Post-weekend Poetry 129: Living by Gboyero Felix

Welcome to Post-weekend Poetry and the one hundred and twenty-ninth poem in this series. This week’s piece is by Gboyero Felix.

Living

fun 921534Uncertainty as it’s defined

Warlock in its dismay

Living seems odd all the day

Just as the beautiful lady experiences senescence

It’s started well at dawn

But flux on noon day

Waxed further to disdain night

All seems not worthy to live for

But living we shall live it

A question yet define is living….

Its authenticity gurps as a chameleon…

*

I asked Gboyero what prompted this piece and he said…

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Post-weekend Poetry 128: A Frozen Heart That Could Be Mine by Samantha Wilcox

Welcome to Post-weekend Poetry and the one hundred and twenty-eighth poem in this series. This week’s piece is by Samantha Wilcox.

A Frozen Heart That Could Be Mine

frozen heart 898289A frozen heart that could be mine

I don’t look

So I don’t find

Sodden trampled leaves beneath me

Slick brown glistening branches beat me

Fast of tread as wind whips chest

Seeking out what isn’t there to take

Buried deep amongst the tissues, vessels,

Bloody secrets twisted, nestled

A shout behind me in the dark

My name, his voice a question mark

I tried. Time and again, I tried

Slow as moments lost at sea

Fast as lifetimes unseen pass

The flow of warmth was chilled to ice

As broken arteries perhaps. I tried

I could not love you

I cannot love. Too tired to try again

A frozen heart that could be mine?

But nothing answers me this time around

And so the ground

Awaits me.

*

I asked Samantha what prompted this piece and she said…

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Post-weekend Poetry 127: Huózhe by Samantha Wilcox

Welcome to Post-weekend Poetry and the one hundred and twenty-seventh poem in this series. This week’s piece is by Samantha Wilcox.

Huózhe

An ever-changing tonal wail

competing with the Chinese violin

People move arms up

And circle the air

Sashay hips

Fixed stare

 

Daylight in the entrance to the park

Or later as fading light turns to dark

Colour lights by battery

red and blue

Cascades from cheapest plastic

Some, a few

Are sold

But eggs or chestnuts make the sales

Keep the streets alive with smells

 

Tofu, eggplant, pineapple

Dusty carts laden with foods

Stand on corners by the roads

Under the bridges

And next to the lights

Walking through another time

Breathing smoke and dust and grime

Staying close to locals to make it through the roads

The weaving cars, buses, bikes

Cross safely to the other side

*

I asked Samantha what prompted this piece and she said…

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Post-weekend Poetry 126: Standing at the very edge by Abhishek Shukla

Abhishek ShuklaWelcome to Post-weekend Poetry and the one hundred and twenty-sixth poem in this series. This week’s piece is by Abhishek Shukla.

Standing at the very edge

Standing at the very edge

I sense the essence of life.

 

With the eye of determination

When I look up at the endless sky,

I realize it is not that high.

 

With the courage of ideals,

I hear the waves of the ocean

I realize it can’t even move,

anchor of my strength.

 

When I start my journey with speed of will,

I go unstoppable, tearing the Storm.

 

When I see the hurdles in my way

I laugh at diminutive thorns

Which think they will make me slow

From reaching the other end

Where success awaits me as beautiful as a red rose

 

And when I see into myself

I realize an untapped potential

Which when nurtured with hard work under the light of my dream

Will give me the success and indeed the happiness that I need

 

So I stand at the very edge,

To sense the essence of life.

*

I asked Abhishek what prompted this piece and he said…

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Post-weekend Poetry 125: Lady Catherine by Siana Holmes

Lady Catherine coverWelcome to Post-weekend Poetry and the one hundred and twenty-fifth poem in this series. This week’s piece is by Siana Holmes and is the opening poem from P J Flynn’s novella Lady Catherine.

Lady Catherine

Two souls combine,

An apparition introduction.

Behind the cloak and hood,

A beauty seduction.

Travelled through on a dream,

But turns true to the flesh.

A beauty locked in time,

Comes back after death.

On the prowl for a victim,

Alexander King she chooses.

Her beauty and manipulation,

Are the weapons she uses.

Visions of illusions,

Well planned out heists.

To a dagger awaiting,

A love sacrifice.

An opportunity to travel,

Back to the scene.

Of a decided life waiting,

Which all starts with a dream.

*

I asked Siana what prompted this piece and she said…

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Post-weekend Poetry 124: You Can’t Buy Me, O.C.D. by Joanne Hayle

Welcome to Post-weekend Poetry and the one hundred and twenty-fourth poem in this series. This week’s piece is by Joanne Hayle.

You Can’t Buy Me, O.C.D.

Unavailable on the high street

Or the finest of boutiques

O.C.D. shares my body

It’s not a perfect fit

It chooses to adorn me

Whatever my price tag or tastes

I lather soap to fend off fears

Hands and arms are dusted, dusty

One day I was asked if I’d been burned

It was twenty-four degrees C,

My arms aired and seen

Caused surprise or was it chagrin?

Please do not feel sorry for me

I am getting stronger, wiser

The negative morphs into a photo

And I can see me peeking brave

The must have clothes

Haircut and age defying cream

Become a folly for others

Me? I strive to repurchase me

If you feel that you bum’s too big

That hair dye is to be liberally applied

If you wish for surgery and chemical peels

I cannot judge, you’re free to decide

I say though, when fashions have passed

When wrinkles have graced your face

True beauty that can’t be bought

Is truth wrestled from O.C.D’s grasp.

*

I asked Joanne what prompted this piece and she said…

Thankfully my OCD/PTSD has become a lot better lately but this poem represents how these illnesses do not discriminate, but then, which illness does? Continue reading

Post-weekend Poetry 123: Throne by Tokoni Uti

Tokoni UtiWelcome to Post-weekend Poetry and the one hundred and twenty-third poem in this series. This week’s piece is by poet and novelist Tokoni Uti.

Throne

The silver-laced seat of power sits before the gold-plated crucifix.

The lesser ones sit in duplicates of six.

The stranger scans the room with trained eyes.

And charms the watching audience with precise lies.

His lips quiver in reference to aged symbols.

His fingers circle in adoration of ancient enrol.

He sits steadily in the middle of comfort and torment.

And demands silence in the execution of judgment.

*

I asked Tokoni to tell us more about this piece and she said…

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