(For all those in crisis between faith
Pour ink, the quills of an individual,
a soul lauded as a poet; for what is gazing at the sky?
Is the sky a misfit ground to belabor pain?
Or is it a template for higher awakening?
Come hither my torn frame,
Tempest, a roar in the seas,
Thence wherewith myrrh or thyme.
For many questions flood my susceptible fragility.
Wince, God did you deceive us.
(God did you deceive us?)
Fragility, you call it a soul.
Pray, tell me the abundance of your ash-tray.
No whistling red owls in midsummer gowns.
Today, I reek in my numerous wars.
Losing battles, gaining scars.
Armored by jaded burnt pages.
But I’m entombed by religious putrid guilt,
Hammered by deluded ‘men of cloak,’ crafty and then silence.
(Am I too ignorant?)
Here’s a peppered seat, Sit God.
Think then, is the poet proud with eccentric idealism, Esotericism!
One of spiritual sex, a sort donned at the tip of your crown.
The poet cannot make a stone dance but marvel.
So I submit my sonnets to Sufi tabs,
Engorging Timbuktu lost sheets in my box voice.
Think, observations blood oceanic and occultist.
Rushdie verses and naked suffering.
Then strike me …
of wilted hidden mysteries,
of construed abundance I know not off.
The poet shatters at infinity, scavenging
Clean Einstein’s dice or swallow it.
Fugitive souls; humanity cries for you,
It’s quite a battle; destroy pangs of selfish gold,
Enhance Rumi’s and Omar’s atoned posture, as the pious monks.
Detonate the town-friers.
The politician, corrupt, greedy, terrorist and bloodthirsty.
Clean the burning orchards of history.
Razor-blade sand and the people lost by promiscuous swords.
Clean suckered and hexagonal rapists.
Clean Borno, Damascus, Gaza, Lamu …
Watch us destroy each other, fatigued God?
No rhythm, only doubt and a weary soul.
Fluffed in a donkey’s menial rags,royally torn.
Dappled by ghostly mirrors, seductively tempting.
No reflective hammers. No rhyming submissions.
No end to hallucinations, illusions and
Then what remains of my tepid frame,
Or my whimpering heart, scorned, scared and cold.
Clean, polish my periphery.
Academicians of science, logical summations.
Clean the geography of my soul’s poverty.
Command, clean malevolence in primal sturdy on your hands.
Clean then, my poesy of humanity.
Professors’ poetry, god tamed frame from abandoned metaphors,
Hence I lurk among shadows of appeasement.
A kick, shuffle.
God. Silence. Roar. Temper. Or
Dance at the feet of your children.
Apologize abandoning that child’s swollen problems.
Literal, as a fable – Act.
Annihilate guilt for freewill is a shared
I ask having known chaos that sets my skin on inferno.
Today, the poet is a parrot
And God is the melodious pentameters.
Clean then the voice of reason and exist with transcendence
Except for the shroud of uncertainty.
That of whittles of Wheatley and nudists voyagers inspiration.
Perfect us in peace of my feeble understanding.
Carnage romped in the Library of Alexandria,
Springs of Rome, Diners of Palestine and Twinkles of Kenya.
Where cometh the whet of blood and riches?
The house of poets,
Fellowships from imagination and experience.
I reckon the gospel of humanity.
God heighten your ears, now!
Let us gather at the construction of livelihood.
Let it begin with us.
Freedom to live a life of love.
I cry the momentum for humans, peace and love.
© Eddy Ongili 2014
(From the collection ‘Purity of Burnt Pages’)