Weep

In the middle of the night, when the moon is dark, and the clouds black.

In the middle of the night, when all the souls of America stare into the ceiling, the warm tears slowly crawl down their cheeks.

In the middle of their life, it is uncertain if there will be a tomorrow, because a sociopath stands before the cameras and rant.

We weep as a nation when our loved ones are taken away in the hearse without fanfare because there are so many that are dying.

I weep alone in my apartment because there is no one able to mourn the death of so many at one time in our history.

I weep because the war is in our midst, and the Doctors and Nurses are the first casualties in this war.

I weep because my tears cannot save lives.

My tears can not save those who die on a hospital bed in the corridor, with many besides them enclosed in plastic bags.

I weep because there are too many graves filled with someone’s loved one, and the count continues.

In the middle of the night, I weep alone because there are only memories of a time that my tears were joyful as the sound of the National Anthem was a song sung by all the nations.

Body Bags

There are body bags flowing; out of the back door of Brooklyn hospital in New York.

Body bags with someone loved ones
And I have no words as the count continues.

Do you know that the bodies will be taken away?
To be placed on a slab?

In America, there are thousands of body bags,
Bodies in the corridor of the hospitals.

It’s a war without the guns and bombs,
It’s a war on our fellow Americans.

It’s a war!
When will the body bags stop?

I’m not ready to be taken away in a Boddy bag,
And put in a refrigerated truck and carried away.

Are you?

In a war, there are always body bags,
In a war, people die alone.

I don’t want to die alone,
In a hospital corridor.

the age of hopeless causes, without end

in the half-light of approaching snow

in the godlike silence of an

empty parking lot at the edge of some

anonymous upstate factory town

six vultures circling the february field

that runs down to the river

the ghosts of houses

still waiting to burn

takes a whole lot of pain to make the

days seem worthwhile but what

else do you have to look forward to?

monday morning and

some joni mitchell song in the

back of your mind

great men with mouths full of blood

because the theory is that

there can be no heroes

without victims

teenage girl stabbed once for every

wasted year of your sad little life

middle-aged life and what the fuck good

is a poem going to do her now?

what good is it going to do any of us?

we were like kids shooting dogs

we were too sick to see how

ignorant we really were

it was summer maybe or

the end of winter

dead trees and poisoned water

no kings no kingdoms but borders and

barbed wire in every direction

enemies that needed to be kept out

              that needed to be

crushed

and we were less than gods but

more than the men who had invented them

i was 24 and drunk in a stranger’s bed

you were 40 and always running

in the opposite direction

already felt like the asshole i knew i’d

become but was still thinking

about the possibility of salvation

had my 3rd eye painted in the

palm of my right hand

had the mantra memorized

create

evolve

destroy

and so i was like a

soldier shooting children

wanted nothing to do with that

grey area between slaughter and

victory and what do you think?

does love beat lust?

have we finally arrived at

the brighter shining future?

jump off the cliff on the

clearest day of the year and

tell me everything you see

like francis bacon, dreaming

wasn’t going to be one of those

fuckers hung up on time & space

wasn’t going to be bathed in the

blood of christ or blinded by the holy

light of some absolute god

paper said it was the last good year

but that seemed like a lie

sun felt too good for a lifetime of fear

and the gold was pure white light

running through my veins

was always cold in the house

so we lived in the forests

lived in the vast open fields of our minds

only wanted to be your favorite

poison and only wanted you to be

everything i’d ever wanted

only wanted more

and i wasn’t going to one of those

assholes strung out on pain and despair

the words of the prophet

were meaningless to me

the days were all delicate filigree,

all scrimshaw and lace and

when the cops shot that kid i was

asleep in your arms

when the pills are all gone

i stop looking in the mirror

i am tired of the

addict i’ve become

cowards, because

were we talking about the

age of magic?

first days of summer, i think,

and i was already frightened it was

passing me by

girl i had known 30 years earlier

called up to tell me she loved me

                      but she was stoned

could hear her kid

crying in the background

could feel the presence of

an indifferent god

a sharp blade sliding in

just behind my eyes

[what makes you happy?  your misery]

the suicide season again,

and all your fucked up lovers say

it’s the sunlight that ties this noose so tight

they say it’s the fading warmth of

a half-remembered past

that blurs the future to a dirty grey, and

what can you do but agree?

your father never liked you, sure

left nothing but the gift of self-hatred

when he walked away from the burning house

and how many years did you wait before

you went looking for him?

how easy do you think it was

for him to forget your name?

opened the door to his shithole apartment

with shaking hands, with a blank stare,

and told you he’d never had any kids

told you his wife disappeared

back before the war

made you start to doubt you’d

                         ever been born

my place on the map of nowhere

and i knew the guy, not the one who

died but the one who killed him, stupid little

fucker but mean, and everyone drunk in

a fight about nothing

blood smeared on chrome in the

back of the parking lot, and

i had to work the next morning

had to explain to my girlfriend about the

phone number she’d found in the

pocket of my jeans, had to find a place

to sleep, had to just finally grow up and

get away from all this shit

maybe pretend i was human for a change

Plague Poem for Day Nine

and I always thought they lived

outside my imagining they did

were actual links to reality

solid shapes coming and going in

patterns they control – but today,

and yesterday now that I think of it,

the street out front has been/is empty

the neighborhood is neighborless –

the cars strangely silent,

the children playing elsewhere, if at all,

joggerless, dogwalkerless, the elderly couple

walk for their health no more, perhaps

there never was a mailman after all —

the whole world has become worldless,

absent, misplaced, unaccounted for

like it never was, never wasn’t, won’t be

— I’d open the blind most mornings

like this and there it was and there

I imagined it would always be.

Plague Poem for Day Thirteen

This morning is so quiet here:

my careful morning routine

seems hollow, empty of all

the meaning I assigned it before,

why even the birds hesitate at

the feeder, sing to themselves

if at all, or just recall the songs

they sang before, before this,

these numbers that numb us –

more than 22,000 dead worldwide,

over a thousand in the U.S. –

the numbers seem mysterious,

distant suggestions floating by

hinting at things beyond this

morning quiet, this isolation

I have made of myself, for myself.

When does it catch up with me?

When does this slight cough connect

me with others, gives me my place

in the count on the morning news?

               Plague Poem for Day Fourteen

As faithful as that, they are there each morning, early

as if waiting all night to announce the latest, as if

the virus was theirs to dole out a little at a time, yesterday

the mathematics of it, exponential, then geometric growth,  

the effected and the dead, and now today a new symptom

they’ve discovered to haunt us – can I taste, can I smell,

is this headache the usual eyestrain or persistent, just like

the coughing I do in the morning as if I’m a cold engine,

the aging car in the driveway trying to start up again, did

I get too close then touch my face, should I stand back even

further than I have my whole life, this checking of new

symptoms has become a symptom of this new virus that

has us, has us turning to the networks and internet, has us

waking to the “they” that have been waiting all night to make

our day.

Quiet Reflections

She always slept in the chair,

Between the boxes that were full of clothes:

Children’s clothes that she passed down.

Her with her silver-hair and arthritic fingers,

With the scar on her nose that had been broken,

“I was a Helen,” she declared.

It was hard to imagine this old half negro and Cherokee woman,

Being anything other than a gentle and sensitive redeemer,

Of abandoned children in the inner-city.

3.20.2018

Never Mind

Why should we forget the bodies lying in,

Streets, in the classroom, in the hall.

Blood dripping into the cement.

We should not mind those body-bags lying in the corner

Collecting dust year after year.

Should we mind it after all,

This is Vietnam.

No flags are placed over the bodies,

Eventually, they too will be forgotten.

3.20.2018

Remember Me

Long after my body turns to dust,

After the last spring flower bloom over my grave,

And the peacock returns to the mountains.

The words, my words will still live on someone’s bookshelf.

Words are long forgotten in the world.

Sweet Love

The moon is fading my love,

Ending our moments of joy,

It is the daisy that we hate seeing come to life.

Still, we remember our tender bodies engulfed in ecstasy,

Long before the moon faded over the eastern skies,

Among a host of stars reflecting over the pond.

We too still fade into the sunrise.

3.20.2018

Forget Me Not

Do not forget my love for you,

Those roses made of cardboard,

While the sun turned into dust.

And the moon fell into the ocean,

Forget me not my tender heart.

Remember that blanket that held us together,

And those glasses of wine spilling onto the sheets,

Our lips touching as if they were silk.

Forget me not my tender soul.

3.20.2018

Curse

My black skin with my Cherokee mother’s eyes,

Reflects the sadness of generations of crossing the desert.

Living in contempt of life,

We hold onto the strength of our very souls.

3.20.2018

After the Winter Snow

For Larry and Donna

Bliss surrounds a black boy after the snow has fallen

A sign of the human heart has survived

An understanding of life and suffering

Hunger and thirst and desire and  hopes

No longer does regret linger within his soul

It was a winter of solitude setting on the pew

Praying for salvation

While the flakes of snow surrounded the outside

Harsh was the winds and still was the life he had

There’s no need to be afraid he thought:

In time there would be a flower that would bloom inside of him

Today was that day.

3/5/2018

Touch Me

Touch me with your soul,

Like the haze of the mountain air,

That surrounds me,

Touch me when I’m young before the pain of life,

Surrounds me,

Wipe away my tears with your calm fingers,

Hold me close to your center,

Place the flowers in my garden.

8/27/2012 11:10 AM

9/6/2012 9:43 AM

The Return

The ride back to the inner-city was not the same,

It was the peacock’s feathers that allowed me to fly,

Flying above the winter winds,

High enough to reach the heavens in the summer breeze

It was never enough to ride the tide of hope with the winter snows,

With it flakes of violence.

8/27/2012 10:57 AM

A Drop of Love

A drop of love

In the shadows

A sip of warmth

No sexual fantasies

Reality a sip

Of kindness

And shadows turn into woodchucks.

9/6/2012 9:45 AM

Yesterday Hopes

Dreaming of the mountains,

In the middle of the night,

Two empty wooden chairs set in the open air,

Amber winds engulf my wonting spirit,

Peacocks coo,

In the middle of the night.

9/6/2012 9:12 AM

Awaking to it All

The freshness of it all:

Mountain air and flowers in the garden,

Blossoming souls arrive from the city,

Chickens, ducks, peacocks, turkeys, and geese,

Gaze around the coop,

 I see life open before my tearful eyes.

9/6/2012 9:27 AM

Never the Same

Never the same after visiting the mountains,

Eating moms farm fresh eggs over easy,

Dad feeding the birds,

And it’s my time to renew the essence of my soul. 

9/6/2012 9:36 AM

Play It Cool

When the sun climbs between the mountain’s breast,

Just play it cool,

Like jazz bouncing off the rooftops,

Just play it cool,

Smells of fried chicken and collard greens

Pork chops covered with gravy,

Just simple words and simple actions,

 The cool breeze settles on the top of the ocean waves,

So just play it so cool.

9/6/2012 12:00 PM

Roof Tops

It was never easy climbing to the top of the building,

Like crabs pulling each other down,

 As they reached the top of the pot,

Clawing their way to the top,

Climbing the stairs each rung brings me closer

To the top of the mountain in the inner-city,

Rooftops close to heavens gates

9/6/2012 12:11 PM

Life is Gentle

For Pat

Life is gentle at night with the wind blowing calmly. When you walk the dogs and rest from a long day’s work. Life is so peaceful knowing you are rested and wait for me to come to you. We hold one another. The years have been so precious to us both. It’s always the calming rains that last forever in our relationship. Life is kind and so is our love for one another. Life continues as does my love for you. Life is gentle as is my love for the life we have built together. You are the heart that I found in the time of my sadness. Life is so gentle now that you have found peace.

I want to Write

I want to write about the stars and the moon. To put down on paper what has never been writing before about love and the destiny of the heart. To write words that climb out of the catacomb of the darkness into the wondering light of the stars.

The Visit

The dining room is nice—

Pink wallpapered walls:

But no music playing

Shiny silverware and steak knives:

Beautiful Chinaware and nice designs

A plastic knife and folk:

White soft walls—

Woody Woodpecker laughing;

And a Styrofoam box with a hotdog

Star Night Star Bright

Shooting stars shooting

Shooting guns shooting

Shooting stars shooting stars

Shooting hopes shooting guns shooting

Bodies shooting stars shooting

There’s hope while stars keep shooting past.

FRIENDSHIP THAT DOES NOT WAVER

for Margaret Maron

Sitting in lightsome shine with country daylight,

A comforting, non-judgmental treasure,

I feel Thank-you shaking me:  a wish surrounds my mind:

Publish your poems.

Feeling talk-back lips more than any errors,

I float loyalty into your scene with timely

Shouts of mystery not of my own writing.

                                                I feel like a barking Corgi puppy.

Sold on remembrances, mindful, searching,

Doggone it, yes!  I want to read your slave-lines

Which assess the family story from its past.

It calls like a crow’s caw,

So that infused by longing to venerate,

Without jokes or importunate flourish,

I ground the pages leading me to your novels.

I find you, therefore, we are.

Lonely now,  questing, I see you, school girl, sitting,

Thirteen, fourteen, forward-leaning toward our teacher, Miss Fisher.

Hearing the lesson-plan, you move your full face, shortly,

spelled “silence.”

We are cousins; I see you turn the pages,

Keeping the moment for yourself, or your part of it.

Loveliness, still a burdensome relation,

yields soft turns in your school-desk.

Traveling homeward, you socialize with darkness,

Spread-eagle with those that fly the field-lights,

Prompting a query:  Where’s the  poem

                                                wanting has touched me.

Fiddledeedee has been scattered on the road in

Your Willow Springs:  it salutes your writing,

Yielding to readers rushing to read our welcoming laughter.

I leave you with good intentions.

Just let days not tangle; hand the friend the poems,

Row along willows what your words you feel are,

Calling with no put off:   how can a friend captain

Mortality’s Protocol?

Time’s a sea-crawl, whereat I am dreaming

I should be still and leave your many poems.

Seeing my work you splurge at sharing

close as my name.

Query from Willow showers in the spaces,

Townships, alone, where once we wrote our longings:

Evil and good have set us onto letters

                                                whose shapes confab.

This is the last of an eleven-segment relationship advice column from Nigerian author and Christian motivational speaker Chimezie Ihekuna, where he identifies and debunks certain beliefs he disagrees with on the topics of relationships, marriage and sexuality.

Deception 11

Things will change for the better if only I’m married

If you are an advocate of this statement, what makes you think so?   What makes you think your present challenges can only be tackled if you identify yourself as being married?  What makes you think or gives you the hope that marriage will make things better without your handling them now?  Do you know marriage has its challenges?  In the first place, what is your view point about marriage?  Can you withstand the difficulties associated with marriage?

It can be inferred that people (especially women) who believe in the efficacy of this marriage come from dysfunctional homes.  Due to the nature of upbringing, they console or assure themselves the improvement of their situation for good (and possibly, better) by getting married.  They hope their situation will greatly improve if they get married.

Sadly, they fail to really come to terms with the fact that marriage takes preparation and possess immense challenges.  Their inability to seriously tackle or truncate certain imbalance associated with their upbringing and relationships may cost them irrevocable setbacks in their approach to pressing marital issues. Simply put, their viewpoints are myopic because the presence of prevailing situations encountered has overwhelmed them to believing that marriage is the only way out.

Marriage can be compared to institution of higher learning for an individual to gain admission into citadel of higher learning, it is compulsory to tender the basic qualifications obtained in the high/secondary schools she attended including the institution’s entry (certificate) result, Also, it Is anticipated, her maturity.   At high/secondary school level, certain actions can be tolerated owing to naivety of students.  On the other hand, it is a different ball game at tertiary level as the crux; maturity will be a criterion or yardstick for a student’s action.   In other words, it is believed that the tertiary institution is a citadel of higher learning where students ought to ‘give up’ their childish tendencies and fully embrace maturity (responsibility).  This analogy reflects itself as the institution marriage.   Relationships individual involve (themselves in) ought to be a preparatory ground for marriage, just as the high school is a step or preparatory academic phase for a higher citadel of learning.  Precisely, it is an institution which ought to be prepared for; in terms of knowing its basics, handling pertinent issues which are not associated with it just like where high or secondary school leavers must have obtained their High school or secondary school certificate and maturity in the light of empowerment towards handling issue that have do with marriage (akin to ability to meet up with pressing demands of higher learning institutes)

It is disheartening, most people whose belief is centered on this mirage do not realistically see to certain asserted facts. Consequently, they become unfit to take care of general home affairs after getting married-unfit wives and husbands.  You can imagine a family raised by incomplete parents (unfit husband and wife) and no eventual home.

This story depicts the reality of taking into “Things will change for the better only if I’m married” assertion.

Stacy was born into a family of a well –to-do background. Being the first in a family of four (Later, her younger sister died some years later after she was born), special treatments were given to her especially by her father. She had two younger brothers. Things seemed rosy until her parents started living a cat and dog lifestyle due to impending challenges the family faced at that time. Subsequently, Stacy’s mother decided what she saw as normal –leaving her husband with the children. Although her father played a dual responsibility; generally seeing to the finances of his household and physical and mental wellbeing of his children, he was faced with an uphill task of balancing home affairs and his busy working schedule. As a result, he felt the need of having mistress (who later became his second wife). She bore him only a child but was busy maltreating Stacy and her younger siblings. Personally, you can imagine a girl not growing under the “watchful eyes “of her mother. Stacy had to endure the storms of life and painstaking to cater for the needs of her younger ones. Her predicament was so unbearable that she decided to take on menial jobs to make ends meet.

As Stacy grew up under inauspicious conditions to an adult, though very beautiful and one most sought after ladies in her locality, she, without the proper guidance of a good counselor and her mother, felt that marriage would be the way out of her pathetic state. Fortunately for her, she agreed to a marriage proposal made by a dashing you gentleman, Anthony, on the condition that he must take care of her younger ones. What a naivety- influenced decision! She eventually got married to him without proper mastery of what it means to stay married and of what the true foundation of marriage is. Now, she is married for nearly thirty years but living under the shadow of regrets.

Conclusion

To experience an enduring a blissful and beneficial relationship with your spouse, whether married or not, don’t you think you can safeguard yourself from the servitude of the identified blindfolds known as deceptions? Now, you’ve read them, the rest is up to you!