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Mfena Ortswen May 2016
I lost my innocence in a battle of wits
Over a dinner of boiled rice and fried meats
His debate ground my overrated intelligence to bits
But it wasn't time, I wouldn't call it quits

We went on to the starlit, moonful park
We weren't sightseeing, I had to hit my mark
Everything I said was turned down with a reasonable reason
The more I tried to win the more I kept losing

We walked and talked and I realized
That our supposedly romantic dinner had been politicized
As we stood on my porch and called it a night
His lips touched mine, I didn't put up a fight

I laid a final claim in regards to our banter
His keen eyes widened I'd given him something to ponder
Later that night, I received his call
He asked for a rematch, I smiled, there'd be another date after all
Martin Narrod Mar 2015
Take me up. Let the devil take me up, like the morning when we left ourselves. The ides are upon our lives, maybe backstabbing partners really won't pay the bills. The irreverent god, the irrelevant clause that speaks too soon, comes upon the midnight waning sky. Like the moonful of ham in the stock of the flesh, second helpings because I could not resist.

Pick me up. Pick me up. Like a devil born again in the flesh. Your womb is a rotten tomb of forced reclusion, I'm wide awake before I can even sleep. The Time, our heaven is pyre, we're in it now like you thought it had been. But the flesh never whispers when I tried to break it in, it only clung to me like pre-used clothing.

Write it up, tomorrow we make Japan. Tomorrow, the island is our vesper. Your nine lives have come, and you'd decided to trade all of your needs to please me. We intertwined into an elusive butterfly, you're dead inside my beak, chewy, squishy, crunchy meat. You're eleven but you've never tasted better.

Your lies are so stupid, I had to have you in supine. I had to lie to myself to placate me. I survived by being a witness to a life. A dusky, grayish shadow four feet yonder.
Crow Aug 19
the breeze tastes of strawberries
and the sun
swaying towards the horizon
in the deepening sky
pleasures my metronome thoughts
like her hips
as the music catches her

rolling and tumbling
when the rhythm in the salted air
matches the one she finds
pulsing
in the place she goes
on moonful nights

where crescent beaches linger
singing in her hands
with mother of pearl choirs
strung around her shoulders

in the ashen light
waves roll in
cresting on her
powdered sugar *******

and coral reef lips
leave their mark
crimson stains
on a leeward palm tree

having run aground
under a sky spread map
of misaligned stars
I search for grace
in the shadow of her eye
She
A nightful of fairyness
A moonful of mysteries
A dayful of roses
A sunful of emotions
A riverful of spirit
A seaful of pearls

She was not my girl
She was not my girl

Me
A desertful  of solitude
A seaful of tears
A heartful of poetry
An eyeful of waiting
A roadful of leaving
A guitarful of songs
A bookful of tailes
A dreamful of her


she was not my girll
she was not my girl
Dawnstar Jul 2021
from the pleasant balcony, well
you can see the glistening
of the moon above
maracaibo

all the fair far corners
of the earth are witnessing
the moon above
maracaibo

and all it takes is a spoonful
to get yourself a moonful
don't dilly-dally mister
take your love to maracaibo and kiss her

walking down the avenue
putting your whole life in review
how do they do it, every day?
i wanna dance
and sing the maracaibo way
dance and sing the maracaibo way
dance and sing the maracaibo way
that's how they do it, every day

that's what happens when
you spend your whole life listening
to the moon above
maracaibo

through a record vinyl
you can feel the whispering
of the moon above
maracaibo

and all it takes is a spoonful
to get yourself a moonful
don't dilly-dally mister
take your love to maracaibo and kiss her
a song
He was either looking for a home in his mother' thought;
A place where lost freedom is found to be a lurking land.
He was either searching for the colour of a new song,
a song of colour and crystal ray from the shadow of her heart.
We define threnody with a moonful of sadness written all over the stake of our eyes.  
Now, I'm not the only soul captured with blazing lies.
I'm not the only soul that went that route planted by our leaders.
Culture defined each of our eyes searching home.
It wasn't the lanes that drum the beat we dance to we followed...
No,  it wasn't here that fear to feed our fears when a new bottle of wine made us miserable.
It wasn't from here that a tale was told of graves with mouths.
Leaving was another way to say goodbye
without having to loose yourself to tears.
You researched into you:
A dream of loneliness
the joy of solitude.
a mournful of confirment committed
thousand poems birthed bravely in the process of telling a story that never existed, is the expressway of making a salty savage into life.


In the future of our past, we remain dormat
a boy left through the eyes of his mother
carrying the identity of his father's name
carved on a frame of tears.
He jumped many rivers to pay prayerful
homage to those things he learnt at his
father's feet.
custom taught us how to sew our laughter
with our mother's smile.
We leave to live again on the soil left for
us to walk on.
We are what tradition labelled us to be
Knitting our needs to become spirits and souls
& ellipses of trauma housing those things we won't let go sometimes.
We battle to come to the bossom of our
mother to learn where shadows travel to
when the light goes off.


If you are looking for me in this poem,
you won't see me but; between the paces
of the boy who left town in search of his
identity through his mother's eyes.



©John Chizoba Vincent
Jill Oct 1
Ever wished for a getaway?
Silent, solo, one-way vacay?
Happy, humanity holiday?
No-folk, lone-boat hideaway?

Do you drown in a roomful?
Or sag from a spoonful?
Is a mutter a mouthful?
Or a minute a moonful?

Or possibly next door
Is too near to hope for
Just presence impending
Is chthonic, light-ending

When speaking is deafening
Conversing, head-hefting
Add talkers together,
More sound than a blender

Shrill shouting and yelling
All brain and ear-bending
Wailing and waterworks
More blasting than fireworks

Even when voice-mute
Their feelings still noise-shoot
They sing and scream
Or **** and steam

Leave you battered
Dry-tattered
All flaking and scattered
Slight sheets float dust-shattered

Disintegrating on contact
Obliterating the contract
All social rules are in retract
Safety exits are abstract

Unbeatable, unkillable  
Invincible, divisible
Not fast or irresistible,
I choose to be invisible
©2024

BLT Webster’s Word of the Day challenge (chthonic) date 1st October 2024. Chthonic means "of or relating to the underworld." It is used as a synonym of infernal.
Sometimes Starr Sep 2018
The world takes on a light
That was concealed the whole time
There is sunlight cupped in leaves that rustle
And seem happy just to be

A wholesome glow comes over me,
The family of trees stand watch over
The ridge they've lived their lives upon
All moving with the breeze.

And you and me,
And you and me.
You filter the water
From the stream.

And you and me,
And me and you,
We're happy just to be.

With moonful eyes the evening bides
With us into a starry night.
With wine, we go down to the river
To see a shooting star.

Suspended there with us inside,
The heavens mystic muse supplied
The mountains held us in their arms
With mushrooms in our eyes.
charles May 2021
i see love held tenderly,

my two parents on a couch.

all the souls i won't let in,

every soul i squeezed out.

and too many break downs.

a comfort i cant keep secret,

with a moonful regret,

a sun full of self bitterness.

an artist without entitlement.

locked in the grey eyes of cement.

— The End —