In The Balovale’s tribes mausoleum (of human history od living and dying)


 

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

 

Freedom


My eyes are flawless
My eyes are living
hell’s of isolation’s keenly placed prison

In what darkness they’ve seen yet
whose light sees nothing else when looked deeply
within its reflections

Other than darkness preludes
always seemingly lurking in its unbeknownst
shadows of opportunities once had and lost

Continually raped by a demonic entity
my cowardice in my eagerness to say yes
my cowardice in my eagerness to say no

Those who have wept
mercy to the stillborns,
with bruised wombs, Mother’s feathered creatures

Starve us to the bone of sunlight –
never allowing us to wake
from its steely barbed wired fence

Beyond sense but saved
beyond dead but live
on sodden land with a granite red

Free to battened, free to crumble,
free to care not
free from pain and blood and touch

Vanity on the fox’s trail, “The Darkness will understand”


Vanity on the fox’s trail
Behold, a miracle!
Supposedly one-sided at instants
Suitable for a scrambled moment
The martyr and her daughter who wash their feet
Tasseled with nails instead of sandals
Conversing silently.
Anything but sough
Shores and scrapings fantasizing
Daughter do you wish the powder to slip you
To disturb the onus, non-being and tendrils
Wistful across the stones you overcome
Blacker than night
You fear there will no longer be vertebrates
It is the third hour in the night After

from “The Darkness will understand”

A wondering soul poem, Leila Samarrai


A wassail around the grave
Of the Russian mystic
Lunacy crucified in his eye

I knit a wreath for the vixen
Who was suffocating next to the shaft,
Tearing the grid with her teeth,
Who was breaking the joists,
Eating sonnets,
She rode the Lion’s gate
In a dress with a décolletage
Cut with her sword and enflamed with her pyre

The heads of the five Mycenaean bulls.

My blindness,
Put me away into wilted flowers
So I repose there
Already my corpse reeks strongly
The one that never dies
Whose wounds were played in the darkness

While unease ripens in the fog
Lulled inside the years
A bloodied sun comes out in the west

 

 

To your Grace, “The darkness will understand”, Leila Samarrai


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To your Grace*

Into the shade of roses I desired to hide
But I fell asleep in a book
Open on a poem about a t(ort)u(rer)tor

Poets of long ago
Under shadows and soil
Count they on seraphim

On somberness, on window panes
On doors pried open and the secret of life
On branches of cypress that lure with silence
And long, northern morning under harps

At the wane of sight
Let quietude rip out the truth
Sang of stone

*Addressed to the readers

The signs along the path are the only thing left for you, “The darkness will understand”, Leila Samarrai


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 3

You do not grasp – the spilled blood is chiming
From unveiling you wrongfully dread
In agony of you yourself
While we pine atop Grecian terraces.

Daughter
Still rivers are audible in endeavor
And at that conjoined

In mirrors is the road to land of dead
And worshippers of the chronometer
And the unachievable bloom of summer

Put the pigeon on the fire my daughter
We are going to satiate ourselves
Grasshoppers as well my daughter
Before they abandon us through the windows

I forefeel that the unreliable man
quiets his breath and embarks on the way
of Beauty, Ordinance and Wars

The signs along the path are the only thing left for you