The stream (all workshops)
whisper to me in dark places,
unshackling my silent form
revive a thousand voices,
I have sustained in forever
unspoken and formless
so as to be forgotten,
it was in a night-scape,
the void of sound
negated speech
I break into flight,
with an oath choking
on my first cry
I drift on the hair of my nape,
as the weave of my cloth
spirals, for a moment
as gums bleed out
the rhythm in my shade, refrains
The ruddy moon
leans over a hedge
to light with a reddish glow
the country side
what ails you?
I have come
to spy the sky
with a wistful stars
thanks to the sunset
for this revelation
©® Onyinyechi Cosmos Etu
Her hair was mostly knotted, dreadlock tangled ropes,
That wove their worried carpet covered hood,
Across the thinning features of her somewhat frozen face,
In the fashion of the waif of Broken Wood.
Her eyes were wide as buttons, with dilated pupils stark,
Staring with starvation if they could,
But she didn't know her hunger 'mid her torment in the dark,
This catatonic waif from Broken Wood.
Your love never did dawn on me slowly;
picturesque, with billowing clouds,
emblazoned with red and violet flame,
slow to ignite from dull glowing embers.
Instead, like the soft instant click of the shutter,
it sang;
blinking behind your heart’s lens
which captured this once barren landscape,
instantaneously burned onto virgin film
like an epiphany of blissful infatuation.
During the absent days,
although you were near
but at the same time
in some other place,
love may have been there
but I had to guess
most of the time,
and I was terrible at it
Exaggeration of the flaws in one personality
only complicate their attempt at existence.
Drinking tainted water will only poison you.
And my mind races back and forth as I ponder.
You continue to speak, as though you have knowledge.
Yet, true to fact, you have none.
The rivers all run to meet the ocean,
This is why we all seek the answer.
As the morning sun breaks through the clouds
spilling warm sunshine across my soul,
I seek knowledge for divine truth.
I have crossed the shadows and let them chase me.
Disruptive thoughts of life intruded upon the peaceful scenery of the Sunday park
as a slow-moving sad faced old gentlemen
frozen by the years of solitude
made small talk
with the chattering afternoon bird crowd.
Reclining in a death pose upon the bench
he frowned at the sky
as the sun forced him out of his pretended grave shell
and the passing breeze gently prodded him
with thoughts of decay.
Be like a goonie and
never say die.
Find your treasure
and see what's
inside.
You might travel so
far to see
what you really
truly want to be.
Do not cry cause
goonies do not.
So dry your eyes
and dust off your socks.
The road might be long
and a rocky road
but goonies always
have a heart of gold.
BARE HANDS
He who lives by the mark of an axe and the sound of a falling tree,
Or the squeal as the ironbark slowly splits, into fence posts yet to be,
And he who digs through the gibber stones or the clay that chokes the spade,
Or driving a line through deserted wastes knows how this land was made.
I step across the roadside ditch
to rest my bones upon a stump
then indulge a mild knee itch
beside a honeysuckle clump
on this mid winter day.
A sip from my old worn canteen
rids my mouth of road's red dust
which was inhaled but never seen
while time accrued the years like rust
as I have slowly made my way.
This road has varied through the years.
I started crowded, now I'm alone.
Early laughter turned to tears.
Limber joints now bone on bone
often causing my gait to sway.
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