"resuscitate" poems
As mother nature's
Punitive measure
Against a society
In maintaining
The statuesque
That doesn't bother,
Our rivers
Had become subject
To a water thirst,
To the extent
Of projecting
Rocky ribs
Terrifyingly protruded out
For easy count!
But now thanks to
The all-out, terrace making
And reafforestation effort
Of each catchment
Farmers have made a point
And also to the afforestation
Move of the government
Rivers aside from quenching
Their insatiable thirst
Have resumed
To brim over
With floods
Drinking water
To their hearts' content.
Our forests once stripped of
Their wooded cover
Have started, fast, to recover
From afar they are seen
Robed eye-catching green
From a fry-pan sky
Allowing a shelter
Also busy
Carbon to sequester.
Wild animals
That migrated
Have preferred
Back their way to find.
Now farmers don't have
Deep to dig
To sink a water well
Or find a nearby spring.
Birds are heard chirruping
Be it winter, summer or spring,
While Brooks bubbling.
Buzzing and hovering
From this to that flower
Bees are producing
Organic honey by the hour.
Promising a bumper harvest
Farmer's plots have
Fortunately continued
To resuscitate!
Those leaving
Their denuded abode behind
Away, who preferred
To stay
'We will return back
home soon! '
Is what
They say.
Happily enough
Mother nature
Affords us a second chance
Imbued with
Environment stewardship
If we are willing to mend
Our wrong 'Feast today
famine tomorrow! ' stance.
To dispel the spectre
Of climate change
And systematically face
The global challenge
True to the adage
'We have either to
swim together
or sink together! '
Hence in fighting the challenge
Or adapting to the change
Back scratching,
We have to be on the same page.
Indeed, irrigation must
Not slip our mind
For erratic rainfall
A lasting solution
If we must find.//
Once a famous Ethiopian Poet Pro.Debebe Seifu Who had passed away had penned down a picturesque poem lamenting the land degradation, deforestation and change of climate the country was suffering.The bad scenario seemed unrecoverable.Now a days Ethiopia is reversing that sad episode.I have therefore to write a poem on this
#change #trees #erosion #climate #deforestation #enviroment #degeradation #desertification
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 4:22 AM UTC
Resuscitate our dead memories only just to die again;
Waking from a deep slumber, Staring out the window pane;
Counting hours, how long can I endure the need to restrain?;
Nothing have changed I should just get back to sleep again.
The sun rises slowly as it burns my pale tainted skin;
It just felt so good just to feel pain! For so long I've been so keen;
I grew weak in my dreams when I'm asleep, the thoughts of you makes me sick!
It's not that you vexes me, It's because of what I did to you that worries me;
Never before I have felt so sensitive within this lifeless body...
Lived only by drinking blood! To be confined in this coffin just to feel lonely!
And then you came... The one I thought who restrained the beast in me;
The one who gave warmth not burning me, calmed my soulless fury.
But we must all know that the nature has its way of breaking;
Something that is beautiful, Something profound! A new beginning...
And so it came to that point where I fed on her! left her dying!
Perhaps it was all meant to be for a while just to forget the craving...
I'm a killer, a monster! An abomination to this world!
But I can't take my life...Believe me I tried!
I bathed under the sun turn to ashes and died!
Only to know that when darkness falls I'll be revived...
I must make a choice... It fancies me just having this thoughts right now;
What could I possibly do?If the beast within is the one who contains me and how?
It seems like a personal attraction just to add some satisfaction as I reach for the ****
A little drama, show some masked humanity, make them live a little just to quench the thrill!
I have glared, I have grinned, I have laughed and I have seduced...
As I get closer for my teeth to sink in, let loose, let the hunger reduced;
But after the feed do I feel remorse? For hours I thought I did...
It's been like that through all the years... Feels redundant indeed.
So how far will this story goes? For centuries I have pondered in circles.
I have been there the evolution, the changes, the life as it cycles.
And again...Here and now as I stand where once I become capable staring at the sun;
I will forget the unforgettable, sail away! Far away from this land...
Remember my story as it will never end;
I'm finding a way now to break free from this curse;
To be one with my prey walk free no more blood to quench thirst;
So long and goodbye from me Dracula...
Serenity is what I seek...A redemption of what they speak.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 2:36 AM UTC
i smoke a little bud because i am drowning
take a shot of liquor because i am drowning
face it i aint sober because im drowning
everyone needs little relief to save them from drowning
i am drowning
drowning
government eats while the people are bleeding so they're drowning
system is shady wont compensate for the drowning
all alone with nothing to eat because we're drowning
the world is full of hatred so bitter we drown in it
we drowning
drowning
feed the homeless people because they drowning
where's our human rights because Africa is drowning
resuscitate all Africa because she is drowning
you'redrowning
drowning
we don't deserve the sanctions because we are drowning
maintaining your pollution so we drown in it
we can't stop drowning
drowning
we crave stability because we're drowning
still fighting for equality because we're drowning
give me back my identity and prevent me from drowning
diminishing the role of an African Queen to watch her drowning
drowning
drowning
stand up for ubuntu because abantu is drowning
Jun 18, 2021
Jun 18, 2021 at 10:46 PM UTC
i watched blankets of people
rip themselves off of you
one by one by one
you were no longer beautiful to them,
the wrong things became important to you
and so
they left and you
turned cold.
i still find you beautiful
but i have divorced my heart from you
there's not much to say when i see you,
not enough space to feel when i'm around you,
not enough affection to resuscitate
all of the moments you let me drown.
i don't want to hate you anymore, but
i don't want to love you either. both of them are
painful, so i get caught in between.
i wish i could wish you a happy mother's day
and feed into your belief
that you are a good mother, the belief you use to cover up
your deep seated self hatred
but i can't.
i will always find you beautiful
but i won't be around anymore
to tell you that.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 11:57 PM UTC
∅⚢☢⚧☯✰⚩✿⚥∅☢⚧☯✰⚢✿⚥☠⚩☯⚧✰
Too little and of course, too late
they spend what’s left imprudently
attempting to alleviate
the love of God’s own liberty:
The world transexual one-party state.
They think it’s normal — right for all
lost in a prideful dying fall
their lions heed the sea-horse call
attempting to transgender fate;
the devil searches for a mate
his nightly Babylonian date:
the world transexual one-party state.
They’ll legislate the Lord away
(his fundie followers as well)
their hateful heaven, holy hell
shall wither up and disappear
before redemption can draw near.
Their myths no more shall obfuscate
nor dangle such celestial bait
that underwriters overrate:
the world transexual one-party state.
Their antichrist is overpriced,
the nations, globally enticed,
now glorify the deviance
in herd-like mass obedience
surrendering to expedience:
where good is bad, and bad is great
and Christ the only one to hate,
allegiances exacerbate
the world *********** one-party state.
Parties will form and parties end
but parties can no more defend
consolidation into one
than flip a switch and dark the sun;
the Caesars left this part undone
the Muslims are just having fun
with our *********** one-party state.
Bring on the night until we see
that dark means dimming by degree
two parties? Overdone by one !
So let it bleed and let it be
till One is All and all agree
that we are doomed to hesitate
when God cannot resuscitate
the late One-World *********** State.
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 6:34 PM UTC
To be born, is to emerge as a soul within a verse
existing through eyes, ears, nose, and feelers.
Persistent as the bindweed thriving in a blind spot
and the rat-fleas riding around in the cellar.
All life contains this soul, it’s in; the drumming and the drift,
the way one shifts to their feet when battling the throes,
and the persistence of plague, which
encodes each cell with a rhythm and a role.
To drown in a river is to **** that portion of the river’s soul,
as there is no way; no lungs, no mouth
to resuscitate waters that can no longer flow.
The soul needs a body to show; the body needs a soul to breathe out
to be re-born, is to re-exist in recurse of a soul already given,
that is, unless, the soul has already been driven out.
S.L. Weisend- 2014
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 2:36 AM UTC
In brief: scalpel words so cheap
Misanthropic cold compress
Jaded and hard in denial
Heavely Medicated without
Prescription
Mute Pain
Guilt soaked peace
Once more
At least
On this rock
I’ve built my church
And drunk of this poisoned cup
Enough
Salted sigh the spike
Do not resuscitate
For the bones of it
Are a pistol cool pressed
To a temple
Derelict
Sleep without rest
Please, one more breath
Vein or scar
Blood loss
And the cost:
Everything
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 4:47 PM UTC
(it's cliché to admonish clichés in their entirety)
I. (love)
We are meant to live the clichés;
we are meant to resuscitate the words,
and rehabilitate their wounds
into a fertile viewpoint
where we build respirators from clichés
to filter the virulent dust kicked up
by the marching pigs.
(re-invented clichés offer back breath
in an exchange of circular breathing)
The swine contort love
into armaments of antipathy;
they push buttons,
squeeze triggers,
pull pins,
and aim where it causes the most damage.
Even though we are natural born hypocrites,
we don't have to let that knowledge corner us
into using love as a weapon.
The pen is mightier than the sword,
and I wield both;
I sharpen the quill on the blade's edge.
If need be, use the pen for a counter-strike,
but only channel love in defence.
II. (poetry)
The pigs march to a beat
of nuclear blasts
that bring poetry's flag
nearer to half-mast.
Poetry should stand on its own merit,
instead of leaning on shanks that hide behind smiles
constructed with aspirations of popularity
that churn out lazy, aspartame-laced lines
devoid of accountability and integrity,
or lean upon smiles filled with slivers
from far too much fence-sitting,
too worried about the trending majority,
to see the complexity within simplicity
and clarity,
or
propped-up against degrees
while writing poems that are drier than the Sahara:
husks of lines tumbling across dunes,
only to be imploded
by atomic-pork mushroom clouds,
their fallout marring parchment
into a poisonous terrain.
.
III. (dreams)
(revive, twist, and switch the clichés )
We must not fear saying "never".
Surrender to love, but never surrender
to the jealous captains who attempt
to hook and net the defenders of Neverland.
With compasses of conscience
beating in hearts kept young,
navigate through the smoke and mirror-smog
emitted by the marching pigs.
(we must never give up on our dreams)
Dream about the courage needed
to love everyone and everything,
including our enemies
who conduct genocide
on the language of a purer intent.
Dream about word-seedlings
pushing through the arid rind
of dying poetry,
in hope for a more organic fruition
to grow in our hearts and minds,
so that poetry gains back its strength and vitality
to once again stand on its own merit.
+/-
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 6:38 PM UTC
Flowing up to the surface
Submerged under the waters..
Chocking gasping for a bit of air..
swollowing.. suffocating.. On Life..
sorrows_hardships..
Just can't even imagine the reasons behind the tragedies...
Of what evils lurks in earthly places..
With the ability to rearrange and change peoples faces.
After all the hearing and the witnessing.
The feelings and the knowings.
All the seeing of evils news....
I didnt realize I was chocking emotions deeply bruise.
Anxiety snatching the ability to breath where its comfortable..
Breath normally..
Panic sneaks its way in..makes me uncomfortable in my skin.
Pulse rushing pulsating.
All of a sudden the sheer emotion of losing.
Can't see another day lighting the way..
Soul feels the falling when you realize
there's so much suffering..
Arms gone limp all passed out..From the exhaustion.
This is when God holds yah in His arms.
Calming down irregular heart beats.
God breaths His air into you. His breath is your air..
as he breath Life back into you.
Resuscitate He is the air you breath.
Without Him you can't breath there's no air without Him.
He pulls you up to this worlds surface..
This worldly ocean called life.
Where day by day moments felt like drowning.
He gives you inspiration and sets within you a song.
Tells you to keep holding on..
Revive..
The ocean is still there
but for now..I have been brought up to the surface.
hear it on soundcloud copy n paste link below
https://soundcloud.com/selinaros3y/atherbest-revive-0-1
S.A.M @h.e.r 2018
Jun 27, 2018
Jun 27, 2018 at 8:27 PM UTC
I’m thinking about the doctor's hands shaking as she
struggles to intubate a cat.
I’m thinking about the technician's hands squeezing the cat’s rib cage,
pulsing life with a delicate force; she is much more gentle than
practitioners are with humans—
hard and quick down with the palms; the ribs snapping,
the sternum sore.
Some time ago an 80-year-old woman on my unit was
opened up bedside for a cardiac procedure during a code.
After a week in ICU, she came back to us on the unit, was up and
walking and talking, and was discharged home within another week.
Meanwhile, the 60-year-old man was dead in the morgue
after a 45-minute code failed to resuscitate him.
The flip of the coin. The thin line. The blessing or the curse.
The absolute darkness of a body bag. The cold chill of absolute zero.
The fresco painted on the catacomb walls could either depict the
light of the sun or the multicolored lights that the
brain shoots off minutes before death.
The eleventh hour,
isn’t that what it’s called?
We don’t want to talk about body care, death care.
We have to, but it won’t register.
After a loss, after a trauma,
we are on autopilot.
I think of my mother,
six feet beneath frozen soil in
a pink padded casket and think:
I don’t want that.
I think of the prearranged plots my grandparents picked out
next to her in an above ground crypt and think:
I don’t want that.
Bacteria still causes decay after the embalming process.
Putrefied flesh. Bones visible. Muscles eaten. Tissues disintegrated.
We don’t talk about it.
We try to think the opposite. The positive vs the negative.
(But that’s not always possible or healthy.)
I’m thinking about hands inserting IVs, hands taking
blood pressures, hands documenting the code notes
on a clipboard in the back of the room.
I couldn’t do these things.
My hands tend to break what they touch.
The glass bowl in the pet store.
The clay project in art class.
The succulents, the basil, the orchid.
I’m good at things I don’t have to think about:
good at the autopilot, good at the autonomic,
good at trauma.
Nov 19, 2020
Nov 19, 2020 at 2:47 AM UTC
Faked but believable,
her resolve to cut away
to throw away
to never resuscitate
all the bad parts
all the parts that chose her.
Replace the broken pieces
the useless pieces
with ones you pick out.
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 2:11 PM UTC
If you have something to say,
say it with conviction
believe in the words coming
from your mouth
because once they're out
they don't go back in
and no mouth to mouth
will resuscitate
a bridge that's in flames
and as long as you
meant every last word
every last volley
shot over the walls
built from years of
friendship
then no blame can be sent
your way
but do not be alarmed
when they come back around,
a little crispy around the edges
all shrieking like demons
faces black and sooty
and eyes red from the smoke
that rose from the fires
that only tears could put out
and they've got a hot coal
in their hand that they
don't feel and they
want to see you burn.
All that makes our demons
scary is who they're
throwing fire at.
Jun 26, 2017
Jun 26, 2017 at 10:21 PM UTC
on those days we spent weaving
into each other on my mattress
perhaps we were writhing we just didn't know
we didn't have to care
if we let the summer fall into
the blue someone else would
haul it out
and resuscitate
the days we just let our phones ring
and wore the song to bed
beneath nothing
but our laughter thicker than my duvet
i guess i'm lucky i can be heartbroken
for a reason
i was heartbroken for so many reasons none
of which i can place or replace
on the wall where the sun tore our photos
into ribbons of shadow
we made the mistake of holding each other
too close
to the light
was i always warm or just aware that you were near me
i'm a rusted furnace with nothing but bones to burn
apparently
there's always a better fire burning in another town
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 2:12 PM UTC
white blanketed trees and
iced over telephone poles,
rectangular flashes of color are
boxcars becoming a blur,
a monotone rainbow
smeared across the passenger window
sending subliminal messages that
say do not resuscitate but
you're falling away
with every rung of the railway
falling further behind,
step out onto the platform
tears falling down and
they're mixing with the rain,
no, this isn't home,
this isn't home.
Jan 30, 2012
Jan 30, 2012 at 8:58 PM UTC
We have a checkered past
I call it a story,
Inevitability,
Or something beautiful
I don’t see it with your cold hazel eyes
I don’t dissect it into painful little bits
Trying to discern cause of death
As we’re lying entwined on a cold autopsy table
Before our heart beats have even had the chance to stop racing
I don’t believe it’s avoiding failure if we never try
I never have
You read our history like a eulogy
Citing each fight as a mortal wound
Recounting the tales
Over a mahogany coffin
Holding onto your love
Was like listening to a coroner’s report
Each “I love you” was a doctor, calling it
Was a DNR order
You are ready to dress in black
And call in a headstone engraving
With past tense dates
To bury everything
And just call it a mistake you had to make
But I am not an obituary
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 2:22 AM UTC
Beech trees like cathedral pillars soar
To vaulted ceilings oozing dapple-green,
Where twinkling sunlight, filtering to the floor
Dilutes the dusky darkness in between.
A concert hall, acoustically tuned
To amplify each tremorous touch of stick
On wood, where silent magic is cocooned,
Responding to the scuffled tap and tick
From scrunching undergrowth, where dusty death
And dried decay seep back to nature’s store,
To resuscitate with pungent earthy breath
The spirit of the leafy forest floor.
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 3:14 AM UTC
when you look like that
you cause even the calmest waves
to become a tsunami
enveloping this skeletal city
destroying the strongest walls
drowning me in your silence
only to resuscitate me
with lips pressed against mine briefly
transcending breath
and nerve endings.
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 1:28 PM UTC
everything i've wanted to tell you
i will tell you tomorrow
and the wait of it all doesn't even give you sorrow
these dilapidated sentence structures suffocate us,
they drown out our intricacy, our noisy illustrations
and i don't even want you to resuscitate me
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 10:42 PM UTC
My favorite quote would describe knowing even one life breathed easier because you have lived;
The meaning of life.
But when do I breathe easier?
How can CPR be performed if the life guard has no breathe?
Surely resuscitation would fail.
Yet, laughter originates from the larynx;
Our primary source of sound production.
Cords vibrating as air passes,
Laughter production.
Laugh often and much,
We are breathing.
Resuscitation!
Share the breathe,
Share laughter.
This is to be a success,
To resuscitate
leaving the world a better place
By whatever necessary method.
Ralph was right,
Just resuscitate when needed.
Dec 24, 2012
Dec 24, 2012 at 3:48 AM UTC
She’s a writer.
She’s doing time, handcuffed in the dead of night,
locked up in prison with just the lonely voices of her mind.
And the demons of her past are wardens,
floating in corridors, keeping her in sleep deprived misery.
She’s a writer.
Every word she scrawls is a letter to her broken heart,
because with all due respect, it is an idiot.
It falls for the wrong people, it longs for the wrong places.
It shatters and she is forced to resuscitate it daily.
She’s a writer.
She didn’t choose it, every poem and story is a risk.
Work is accomplished by the light of constellations
and ink is just the blood of her soul pouring out on a page.
She is brave, in one of the quietest possible ways.
She’s a writer.
And that’s how she stays alive.
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 3:12 AM UTC
November days sees me pummelled,
bashed and clubbed to a pulp.
Buried then exhumed...
Skin and bones,
hair and scalp.
Dusks watch me stretch,
warp and break.
Bitten, chewed and spat out.
So that I could come together...
So I could nurse
the same old doubt.
Nights abrade,
as they span for hours.
They sap, they wear.
They mock and they jeer.
There is bittersweetness in the solitude
where coherence of mind
is scarce and rare.
Dawns greet with tiptoeing feet.
Cradle my body where it had lain.
They resuscitate me. Fill me up.
They ward off nightly deaths
so I am reborn,
again and again...
***Into
November.***
.
Nov 15, 2016
Nov 15, 2016 at 8:12 AM UTC
This woodland
differs by lack of
Nothing.
Backward on the road
lies the stifling Void -
granted safe haven
behind complex cosmetics -
crass trivialities -
and labeled
"the real world."
Here, in the forest,
there is only
Incorruption.
No effort
is required
to breathe.
- fr
Jul 25, 2015
Jul 25, 2015 at 4:40 AM UTC
I do not like it here
I do not like what we have.
Take the shovel,
here.
Pigeon-toed,
austere.
Dig deep in the earth,
big capable man.
Plunge through that dirt
until you reach the other side.
I'm
restless
as desert dust
the steps on me,
heavy.
Plant in me
the rose
and garden
the romance.
Won't you
resuscitate
the dear
in my tongue
tighten
the clutch
of these arms
soften
this face,
unalarmed
out of its casket
into a smile...
Take the shovel,
here.
You’ve been cold too.
Your body is quivering
so
dig
through
that
dirt
Dig deep in the earth,
big capable man.
Bring us both back
the last breathing rose.
But the man with the shovel
never came back...
However
I did hear he reached the other side.
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 11:59 AM UTC
I have a dream
from which I refuse to wake
holding on to it so tight
that my reality is slowly fading
what drives me now
is what I see behind closed eyes
Titles do not impress me
what you do for a living
your bank balance or your car
the number of likes
or your amount of followers
these are lies that you regurgitate
to yourself that you've made it
self-approval for mediocrity
my question to you?
what does your heart ache for?
the more you focus on your dreams
the more the nine-to-five
only living for the weekend
paying bills
occasional holiday ********
becomes a sad existence on repeat
is this it?
each time i ask myself this crucial question
the lyrics from a song
the artist and title unknown to me
keeps ringing in my head
"there's gotta be more to life
than chasing this temporary high"
sadly I judge others
that doesn't see the world like I do
that fills their dreams with excuses
but I cannot be angry with them
since my life as it is now
is not what I wish it to be
as the bible say
"let he who is without sin
cast the first stone"
I have my head in the clouds
and my feet cemented to the ground
every part of my being
wants to throw caution to the wind
but whispers of doubt
painstakingly reminds me
I have studied so long
worked so hard
for this career
that is slowly
******* the life out of me
like a dying patient
hooked up on ventilation machines
who's heart is slowly giving up
each time I silently scream
do not resuscitate
i sadly ignore my own plea
and the shock of my responsibilities
brings me back... to this reality
and yet
I still have a dream
from which I refuse to wake
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 4:50 PM UTC
Love love love
The riddle of the Sphinx
Love poems,
eternal hieroglyphs
and lovers,
desperate archeologists
attempting to decipher
the ruins.
Dead languages
that haven't been spoken
for thousands of years,
the naive attempt to
resuscitate an extinct civilization,
sit pretty on the tongue
because things are sweeter
when they’re lost.
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 9:54 PM UTC