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Miceal Kearney Nov 2010
The year I would turn nine
Charlie Kelly threw his pint over Paul Brennan
in the opening scenes of a new Irish drama
called Fair City. The 25th Dáil was dissolved.
Ireland got its 1st lotto millionaire.
There was talk of mining for gold in Mayo
and Christy O’Connor Jnr
won the Ryder Cup for Europe.

(Years later playing Trivial Pursuit
one of the questions wanted to know:
what profession gets the Ryder Cup? —
a cousin from Carlow answered; prostitutes.)

I was growing through 3rd class
St. Brendan’s National School; Loughrea —
on the other side of Tiananmen Square
another student stood up
as the Guildford Four walked free
after 14 years innocently incarcerated.

While in Germany, a wall
that had been built to divide: separate, fell.
Pushed over by people. While Hungry, Poland
and Czechoslovakia: all said: enough.
The Russians left Afghanistan and in South Africa
Apartheid began to crumble. Pity
it was allowed to even begin.
Iran was ******* about some book
and on Christmas Day in Romania
Mr and Mrs Ceausescu were executed.

In 1989, the Church of Ireland allowed female priests.
96 people died at Hillsborough.
Haughey was Taoiseach,
Mr. Heaney was conferred
as Professor of Poetry at Oxford
and we qualified for Italia 90.

I was 9 and the only thing I remember
about that year; I fell out of a tree
and broke my arm.
comments, feedback please.
I never knew who I was or was to become
never counted the rays that shone out of
the sun
never had time to drive '69
or route '66

too many tricks
too many kicks from the sick
******* who taxed me

down in the coal mine, the pit face
is the face that I wore
dusty and soot black,
but I'm never going back

I'm reading now
got a college
got some knowledge
and if god is willing
he'll fill in
the blanks for me
fill me with some
history

not counting my chickens,
but I'll wait and see
who I am
before I hatch.
An African sunset has once again,
not outlived darkness of its own sunset,
but the legacy of its poetry will soon
Set forth the new dawn in full brightness
Of the phenomenal African woman
Whose desire to sire human freedom
Irritatingly sings and will ever sing like
A bird in the cage of oppressor’s ploy
Singing the songs of freedom for all,
Invoking ears of the heart in mental realm
Of prejudice and bigoted self-exclusion
to see the self in the face of otherness.


I mourn Dr. Angelou Maya who passed on,
On the black Wednesday of may 2014,
A doomsday of dooms-month of dooms-year,
That extended the invisible tentacles of death
To curtail the breathes African daughter,
At the Wake Forest University, in land of the Yankees,
At her only ****** age of 8 and 6 compartments
Of twelve months swelling not even full in each case,
Leaving me to wonder in my African callousness,
At the magical reality in the sharp sounded words;
Of , O death!  O death! Why are you so untimely?
That echoed from whale rapacious jaws in the mandibles
Of capitalism that ruthlessly converts nature into ***** money
In the erstwhile onset of the dawn for new morning.


I mourn with grief, my dear sister; Dr. Angelou Maya,
She boldly stood up in the fullness of her melanin
Pronouncedly **** and elegant gap in her front teeth,
Blending to overwhelm the entire world with the beauty,
In the darkness of her African skin, provoking evil
Of the time, that let a white man to **** her
A Poor daughter of the an ex-slave in Americas,
And the ****** walked away scot-free at the helm of
Evil freedom in the apartheid civilization of the USA, as her humane
Heart forgave him, the white ******, seven times and seventy seven
occasions, a reflection of true piousness, true humanism,
Like a phoenix she still stood up, her head in fortitude like a tor,
as we the conquered and the enslaved  ones sat forlorn,
in the ******* of fierce slavery, at the nub of salve anguish
in the pangs of  nostalgia for  the banks of River Congo,
Yearning in equanimity for the life by the waters of the River Nile,
she had to rise indomitably  and sing for civil rights of the black souls,
Terrorized by the evils and wiles of Ku Klux ****, handmaiden
by the Jimmy Crow cultures in the days of Rosa Parks,
She sang tunes, lyrics and poor folks’ ballads together
with Luther King Jnr., Malcolm X and entire Negritude,
When we lived as slaves in the land of abundance,
Caged in the pigeonholes of black ghettoes
Mushrooming the entire Harlem in which
she were born, dear begotten daughter of Africa,
You rose and sang songs of liberty when the world
Was mum on the violations of gender,
Is when your thespic power in your magical
And surreal words, created the truth
In the phenomenon of phenomenal woman
That finds honour in un-bowing before the thrones
Of those who reign by perpetrating terror.
.
Dreams of Sepia Aug 2015
She found herself in moments,
in the cracks between the pavement,

staring at her moonlit reflection,
twisting the time left to her to perfection,

aged thirty & counting
clouds passing above,

she kissed a couple of frogs
one of them, a Mr Prince Jnr

20 years older, who she hoped
would leave her a fortune

instead, he left her out on the street
smashed up, in the soup kitchen she moaned

about his new, younger lover
getting angrier with every hit

then aimed a shiny gun
at him to prove her point but missed

one day a preacher came along
that showed her the error of her ways

' Come to him, our Lord, child' he said
& she did. People heard her sing gospel out in the street.

It turned out she had quite a voice
& this sweet gift did not go unnoticed

now she's a rich singer of great repute
a happy end you can't refute
Just a little somethin' I came up with.. set in the US of my imagination/ general impressions from  films/literature/popular culture etc... not based on any specific true stories but it makes a good yarn...as for the religious aspect of this, I don't mean to preach about religion, it was just necessary for the story. If you're familiar with Bertold Brecht. ' The Threepenny Opera', I was thinking of it when I wrote this too.
These are the dreams of an inspired individual,
colorful and never dull,
creating youth from the statues that line overgrown gardens
finding truth in Medusa and her eyes.

Underneath the clock at Waterloo awaiting the soldiers return.

It's a fight to the death
last one to draw breath wins
I draw an ace from the hole.

And who's going to sit at the feet of my God listening to bible stories for eternity?
count me out.

When I wake if I do
who will know?
everyone's watching
the
'Nine o-clock show'

I'll sleep on
until the dreams
have all gone
and the snow
disappears,

years pass
we're all
grown in the greenhouse,
glass
glints off the sun

No one is home.
B4 I go 2 bed
B4 I sleep 2day
B4 I dream 2night
I have 2 ask God
2 bless you b4 2moro
2 guard you 4rom you enemies
2 give you the wishes of your heart.
Blessed nyt
Jnr.
Sometimes I feel like avoiding being too wordy.
Kome victory May 2016
Oh Kiss of Life,
Where Have You come from?
Where do you get this strength from?
Do you remember where you got your source from?
How does a kiss find a language to speak to my soul?
Have mercy on me.

Every taste of this lips is like fresh wine,
Got me drunk in the bliss of this magical touch.
Each taste got me numb,
Erasing the taste of everything
Oh kiss of life,

You awaken my soul,
Oh kiss of life.
Withhold not your scent from me,
Because am like a tree by rivers of water.
Kiss my bowls full with more water else my waters go dry.

Kiss me with your rivers of water that my roots never miss
you.
Give this dry roots a scent of your waters ones more.
Shine your rays of emotions on this dry lips
So it may be green again
Oh kiss of life.

- written by Ozah Benjamin jnr
its the first by this writer, I am only submitting it.
Eme-Umesi Caleb Feb 2017
Its like a play in the threatre.
Its physical, almost real.
You could almost touch it,
The emotions, the indecisions
My life is a play that goes on forever
The end result so close
Yet forever out of my grasp.
                                                                       Umesi_jnr
Love is worth emotion
It's worth talking and sharing
Silence is a weapon to weaken love....
Money is not enough to make a real girl say honey
Money is not enough to make real love shutter
Money is not enough to make real lovers move on
And hang around with other guys. ...
No man is worth perfect enough....
But real love affects eternity.
If I ever touched your heart,remember I am still myself.
If I hurted you,think of how I did ...
Be real not fake
Jnr
Warren-Johnson Aug 2021
I had/have a dream how those great speaches start (Martin Luther King jnr) (Nelson Mandela)

Oh not to steal from their glory but I'd say I too dream!

A dream of a life where we needn't be  bothered by treachery and deciet!

A dream of a life where violence ceesed to exist!

A dream where love meant just what it should

A dream where there were only true's
No false box to tick

A dream where I would be seen the same whether I arrived on a donkey or a Leer jet

But these just be dreams!

What a glorious ponder maybe induced coma be a option?
At least my heart can reside there whilst I dream!

Oh dream on
©

— The End —