Poems

Washed Off

 

That raging fire,

fierce than the ocean’s desire.

That raging fire,

That erupts not from the sky but something higher.

My blood wasn’t enough to crumble it,

I enraged and enraged and killed a bit.

Misused my soul,

Heart black as coal.

I yelled and roared,

But the cliff was too soar.

As a sword plunged through my heart,

The ocean lifted, apart.

The fire did not wash off

By the oceans rage

The fire did not wash off

By the blood inside me caged

The fire did not wash off

by my cruelty or sage

The fire washed off

By a teensy drop of tear from my pain.

It’s eerie silence and suddenly...

I’ve fallen again,

With no desire or fame

 

Simon Rosea D’vinca

 

 

 

Raindrops

 

Raindrops fell and trickled down my pained face,

Stained, disfigured, with grief and sorrow.

Dark, expected eyes searched in the distance

Waiting for your return

Hoping it is a dream, a nightmare, an illusion,

Their reality, their headline, not mine.

I heard your incomprehensible babbles

Your muffled groans of intense pain

Those shed tears inked your transforming face

And your eyes said “Farewell.”

Now I hear you from the other side

I see you

No it’s not a trick of the mind

I saw you yesterday, today, and now

You are my memory.

When my eyelids can no longer stay awake

And the world slumbers

I hear you in the silence,

When I am sitting on the edge of life,

And life’s light is dim

Your arms are my blanket and I am safe.

I held you and pleaded

“Please mama, please don’t go.

Don’t leave me alone!’

But you gently let go.

You melted like a flake of snow

You became my raindrops.

 

Colleen Grant Serju

 

 

 

 

Hurricane Dorian - aftermath

 

The now lonely landscape

Is oppressed with the poignant imposition

Of perilous planks, wood chips, splinters, sticks, and bricks

Strewn across every visible square-foot of terrain.

The few rafters that remain

Are now dangerous fragments

Of their original construct and purpose

Exposing innumerable projectiles

Precariously projecting daggers, and danger.

 

 

While on the ground

Nails surreptitiously take their stand

To injure the suffering and unwary one -

Scavenging through broken houses

Which were once hospitable homes

On prime residential land.

 

Men searching in and under wrecked vehicles -

Once reliable transports

Now themselves transported by the whim

Of the water, waves, and wind:

Men scouring through the imposing surf and surge

Which have captured

Acres of land and belongings.

 

But more so, bodies

Bodies uncounted and unaccounted for

Disguised and drifting in 'rivers' of water

Or covered in 'ravines' of rubble!

A sad and serene scene!

Painful to even imagine!

It's the storm's aftermath!

We must do something to fix that!

 

 

Hyacinth J. Burgess-Gregory