"Ambitions and the Dead"

"Ambitions and the Dead"

 The cold night breeze gently blows

And tosses aside this black shroud

Unveiling shadows trying to hide their true frames

From a world they have lost touch with.

Strangers, you might want to call them

Held bound in a twisted faith.

Straining to reach a light

Shining far away in the horizon.

Quietness sits calmly in this darkness

While thoughts war with eachother

Outburst, screaming and screeching sounds

Like wheels out of control on a highway.

The man lies there without life

His heart wrenched by a famished spirit

Living within his bossom

Starved by his quest to be and to have 

Death is a path way to a long dark silence

Of the human soul, and its freedom

From all the chains he put on himself

In his quest to be like the living he dreads

"Flip me Like a Book"

 

"Flip me Like a Book"

I want to craft tiny smiles on your face,

Whenever we cuddled together and spoke in deep low tones,

Listening to the vibrations of our hearts.

Your eyes saw through my thoughts like a plane glass,

Of all the wishes I wished we could do,

Unknown to us was how much we looked alike inside.

The fire in your eyes spellbound the one in mine,

We blinked, turned aside and smiled,

Then looked again but it still rages.

I let my hands trace the contours of your ebony body,

Awed by the artistry of the beauty that sits on your skin,

And the radiant smile that cocoons me into your embrace.

I trembled as my fingers caressed your hips,

But you threw your thighs around mine and pulled me closer,

Closer I guess kicks fear out of the door.

I asked you to flip me like a book until each page exhaust you,

You took my hands placed them under your cheek,

And you said, "Flip my mine first, because it is nothing different from yours"

"Road to Hell"

 "Road to Hell"

Now everything we began has ended,

The stereo no longer plays our favorite tune,

The sweet memories we created were erased,

Immediately we turned our backs on them.

The darkness of tonight has barricaded light,

Placing a chasm between sorrow and joy,

So this gloomy wind blows on the land,

Tossing and turning out our hidden secrets open.

I strolled out of my hut to look through the darkness encircling me,

To see if I can find any footprints retracing the pathway to my abode,

But my eyes couldn't see beyond the darkness within me,

So I staggered back to the defeat I left behind.

You left at the heat of midday,

With the fragments of my promises to you,

I broke them in my haste to fulfill another I made before you came,

So you actually rejoiced over another's war trophy as yours.

Don't think my heart as stone,

They are still tender as the feet of a dead baby,

I still long for you like a besetting sin,

Holding on to my only road to hell. 

In life, do death part people,

So they go about living the death,

Relieving youthful memories interned as an old one,

Until they embrace a new life with their mourning attire. 

"Redeemer"

 

"Redeemer"

A stick of wood, dry and stricken by the smites of the sun,

is thrown into a raging fire,

Despite its cry rose and fell repeatedly,

It falls in with no hope of a rescue,

Then the flames began to lick it up ,

With it a tongue cloven with redness,

Until all that is left is ashes.

He comes quickly, a saviour,

Gathers the ashes cold as death,

He smells it foulness and decay,

Then scatters it into the arm of the reckless wind,

And it settles on all direction of this sick world,

To rise someday another tree of dry wood,

Same way it met death before its reborn.

"Walking Tender Paths"

"Walking Tender Paths"

Falling in love with a poet is weird-some

He begins by writing you poems in the night

About the fire in your eyes, the honey on your lips

And the passion with which he would kiss each one of them.

Sensual right? But a poet isn't a blind lover.

He sees-talk everything in between

All are part of falling in love, 

nothing is left out because of public cry.

He mourn your silence with a line

And writes a sonnet secretly to you,

Whenever you break a pound in his heart,

He uses every word to woo you back

And serenade you with the rhythm of each pause

And flow back into your conscious with every rhyme of his lines.

These "dirty" children of his emotions

Locked in the closets of his imagination

Are unseen by public eyes

But resound in the memory of the beloved

And embraced in bed during nightfall

As a figment of all that could be but are not.

When a poet falls in love with you

He is timid with his words

When he stands before your gaze

But audacious in his writing 

When you stand as the muse of his piece.

Poets in love loves the journey

From when your quarrel lays them in bed in sorrow

Or when you cuddle beside them in cold nights,

To when they sulk seeing you with another.

They want to own you solo

Like you are the world they live in. 

Poets may never know how to love 

Like you want them to even if they try 

Their love isn't a sprint

But a sacred delicate journey of hearts

Every turn is laden with joy inexpressible

Or pain deeper than can be described.

(Dedicated to a poet-friend: Pretty Jewel)

"Holy Politics"

 

"Holy Politics"

"Rejoice with them that rejoice"

Says the preacher to the silent pew

Littered with famished lay men.

He places his holy hands vibrating under the fervency of his words

On his rich white caftan and his face beamed with a saintly smile.

The place was less ventilated,

Puffs of air seeping in and out of the house

Like a vagrant child

Despite his whole body drenched with the blessings of the congregation

He cared less but basked in the Lord's glory,

He kept looking around searching for a political clue,

Then his eyes lights on the shabby look of the house of the Lord,

Dead light bulbs that give light to their dim eyes

And moth-eaten stools to support to their flattened buttocks.

He takes the microphone from the preacher

With a creepy smirk on his face

He voices out his incredible promises on the plight of the people,

And how he will turn their roads to streets of gold.

Cheers starts roaring here and there

Like their deceptive campaign ground

He opens the black briefcase in his stooge's hands

And money notes danced shamefully in the air

He whispers something discreetly to the ears of the hireling,

Who no longer cared for the safety of the sheep

Caught in the snare of this scavenging wolves.

He walk out through the holy aisle,

With the ovation high in the densed hall

As they all chorused his praise,

The preacher quickly says the grace,

And the people sit to count and name their blessings one by one.

    

"Blessing Disguised"

 

"Blessing Disguised"

The tiny voice of a weary bird,

Fly past your head flapping tired wings,

Its face lighted with hope

Not despairing of the miles yet to cover in the sky.

You look up to see this rare sight,

Perhaps, it might raise your beaten down shoulders,

Because faith is a fuel,

All it needs is a spark of fire.

The bird while flying hits a tree on its way,

And loses some precious feathers,

But it picks its shattered self up,

And rides higher above the spot it fell.

You marvel at this wonder in the sky,

Toes twitching trying to pin down these unfamiliar truth,

Life is throwing your way lavishly,

And like a timid child your hands shiver in excitement.

You bend and pick these lessons dropping at your feet,

Stare at them, nod your head, muster a smile

Rise with determination to rise above the earth,

Much more than your weary teacher.