone in semi-dark praying,
Dei silentium coram Deo,
that time in the latrines
in the abbey
late evening
looking out a window
towards the harbour
with lights of ships
and houses and cafes
and me there solitary
looking homewards,
luminaria in mundo,
and Hugh talking about
someone walking past
his door noisily
in morning time
thinking it me
but I went
another way
and told him,
nella preghiera
tocchiamo Dio
the Italian monk
said to me
as we stood
in the cloister
before Vespers,
Dom Leo by the bell ropes
in the cloister
outside the refectory
saying farewell
then off to Rome
and shook hands,
and that French monk said
jamais perdu dans
l'amour de Dieu
and he was tall
and seemed in another world,
I felt the rough brickwork
as I walked past
the statue of the Madonna
my fingers sensed it
at the tips,
she had undressed
and said have me
before my husband comes
so I did,
możesz mieć mnie tutaj
that Polish girl said
*** she meant
but it was an old guy's
bedroom so I declined,
be ready to do battle
under the biddings
of holy obedience
Benedict said
(the saint),
a philosopher
who takes no part
in discussions
is like a boxer
who never goes
into the ring
said Gareth
quoting Wittgenstein,
in silentio et lumen
Dom Joe(dear Bunny) said
God is found
and we walked down
the path from
the shore to the cloister
beneath trees
and that silent
from the shore breeze.
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 1:53 AM UTC
I saw a foot,
In front of me,
I am sure.
Barefoot and small, or was it just the toes?
Did my mind complete the picture?
It was in front of my knee
As I sat
Cross legged in grass that prickles
And shadow leaves danced over my paper.
I looked up but there was no figure.
I stared around - trees, grass, houses, all swayed in summery breeze,
But no human presence.
Then, a comforting warmth
I make believe mystical beings surround me now,
And whose to say it's false?
They're in a circle, dancing, laughing
I am inside the fairy ring
A bee dances too,
Leading them
Then parts off; a jagged and lazy path homewards.
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 12:57 AM UTC
binding time
when firing hearth
sprinkling cologne smelling wine
but the time has by the time gone far.
twenty first of ember
fortnight late for goals to be.
twenty first mistake, however
goals are coals burning glee.
for no longer
you await me after work
claiming bees are busy homewards
knowing bees are sleeping not.
hazel would reveal
one to seven, nutshell-strong
while capitals are running short
while walnut's acting wrong.
walnut misses hazel.
why they hardly ever meet?
were nut shells intruded with a razor
or the hazel lost the seed
Nov 21, 2017
Nov 21, 2017 at 2:59 PM UTC