To cry is a pill
Seated alone counting on your losses, sometimes it's better to cry
Cry aloud from the top of your lungs and feel it no more.
It's better to scream, it's better to shout, it's better to yell and set free your whole
But it's faulty to wear the garments of pains and sorrows under your long going sleeves, grief! it hurts.
Cry is the filter that flushes out the pains clustered in your heart, causing headache
And I see grief as a catcher that condenses a bundle of pains inside the heart, causing suffocation, constipation and heartache
It doesn't tell how weak you are, cry
It doesn't prove that your eyes are filled with tears, no!
It doesn't tells the world that you're living in fears, no!
It's a therapy of no cost, and another way of telling emotional stories, yes!
It tells the world how strong you are, cos weak vessel never cries, yes!
Cry is a pill, you'll get up and move after a cry
It's better to cry
And I see grief as an ill, it hurts a lot
You must be endowed with heart attacks,
sleeping with grief.
Tears were meant for crying, cry aloud cry them out, cry like you dare it
Your heart was built for beats and channeling free flow, grief not, cos cry is a free gift.
About the Author
My name is George Siaway Karnea Boakai, With a pen and well known name Compoze.
I was born on April 29 1995 in Ghanta city Nimba County Liberia.
I am a freelancer, a poet, a story teller, a song writer, a singer, a rapper and an aspiring Anthropologist.
I starting writing since I was a kid, but I recognized that I am a writer in the year 2018.
Poetry is the mirror that I see myself into on a day to day basis, it is the way I tell my millions of stories to the world.
Poetry is one of the many ways I tell about my County Liberia and its long years of civil unrest to the world, it is the way by which I want to be heard and read about.
Death Peak
Death is the highest peak in life to reach over
Mitigating the gap between right and wrong, good and bad
Keeping the body at the same place, flying on the same feather
Signing no grade or social status
Bound to receive the journey whether we like or not
Just at the meeting of the angel of death all powerful sins
Tyranny, avarice, exploitation, refusal of love and faith comes to an end
O my hungry brothers and sisters, why do you cry and blame your fate?
Let the days go and welcome the every single moment in smiling face
How refreshing the air by the river and the green and flowery land!
The eternal peace and prosperity.
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
30/12//2020
Bhasan Char- The New Habitation of Rohingyas
Life is nothing but the grain of sand
Flying over time here and there
The Rohingyas are the people struggling for existence where to live and die
Life turns into the sandy storm when the address gets lost
How they live and where to find the livelihood- staring at the sky
The homeless migrants are like the goods finding no way to place the roots
With a great expectation they take shelter at Cox's Bazar in Bangladesh
They are like birds flying here and there from land to sand
Sitting in the bus on the way to Bhasan Char,
An island around thirty seven miles off the coast of the Bay of Bengal
The eyes aiming at on how to make fit struggling with the sand
Life appears to be floating on water and at the same time
The fallen green leaf flying with the grain of sand
Life other than finds the meaning of life
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
30/12//2020
The Setting Sun
Flitted by the evening shadow on my back
The red glowing sun over to the west
What a wonder on the river!
The youthful rays of the sun dims down
As it grows old from morning to evening welcoming the silver lining
The pages of love feeling open and blaze in the eyes
The bamboo shadow runs to the narrow way of the rural housing
Surrounded by the sloping blushful light
Just at the moment you, my setting sun sit by me
I talk with you, as every day I watch and talk to the morning birds
The sun is setting with the curling smoke on the river, Padma
O my love river, in my subconscious mind I jump on
Have been swimming for thousands of years
The sun went down, leaving behind us on bank of the river
The world is going to be covered in the blanket of darkness
My heart turning passion like the ember in the fireplace.
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
31/12//2020
Happy New Year-2021
We can't curse any moment of the days in 2020
Though many of our near and dear ones bid us farewell from this earth
Rather we can bow down our head in a great sigh in respect of them
Cursing our wrong deeds on humanity, we can repent ourselves
What we did and what we should do in the next
Bringing out this plus-minus result, we can fix our future plan
Even after so many deaths the kids are dancing in the musical beats near me on the yard
Their hearts leap up to the world of starry sky
They must overcome the obstacles in the outside thunder and storm
As the green leaves in the soft breeze on the chirping of birds in the light of the sun
The ever-green leaves; the flowers from the buds blooming in the twinkling of the light
Let this large tree be resonant with these leaves, flowers and birds
Happy New Year-2021.
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
31/12//2020
The Prey
Corona is lurking on the surface of the world
Yet the wind around us appears to be heavy in other box
The howling of the virgins or the women on rape and death
Snatches me away from this soft corner
How many paths have I crossed and how many are left to go?
Who counts this?
The bricks are burnt in the chimney
Humanity in and outside home
On the other side tigers and lions are roaring in search of the prey
The dear and the deer cubs fleeing at a stretch
To the end eaten by the unknown fate
We are the passers-by running so fast on ongoing process
And return home blowing the horn all the way -so fed-up
Nevertheless we are to stay at home nowadays
But I can't understand
Why this roaring of the victims around me?
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
01/01//2021
War
There are the bombs again
Buildings crumbling
Pictures of tanks
On the evening news
So we watch it all
This is how it’s waged
Tanks clogging streets
Crushing any hope that
Might have been left
Left over from before
This is how it’s waged
The latest weaponry
With uniforms everywhere
The grinding sound of battle
Goes on and on
Bullets and bombs at their best
As we watch it all
People fill the roads out
The displaced fill trains
And border crossings
Cameras are rolling
So we watch it all
Halfway around the world
From all this
We watch it all
This is how it’s waged
Numbers of the dead and
The wounded tallied
As if we’re keeping score
While we watch it all
Half a world away.
Moving On
We move from pandemic to endemic
just a slight change of words,
of spelling, a change in prefixes,
a change of attitude.
It’s like turning a page, like
closing one door and opening yet another,
like turning a corner and
finding ourselves on another street,
a street that looks oddly familiar
with the same traffic,
the same pedestrians and
the same litter and lines
the same distance to travel to get where we
would rather be.
We move from plague-like interference
with our lives to
a thing more flu-like.
People still get shots, still get sick, and
still will die,
but we’re hoping, expecting a lot fewer
as the endemic kicks in
and the pandemic checks out.
Taxes
How much we make
Then where we live
And what we consume
They all play their part
Become taxable
Someone, someplace
Keeps track
Tabulates, measures me
Next to the others
Assumes I’ll pay
And I do
Never think much about
It/them
What do they say about
Taxes, death and taxes
Will be with us
So we will pay
So we will die
They’re the cost of living
What we pay for this vague
Privilege.
J. K. Durick is a retired writing teacher and online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Third Wednesday, Black Coffee Review, Kitchen Sink, Synchronized Chaos, Madswirl, Journal of Expressive Writing, Lightwood, and Highland Park Poetry.
Poets Die (V2)
By Michael Lee Johnson
Why do poets die;
linger in youth
addicted to death.
They create culture
but so crippled.
They seldom harm
except themselves—
why not let them live?
Their only crime is words
they shout them out in anger
cry out loud, vulgar in private
places like Indiana cornfields.
In fall, poets stretch arms out
their spines the centerpiece
on crosses on scarecrows,
they only frighten themselves.
They travel in their minds,
or watch from condo windows,
the mirage, these changing colors,
those leaves; they harm no one.
Poets Out of Service (V6)
By Michael Lee Johnson
Like a full-service gas station
or postal service workers
displaced, racing to Staples retail
for employment against the rules of labor,
poets are out of business nowadays, you know.
Who carries a loose change in their pockets?
Who tosses loose coins in their car ashtray anymore?
iPhones, smartphones, life is a video camera
ready to shoot, destroy, and expose.
No one reads poets anymore.
No one thumbs through the yellow pages anymore.
Who has sex in the back seat of their car anymore,
just naked shots passed around online?
Streetwalkers, bleach blonde whores,
cosmetic plastic altered faces in the neon night;
they don’t bother to pick pennies
or quarters off the streets anymore.
The days of surprise candy bags for a nickel
pennies lying on the countertop for
Tar Babies, Strawberry Licorice Laces
(2 for a penny), Wax Lips, Pixie Sticks,
Good & Plenty are no more.
Everyone is a dead-end player; he dies with time.
Monster technology destroys crump fragments of culture.
Old age is a passive slut; engaging old age
conversations idle to a whisper and sleep alone.
Matchbox, hand-rolled cigarettes,
serrated, slimmed down, and gone.
Time is a broken stopwatch gone by.
Life is a defunct full-service gas station.
Poets are out of business nowadays.
Deep in my Couch (V2)
By Michael Lee Johnson
Deep in my couch
of magnetic dust,
I am a bearded old man.
I pull out my last bundle
of memories beneath
my pillow for review.
What is left, old man,
cry solo in the dark.
Here is a small treasure chest
of crude diamonds, a glimpse
of white gold, charcoal,
fingers dipped in black tar.
I am a temple of worship with trinket dreams,
a tea kettle whistling ex-lovers boiling inside.
At dawn, shove them under, let me work.
We are all passengers traveling
on that train of the past—
senses, sins, errors, or omissions
deep in that couch.
Nightlife Jungle Beat,
Bar Next Door (V2)
By Michael Lee Johnson
Like all things life changes, its melodies fragment.
It breaks pieces apart, then they drift, then shatter.
The singers of songs love bars,
naked bodies, consistencies, and inconsistencies
that makes it burn all turn outright at night.
They like to drum repeat rhythms and sounds.
Poets like to retreat to dens
of pleasure just like these.
Sing poets sing off-key
free verse notes down by the bridge,
near the river as far as their voices
will carry them away.
It is the nature of difference,
indifference a vocabulary of us confused,
minds between insanity and genius.
The hermit asks for
a public forum in shyness,
while treading to the bar
next door for a shot of tequila
no money, no life.
Michael Lee Johnson
Michael Lee Johnson is internationally published poet in 43 countries, several published poetry books, nominated for four Pushcart Prize awards and five Best of the Net nominations. He is editor-in-chief of three poetry anthologies, all available on Amazon, and has several poetry books and chapbooks. He has over 536 published poems. Michael is the administrator of six Facebook Poetry groups. Member Illinois State Poetry Society: http://www.illinoispoets.org/.
Love at Sunset
In the place where the water meets the sky;
Is the love that surrounds us as ever time goes by.
In the place where the sea seashore meets the bay;
Is the love that abounds through the heat of every time ray.
No other hand,
Than his who rules on high,
Could wield the brush and spread such,
Bright array.
Love at sunset
Even in joyfulness,
Even in times we cry;
Our love will never stop,
But will keep on rolling by.
Upon the outstretched canvas of the sky,
Then draw the curtains of departing day.
Love at sunset
The sun may go down,
But at the end of the day,
The flaring shades of love will always have to stay.
I stand in silence,
Reaching with my eyes,
My love, you are beautiful,
I love the way you fall,
Softly losing space.
Love at sunset
Take down all your troubles,
And wrap up your regret,
Tie them to the rays of light,
The sun sheds as it sets.
Love at sunset
My secret lover
I want you only to myself.
How many times,
Have I come here,
And was thrown away,
Because,
I am beseeching from poverty,
With courage,
With my sorrow,
You left me up in your fall.
New Kru Town
Our hustling brothers,
Far from religion,
Have spit on Christianity,
And loose their focus with no heart of second thought
An unexpected death has arrested the sight,
And capture it slaves.
Why New Kru Town
A place that develop good seeds where the soil is useless,
An opal heart area,
A stubborn, lavish land
You who that have never loved her,
Will not understand
Earth holds many splendor,
But,
Others do not value,
And shake its hand away.
New Kru Town,
A part of our mother's land,
A place where robbers attacked religion in celebration,
A face to face place in the day
That turn to nightmare in the night.
A place where robbers intuit to stay,
See different saints come and go.
How many birds have I seen Perched,
Looking hurriedly here and there,
And they abuse the proud of Christian,
And take advantage of their religion.
New Kru Town
A place where ethically good that you do,
Do not talk,
Cause you may risk your head to blade.
A place where robbers making daily contribution
By chasing people with cutlasses in dead mood.
By: Jelvin S. Gibson
Pen Name: Inkbloc
A Poet, Teacher, Script writer,
Director, and an Introvert
He leaped out of the house into the street, to smoke and take in drugs, till one day he got addicted, nothing else matters to him apart from drug. His addiction to drugs led him into the street, he worked for people, cut grass, throw away garbage to support his hobby. After his encounter with Christ, he told his story.
My name is Junior Mata and I’m a drug addict. It was 3P.M., August. 4, 2021. I was in the western part of Paynesville, Liberia, accompanied by two friends who also had the same hobby, namely, Fedasco and Wilson. It was cold with a good atmosphere. I felt very sick and needed a fix as soon as possible. While we waited for our connection to buy drugs, my friends and I talked and exercised in an effort to warm ourselves up a little. As for myself I was very sick. Tears rolled down my face, mucus ran down my nose, I had cramps in my stomach and felt cold chills running up and down my body. Those were the symptoms that accompanied me for almost 8 years while I was addicted to drugs.
Those cursed drugs were destroying me little by little, and left me bankrupt materially, physically and spiritually. All of a sudden my friend said to me, “J. Mata, let’s go”. Here comes the hallelujah.
They were talking about the two youths who preached the words of God in the street and were about two blocks from us. I told them, “I won’t move from here, let God come, let the devil come, but I won’t move from here until my connection (drug supplier) shows up, and that is my drug supplier.
My friends took off, leaving me alone. I felt a touched on my shoulder, and when I looked sideway I recognized one of the youths. “God bless you”. His name was Ray and there were times when I had shared drugs with him. He was addicted to drugs as well, but on the occasion he seemed transformed. His clothes were clean, his face was shining, his hair was cut, and his greeting left me amazed.
I couldn’t believe it. Dozens of questions ran through my mind. I was really surprise at the change in this guy. It was a reality that I couldn’t ignore since he was standing right there in front of me.
He preached to me, telling me about the love that God had shown us through his son, Jesus Christ, who died on the cross at Calvary, because of love and for salvation of all men. I told him that everything he said sounds beautiful, but neither religion nor church is for me. But, if this Christ you’re talking about is as powerful as you say, then pray for me and ask him to change my life. If he takes away my hobby, I’ll go to church with you. I remembered walking and reaching the pastor’s house. When we arrived, the pastor came running out to greet me, I was really very impressed with the love in which he did it with me. I thought about my past and how miserable my life had always been. No one cared about me. It didn’t seem to matter anyone if I was dead or alive. During this time I walked the street and lived alone in old abandon houses. I always felt sad and couldn’t care less about my personal appearance. Nobody was ever glad to see or interested in how I was doing. Because of this I was very impressed by the way the pastor greeted me.
This man of God wasted no time. As soon as he met me he began preaching to me. After speaking to me about 10 – 15 minutes, he asked me if I wanted to accept Christ as my personal savior. I answered him that the only reason I followed Ray was so that he could pray for me. The pastor had faith and confidence in the lord. He told me, to get on my knees right away because he was going to pray for me.
I got on my knees and the pastor and his family the two youths started praying for me. I noticed right away that some of them began crying and pleading to God for me. This really moved me and gave me the strength to pray for myself.
I promise God, saying, “Lord, if what Ray told me is true and if you can honestly change my life, or if there is anything you can do for me. I ask you please, help me, I promise to serve you and visit the church if you take away my hobby”.
I started feeling a sensation of health and life; it was something unexplainable. I don’t believe that I’ll ever have words to explain what I went through that day. I could feel how all my pains and vice symptoms, including smoking, regular cigarettes, completely disappeared. I felt that though my lungs had expanded and I could breathe freely for the first time in my life. What I was living in that instant told me that’s true, Christ lives and will gives life to all those who receive him. God performed a miracle that day, and free me from my sins and all of my vices. Praise his holy name! I stopped being a slave of the devil and was converted into a servant and son of God.
Sin and drugs are the beginning of the end, but Jesus Christ is the way, the truth and the life. Come back to life, give yourself to Christ.
His story was sad, touching, and emotional, that people around could fell his pains and what he went through in the life of worthlessness. But there is time for everything, the sooner you realize the kind of life you live, the better for you.
Remnants
It’s later than you think
or maybe sooner
they’re all that are left now
the letters waiting
ready
to be formed into words
must try to sort themselves
into words
that will never be spoken.
And the words already written
the manuscript
unread
ready
for a reader
who will never find them
never read them.
And the colours
of paint
and paper
fabric
clay
ready
to be put together
reformed into a beauty
never to be seen
or even imagined.
And the worn clothes still warm
almost
almost warm
already worn
stuffed into black bags
ready
to be worn
again.
All that remains
now
it’s later than you think
or maybe sooner.
Too late for them
anyway.
.........
Raining Tears
It’s raining again,
endless rain
or so it seems
the clouds breaking,
fracturing,
letting it all pour out
as I watch
feeling
my heart breaking
bleeding like the rain,
the raindrops of my heart
pouring out like tears of blood.
...............
Keep Your Hat On
There was a time when going out
was an occasion to be dressed for.
You could not be seen,
should not be seen
without your hat.
You would be ostracised,
talked about,
stigmatised,
left alone
shamed.
Hats were mandatory,
a smart felt trilby or bowler for the men
and a fashion statement of flounces or formality
for the women.
Even later
my visiting aunties kept their hats on
while drinking their afternoon tea indoors.
They left them on in cafes and bars,
it’s the generational norm
from the time when one knew
the dress code and conformed.
But not everyone did so
even back then.
Some were daring,
daring enough to go without a hat
and they still found company.
Others followed the code
and kept their hat on
but still sat on their own
the code didn’t admit everyone,
some were left outside.
Lynn White
