Society Poems
Rift, and Broken Places
by Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu
This place —cold and famished,
abandoned —
Recalling issues of broken mortars
And mildewed, hinge-leaning pestles . . .
Desiccated and forlorn,
Like a lychgate in a church of battle,
This place reeks of unholiness, with the
Spring of wild, rioting grass, invading
Where we hitherto gathered and sat the
Setting sun out of the wilting clouds.
......
In One City
by Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu
I know a funeral when I walk into one
I can tell between a funeral and a burial
They are two entirely different artworks
One is done on grand canvas, with drunken strokes
Of sashaying brush and bleeding paints;
The other is done on mere sand, with foot and hand,
Forming sandcastles built by toddlers.
I know too well because I have my senses
Intact after the last funeral I attended on a gambolling coast.
I should know because I participated in the burial of a
......
Congratulations! You've discovered dreaming!
by jan christian MN
Every step you took and would fulfill was written out there somewhere, engraved in something alive, something inhumanely human. The second your soft infant skull was greeted by the starving air, it was known: you were doomed to decay, a continental feast for the earthworms. But you must live your years fearing death, like it were an escapable end; that no matter how colossal the tunnel was for the mortal eyes, you must persevere, at least until a speck of light dapples into your face.
The world outside of the 'turning point' was something unknown even to the omnipotent people you had in your English class—when they said Hughes was a lawful husband, you knew it was the end of the human race; you'd think, yes, perhaps the doom was part of the mind; we are our own nemesis, electrocuting past the flaws to make it seem like we had it the first time, but even the just-so-happeneds were meant to happen; they weren't a reflection of your magnetic existence, they were experiences waiting to happen.
The cache of gold at the end of the rainbow was a mere illusion, a key to open the gates of reality, for too much grounding would only do us harm. Think fiction, where dungeons were glorified as monumental structures of the revolution, the revolting rise of the apes—or so they said—Princes always catch the Princesses, because that was how the chapters of a life were sketched, a tall tale of too much telling. Still, hearts remained as the main points of the stories; you'd realize once you step your one foot out of the book that the axis of the core relies on your operating mind. Fantasies were cover-up for the subjective cracks in the world, a facade working the graveyard shift to keep the narrative running: that we are the weakest link in the food chain, and all we can do is dream about the magic life of picket fences disguised as castles and crowns.
When weekends turned out better than foreseen, they'd write about the hell manifestation in the contemporary. When seconds didn't go as planned, they'd whisper about the delicate sight in every little matter, every little moment, and suddenly, salvation was a thing again, because damn, I'm late for work! Sufficiency was the empty container in the veins of the amalgamated flesh, wondrous traits wrapped around their bones like fiber, and god, they love being healthy and on-track, and keeping track of the missteps and falls.
Routines were the central branch of the prophecy; amendments would come and go, but nothing would alter the state of consciousness wherein we were formed to alter boundless possibilities: as small as the formation of rocks to forestalling an oh-so-great-and-moral manmade war. Our bodies were puzzle pieces forming a bigger vacant landscape for the next wave of bodies, and they, too, would lay the foundation for the future of the specimen. You'd be nothing but a mere human who once loved, once frowned, once grieved. You'd tell yourself, 'the future is now,' and big, fat congratulations! You've discovered the optimistic undertones of painting colors to a fantasy, with enough personal elements to ground you, and enough hopeless faith to have it carry an irresistible goal, something worth drooling over like a sweet tooth. The hunger of the human spirit is indomitable; we must let it wander, even if it means looking like a pathetic follower of the invisible.
......
Corruption
by Abhinandan Sharma
Some take bottles
Some take cash
Some take openly
Some take shyly
Under the table
Creepy smile
For them bribe
Is like new bride
Everyone blame
......
Primp
by Eran FarrowPrimp and preen in the mirror seen to pass all the faces walking by. What do they know? What will they show? How will any of it go? Worries weigh more than ore. They get heavy with their ever rolling more. So put on your boots just to scoot to get going through the moors.
Continue readingRift, and Broken Places
by Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu
This place —cold and famished,
abandoned —
Recalling issues of broken mortars
And mildewed, hinge-leaning pestles . . .
Desiccated and forlorn,
Like a lychgate in a church of battle,
This place reeks of unholiness, with the
Spring of wild, rioting grass, invading
Where we hitherto gathered and sat the
Setting sun out of the wilting clouds.
......
Congratulations! You've discovered dreaming!
by jan christian MN
Every step you took and would fulfill was written out there somewhere, engraved in something alive, something inhumanely human. The second your soft infant skull was greeted by the starving air, it was known: you were doomed to decay, a continental feast for the earthworms. But you must live your years fearing death, like it were an escapable end; that no matter how colossal the tunnel was for the mortal eyes, you must persevere, at least until a speck of light dapples into your face.
The world outside of the 'turning point' was something unknown even to the omnipotent people you had in your English class—when they said Hughes was a lawful husband, you knew it was the end of the human race; you'd think, yes, perhaps the doom was part of the mind; we are our own nemesis, electrocuting past the flaws to make it seem like we had it the first time, but even the just-so-happeneds were meant to happen; they weren't a reflection of your magnetic existence, they were experiences waiting to happen.
The cache of gold at the end of the rainbow was a mere illusion, a key to open the gates of reality, for too much grounding would only do us harm. Think fiction, where dungeons were glorified as monumental structures of the revolution, the revolting rise of the apes—or so they said—Princes always catch the Princesses, because that was how the chapters of a life were sketched, a tall tale of too much telling. Still, hearts remained as the main points of the stories; you'd realize once you step your one foot out of the book that the axis of the core relies on your operating mind. Fantasies were cover-up for the subjective cracks in the world, a facade working the graveyard shift to keep the narrative running: that we are the weakest link in the food chain, and all we can do is dream about the magic life of picket fences disguised as castles and crowns.
When weekends turned out better than foreseen, they'd write about the hell manifestation in the contemporary. When seconds didn't go as planned, they'd whisper about the delicate sight in every little matter, every little moment, and suddenly, salvation was a thing again, because damn, I'm late for work! Sufficiency was the empty container in the veins of the amalgamated flesh, wondrous traits wrapped around their bones like fiber, and god, they love being healthy and on-track, and keeping track of the missteps and falls.
Routines were the central branch of the prophecy; amendments would come and go, but nothing would alter the state of consciousness wherein we were formed to alter boundless possibilities: as small as the formation of rocks to forestalling an oh-so-great-and-moral manmade war. Our bodies were puzzle pieces forming a bigger vacant landscape for the next wave of bodies, and they, too, would lay the foundation for the future of the specimen. You'd be nothing but a mere human who once loved, once frowned, once grieved. You'd tell yourself, 'the future is now,' and big, fat congratulations! You've discovered the optimistic undertones of painting colors to a fantasy, with enough personal elements to ground you, and enough hopeless faith to have it carry an irresistible goal, something worth drooling over like a sweet tooth. The hunger of the human spirit is indomitable; we must let it wander, even if it means looking like a pathetic follower of the invisible.
......
Silent Killer Whale
by Kara PrinceTwenty hours it took me to read Moby Dick. That marks twenty years of a life lived for others. Twenty years in pursuit of another's happiness. Twenty years to feel like I could walk into a room that, for many reasons, wouldn't accept me. Twenty hours to realize my own white whale, and now I can’t even tell anyone without sounding like a pretentious dick.
Continue readingDrought
by Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu
It’s all boiled up and caked up
Lands weep and rivers cry out loud,
Puking withered currents that rather hide
Than run
Cornstalks, excoriated and wounded,
Are scolded by thunder at night,
And lightning brandishes the whiplash of its
Whitish tongue, chiding the frightened rocks nearby.
It has not rained in seasons.
It has not dropped.
......
Messages from Witnesses
by Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu
Witnesses abound, like hidden treasures under
The earth —and like common vices upon the
Face of the earth, contorted with the hammer-stare
Of frozen shafts of light descending fast on a
Warmless street.
Good and bad are linked with the chain-graft
Of our wobbling times —a stinking, old robe
Turned inside-out.
The smell of stale beer creases the raised brows.
Witnesses grieve ceaselessly.
......
