"stratum" poems
I am the lust of the universe
longing to know itself
I am the thoughts like a cascading stream
water pummeling the rock of my soul
molding, shaping, forming, conforming
I am the peace of the bamboo forest
a society of shoots
shades of green solitude
standing together, clunking hollow,
serene, transfixing parallel angles, mesmerizing
obscuring the gaze beyond, reflecting within
drops drip and fall with a shake
I am the child throwing sand into the ocean,
jumping from the rushing water
challenging fate with a raised fist and a laugh to do his worst
I am the dancer in the waves
lifted by the tides
pirouetting in the current
I am the red stone cliff on the sea shore
sovereign stratum carved
growing with green, lush yet hard
I am the buttressed black lava rock
standing in the water, remote and mysterious
accepting time and erosion, jagged
I am the new sun rising red
arising from the mountain mist swirling on the ocean
ascending from the clouded horizon
a grand illusion of motion, perception, the seer
I am the beach wood
fallen from the trees standing
as sentinels to the ebb and flow
laughing in silence with the wind and the sound of tides whooshing
I am the surfer
riding the energy of the earth
slicing across the liquid wall face
I am the flag of men
unifying and dividing
I am the sand welcoming water and feet
soft as creamy butter
I am the mother and the son
replenishing, trailing, following, playing, watching
sharing belly buttons
I am the butterfly gliding on the Kona wind
wandering immortal
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 8:05 PM UTC
Come to me.
your inscribed
slashes of verse
branded upon
the juice of
my tongue
a specter
of the ultimate gift
as we allow
the magic
to rise
and peel off in
swathed, aching
layers,
undone
Each stratum of
dermis shed
is a prayer for
our succulent
redemption
Each shadow of
silky cuttlefish caress
a plea for sanctity
or perhaps simply
being loved
into a frenzy
of sanity
healing in waves
of electric eyes
You open me
like a holy book
and I am suddenly
filled with light
as you unlock
the blessings
from my spinal fluid
and I am a priestess
on her altar
arms raised,
love braised
into slick-lit wonder
a spiral cone rising from
ground to crown
chakric palette pulsating
phosphorescent ripples
on deep-sea creatures
Your ubiety
slakes my naked,
somatic anatomy
a mere shelter
for our souls
a working
of muscle and skin
with heart strings pumping
the essence within
Our brainwaves
sizzle in
glandular fire
as pheromones
envelope us
like incense
This goes far beyond the
wet cuntflush of desire
beyond the embellishment
of moistened sword
It is the sacred dance
of souls that merge
before even touching
pre-verbal animal
first light of mankind
in ancient swells
of earth that
rise like sparks
the constellations
of firework chimes
in arcs of
chiseled
dark
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 7:26 PM UTC
Hail to Thee, Immortal Three
Knowledge we sing on laud
Aristotle, Plato, and Socrates
Philosophy, to be human awed
Teach through time, consciously
Nod not, what others fraud
Socrates taught, Divine Being
God not of brutal Athens’ passions
Entity of Beauty, Truth Seeing
Goodness unseen in day’s fashions
Soul for unalloyed agreeing
Lessons humanities’ compassion
Talk eternal justice, everlasting life
Socrates’ Sovereign Right of Reason
Clearly mind deceived sense’s strife
Invincible perfection be God’s season
Thus, our key to knowledge ever rife
Priests who find this, absolute treason
No church or Socratic school
A barefoot man roamed to teach
Socrates mocked for looking a fool
His speech not one to simply preach
Plato witnesses a martyr’s drool
Cruel hemlock, words did so breach
Handsome aristocratic youth Plato
Followed Socrates’ Eternal Wisdom
But soon to find his own credo
In Medara to find Euclid and freedom
Egyptian geometry to provide dado
To Plato life, expression; not a system
Eternally an artist, Plato did develop
Philosophic circle in Academus groves
Bring Athens, world knowledge envelop
Discretions of sensations, be not oaths
What man may be, an animal jealous
Plato’s allegorical cave found in droves
As Plato once be Socrates’ disciple
So too, to Plato would Aristotle be
Passing comprehension archetypal
Successions of genius’ visions do see
Aristotle taking it step further, as vital
To science of hands-on discovery
And this is where we see a parting
Of two distinctly opposing philosophies
Plato being at odds, with science starting
Aristotle’s truth, finding no apologies
Things not happening by chance imparting
Frivolity of duopoly, dichotomy to Socrates
But a new era has surely now dawned
Science exploring an invisible atom
And the seen and unseen correspond
So to Aristotle’s, Plato’s, Socrates’ datum
Brilliant new philosophies have spawned
An abstract notion of conceived stratum
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 12:09 PM UTC
Tuesdays remind me of third grade
and so does astrology.
Our tables formed a pentagon, it was me and the beautifuls:
come the good-looking maid called Destinee
with two e’s, not one and not even a y, she had two e’s.
I modeled myself after her cerulean lenses
eye sockets that were pulled back by dinosaur bones
and gave wrinkles to her forehead prematurely, six speckles
like ostrich eggs gathering under a stratum of mud.
She was dark-headed, she wasn’t fair.
She had sorcery in her collar, fairies in her pulse.
Her mother had the name of a Chihuahua or evil witch:
I secretly cursed her for having a daughter so lovely
who I could not peck on Tuesday field-trips to a menagerie
just because she was as feminine as me.
That is how I learned about destiny
and Destinee, so pretty pretty.
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 7:16 PM UTC
Are an interesting thing.
Because they appear in all headspace
And stratum of conscious
Orchestra slow walk of life-
In the hazy Druid gaze of early morning waking days
To the moment of the crystal revelation;
The hardwood can look dreamlike, soft
But just as easily manifest creation.
Sinewy contortions of the multicoloured drapes
To the kind and gentle ghosty in the sun;
A derealized 'umm, wait a sec' march backwards in the mind
Or the truth that I and this wood frame are one.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 9:21 PM UTC
My words stay hidden, eyes black like coal. Buried beneath stratum of conformity. Fearing to come out lest they be judged. They weigh me down with great enormity.
Teeth are gnashing, claws are scratching. Leaving behind the scars of unrealized potential. They find an alternate path through the fingertips. Reaching the illuminated surface is vitally essential
The unfiltered light brings an ******** bliss. The self imposed shackles begin to break. My unconstrained words have found a home. The flow of creativity begins to ease my ache.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 12:46 PM UTC
this is the finally finished poem that i had uploaded last year as untitled:
wake up inside a faerie
ring, sun probing
between canopies,
a musty odor leaking
out of the Styx, the dark
Master waits in hollow,
aching trees.
from the stumps
he calls to me, he wants me
to play hide and seek.
he can't hear, but he smells
and feels each warm, hungry
step bringing me closer
to the river.
a stew in my chest,
a stake for my shoulders,
i know he is my ancient Master but
i though i was released.
now i drip down like the slugs,
i scoop jelly out
of my eyes and feed it to my children.
like the bite and bark
of a Celtic Oak, i slice off calluses,
stratum by rooted stratum, till
i have a full basket of raspberries.
i just want to slide this naked, dead
weight body across the pointed treetops.
by the light of starving embers, i eat
my knotted hair and cough up muddy ice.
i burn down teepees at night so i can see
the souls of screaming children
rise like red dust to Andromeda.
last night the Acid burned
a hole right through my cauldron,
and when i could see
the other side,
i sat there- speechless, dumbfounded,
at all i had
forgotten:
a ball of mugwort, still aflame,
a purple spiral galaxy,
ten micrograms of safety,
and an echo
that escaped from me
every time i tried to pet it.
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 12:09 AM UTC
Religion is
your grandmother sleeping,
When you're four and sitting alone
after dark
When your aunt lingers in silence
and lights one up under an ocean
of emptiness, in cold light,
while the white night-
gown drapes the knees
and bare bones warming
under mortality's thin skin
Religion is waving warning
and smiling under a fading haze
of black stratum
of burnt out sexuality, nonexistent,
Is feeling comfort in absence of
the Sun, of levitating in gravity's wake,
to swim in birth's pride and fade
in death's grace.
To remember the dead-eye
of drifting in silence
to meditate Zero's ecstasy
and forever, ever, ever echo
the mercy of sterile wisdom.
Aug 14, 2012
Aug 14, 2012 at 12:16 AM UTC
And will the Wayward pass?
A lantern was lit and Carthage
filled their cups
to the brim.
A false-hide of red faces
to let forgiveness pass
and join the ****** a raven
to beat the window, a winged
stratum to remain eaten
and wasted in the mouth.
It is not an oath, an ebb
that hovers when enchanted.
It is a tongue swollen
It is sorrow stretching from
the back-bone and a soul left
to live,
just to live.
Aug 14, 2012
Aug 14, 2012 at 12:32 AM UTC
Bright as the menace, Man
brings gallant shadows
for the golden idol.
We give a wicked turn for the fire,
and jonquils for the Essenes,
pillories for nay-sayers,
squawking and gawking, bronze
bottoms for the whip:
perched piety, an angel
and a demon,
I forget their names
as they whisper petty
prayers into my ears.
Countless and listless are
the eyes that beam, Heaven-
sent and Heaven-forward,
the wanderlust leaving
Paradise in shambles.
Bright as Venus, acid rain
beckons all the saints
left dim, a shadow
bursting in the stratum.
We give wicked lies to the worrier:
One night, near to waking, he tore
the Devil's wings
and traded them for daylight,
bright as the
gallant menace.
and the God laughed,
and then he cried.
Sometimes I wonder if jealousy
will lay with empathy, equal
halves to the other.
And I forget my name.
Forgetting piety, forgetting blame,
leaving the vagabond,
the lowlier child,
to weep alone
in his nakedness.
Countless and listless are
the prayers of children,
caught by the reign
of night, gleaming silently,
lonely
and together in the stratum.
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 7:26 PM UTC
some of the dryness will bleach from pithing
your noetic strands and the rest, a ****
prinked rind deluded.
i dip cupped hands into the lowlands, scraping
fractal mold flakes captioned, answers in light
crowded lenses.
cubic rift, that, i will toss adoration engines,
in the end, the goddess of substance will
not react.
not retrace, not the rift. mortaled caper,
inflection of the flats, grinded
reactions. grinding thoughts
grounded.
scribbled to-dos spreading forth, immurdered.
tokenized spice cabinets, enter rift
refuge. the caper collapses on molar-novas,
solar lepidoptera folding in your hair.
the sweat-between-us hive. the separatist mind.
salt mines alarm us, a subject deepened
between two gestures. have you the stratum
of intention?
germinal grains, embryonic clock tower -
mineral lies don timescales
tucked in our hereafter mattress.
i will deathlessly dry with a towel
unless i’m showering with it, a full commit
to the status kiss.
[after all that, you still love me,
in the bedlam trees the choral key,
the old oak door embroidery
are pieces of me scattered (spelled) naturally.]
Feb 26, 2021
Feb 26, 2021 at 12:11 PM UTC
Mellifluously I want one to bring me to stratum astronomy,
One addicted, and Fond of me, amorphous to whence our bindings are implored!!!!
I seek a hard working galore, a fantasy of children's Disney books, being two time crooks not caring for thine world around us.bond unshook!
None derogatory, or spiteful, a light at night pools that cover us in indulgence secretly whispered!!!
Increment's of lip splurs...
A renaissance of our two legs locking in between the patterned bricks, all for replenishing and the I love you's and I love yous back!!!
Our vocation to be made by ourn own tenet tout!!! No remorse, guilt nor doubt shall befall one another...
Rustic in our nudeness!!!
Saccharine I wish to find one to be, as our bodies will drop seed to grow another artist..prudence will be taken,
Engraved, our names on the oak close by!!
Two mystiques soo high off a love soo extreme!!!
Peripheries handling our own, no electronics and no phone needed in our own garden!!!
Magnanimous femme ,crosspathed sensai,
I'm still waiting and its one hand strike til noon!!!!
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 2:27 PM UTC
The branches of Africa
Are gnashing their teeth
In liberation and sorrow,
Whiles the Kwahu mountains
Have frown over the horizon,
Oh yes, the brave has
No right to winnow
Such an ultimately subpoena,
For the sumptuous
Sunbeam has sullied
The pride of Nkroful,
Is that the great man
Resting in a lonely palace?
Dreaming of darkness
And infinite vacuum?
Is there no ointment
To take this sting of
Cotton out of the mind?
Is that the proud son of Africa
With his heart still
Dreaming in tears of blood?
Kwame indeed had no
Cure for his sick pride,
Nor the taste of
His glorious suffering,
Oh no, the sun has
Stretched her scorching
Face over his eyelids,
That everyone who
Passes by him shall
Hiss and shake his fist,
His clasp are now held
Together on his abdomen,
Never again shall the
Straying lighting of the
Hills and valleys weep
Over the stratum of Africa,
Osagyefo is no more
For the right arm
Of Fathiah is broken,
But the Gods
Shall not rest,
Until Africans see the light.
© PRINCE NANA ANIN-AGYEI
Email: [email protected]
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 5:56 AM UTC
*we just provide the bang, you provide the number of bangs as necessary to craft an execution of poetic extinction via ideology of supposed "survival" with executing the myth of Dr. Faust, because too ridiculous, which begs the question: so Darwin and the Galapagos turtles isn't a good joke akin to some pervert inspecting butterflies who turned out to be a ********** - because of that cherry skin buttocks?*
all this LGBT thing going on
doesn't appeal to me to
reproduce, i just can't be bothered to get married,
i can't be bothered feeding
heterosexual labour
with the end product being higher prostitution
of surrogate mothers,
you have the power to grow ***** into
foetuses and designer babies, i'm not
necessary given this passive-peace;
i'm liberal up to a point,
after that something horrid takes over...
leave me alone, get the ***** bank to be completely activated
and surrogate mothers the new prostitutes accomplish
a new stratum of earning and spending:
heterosexuality is dead...
or if alive it's what enslaves...
i'm no longer the necessary the body to provide
choice, science over-powered man,
not unlike man over-powering nature
akin to china and india,
but over-powering nature unable
to out-number nature's example of ant of termite;
oh indeed the power, and family as pathological...
enslaving nature limits our growth,
liberating nature dis-inhibits a care to gain power over
when still the earthquake and tornado and hurricane...
science is merely millimetre and a gram!
why take faith in itemisation of such nature
when satiated with dinner you take the dog for a walk
and still look into the distance without clear
dissection - because you do not dissect a living thing,
and when science dissects, it presuppose the thing
to be dead, whether dead or alive, but in chemistry
and physics the thing is either too ridiculous to be alive '
or too grand to be alive -
yet the popularisation of a biological theory
is like the birds & the bees, and the hives, and the candlestick
wax made from pollen of what could have been honey...
biologists are the nazis among scientists,
because, i mean, they're not exactly surgeons,
or medical students, are they? they're about as useful
as psychologists when you have historians
and literature students to make the healthier point of huh?
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 9:38 PM UTC
Thru the Sculpture Garden
growing
the abstractions of mind.
The eternalized figures of history
"in the adamant of time"
in snow and summers
unfeeling.
Above,
grey cloud movement,
sun struck stratum peeking,
blue still further
turn black in the spinning.
Still stand the immortals,
material collective remembrance
in public parks,
in museums
kept clean from
ever eventual rust
to prove and give substance
our conquest of space
and time.
Still,
slow creeping the dust
ever settles
back to soil
& flame
while in light path-finding
vines cloak the bronze,
the stones in growth.
'round the patient legs
of war heroes frozen,
the vines
still fighting.
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 1:49 PM UTC
Life’s a hula-hoop, what goes around comes back around…
you don’t need to alter to move, you don’t need to walk away to move on.
Some go as far as half way across the sphere and remain right
where they were shattered to smithereens, some go and leave their hearts behind.
Even at constant, things change. You may mean nothing to somebody at the moment
but what if I tell you rumour has it that someday you might be everything
Even scientists claim Mother Nature was once nothing, and from nonentity ensued the big bang…
I used to dispute this theory so much so bad…but now I realize nothing’ll ever be more true…
someday a big bang is going to happen in a heart of the very person
to whom you are but an oblivious void of transparent obstruction and
a consequent profound alteration…You’ll turn out to be their cosmos,
the stratum of your mouth will be a vista they wish to osculate,
the glow of your lips a dawn they crave in the chilly twilight of their solitude
and your eyes will sparkle like the stars in the sky of the future they dream about…
They’ll stutter in chills for you’ll be so cool, an ice age they’ll wish they’d skied through
while they had the chance, yet again a supernatural cause of global warming,
so hot that they’ll sweat, by radiation the gamma rays of hot passion will pierce
through the weak walls of their hitherto frozen hearts and as a result,
the tectonic plates holding their souls will release, and consequently
a quake of an unimaginable magnitude will send them head over hills.
As if that’s not enough, a labyrinthine volcano will erupt at the peak of their pride,
the “Lover” will flow with them back down to earth, residual effects will be felt even when miles away…
On the wind ward side of a resultant Everest of regret, up the skies of their eyes
will linger copious clouds of grief and everyday it will rain.
The crop of their esteem will be washed in the flood of the moment
And in hunger they’ll ravenously gobble their words,
Get on their knees and ask you to be their rainbow…
Sep 30, 2016
Sep 30, 2016 at 5:29 PM UTC
I have to say that I love life
I love walking outside and drinking in the seasons
Smelling the scents indigenous to our island
Even with my eyes closed I can know I'm home
Catching up with friendly faces
All of nature mixing and mingling
A cacophony of natural rhythms
That dance off breath and pound from chests
The sound of each snowy step taken reminds
That there is hope for tomorrow
That there is hope for today
That there is hope for yesterday
Purpose filled living that grows deeper and stronger
Grabbing life by the hips and drinking thirstily from her mouth
Striding wholly into the stratum of a living, feeling, breathing being
Thrusting into the wonder that is yesterday, today and tomorrow
I have to say that I love life
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 7:13 PM UTC
That thing you gave me—
I have it still
all these years later.
I found it the other day,
half-hidden, like a folded sweater
in a forgotten trunk.
You were young then,
lovely, haggard
like an orchid softly wilting
in unforgiving heat.
Wasting amazon,
pain deep within your legs,
resting like a queen
on a stone sarcophagus.
When the boy read to you,
did you hear his stumbling words,
from the frayed blue book?
Or was your troubled mind
wandering elsewhere,
on some trackless, stubbled field?
He felt only the touch of your hand
on his hair, the warm pulse of your breath
on his forehead and eyelashes.
In the church balcony:
Water Music.
Fingers stretched above the keys,
pipe ***** bright and sonorous.
Down below, the congregants
gazed upon the pulpit
awaiting the benediction.
Soul souring,
heart filling.
God was great.
Shimmering like Artemis in her glade,
you stood reflected in a mirror
on the closet door,
gowned in emerald satin—
a last look at makeup
before he calls upstairs
that the car is ready.
You smiled
as you turned to go,
fabric swishing against your legs.
Uncertain memory insists you smiled,
if only momentarily to unclench
the grip upon your windpipe,
the blunt pain deep inside your femur,
the dark edge arcing at the horizon
in your dreams or waking gaze.
In that still stratum of existence,
that lilting stream of secret thought
where no son or daughter enters in,
there the soul walks with worry
day and night
lost in a whispered discourse.
We must have all bathed
in that gentle stream,
its silent water lapping at our feet.
When you looked up, distracted,
as if from reading
Donne or Herbert
your ruminations
cannot have been
unsensed.
That thing you gave me,
that dark gift,
I bear like a secret
beneath my winter coat.
I know you never meant it
to be mine.
But the glade was darkening
when you walked that field
and your gaze was fixed
worriedly
on a shimmering
in the distant woods.
Dec 1, 2016
Dec 1, 2016 at 12:26 PM UTC
tame the dragon,
earn refuge
among the lions...
com si, com sa.
and there i am,
fiddling with *****
on my neck and chequers;
at least chauvinism
engages with women
and women love it,
the fascist boots stomping...
march approved:
goose stratum.
but misogyny?
they can banshee their way
into Arnold's: the ghosts
we should be afraid of...
but can't be bothered...
aren't really edible...
or marriage prone...
for that matter.
it's almost like we created a world
where Sheba was correct,
copper skinned peoples
copulate and we just watch,
revisionist re-counter with south
america... an aztec singalong...
truant peoples: scientists
**** among cyborgs.
well... if my logic of arithmetic is wrong,
then how did the umlaut not count
as two: or a prolonging?
given the grapheme was given
an antidote of grappling siamese?
Æ or aesch or ash...
gravity of the book of genesis...
the beginning was bound
to be ugly...
but it didn't take the crucifix
to shape the world,
but as the advent proved: it did.
ä equals aa - surely -
likened to the aesthetic of pull
of throttle -
unless dot dot is also hyphen
or macron for the above indicator
ā...
***** of a language, english,
english is a ***** of a language,
everyone speaks it!
cyborg mega-tech pa pa -
that's goodbye without etymological
basis worth of an investigation;
rotten core? aqua:
a- (without) -qua (as being) -
well that thing became congested
as what could be managed: a clepsydra;
originally robbed, perpetuated
robbery. translated? vater.
and then father comes along.
Dec 15, 2016
Dec 15, 2016 at 12:45 PM UTC
two brothers come to blows over which sister likes fast food more. a man we want to love is shadowboxing a snowdrift from the parable of touch. blood is a food group. I pray to my hair. call my footwork by name. take my time
with amnesia.
baby facts include being born again in the museum you were carried to.
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 3:24 PM UTC
I can feel the beattime of life
That universal rhythm
That sounds so right
In quiesent meditations
I'm seeking an illusive song
The embodiment of quintessence
That'll take me along
Descending ever deeper
I'm transending time and space
Coexistence with infinity
Seems to all embrace
The essence of life
It feels so unreal
Reverberations of every sound
Pounding down my......
Pounding down over me
The etherial effervescence
Is enveloping me
I see the sunrise and the earth
Over and over
In the blinking of an eye
Leaving trails against the sky
Fading to black
The scarlet appears
I get the impression
That I'm watching the years
Of my life revolving away
Leaving me here
Stranded in the stratum of time
Leaving me here !
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 7:42 PM UTC
In long cemetery rows
We broke our backs to sow these tilling fields—
Nourishing them with rivulets of blood,
And panicked sweat—
Gun shells sprouting nooses
Make hardened, apathetic blooms—
And we wonder why the fruit is poison—
Giving seeds room to germinate,
In the name of individualism
In the name of industry,
In the name of law,
In the name of order—
In long cemetery rows
We broke our back to sow the killing fields—
To drown out the pain
As weakness leaving having over stayed—
Asking what’s wrong with me
As the lines get deeper,
On foreheads and wrists,
In unemployment offices and churches
We still spit on charity
Ever feeding the sodden ground,
Weakness does not ask control
But only respite
Strength asks for status quo
To overcome and fight,
A test for the True American,
Whatever face becomes this myth,
To be born classless into this stratum of wealth
To indulge humanly and face the consequences
To chase desire and be punished for it
To be the casualty of ideologies
So far removed from what belly and skin want
To ignore the rumblings and twitching—
Who does till these killing fields
But those meant to die there?
While the quartermaster, on hills
Where treaties are to be drawn,
Strips away the olive branch,
Tween him and the planters,
As he waits for the whites of their eyes
To collide as the unthinkable:
An unmanageable force of nature,
The hatred sowed in those killing fields.
But, until then, we drain every last bit
From ourselves, fighting over a dying earth.
Roll out all the fuel we need let’s burn the machine
That could have brought peace.
Sep 29, 2019
Sep 29, 2019 at 12:25 PM UTC