"rightward" poems
My dear, do you want to know
why this stream shall never cease to flow
why this countenance shall know no smile
why in vain you realease torent of bile
for eternity shall my face tarry behind the sun
and ever shall be till this ugly scenario run
cut off from every string joint to my mind
to recall no more that gruesome day
Limbeh turned a cadavar awaiting decay
how my heart tremble while my tongue relates
the incident that turned an early widow late
the night before, cried a owl across at nightfall
grandpa beheld and discerned the mysterious call
tapped he my shoulder and opened his phangs
look beyond the pregnant night in labour pangs
waiting to birth a child as mysterious as the cry
Ekumbo! May i live not to witness that melancholic night(he sighed)
a thing unheard of in Aweh beyond countless centuries
worth plunging a kingdom into an endless misery
frightened, departed me with my ribs to my cradle to fall
holdin his words to await he upon whom the lot shall fall
so as the pregnant night did flipped
departed then this poor widow to her field
to gather bread for her fatherless kids
then in agony their lips they bit
as their eyes rained in torrent
and their sobs grew even fervent
when the fatal tiding was unleashed
a thing which feared hearts and andrenaline released
how she bent beneath a dry iroko gathering yam
in her distant and lonely farm
a branch uphigh cracked
turned she to see the source of the crack
behold a log fell on her skull
pouring out what was left of her brain- all
keeling rightward, she fell as her spirit transcended a plane beyond
a place so gray, so blund
now poor orphans, as poppies to be shared
departed they to various kins to be rared
and daily this dirge about her goes
as villagers their drum beat and lyre blow
forget not the story of the unfortunate widow
who for the door, took the window
and drank not from the spring of old age
nor for her maternal labour achieved a wage
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 7:05 AM UTC
Listen to what I'm about to tell you,
Because this matter is very important
For it will give you great advantage on
How to write a poem
Put your right hand against your forehead,
Make sure the dorsal surface touches it
Now make a rightward circular motion;
Because your head's been aching for hours
Apply more pressure to your massage
As you squeeze your nape up and down
Then make circular neck motions—to the left; to the right
Whilst you look for the menthol liniment
And now you've found your relief formula;
Which caused you more harm than good
Because your bedroom is a jungle—
Full of mysterious creatures and uncharted places
Now open the lid and pour a little amount
On your left palm, and rub vigorously
With your right hand, and massage gently
Your frontal lobe; apply more if necessary
Now wait just for a couple of minutes
Notice that the heat is starting to permeate;
And your mind begins to take a deep breath
From its calming and soothing effect
And now you're feeling a whole lot better
You're acting like a normal person again
And now you're ready to write your poem
If all else fails, repeat everything from step one
iamthe_avatar ©2015
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 11:54 AM UTC
Your scrawls slants rightward, with g's that look like s's.
The stamp is always square with the envelope's corner,
and you include the time of composition beneath the date.
Three months apart and I can hardly picture your hands anymore,
the way your left palm must drag behind the pen, leaving this trail
of smudgy footprints that tiptoe around your words.
I read of your dreams: to drive an old convertible down I-15,
listening to Tom Petty– the pinnacle of American existence, you say;
to have a daughter; to still go to concerts at age 40.
You tell me how you designate different books for bedtime
and for doing laundry. Sometimes you secretly listen to Colbie Callait.
And you've found yourself praying lately, most often for us.
You say you are thinking of taking up the banjo,
but will I ever get to watch your fingers wander its strings,
your tongue resting on your lower lip in concentration?
As my eyes scan the lines and I draft my reply, I find myself
wishing for more than a pen-pal-lover; that you would show up
at my door and I could hold the hand that crafts these words.
Your bedtime story version of us begins, "Once upon a time,
there were two extremely attractive, smart, funny, people..."
You wrote that you hope it has a happy ending.
I hope so too.
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 2:15 PM UTC
Out here all alone, no one can see me nor hear my deepest of thoughts, all I am left to do is think about all the things you’ve said to me, missing your smiling face but all I can do is look out into the distance and I will have all your words of inspiration running through my head. Your last words of love keep me going, moving along, making it all possible, building a better life for me, soon enough it will make sense to the outsiders that look in. Their outlooks will change from doubt to positive reflection. So I declare this a movement of mysterious ways, dedicated to you my birth mother who is looking down from heaven’s mountain. The steps I will make, the steps I will take, all in the right direction, the high road will be taken always. I know you will be there in the end holding the gates open for me to walk through. When I do we will once again be together, we will play the games we once played when I was a little boy filled with joy. Until then the times well spent together will remain running through my head, and all the things you’ve said will keep me moving in the rightward direction.
Apr 28, 2010
Apr 28, 2010 at 6:27 AM UTC
it's a winter with a drop of
sun next to the pudge-smudge
artwork sweatily traced on the
window, reading: I <3 WINE
with a phallus extending from
the lower W and past the I N E
to limp dejectedly rightward and
down as if the weather were so
beautiful it caused conceptual
******
*or, perhaps we like it rough,
the rain, let's get those rocks
off*
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 5:34 PM UTC
Hours of fruitless frustration,
Rotating slowly through paltry poses,
Crushed by substantial somnolence.
Innumerable thoughts racing rightward,
Abruptly leaning left,
Splitting up like schools of frightened fish.
Darkening the room to calm cares,
Plumping the pillow to enhance elevation,
Removing the phone to disrupt distraction.
Turning up the fan to aid complacent cool,
Pulling up the blue blankets,
Burrowing deep as if a mother mole.
Yet nothing brings the sought silence,
The rejuvenating recovery,
Of simple sleep.
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 4:45 PM UTC