"mikhail" poems
This poem comes from a dream.
Sun—as February ordains it
roseate—early
twisted inordinate—in gray blanket
Snow has sifted to the pockets, wrinkles
the cuff of his woolen cap
An old hand rubs stubbled cheek
Snow flickers and falls again
in a dazzle
As he groans and stirs—
sparrows sing
As he struggles to sit—
sparrows sing
As he exhales into the chill
he considers the lilies of the field
Their luminous curling petals rise
steam or hope?
or just white smoke
wandering from the tiny fire
He sits a while to listen
to sparrows bickering in the bushes
then bursting into song
They have their audience
Across in a court of broken glass
and toppled stones
a room— still partially intact
Kindling gathered
Marta melts snow for tea
peeling potatoes in her lap
Stops to blow on hands
Marta’s heart—decent, visceral
like her hair—bun, kerchief
like her words—few in the failing
like the wounds of her smile
And Mikhail—harnessed
to the sounds of service
Orderly rhythm in ruin
hush hush hush
of a broom stroking cobbles
Mikhail—his hands wrapped in rags
old warrior
now, restorer of places to live
Stops, removes his cap
squinting sunlight into the channels of his face
Then turns toward unsteady shuffling behind him
“You shouldn’t.”
Tears interrupt
reaching for the broom
“You shouldn’t do this for me.”
“No, no, Holy Father. It is little thing—
a little thing I do.”
Nov 5, 2017
Nov 5, 2017 at 11:09 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya; [email protected])
On this 23rd day of December, 2013
Mikhail Kalashnikov is lying dead
In the coffin on the pyre
In Moscow the city of Russia
Away from Siberia his child hood home
Waiting to be buried by the people
His invention the Ak 47 and 74
Has not yet killed,
Good bye Mikhail Timofeyevich Kalashnikov
Son of Alexandra as you travel to land
Of the dead where a million of Rwandese in Africa
And million of the Vietnamese are now citizens
After having been shot dead by the AK47 and AK 74
You will not be lonely you glorious son of Russia,
You natural tinkering skills
Gave the world ubiquitous weapon
That has done wonders you looked on
Tell your gods where your poems you wrote are
The world is now free from your vice of the AK
Man can city now in peace and read your poetry
As the fettered politicians have no where
To get the weapons for mass peasant destruction,
Reveal to us the armoury in which you stuffed your poetry
as the gods of peace turn your guns into plowshare
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 7:26 AM UTC
Young Kalachnokov made an odd discovery,
Odd because no beneficiary it had ever since.
He complained over
the dust of amount it brought
into his purse
as a bridegroom who would be served
whine in pint by the in-laws
at wedding party.
The sound achievement
brought him an ocean of reflections
when he saw how tense-eyed
became lads holding the AK-47,
When he saw that they crawled like snakes
(which move to bite),
Forcing their fellows’ lives away,
Forcing their fellows’ to become foes,
Forcing their fellows to flee abodes and gardens around,
The gardens he saw without care,
And bitterly old Kalachnokov regretted
he hadn’t made a lawnmower.
Note :
1. Mikhail Kalachnokov was twenty years old when he made the fire weapon.
2. AK47 : A : Automatic ; K : Kalachnokov ; 47 : The year 1947 the automatic weapon was made by the man who gave it his name « Kalachnokov »
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 10:26 AM UTC
In some fields none deny,
Russian masters still loom high.
If popularity is the test
one artist stands above the rest.
The caps of the world, we reverently doff
to the great Mikhail Kalashnikov.
Oct 2, 2016
Oct 2, 2016 at 8:12 AM UTC
if not for you, my life would be empty
my stars wouldnt shine, theyd fail to align
my limbs would give out and droop like spaghetti
if not for you, laughs would be sparce
my heart lodged in my throat, voice bleeting like a goat
sound would be as silent as a **** from my ****
if not for you, i wouldnt know love
my mind would be mindless, time is what binds us
despair's cold shackles im finally free of
Jun 22, 2018
Jun 22, 2018 at 1:02 PM UTC
The grey clouds opened up for it.
Mikhail Morozov
Sat in a foetal position.
Pale eyes —
Empty spotlights
From which Oblivion stared.
Ri Seul-ki
Atop a podium, flung sparks.
"Flee not to your burrows,
Rabbits" —
But Oblivion took hold.
Christian Franklin
Rubbed his hands with glee.
God's fire and fury
Sprung from his fingertips.
Oblivion smiled.
Sofia Garcia
Smiled into her morning coffee.
She sighed, and typed
The very last word.
And that was when Oblivion struck.
Nov 19, 2017
Nov 19, 2017 at 8:46 AM UTC