"relegating" poems
A SOCIETY WRITTEN IN FLAMES; SHROUDED IN DARKNESS
*The tears flows in an endless way
Bemoaning the days of yore
Watching with eyes that sparks red,
Sunken and beaten from the tragedies of yore
Helpless and wishing for a relentless call
As tragedy hits her most sensitive part,
Bemoaning the tides,
All her days of glory,
Now a shadowy story*
*She had been ***** by her very own,
The children she yearned and bled for,
The men she fed and trained,
Where her rain fell full and vast, to soothe their hearts
Where she gave it all, and smiled, hoping that someday, they will realize her sacrifices and sleepless nights,
Her nights of terror and horrors
Where she stood in the midst of the stormy eerie night, shrouded in darkness*
*It was her ******* they ****** and clunged to,
It was her arms that shielded them from the shadows of the dark,
But when they grew and flew,
She waited still
Praying and wishing they would remember the days of yore*
*Then the dark hour rolled away,
And when morning came, it was harrowing.
It was harrowing how she waited abandoned and dejected,
As her sons and daughters peaked at the sky,
Trampling her down,
Relegating and belittling her
Painful it were, as she cried from the agonies of the days of yore,
Where she laid all her virtues down,
Giving it all to see her children smile,*
*It is this dejection that has brought her to tears,
It is this wickedness of a child to a mother, that has made her weep endlessly
It is this tragedy that have swallowed her glory,
As her children keeps flying above huddles, in peace and harmony,
Forgetting her,
It is this callousness, that pushed them to sapping her virtues and enriching themselves with it thereon*
*What is worse than a child abandoning his mother?
It is this penchant, that drives them
It is the love of greed,
It is the seed of corruption,
It is not an inherited trait,
It is a despicable decision
Like a monstrous shadow,
Twirling the back of the night.
It is the fire that burns within their heart,
The fire to **** steal and destroy
To take what she can never give again
To live,
To live big at the expenses of others sorrow and agony
It is this evil that has perused Nigeria and has rendered her a roaming wretch
And now tragedy looms,
It booms and blooms,*
A society written in flames
Who will save MOTHER NIGERIA?
Ovi Odiete© 2016, Oct. 31
All rights reserved
Note
Children here signifies the evil politicians and men that has sapped our country dry with their evil penchant
Oct 31, 2016
Oct 31, 2016 at 7:03 AM UTC
Enshrined vessel corporeal ,
the numberless strands
of infinite time ,
kaleidoscope persona of
Nature , Temperance and Psyche .
☆
With serene countenance ,
in sweet golden light ,
the codes of the Goddess ,
Queen of Cups
and Queen of Swords .
☆
With transforming Geometry
of Justice and
Compassion ,
the unseen ancient force
of her terrible power ,
far beyond base contemplation ,
☆
Rains down the verdict
on dishonour and strife ,
elevating the
transcended ,
while relegating all else
to Beelzebub , earthbound
and gehenna .
Nov 2, 2024
Nov 2, 2024 at 9:22 AM UTC
may my grief residue to no depth sunken into as worth being kept,
but let it reside in falcon wing, ever rising higher
from such burial grounds as to be ennobled by wing
as once ennobled by thought, in kindred with soul,
and levied with tongue lip and kiss a bellowing hark and hiss
chimera beast loved for a minute of its existence;
nein! nein! a third nein be a minded counter well worth a find of an aye;
i too will regret a veto on the life i wished to commence
death-like in a wandering quote in the book of job,
but the new testament jested worse with the commence
of being crucified asking of self-belief as crucible -
and all adventure collapsed into fictive visionaries relegating
the chances of such experiences ever taking place,
as about adventurous as flipping pages: hence
escapist realism.
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 10:40 PM UTC
this old heart
wasn’t always so old,
it once was young and
tenderfoot,
wandering through days and
seeking regalement at night.
this old heart
rarely defeated it’s angst,
clenching fists at duelists
only with intentions of
defeasance,
never relegating the significance
of the win but focusing on the
sacking in a loss.
this old heart
played board games with
his sister on snow days after
laying out paths in the white dust
with an orange saucer
while chasing a laughter
only the belly could muster.
this old heart
was once a boy,
with hair like the white hot sun
on an August afternoon,
with bronze skin running about the grass,
chasing an aging brown dog with a ball
in it’s mouth.
this old heart
was once a boy, yes,
but remains no longer.
this old heart grows weary now.
this old heart bears weight.
this old heart stopped asking questions.
this old heart doesn’t laugh.
this old heart has no dog.
this old heart gets lost in the dark
whiling staring into the blinding sun.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 7:47 PM UTC
Time wasted neck-deep in
idolatry, pretty bottles of
pretty liquids, light gold,
amber, charred oak brown
soaking vanillin and wood
which warms the tongue
perfectly.
I pop my pinky finger in
funny ways, relegating
flow of blood to necessary
extremities only, thumbs
or forefingers or whiny
joints screaming loudly for
sustenance.
There are days in my past
I wish I had skipped,
accidentally sleeping past
my alarms and the sirens
and noises of cars passing
past my window in whichever
home I find myself to wake.
There are days more recently
I have skipped, my mind
spending hours drunkenly
slipping from action to act,
poor me and my problems,
always worthy of an award,
a statuette of broken glass.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 9:47 PM UTC
Unzip a snow-white teeth
A popcorn can
On the frying pan!
Confronted by
Circumstances dark,
I learned, with optimism,
Crushed spirits and strength-
sapping moods to mask.
Adopted I applying
Pop operation of the stack
Or relegating gloomy things
To memory's back!
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 6:13 AM UTC
dreaming demon screaming without reason
treasonous season fastidious and aromatic
blooming blossoms bursting from bosoms
new shoots shooting forth
life re-awakening with longer days
and warming temperatures –
civilized industrialization outclassed
by the low roar of larva taking flight
en masse wings flash and crops gasp
nature retaliating after its relinquishment
relegating mankind to extinguish the fires
of the long cold lockdown –
frolicking fawns free and fuzzy
boundless bounce in green alfalfa fields
white tipped hare tails leap and scurry
and Mrs. Coyote cleans kits absentmindedly
looking over flowing prairie grasses
for a mouse sized morsel –
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 11:21 AM UTC
With nary a thought to pose or process
With scary, a way of thinking
I am someone, or the type who, tends to do certain things in a certain way
But what is it worth if it does not read well?
Or to call someone who sounds like yourself and the ensuing contrast of awkwardness
**** n' **** luck or gettin' lucky in any way colloquial terms for coitus or *** in general, I've none which is not to say I've not in the past or won't in the future but right now there is no significant two-way companionship which I really do want for a variety of reasons to be.
To simply, with cliche, be.
No such comfort will exist in my life for longer than a comparably short while, it would seem. Nope, no happiness for me, only discomfort, depression, and stress.
No such great is a thing as a two-person love and experience.
And I am alone, truly.
And I am alone, more truly than my peers or fellow poets or parents or family or any other being sharing a universal genus or scientific similarity.
You know nothing of insanity so stop spouting and spewing this beautiful word and defaming and relegating it to a common "lol" or emoticon or any other thing that is obviously below it.
Standard crusted creation of melting erasure dissolving dissipation and dead-eyed cuffing stuffs stuffing still with tough metal roughs of through-bred thoroughly fed fattened and read something a little like this - DISGUSTING MUSK-SCENTED RUSTING HORMONE RIDDEN DERISION OF A TEENAGE HUMAN ****
Operated in an operation inside of an operation on a mechani-borg.
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 9:44 AM UTC
you know, you are allowed a Kandinsky or a *******
moment in poetry:
it's like the development of the cut-up technique
beginning with Tristan Tzara and the Dada "school"
of "thought", developed later by William Burroughs
et al., it doesn't have to be fixated to a definite
curvature, a smooth narrative, this is poetry
in a boat, during a storm on the sea, it's not a Cambridge v.
Oxford boat race on the pristine Thames...
some critics ascribe such methodology as either
outright stupid or by psychiatric definition a *word
salad*, but it's simply kaleidoscopic juxtaposition,
it really is a dog drooling ultraviolet saliva onto a
canvas, while someone shakes his head
(preferably a bulldog, or a boxer, or a St. Bernard)...
oh look at him, such ***** eyes, gotta just cuddle him...
i'm not using newspaper snippets, as if writing
a stalker's letter, cutting out letters and gluing them
together on a piece of paper... it's spontaneous
combustion (most of the time)... the only method in it
is that there isn't a method to begin with...
unless randomisation of a gaseous substance with
that hectic squash game of atoms is the adequate
simile... if i were to say that was a metaphorical comparison
i'd be walking through foggy streets of London (circa 1884):
after all words have only a one dimensional interaction
that's the existential recipient of all of them,
the existentially affirmative aye - i left the other
affirmative word thought among the others,
since, sometimes, as in the cases of melancholia, thought
isn't necessarily categorised as affirmative, relegating,
drowning the prime affirmative aye with its awkward
structure (form)... all the words must pass through the ego,
not all of them have to pass through thought,
the ones that bounce against the squash cube wall that's
ego make it onto the page... more do so when compared
with treating thought as the wall and the effective structure
for the rubber ball to bounce against.
me playing squash? oh yes, very much so, loved it,
played about 4 times a week, better than tennis,
which is why no squash tournaments are televised, it's
not really a spectator sport, it's too enjoyable to have
a passive public... it's a sport with the player in mind,
like a horse attached to a carriage with those shutters
over their eyes; so now what? is poetry not allowed to
look like a ******* painting, randomised and incoherent
when compared to the standard practices of narrators?
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 1:08 PM UTC
Goddess, such a relegating term
But then again,
How do you abridge someone
Who embodies universes inside?
How do I, a mere wanderer,
who is in awe of your luminous wit
Who has traversed her terrains,
Strolled from the glacier
Though her well carved volcanoes
Down to her meadows where,
Her majestic rivers meet and form conflux.
Where her flower continuesly disperse
The elixir of eternal life,
When it is kindled by the desire.
How could i, a mere nomad
Who continouesly crave this water of life
Who is always seeking this fountain,
do you justice,
And encapsulate you, the infinite beauty,
In one word,
Except for the relegating term Goddess,
That my petty mind could come up with.
Nov 28, 2018
Nov 28, 2018 at 11:19 AM UTC
Unaware of the music within
Rarely dancing to its rhythm
An outsider pulls the wrong chords
Making us dance to their discordant tunes
Becoming mere puppets, with strings attached
Unable to play the right notes
Our music relegating to the subconscious
Drowning among the loud beats
The hand of the stranger plays along
Touching all the wrong notes
Music, not close to the heart
Life is taken over by the estranged notes
Till then the subconscious waits in agony
Waiting for the moment to be in limelight
And hoping to become the music conductor
Playing the right notes and dancing to the right tunes
© Amitav
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 12:03 AM UTC
Relegating tyrants
Of Biblical acclaim
In to History's dustbin
Error's vast domain
Gravity is the final nail
In Religion's hearse
Illuminating forces
Of the passing Universe
Invisible, indelible
Pulling apples to the Earth
Unassailable, immutable
Rotating planets' girth
To be just attuned to accommodate life
What would be the chance
Gravity is the epitome
Of a cheerful happenstance
Dec 3, 2016
Dec 3, 2016 at 1:04 PM UTC
Sorting it all out
The how's and the why's
The sanity from the insanity
And the Truth!
That ****** vile, 5 letter word
That sends everyone running
From each other,
One another,
Themselves,
And the reality of our own
***** dog,
got ****
liberating
Freedom relegating
T.R.U.T.H.
Truth!!!!
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 12:03 PM UTC
The bridge to pass across
the relegating river has fallen now
you have to spread your blood
to cross,the milk now taste sour
now you will have to press your breast
to drink white.
The day turns black and night turns
to red,strongly pouring fear on children.
But if there is life there is hope they say,
so where is hope to visit?
why not if there is life there is
food to stay strong?
or if there is life there is money
to buy immortality
or shelter for protection?
why not?
who will tell me why is
hope that life include?
But the answer come straight
from ancient mountain where
God resides,no sane man hope
for what is seen
we only hope for next minute
not now but hope is like
volumptuous bag that carries
good tidings
Hope is expectation of a night
without sweat
Hope is expectations of courage that will not met
Hope is expectation of bed that
will not wet.
So I say to the living that
hope a sunshine after the rain
there is a friend coming that
will stay and will not leave again
There is a honey coming to
establish joy in our bitter stomach
●ROHM 2017
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 7:05 AM UTC