"jubilated" poems
For many reasons, December is a dead season.
The fields are painted in purple and grey, with
blackbirds rising into the sky from distant tree-lines.
The give of summer earth is a hazy memory now,
stored somewhere deep, frozen down in the pores of the soil
where seeds have drawn themselves tightly into themselves.
Trees bend to the ground under their own naked weight.
And this is the season of the christchild?
With a wind that seeks the softest curve of your neck,
slapping your face and drawing water from your eyes,
with nights that go on with only brief intermissions of day.
Is there comfort to be found in the darkest season,
hidden away in some corner of some wood or in a
box to be torn in the rush of Christmas morning?
Open a citrus fruit and let its oils blossom into the air.
Crush a pine needle and spread its syrup on your fingers.
Watch the yolk of the sun break over the horizon through
the smoke of your breath and the breath of the frozen earth.
Get up early, stay up late when the lights come on and walk
out under them. Feel the heat from the open doors of the
department stores but don’t enter; keep this for yourself.
Once, I drove through the predawn blues on the bank of the
Mohowk River the day before Christmas. In the timid dawn
the frost was lacework, birches bowed, the blackbirds jubilated.
And somewhere ahead, a pine wreath hung on a porch for me,
a door was unlocked, a bowl of citrus fruit was being laid out.
December is a dead season, a sleeping season, but from
the darkest night of the year hangs a simple string of lights.
Nov 21, 2012
Nov 21, 2012 at 12:27 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, kenya;[email protected])
At the hospital receptions
In the maternity unit,
Where children are manufactured
Standing uneasy is a young and bearded man,
Prosperity bound in the sparkle of the eye
His wife in the labour pain inside the maternity wards,
Himself anxious waiting for the newborn to be
Jumping at any nurse coming in and out,
To ask for the latest tidings from the inner world
From which came a nurse over jubilated,
With the news about the new born
Ready to spread on the anxiety ridden father at the door step,
To which he broke the wonder most news;
Man! Look, your wife has given birth to a bouncing bisexual baby!
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 1:28 PM UTC
Impulsive drones, these machos you have flimflammed,
Wolfing your proportionality like a **** brewed nectar of grapes,
When flimsy limb frills no more interweave, expertise reprogrammed,
Are you the lone from infinite frames murmuring, “once more, he escapes”?
Indignation ******* broadcasted, ferocity wrought into the fiber,
Prior, where narcissistic pathway architecture once lodged aloft,
Calloused acknowledgement of her duffel, abrupt pang, necessity for a prescriber,
My mettle is feeble of the soap opera, hanging one’s topper in my breath, I coughed,
The cauldron perpetually gurgling with spume, mingling itself,
Gyrating with giddiness as if my noggin was a top trinket,
No dust crumbs in any bustle ever jubilated atop my pit-a-patting instrument’s
Masses are anticipating for my enveloping blanket,
I perhaps beam till the cattle wham the timepiece, though seldom do I chuckle,
Shall journey with the ensuing waft, no comma for a buckle.
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 6:06 PM UTC
Some day they'll see....
Yah someday....
And when they do ....
They'll be humbled and jubilated by
My generosity
An obscure handful of
Half assed fantasies......
I payed dearly for these......
Kept in my pocket all these years......
To escape from future fears .....forget the details
For they could be derailing
I like to hide in the highlights
Weather it be the Gold mine
Or the lottery thing.......ya.....
Or the miracle man of 190 .....
Yah some day. ..... ............. ......
....some day ..... .................
Dec 30, 2021
Dec 30, 2021 at 4:08 AM UTC