Tamara Lakomy… Calvary (in the) Fields of Waste

 

Calvary

I held you in the brilliance of my tear
Nothing could assuage the radiance of your soul
But you burned my touch as I drew near
You opened all the scars that held me whole
 
You whipped my flesh with words in barbs
And watched of the furrows of streaming blood
For you came to me in the guise of angels in all garbs
Just to trample my spark in conquest into the mud
 
I held you in the palm of my hand, as a nail against a cross
Watched your loving hatred perforate my tender care
For in the desecration of my heart you see no loss
And you see an illuminated spectacle of my despair
 
You anointed the altars of my devotion with my entrails
And laughed as the dismal cry of the abyss as I wept
As the sunlight drowns beneath the horizon, my life fails
In a bloodbath of forsaken hopes as mercy slept
 
You are nothing but the razor that I both love and despise
Brilliant as those stars that are cold yet a glory to our eyes
For in the sundering of my existence there is nothing but your lies
Always waiting to be held again in my hand to nail me to my demise
 
I am a relinquished sacrifice, denied the resurrection of hope
Till my bones dry and bleach and the garments rags fluttering free
I remain a prisoner of your Calvary, dangling by a silken rope
Woven of the dreams I once conceived, prey to your murderous spree
 
So in the brilliance of my tear, I augur the omens of your abhorrent spite
And hold in abeyance the beating of my heart lest you stalk my will
And in every denuding of my soul, and in the venom of your poisonous bite
I fade into oblivion with the confines of the world to haunt and fill….
 
 
 

Fields of Waste

The fields of waste are open, wide is my wound
Vaster than the horizon I drink with avid eyes
For there is nothing hollower than my chaos, my memory doomed
The grave beneath shall be the dome of my skies
 
There shall be no more sunshine, no more breath of air
As slowly the deconstructed mind errs as a shrieking fear
That haunts the shadows of the barrows, crouching in the devil’s lair
All is coming to an end, your untimely death is near
 
But what have you reaped of the wayward times, casting lots
What have you earned of your mortal sojourn, conquering the beast
The animal who resides in your subconscious, your sagacity blots
But still from the shorn veins, the agony is released
 
Do we prize the allotted time, as a remuneration for our insolence
Our beliefs in the poignancy of endeavours soon to greet the dust
But be wary of the signs of the horror of awakening from our indolence
For naught shall grant you immortality when your exploits end in rust
 
There is no glory in our sublime decline, moribund flesh and ribaldry
There is no irenic hell for our souls that burn like the conflagration of the stars
Caged in the immense cages of their own design, with an art surpassing sygaldry
We await our unravelling and decay, behind our prison’s gilded bars
 
I have tasted my spirit, from the gullet leaping high in its escape
For it seeks the winds, to be shredded as sea foam on broken waves
Into the chasms of the rim of the world, into the dismal awning agape
Of the pits of our torments that forever our dismal master craves
 
Sing for the skies that have no soul, eyeless auguring the fates of men
Forever looking down in spite at the vanity of the fruitless machinations
So descend from your throne creator, come walk the realms of creation again
For made in some erroneous image we live in delusions of dominations
 
 

I am an author, and a poet, but I have never sought to publish my poetry before as it was deemed too dark and heavy, laden with a melancholy and metaphysical twist that most people could not relate to. I grew up in North Africa, a tribal Amazigh feminist girl in a repressive regime, witnessing many dark things that have scarred my memory. I grew up around the mystical marabouts and the witch doctors that ruled over the souls, I was exposed to a wilderness of spirit and bare human cruelty that the West seldom comprehends; radicalisation, jihad, organ trafficking and the likes.

Copyright © 2016 by Tamara Lakomy

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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Jason Constantine Ford… Returning to Mount Everest

 

Returning to Mount Everest

A single picture captures our faces below the sun

Upon a mountain we climbed together as one.

Our early moments of standing near clouds are enthroned in time

As we are looking back to achievement sublime.

Although the glory of this event has passed away,

Our memories of climbing the mountain are ones that stay.

Retracing our steps before we reached the mountain peak,

We travel back to times of either being strong or weak.

A time when we considered returning to the mountain’s base

Halfway through our climb is fading trace by trace.

Our time of emotional weakness is being replaced

With memories linked to a scene where past doubts are defaced.

Memories of reaching the mountain’s peak are sparks that ignite

The radiance of seeing the world from its’ greatest height.

 

Copyright © 2016 by Jason Constantine Ford

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jason Constantine Ford… My Baby and Me

 

My Baby and Me

Looking back at a picture recently taken,

Convinces me that my eyes are not mistaken.

As I am holding my youngest baby in my arms,

I contrast the warmth of her touch to an image of her charms.

The distance between the mobile phone I am holding

And my eyes is a gush of air with sweetness unfolding.

As the both of us are gazing at a moment in time,

My baby’s love raises my emotions to feelings sublime.

Her presence is a spark of strength reaching well beyond

This moment in time as we achieve a special bond.

She is touching my face with the grip of tenderness sweet

As a merging of the past and the present is complete.

With moments ticking, I take another picture with my phone,
Assuring my baby that she shall never be alone.

 

Copyright © 2015 by Jason Constantine Ford

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kudzai Mahwite… Pressure It Is But Do Not Crack

 

Pressure It Is But Do Not Crack

Wit and interest sure be stale,
Angry and dry but sure not pale,
Sure could do with a glass of ale,

Yet this is my boat and I must sail.

Dawn did break before timbers creak,
Nightly bobbing, rest not robbing,
Gothic vision of what could be,

Yet bliss do line sweet reminisce.

When heat do atoms make awake,
Felt I the leak where timber crack,
Knew full well what I do lack,
Some peace and rest before timbers break.

 

Kudzai Mahwite is a young Zimbabwean poet inspired greatly by the works and life of William Shakespeare. He is an Economics student and as part of his studies runs a small-time blog on the African Economy. Kudzai is also a Sportswriter with Football.co.uk.You can follow him on Twitter @sir_tos.

Copyright © 2015 by Kudzai Mahwite

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jason Constanetine Ford… A Return of Painful Years

 

A Return of Painful Years

Within the deepest breaths of inner sleep,
My nose inhales a scent infused with bitter fears.
Seconds are passing through the tears I weep
With trauma beyond a horde of jeers.
The lonely tribal years of being ostracized
Are coming back as strength of mind is now excised.
The set of words expelling me from my tribe
Are hammering against my ears as painful vibe.
Accusations spread across a span of years
As I confront a form of pain which stays in place.
The morose memories inflicting pain for years
Are draining me as strength is gone without a trace.
Sequence of memories are passing through my mind
As path of escape is a route which I cannot find.

 

Jason Constantine Ford is from East Perth in W.A, Australia. He works at a book shop and has over fifty publications of poetry in various poetry magazine, ezines and journals from around the world. He has a traditional approach to poetry as he is dedicated to the cause of rhyming Poems.

Copyright © 2014 by Jason Constanetine Ford