Cynics vomit her
Midwives truth-birth her
And since always
Welcome her on hands
That insidious trash
To fill their pitchers
With her feces.
Born from the spirit of pride
From the spleen of law
From the blood of forefathers
From the womb of lies
The fools loved her
Saints like a knick-knack
Showed her on the fair
Liars about her
Spends her life next to Dionysius,
Bloodless turkey cocks and donkeys
Smell her sacred beak.
Crowned with laurels
Permeated with boredom
In the tasteful asylum
And she sings in blood
To dampened strings
While watching her reflection
In the lavatory of Hades
Now already an ageing whore
Arose from the dream
To maintain the dream.
processing attempts as each memorising
sublime flash of evil genius
penetrates my mind
blinding ringing echo of fire
awaiting for the return of some being
I personally have never witnessed before
and yet continue bearing like
a treasured secret code of the heart
to share yet long as if to cherish
as the 1st discoverer
place pregnant backup aids by not
cherish its prized moments
along well-penned lines of living it.
Fates will always be differentiating
between origins of true life.
However, origins of free will
truthfully never differ
in any fate brought
between those trying to be heard.
A whisper triggers thirst for knowledge in
While a panicked scream can send us running
in the wrong path, secluded from all else
I can finally close the lid of my eyes
in being inspired, eyes wait not for
the dawn’s whistling birds’ dream
in sync with mine of better days break for all
to see us walk past through another evil eye
on its way,
of poetically rhythmic challenge
to pledge in well-penned form.
Everything is without my past weakening crutch
in our daily healing needs
if ever we hope to carry our torches healthily
throughout our chosen marathons of life.
to share something as oneness itself.
On the common Spanish needles
Of burr marigold!
When rippled winds blare
And flowers’ form will crack no more,
The springs’ fountains that were seen so
fragrant and green,
With rich frozen pudding all candied o’er,
henceforth stringed instrument lass, with her white wine face
And her air kiss so dreadfully pale violet.
But it is not so, with those that go
Through frost and snow, both great and small,
We are here to-day and gone to-morrow.
Airily at a fragrance-oozing garden a gem-beautified tree leaving a peg of bright white wood
Thrilled hand sculpting faces to add to by the garden
With midsummer rose petals of Venusian Red by the sides floor-strewn in rows
Too holy to pray my eyes looked at the firmament’s high girdle
to dive in seclusion into light
It’ll just be one great summer of red tea
and I shall disrobe myself before nature and taste of love
hear the cortege the flutes and the tambourines
perceived in the wind
Entombed beneath the mountains of Himalayas seclusion
In The Balovale’s tribes mausoleum
where it always smells like greasy secretion
during circumcision, an ancient torture for babies
From ancient precursor to what we call warfare
Since Ilyad then Tiberius’ Holocene and the charge of the light brigade
were terrifying, inglorious flash which had souls charred to ashes,
the blood kept coming from knife-stabbed bodies
Blades cut palms from the palm-trees for
a chant for selfish prayer of the wildest Brutuses
Richards, with all the Henries in between
leader, a sociopath in the house of roses
to clothe himself in war to taste of blood by fire
Gold glorified in greed have baited the kings
to close their eyes
and descend into apathy’s underworld
This has to be the end
of attending to gloom
Attention, my soul, do not leave your gaiety’s sun unattended.
I am not some face boiling if you stretch out
like a kid, your tongue at me
Here is my skin thick to stand
jackals from your lips handsome replica
appliance is for the sake of ameliorative mankind
living with love in my blood is enlivening,
living tenderly in the silence..
No decay will devour my summers’ bloom
Actually, the sun in its beams of glory
will resurrect midsummer dreams
I want to see you, you… morning house
You, dewy face
You, flowery eye
In fact, when I take off this night gown
like a daughter in obedience
A garden secure,
pleases me with the fragrance, that faylike spell
myself, I’m a mystic
who seeks the Heavenly
I should walk alone with a silent head
to a secluded wood
and dive into darkness
to rise up into light
Editor: Obinna Eruchie, https://allpoetry.com/Obinnex
My poem was read on the After Midnight radio listener show – you can hear the poem read by myself as well as comments on the poem by fellow late-night poets at allpoetry
Thank you all, guys. You are awesome.
Late Night Poets is dedicated to the celebration of creative minds. We are a welcoming forum for poems, stories, art and ideas. We encourage absolute beginners, seasoned pros and anyone in between. All we ask is that everyone be treated with respect. Late Night Poets is a reflection of our community spirit. A place to share, develop and reveal the best parts of ourselves. We welcome ideas and views.
“It is great to think highly of yourself …as long as you are not looking down on others while doing so”