Breaking Bread
Standing on platforms
made soft by repeated
stand of orators
spew the man, words
he himself
could not understand
such twisted words
honed by years of mumbling
repetition of vowels
without tune
or melody
he thought himself smart
preaching to his congregation
the whys of wheres
and the what of when
and just how was how...
discordant words
strange even to himself
he broke bread, lifting it up
looking up at empty ceilings
wrought with iron
and silent still angels
he consecrated His body
with faded faith
he thought he could reach
for the stars again
but his knees couldn't bent
his arms he couldn't lift
his shadow was long
winter crept near
"your mind will not sparkle
forever more
death draws near
do not fear,'
Scytheman whispered.
made soft by repeated
stand of orators
spew the man, words
he himself
could not understand
such twisted words
honed by years of mumbling
repetition of vowels
without tune
or melody
he thought himself smart
preaching to his congregation
the whys of wheres
and the what of when
and just how was how...
discordant words
strange even to himself
he broke bread, lifting it up
looking up at empty ceilings
wrought with iron
and silent still angels
he consecrated His body
with faded faith
he thought he could reach
for the stars again
but his knees couldn't bent
his arms he couldn't lift
his shadow was long
winter crept near
"your mind will not sparkle
forever more
death draws near
do not fear,'
Scytheman whispered.
Published 15th January 2014 10:50pm
Breathlessly
sometimes calling your name
leaves me breathless
couldn't wrap my lips around it
or my throat to birth it
suddenly my mouth turns dusty dry
Sometimes I smile alone
spelling your name on my screen
or just wander around
thinking up colour schemes
for a dream
Sometimes you make me feel like screaming
I want to burst into a butterfly
to show you Im not all drab
I want to be a dancing poppy flower
or a rainbow in hundreds of prisms
Sometimes I feel like running away
or sit in a corner and vegetate
so strange emotions don't tear me
apart and turn me into tiny confetti
to be strewn on some dirt road
Sometimes I think about love
and I shudder in fear
of the tribulations on that road
for I have travelled there before
pricked by thorns smelling the roses.
leaves me breathless
couldn't wrap my lips around it
or my throat to birth it
suddenly my mouth turns dusty dry
Sometimes I smile alone
spelling your name on my screen
or just wander around
thinking up colour schemes
for a dream
Sometimes you make me feel like screaming
I want to burst into a butterfly
to show you Im not all drab
I want to be a dancing poppy flower
or a rainbow in hundreds of prisms
Sometimes I feel like running away
or sit in a corner and vegetate
so strange emotions don't tear me
apart and turn me into tiny confetti
to be strewn on some dirt road
Sometimes I think about love
and I shudder in fear
of the tribulations on that road
for I have travelled there before
pricked by thorns smelling the roses.
Published 24th October 2014 11:35pm
Brief Encounters; Angels and Demons
Snow gone and springtime blooms
Scents of lavender in the air
Blue sky above, gentle wind blows
perfect for lovers first kiss
among the beauty a furious demon
slump without pride a ghastly form
lost a battle with a shiny angel
flushed by the seraphim’s sword
there he lies in human form
cuts and bruises on his frame
shivers he in mortal pain
his voice an anguished groaning
peep a beauteous woman at him
from among the blooming shrubs
hold out her hands and grasps
his, pulling him up to his feet
wordless they walk towards the forest
where shades by leaves hid them
she sits him by a stream
and began to wash his wounds
‘I smell you, you are of God’s
Why do you help me
I am of he, casted down
For defying the father’
‘I know naught but compassion
With your weakened human form
I do not do for you alone
But those who need me’
They sat together through the noon
Speaking of angels and demons
Why they have fought for eternity
And still haven’t reach amicability
It is dark in heaven, when they stop;
they speak no more for tales
Have all been told, exhausted
They sit together waiting for answers
Their hands entwined, angel and demon
Looking no more than the average beauty
of humans in their everyday garb
the spirits shine and coalesced
the sparks flew around like fireflies
within the forested expanse
the two figures are no more
gone to their places, below and above
Scents of lavender in the air
Blue sky above, gentle wind blows
perfect for lovers first kiss
among the beauty a furious demon
slump without pride a ghastly form
lost a battle with a shiny angel
flushed by the seraphim’s sword
there he lies in human form
cuts and bruises on his frame
shivers he in mortal pain
his voice an anguished groaning
peep a beauteous woman at him
from among the blooming shrubs
hold out her hands and grasps
his, pulling him up to his feet
wordless they walk towards the forest
where shades by leaves hid them
she sits him by a stream
and began to wash his wounds
‘I smell you, you are of God’s
Why do you help me
I am of he, casted down
For defying the father’
‘I know naught but compassion
With your weakened human form
I do not do for you alone
But those who need me’
They sat together through the noon
Speaking of angels and demons
Why they have fought for eternity
And still haven’t reach amicability
It is dark in heaven, when they stop;
they speak no more for tales
Have all been told, exhausted
They sit together waiting for answers
Their hands entwined, angel and demon
Looking no more than the average beauty
of humans in their everyday garb
the spirits shine and coalesced
the sparks flew around like fireflies
within the forested expanse
the two figures are no more
gone to their places, below and above
Published 3rd March 2014 10:18am
Briefly Shift the Curtain
Coming to my senses I this man a father a brother a son
most of all a governor of this distant province
needing to know what to do, to see to feel
should I in intricate words, pompous oratory
let my people know the truth they thought they knew
for to see the distortions in all that I believed in
that I should align myself to this other clan
oh knaves they were or so I thought
so benign, bowing to my words, I who thunders
when I so wish, O that I could thunder now
yet our youth are growing less in our settlements
they follow the new warriors, leaders to conquer
other territories for their gain, o’ imprudent me
though glory thoughts do tug my very soul
should my people be mere food growers and foragers
they promise glory of conquer of blood and kills
such that excite youth yet they forget their duties
to protect their own, their land their settlement
conquer them in the fields yet leave us vulnerable
my people know the alliance sacrifice their sons
they look to me for solution to curtail the slaughter
of their innocents in fields fuelled by tales of glory
farm boys chanting slogans they don’t understand
to evoke fear from their enemies, who though laugh
at the puny youngsters walking akimbo in death fields
I do have a sense of self, of pride and self-worth
I stand this day upon my words and tell the lords
of war and plunder that I will contribute no more
I will die I fear and others will continue
But I swear I will say to them ‘no more’
the distant province is no more, M’Lord
there was carnage, but there is no more rebels
all will hearken unto your words
as King of the land, for the Governor is no more
his head on a stake at the village square.
*this poem was entered in a competition here. Thank you for reading.*
most of all a governor of this distant province
needing to know what to do, to see to feel
should I in intricate words, pompous oratory
let my people know the truth they thought they knew
for to see the distortions in all that I believed in
that I should align myself to this other clan
oh knaves they were or so I thought
so benign, bowing to my words, I who thunders
when I so wish, O that I could thunder now
yet our youth are growing less in our settlements
they follow the new warriors, leaders to conquer
other territories for their gain, o’ imprudent me
though glory thoughts do tug my very soul
should my people be mere food growers and foragers
they promise glory of conquer of blood and kills
such that excite youth yet they forget their duties
to protect their own, their land their settlement
conquer them in the fields yet leave us vulnerable
my people know the alliance sacrifice their sons
they look to me for solution to curtail the slaughter
of their innocents in fields fuelled by tales of glory
farm boys chanting slogans they don’t understand
to evoke fear from their enemies, who though laugh
at the puny youngsters walking akimbo in death fields
I do have a sense of self, of pride and self-worth
I stand this day upon my words and tell the lords
of war and plunder that I will contribute no more
I will die I fear and others will continue
But I swear I will say to them ‘no more’
the distant province is no more, M’Lord
there was carnage, but there is no more rebels
all will hearken unto your words
as King of the land, for the Governor is no more
his head on a stake at the village square.
*this poem was entered in a competition here. Thank you for reading.*
Published 27th November 2014 7:42pm
Bring Me Home
The sun was about to set, its brilliant dying rays shone through the canopy of leaves above me. The trees around me started their restless rustlings. I wondered why it made that noise, especially when dusk approached. The constant noise sounded eerily like whisperings and sighing of entities unseen. The night descended and I was still on that beaten track walking home. Home was a couple of kilometres away from the bus stop where the big bellied bus spat me out.
I turned my thoughts away from nature’s norm and about my trip home. I have not been back for the last five years. I wondered how everything was. I had left in a huff those many years ago, due to some family quarrel that seemed so petty now. I recalled that it was about our father’s land where my sister and her husband wanted to sell and I wanted to keep. My mother was for my sister and that irked me as it seemed to slander our father’s memory.
We ended up in court and it was decided that we divided it instead. I still have the land, yet I never went to look at it. My sister sold her share and had since left to live in the city.
I was going home though, as my mother was gravely ill and her second husband had called me and told me that she wanted to see me. I felt guilty for not being there for her those many years, but then again her husband Michael loved her so much, and always took good care of her. They have been married for almost 20 years, five years after my father died. I was about ten at that time when Mother remarried, so Michael was more real to me than my own father, whom I mostly remembered through photographs.
My thoughts jolted back when I felt somebody walking behind me. I turned back to look and saw a young man, maybe in his late teens walking behind me.
He had this lovely smile and when I said Hi, he answered with a hi too, his eyes sparkling with inner joy. I asked him where he was going to and he said he was going to fetch his mother and bring her back to his home. I said hey, that’s a coincident I am going home to see my mother.
He said hey imagine that, and I nodded. He started talking about his mother and father, how they loved each other. He talked about how his father would kiss his mother’s hand and bring her wild flowers from the woods. How he would chance upon them kissing under the apple tree, or chasing each other around the pond, trying to push the other in.
I listened mostly, holding my jacket closer and hitching my heavy rucksack on my back. The night seemed to grow colder and I shivered a little.
On a crossroad, or actually a cross junction of the jungle path, the young man went to the left turning, waving. I called out, hey I don’t know your name…and he said ‘Steven…’ and I said I am Shirley and he answered ‘I know…’ I stood there puzzled for a while, and then I realised my rucksack had an identification tag with my name on it.
The nocturnal sounds of the woods receded as I walked into the space my parents called a farm. It was actually just a pretty little valley with their house on it, a barn on one end where no livestock lived, a field of corn and huge tracks of woods. It was accessible by transportation actually, just that I took the bus. I needed the walk.
Michael was at the veranda to greet me. He wrapped me in his huge arms and once again I remembered loving this man like a father when I was a child. His huge frame was a comfort. He whispered welcome home and ushered me into the house. I went right to their bedroom to look at my mother. What I saw killed me. She looked like a small child on the bed, her long glossy hair spread out; which showed that what little of it was brushed well.
Michael was weeping silently as I sobbed into my hands. How can I have left and never came back to see this woman who gave me life, I thought. I remembered how this petite woman loved us. I remembered her sorrow when she miscarried her baby with Michael after carrying it for three months. I remembered how Michael held her and loved her through her sorrow.
My mother stirred and Michael came and held her hands. Shirley is here, he said and Mom opened her eyes and looked at me. For a moment there she did not look sick, she had brilliant eyes that seemed to sparkle with inner joy. She smiled at me brilliantly, oh you are so beautiful, such a fine young woman, my baby, she said softly. She turned her eyes to Michael who was silently weeping, his face flooding. She said thank you for my life with you My darling. I will be alright, Steven is coming for me. Michael gasped out his sobs so hard that it sounded painful. My mother then looked away and her breath rattled in her throat. Steven…she breathed out and never breath in again.
I looked at Michael and he nodded, still crying.…gasped out Our unborn child, Steven…memorial stone under the Apple Tree.
Dumbfounded I looked towards the window, and for a brief moment I thought I saw silhouettes of two people walking away hand in hand.
Ends
This story is inspired by two of my poems:
I turned my thoughts away from nature’s norm and about my trip home. I have not been back for the last five years. I wondered how everything was. I had left in a huff those many years ago, due to some family quarrel that seemed so petty now. I recalled that it was about our father’s land where my sister and her husband wanted to sell and I wanted to keep. My mother was for my sister and that irked me as it seemed to slander our father’s memory.
We ended up in court and it was decided that we divided it instead. I still have the land, yet I never went to look at it. My sister sold her share and had since left to live in the city.
I was going home though, as my mother was gravely ill and her second husband had called me and told me that she wanted to see me. I felt guilty for not being there for her those many years, but then again her husband Michael loved her so much, and always took good care of her. They have been married for almost 20 years, five years after my father died. I was about ten at that time when Mother remarried, so Michael was more real to me than my own father, whom I mostly remembered through photographs.
My thoughts jolted back when I felt somebody walking behind me. I turned back to look and saw a young man, maybe in his late teens walking behind me.
He had this lovely smile and when I said Hi, he answered with a hi too, his eyes sparkling with inner joy. I asked him where he was going to and he said he was going to fetch his mother and bring her back to his home. I said hey, that’s a coincident I am going home to see my mother.
He said hey imagine that, and I nodded. He started talking about his mother and father, how they loved each other. He talked about how his father would kiss his mother’s hand and bring her wild flowers from the woods. How he would chance upon them kissing under the apple tree, or chasing each other around the pond, trying to push the other in.
I listened mostly, holding my jacket closer and hitching my heavy rucksack on my back. The night seemed to grow colder and I shivered a little.
On a crossroad, or actually a cross junction of the jungle path, the young man went to the left turning, waving. I called out, hey I don’t know your name…and he said ‘Steven…’ and I said I am Shirley and he answered ‘I know…’ I stood there puzzled for a while, and then I realised my rucksack had an identification tag with my name on it.
The nocturnal sounds of the woods receded as I walked into the space my parents called a farm. It was actually just a pretty little valley with their house on it, a barn on one end where no livestock lived, a field of corn and huge tracks of woods. It was accessible by transportation actually, just that I took the bus. I needed the walk.
Michael was at the veranda to greet me. He wrapped me in his huge arms and once again I remembered loving this man like a father when I was a child. His huge frame was a comfort. He whispered welcome home and ushered me into the house. I went right to their bedroom to look at my mother. What I saw killed me. She looked like a small child on the bed, her long glossy hair spread out; which showed that what little of it was brushed well.
Michael was weeping silently as I sobbed into my hands. How can I have left and never came back to see this woman who gave me life, I thought. I remembered how this petite woman loved us. I remembered her sorrow when she miscarried her baby with Michael after carrying it for three months. I remembered how Michael held her and loved her through her sorrow.
My mother stirred and Michael came and held her hands. Shirley is here, he said and Mom opened her eyes and looked at me. For a moment there she did not look sick, she had brilliant eyes that seemed to sparkle with inner joy. She smiled at me brilliantly, oh you are so beautiful, such a fine young woman, my baby, she said softly. She turned her eyes to Michael who was silently weeping, his face flooding. She said thank you for my life with you My darling. I will be alright, Steven is coming for me. Michael gasped out his sobs so hard that it sounded painful. My mother then looked away and her breath rattled in her throat. Steven…she breathed out and never breath in again.
I looked at Michael and he nodded, still crying.…gasped out Our unborn child, Steven…memorial stone under the Apple Tree.
Dumbfounded I looked towards the window, and for a brief moment I thought I saw silhouettes of two people walking away hand in hand.
Ends
This story is inspired by two of my poems:
http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/58657-wanderings/
http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/113193-good-night-children/
http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/113193-good-night-children/
Published 3rd October 2013 10:08am
- Last modified 3rd October 2013 10:45am
Broken
Crumpled on the grass
on spreading magenta
Looking up at the stars
wishing someone can hear
her soft whispers
for caring hands
Tears falling from her eyes
As the stars seems to glow
Brighter by the hour
but nearer is darkness
the scythed persona
he draws near
Darkness on darkness
she falls
as the reaper reaps
morning sees
the raped, crumpled
like yesterday's newspaper
on spreading magenta
Looking up at the stars
wishing someone can hear
her soft whispers
for caring hands
Tears falling from her eyes
As the stars seems to glow
Brighter by the hour
but nearer is darkness
the scythed persona
he draws near
Darkness on darkness
she falls
as the reaper reaps
morning sees
the raped, crumpled
like yesterday's newspaper
Published 4th November 2011 5:55am
Broken Gold Circle
The wall echoes with emptiness
The clock slowly ticks
Agonising weariness
Eyes gummed together
with needed sleep
In the distance a door slams
A lone dog barks
Its all over
Again
You left
To go to her
Will you sign the divorce papers?
The wind blows through the open window
The papers scatter on the floor
Blue ink drying
The clock slowly ticks
Agonising weariness
Eyes gummed together
with needed sleep
In the distance a door slams
A lone dog barks
Its all over
Again
You left
To go to her
Will you sign the divorce papers?
The wind blows through the open window
The papers scatter on the floor
Blue ink drying
Published 19th August 2012 2:22pm
Broken Heart
Face down screaming words no one hear
mouthing names alien to other ears
sobbing tears that seep into the sheets
broken by death stamped on by destiny
damning his soul to the pits of hell
as he curses the gods he once revered
drunks are results of his creation
and He visited them on his beloved
he will no longer know rest
nor will he know loving smiles
and gentle loving at midnight
he wishes he can cut his throat
He knows he will always seek the scents
of the mother of his children
who held them both as the car
crashes into the swerving truck
He will always listen for their laughter,
his beautiful twin pair
it will be a long haul to where
they are, but he will journey on
His tears seep into the white sheet
as his broken heart bleeds on
God is merciful to him after all
and he enters the blazing portal.
mouthing names alien to other ears
sobbing tears that seep into the sheets
broken by death stamped on by destiny
damning his soul to the pits of hell
as he curses the gods he once revered
drunks are results of his creation
and He visited them on his beloved
he will no longer know rest
nor will he know loving smiles
and gentle loving at midnight
he wishes he can cut his throat
He knows he will always seek the scents
of the mother of his children
who held them both as the car
crashes into the swerving truck
He will always listen for their laughter,
his beautiful twin pair
it will be a long haul to where
they are, but he will journey on
His tears seep into the white sheet
as his broken heart bleeds on
God is merciful to him after all
and he enters the blazing portal.
Published 27th October 2014 11:03pm
Broken Strings
its was way before
hopelessness reigned then
a sighing resignation
never diving in
the pool of hope
more dangling on invisible threads
then the whispers of promises came
giving good tidings
o but there must be a sunray
from the darkness of the tunnel
running to grab the offering
what was there on offer then
simple really, in recollection
just to be alive and smelling the coffee
smiling at silly jokes
the companionship
the music was played
individual orchestra from pulsing hearts
then the guitar string broke
slashing into hopeful retinas
the songs of hope went silent
an old song repeated
an old path well trodden
there would be stairs in the end
but the room at the top of the stairs
might not echo the beating heart.
hopelessness reigned then
a sighing resignation
never diving in
the pool of hope
more dangling on invisible threads
then the whispers of promises came
giving good tidings
o but there must be a sunray
from the darkness of the tunnel
running to grab the offering
what was there on offer then
simple really, in recollection
just to be alive and smelling the coffee
smiling at silly jokes
the companionship
the music was played
individual orchestra from pulsing hearts
then the guitar string broke
slashing into hopeful retinas
the songs of hope went silent
an old song repeated
an old path well trodden
there would be stairs in the end
but the room at the top of the stairs
might not echo the beating heart.
Published 8th November 2015 11:27pm
Broken*
on her knees on the kitchen floor
picking up the broken shards
of glass and ceramics
reminded her of the rice
on the church floor
her fingers cut and bleeding
blood sacrifice on her wedding ring
made her think of the vow
at the pristine altar of God
did she say 'I do'
ten years of bending
picking up after him
the house master, husband
slave driver and jailkeeper
did she die and went to hell
she left before he woke
riding the greyhound
invigorating chilly air
a hundred miles away
she felt the warm sun
on her shoulders.
*this poem was entered in a competition here. thank you for reading*
Written by Grace (Idryad)
Published 22nd July 2015 9:17pm
picking up the broken shards
of glass and ceramics
reminded her of the rice
on the church floor
her fingers cut and bleeding
blood sacrifice on her wedding ring
made her think of the vow
at the pristine altar of God
did she say 'I do'
ten years of bending
picking up after him
the house master, husband
slave driver and jailkeeper
did she die and went to hell
she left before he woke
riding the greyhound
invigorating chilly air
a hundred miles away
she felt the warm sun
on her shoulders.
*this poem was entered in a competition here. thank you for reading*
Written by Grace (Idryad)
Published 22nd July 2015 9:17pm
Bruised and Lacerated
drowning his heart
with liquid magenta
thorns on his ribs
lacerations on his torso
he didn't care, or noticed
for white pain held him
the festering wound unhealed
dripped slow death into his soul
slowly and surely
his bruises putrefied
as he grasped the thorny vines
dripping blood, savouring the agony
he couldn't leave
not yet, not until
he died wrapped in grief
bruised and lacerated
planted in the ground
where love could not reach
hate could not touch
remembered for a while
dead rose petals would adorn
the grassy mound for a while
until he arise to life
or to the trumpets in glory.
with liquid magenta
thorns on his ribs
lacerations on his torso
he didn't care, or noticed
for white pain held him
the festering wound unhealed
dripped slow death into his soul
slowly and surely
his bruises putrefied
as he grasped the thorny vines
dripping blood, savouring the agony
he couldn't leave
not yet, not until
he died wrapped in grief
bruised and lacerated
planted in the ground
where love could not reach
hate could not touch
remembered for a while
dead rose petals would adorn
the grassy mound for a while
until he arise to life
or to the trumpets in glory.
Published 1st January 2015 9:20pm
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