http://mashada.com/blogs/ Mashada Blogs » Words Much Like Poetry Gregarius 0.6.1 en http://gladysmoore.blogspot.com/2009/11/oracle-revisited.html Thu, 19 Nov 2009 16:08:00 -0500 http://gladysmoore.blogspot.com/2009/11/oracle-revisited.html
As she danced, she was to me like an angel, weightless; her sheer garment like wings made with milky water.

Frank Miller's graphic novels are what poetic pictures are made of. I have been a fan for a long time and here I make a vain attempt at recreation with a minor modification to add spice. (?)

the tender weightless misty threads
wisped, spiraled up and met with the stately figure
they kissed and caressed tender curves,
hugged as they rubbed and rose,
skidded upon a heaving curve,
hit upon the parabolic obstacle and dispersed

a hiss upon the glowing brands and new misty weightless rose
they knew their enchantment, they knew their instrumentality
snatched, they jetted into a dance with garments,
a fanning wing tugged at them until they entered the twin cave
and a dark bony clawed hand intruded upon the flawless milky skin

hoarse cackles mixed with velvet whispers
and drool stained the silk and satin
pale skin glowed and the curves convulsed
narcotic evanescence hovered expectant-
a squeal arose from within as coarse and sharp violated supple soft

eyes, unblemished white, glowing
hankered at her and a stained grin arose from the creature
as it held the chain that bound a celestial
the damned one rattled the fetters as he hobbled forward
and yanked the immaculate into a dirty embrace

her wings fluttered - resistant, as cracked lips
opened to reveal jagged rotting teeth
and went for the kiss of revelation
white iridescence hid the unimaginable coupling
and in a shriek the demon sucked all glory from the shackled star

he smiled as he searched the stolen nimbus for the sight
and within he saw his master in all his darkness
as he hovered over the earth, having cast the mistress of light asunder
his dark wings fluttered to cover the light
and flooded the world in eternal shadow

Inspired by Frank Miller's 300

Posted on August 21, 2009 by Antony Kamau

Perhaps I shall write another poem based on, well, Sin City. I am afraid it might be so gruesome that it would need an R-21 sticker.

in his final stand, covered in bloody majesty
his garb an impediment to what he had to do
he went to his knees in false defeat

he was no god-king
they had to know, his divinity was a sham
his fate the damned oracles could not forge
as his spear marked a god for defeat

]]> http://gladysmoore.blogspot.com/2009/11/immortality-of-intimates-reconciled.html Wed, 18 Nov 2009 11:40:00 -0500 http://gladysmoore.blogspot.com/2009/11/immortality-of-intimates-reconciled.html
The poem below doesn't really reflect on the issue of prolonged silences, that is a concept I broach in another poem—which I will be re-posting at a future date for your reading pleasure. Rather it reflects upon the reason as to why we reconnect, why we reach out to those who profess to care, those who truly do.

The Immortality of Intimates Reconciled

I think on intimates,
friends who are well remembered in study,
and wistful longings begin to nag at my spirit,
they displace the usual lines etched upon my face,
amounting it to a solemn landscape of woe
for the solitude we wear close to our hearts,
solitude that much resembles
cavaliers chain mail and suit of armor
in the way it weighs upon the form
and sinks us deep into the quagmire loneliness.

I think on the way my intimates and I,
on those ever rarer occasions of desperation
for that which is much needed but singularly found,
stretch out to one another
arms that tremble from the exhaustion
of carrying our individual hindrances
and touch fingers, in reconciling manner,
across the erstwhile distance of our parallel lives.

I think on the events that shaped us
and that which drives us even now,
the seeds of our aspirations, which we have sown
and seek to make fruitful,
tending them in the way of gardeners as they begin to grow,
nurturing them as they begin to bloom.

in each tender bud,
I see the prospective for greatness
that lies with the realization of our goals
and I weep for the endless universe of possibilities
that was secured us by those willing
to trade blessed life for equality and freedom.
now, we can be as the empires and the conquerors,
the poets and the playwrights,
the sculptors and the painters,
the inventors and the explorers,
we can be as ill-forgotten as they,
a mighty root in our tree of known kindred
and not merely a withering branch.

but I wonder still if I have the right of it,
or if perhaps I seek nothing more than a method of explaining away
my demented longing for the immortality which comes of great feats
and lasts us through the ages,
kept alive by those descended of us,
by those who speak of us until time immemorial.

~ Wamuhu Mwaura, posted on Words Much Like Poetry March 19, 2008

The last two verses might seem odd, but the quest for immortality is another facet of human nature. And though as a child—wandering through libraries and galleries, determined to leave my mark upon the world in the way so many other writers and artists had—I thought only great feats would accomplish this task; I've since come to realize that immortality isn't gained by feats alone. And though these feats play the largest part of enduring us in the memory of others, without family, and indeed friends, what value lies in the quest if we have no one to share in it while we still live?

As with the original posting of this poem, I dedicate this firstly to my cousin and secondly to all those who have taken hold of places in my heart and refuse to let go. ]]> http://gladysmoore.blogspot.com/2009/11/toward-glory-burning-revisited.html Tue, 17 Nov 2009 06:02:00 -0500 http://gladysmoore.blogspot.com/2009/11/toward-glory-burning-revisited.html
Toward Glory, Burning

light flares and paper burns crisply,
leafy contents send acrid smoke trailing lazily skyward
and contentment swells starved lungs denied their usual fill,
long hours spent in demeaning wait,
in straight shoulder-back seated pose,
book of sonnets upon my lap,
mind screaming for release,
this world of seemingly needful empty hands
stretched out in greedy longing
so that lackluster days might continue on
through to life's end, does not suit me.
I do not belong amongst this lot,
I will not refrain from striving toward glory.

~ Wamuhu Mwaura, posted on Words Much Like Poetry May 1, 2008 ]]> http://gladysmoore.blogspot.com/2009/11/yearning-for-freedom-revisited.html Mon, 16 Nov 2009 10:00:00 -0500 http://gladysmoore.blogspot.com/2009/11/yearning-for-freedom-revisited.html
To be brief, one sleeps on the cold rough floor, packed side by side alternating on opposite ends. This is to ensure a 'best fit' scenario to accommodate a cell meant for ten but packed with a number north of 35. The VIP cell is the only one that has sufficient mattresses and blankets, albeit full of bedbugs.

Depending on what you are being held for, your wait can be indefinite, despite the rule that you cannot be held for more than 24 hours legally. The wait for the inevitable, which could be being charged in court or being let to go is hereby visualized.


A Yearning for Freedom

the air is slightly stale, and I am surprised I do not grimace to it. at least the floor is not very cold and I wonder at its rough comfort. the smell of leather will be my companion tonight for it is from the one solid thing I own here.

the yearning has not subsided, in fact, it is more intense now. I choke at the consequent emotion, and anger rises up my throat and I wonder if tears would help. I know they will not come to me, they have not for a long while. I blink at the darkness, willing my eyes to glue shut and for a second I muse at the curiosity of a certain mystery.... at which point my mind screams for light, but in a hushed voice, barely audible from even within me. the thirst for it is a contradictory need, as I yearn for this stifling darkness to swallow me.

the leg jerks at a touch, just as virtual grace steals me away into the summer heat, into square pavements bustling, breathing and alive... they will not come to me, and I shut my eyes so tight it hurts. a different breeze wafts in, carrying with it evidence of a basic human nature. I welcome its stinging distraction from my chainless shackles. my mind slowly lets go of its cyclic thoughts, a frustrating prison of tight unyielding polythene skin. I claw at it as it chokes me, tightens all around me, denying me air.

they will not come to me, I must be strong, the thread holding me is unraveling. is this the road to insanity? it cannot be...

they will not come to me. there is no shame to it. but still, they deny me momentary solace. should I turn to look? the glitter might be my window to mental freedom, it is light within darkness. but what is a drop of water upon perched lips, if the whole draught will not be mine.

they will not come to me, and another light steals me from within the darkness, though only for a short long while.

Originally posted on March 3rd, 2009
by Antony Kamau

This is quite possibly the very first poem posted on this blog, after having being invited to post my work. I wrote it impromptu, like they were words suppressed within crying out to be expressed. A floodgate was opened then and I hope the torrents never run dry.

they tumble down the hand
seeking freedom
seeking speech
seeking expression

I give them audience
to speak for me
and to me
the words much like poetry

]]> http://gladysmoore.blogspot.com/2009/11/dark-waking-dreams-revisited.html Sun, 15 Nov 2009 02:16:00 -0500 http://gladysmoore.blogspot.com/2009/11/dark-waking-dreams-revisited.html
It can also be a puzzle, a labyrinth of sorts (I love labyrinths in my poems), where nothing is what it seems and darkness is like cold boiling tar.

I cannot point to specific inspiration, other than imaginary sprites whispering dark things into my ear (these would be from the Darkess and the Old Soul series); I just imagined what it would be to lose my mind, not that I would want to. Nevertheless, read and enjoy, and let it have a meaning specific to you.

Dark Waking Dreams

the ground waves to salute my succulent bliss
its accent not without an unheard scream
the gauntlet has been served, its rim I will kiss
the portal to my waking dream

sirens call to me
why will that record not cease to repeat?
my sorrows chime and won't let me be
I will be naught to defeat

I go up the upside down stair
heaven will be my hell
despair my repair
will conundrums my fortune tell?

the never ending spiral my straight
upon the brink tribulations pour up to me
across the chasm I need a street
darkness boils scalding my glee

the path goes straight back to itself
sanity dogs me, taunting me to desperation
the ladder is too short, and reason stands upon a shelf
save me from this labyrinth of desecration!

Poem by Antony Kamau,
Originally posted on May 3rd, 2009


whisper to me, little shadows
scare me a while to giggles
imprison me into walled windows
they are too big, I cannot wiggle
]]> http://gladysmoore.blogspot.com/2009/11/sunflowers-of-my-youth-revisited.html Sat, 14 Nov 2009 21:55:00 -0500 http://gladysmoore.blogspot.com/2009/11/sunflowers-of-my-youth-revisited.html
Was it only last night that I was so young
In knowledge and in action
Now I lay here far older than I was yesterday
Soiled and unclean with a filth that will never wash off my soul
Was it only last night that I was so innocent
Believing in ever-lasting love which I now in my old age know doesn't exist
Believing that love in its all-encompassing glory could heal a world torn apart by hate
Was it only last night that the world seemed so flat
Now it with all its rounded dimensions has come crashing down on me
Bearing down on me with its overwhelming weight
Causing all my fragileness to buckle and snap
Devastating me with its one mighty stroke
Was it only last night that I was so young
Was it only last night that I felt so wonderful in my ignorance and innocence
Was it only last night

Towards the end of 2006, I took an avid interest in acquiring publication and began pouring through my notebooks in search of poems I thought worthy of editing for submission. Despite editing this particular poem several times, I only submitted it once—its subsequent rejection placed it on my back burner for an entire year.

When my cousin came to live with me in December of 2007, she brought with her a whole host of memories that had been locked away for the better part of a decade. Needing an outlet for all the emotions (guilt being at the forefront) that were suddenly drowning me, I once more poured through my notebooks. This is what became of the poem.

Sunflowers of My Youth



was it only last night that I was so young,
in knowledge and in action?
now I lay here, far older than I was yesterday,
soiled and unclean with a filth
that will never wash off my soul.
no longer an innocent,
now, I am among the damned,
and I long for the sunflowers of my youth.
my youth is liberally perfumed with the scent,
a sweet intoxicant that made me dim of wit
and convinced me of an invincibility I did not own.
all too soon, the world, with all its rounded dimensions,
crashed down upon me,
devastating me with one mighty, unforgivable stroke,
and stealing from me my youth.

was it only last night that I was so young?
that I felt so wonderful in my ignorance,
in my innocence.
oh, sweet sunflowers of my youth,
I crave the carefree air that you lent me,
but I no longer breathe as those who have not sinned do,
and with gills grown out of necessity I continue to live,
though I drown in the misery my wisdom has wreaked upon me.
and for what?
a love that blinded me against reason?
a love that I had already scorned?
redemption is beyond me.
were it offered,
I would probably refuse it.
wretches such as I do not deserve Paradise,
and it is the scent of light blue and not sunflowers
that will wreathe around me as I descend into the pit Hell.

~ Wamuhu Mwaura, posted on Words Much Like Poetry December 29, 2007

The poem gained its title from the Elizabeth Arden perfume Sunflowers, a scent I used to wear in my late teens. A scent I'd not worn for years until my cousin encouraged me (she did a lot of that) to purchase a bottle and wear it for old times' sake. I find the fragrance both evocative and enduring, two ideals I did not feel that I embodied when I took my first whiff of it from a tester at the age of fifteen. However, the shield that it provided me against my innate shyness was a fragile one and it crumbled under the weight of adult realizations and heartbreak of one form or another.

Once my cousin moved out, I found I could no longer tolerate all that the scent stirred within me. Perhaps, though... Perhaps, I came to the realization that time and experience had built the shield that my youth had denied me. Well, regardless, what endears this poems to me is that it earned Words Much Like Poetry its first fan. So, this one's for you, D.K.

Image: Anna Cervova, Sunflower, Public Domain Pictures.net ]]> http://gladysmoore.blogspot.com/2009/11/tireless-horses.html Sat, 14 Nov 2009 01:57:00 -0500 http://gladysmoore.blogspot.com/2009/11/tireless-horses.html
as I turn and look forth ... I see myself again; holding the reins to the tireless horses ...

I am driver and passenger both ...

the dark path behind ... echoes the even darker path ahead ...

I sit alone—where I go, I know not, but I vaguely remember whence I came ...

the only sound is the rhythmic trot of hooves ... like the tick of time

pulling me towards an inevitable fate ...

shadows of the past

pass by so fast ...

I throw my hand out in an effort to reach back,

against a shadowy tree I graze my finger,

in an effort to make my thoughts linger

... another stony bump ... I am thrown back to the wooden seat ... forced to look ahead

and endure the everlasting trot ... from the Tireless Horses

---------------------------------------------------
New From: Trapped in time series by J. Davies ]]> http://gladysmoore.blogspot.com/2009/11/old-blog-look.html Fri, 13 Nov 2009 17:50:00 -0500 http://gladysmoore.blogspot.com/2009/11/old-blog-look.html















I miss the old look, kinda cool huh? ]]> http://gladysmoore.blogspot.com/2009/11/dream-girl.html Fri, 13 Nov 2009 07:23:00 -0500 http://gladysmoore.blogspot.com/2009/11/dream-girl.html
sweet and little
soft or brittle?
smooth and supple
sweet and velvet as an apple

chocolate but light
brown but not white
simple smile
enticing eyes
holding you in the while
of thoughts and dreams
sweet and of forever ]]> http://gladysmoore.blogspot.com/2009/11/unconquered.html Thu, 12 Nov 2009 14:27:00 -0500 http://gladysmoore.blogspot.com/2009/11/unconquered.html fought for these lands to belong to me
and every time I have failed
every time these lands fiercely repulse me

my strength has failed me, I cannot fight anymore
conquests and crusades, I cannot do anymore
I fear my lands are barren, unattractive
inadequate for the needs of those who are me

I shall then sit and hope,
that one day I will be conquered by another
to whom I will give tribute
and who will offer me but a part of their lavish bounty ]]>