The ladder with 24 steps, he tried to do his best, working hard so he can rest, you won’t believe what’s next. He made it to the top, a 300 inch drop, intense heat made him stop, and so he fell off. What goes up must come down, we’re all just waiting for 5 o’clock to come around, and so he hits the ground, yet the heart will still pound. Two streams are entangled, his legs slowly dangled, see it from all the angles, ascension can be a danger. You’ll never walk again, though this feels like the end, try to pretend, you’re flying again.
Prison of words ( Hour 2)
Ive tried building poems like they were walls, that would withstand through the test of time.
But all ive done was constructed walls, that have trapped me inside.
Ive tried sewing and stitching words together that could shelter you from the wind,
but all i did was make padded walls, and straight jackets that tie me in.
Ive tried mixing and breaking down words and thoughts that could ease your pain,
But instead i made you feel worse, and made all that i speak in vain.
Ive tried cooking you food for thought, and word soup that will make you heal,
but you spat and you threw it up, Feeling empty and unfulfilled.
Ive attempted composing poems, that could break chains and set you free,
but they only confined you more, And imprisoned you with me.
Rachnoc lives Hour 8
Cave lakes floatation,
Eight legg-ed fixation, in death,
Night skies deliver.
Endarkening
High in the northen hemisphere
We’ve been, it’s true:
Since late in June
Embarking on endarkening.
Despite its annual pressence here
The shorter days,
(still summer-hazed)
Are yearly worth remarkening.
Of such delights is Earth supplied
That time still takes us by surprise
hour 8: as it pours
Roses and thorns
and roses again
Like the sun shines
as it always will
You show up in the
most perfect places
A scared breath
in a sacred moment
And if not yet,
then someday
High by the beach
There she was lying on the shore washed
up with the rest of the tide
& all I could do
was pound on
the
glass, trying
to save her from the
tsunami beating her down
waiting to pounce & take her away.
Hour 8: Corruption tearing our land apart
Mothers of African kids have learnt to cook empty pot as lullaby
to pet their hungry wards to bed,
they’ve done it, not once, not twice
it has become an addiction.
Fathers of African kids have rolled their father’s name
into their pant pockets
hunger doesn’t exist with pride on the same skin.
Their skins are burnt in everyday sun, they have
children, they have wives waiting for their breadwinner
like thirsty dogs await the rain in a desert
It’s so sad for Africa, a lion has allowed itself
to be tamed into a bottle of wine,
our politicians have served too much of our lion-ness to international allies to cover up
their corruptions,
local farmers are the ones feeling the heat,
ordinary men are the ones catching hope in the land like they
are catching air particles
civil servants are the ones shock absorbing all the damages
our leaders have caused the continent.
© Àdèlé
Hour 8 image prompt- Camping
The sky is dark
Just like my heart
When trapped within the city
So sometimes we seek refuge
Far from home
Some by choice but it can be seen
That not all are so lucky
Unhoused this is their day to day
So we take small refuge in the light
Retrieved from the sky and firelight
With the beauty of moon and stars
And warmth of friends within the light
Refuge from the city
Beneath the stars tonight
Young & beautiful
Those were different days
when all we ever wanted was
to feel wanted.
& somehow we were,
even if we couldn’t see it.
I still remember when it all
came crashing down.
It was the most painful thing but
soon the hands began moving.
Before long, it had dissipated into
oblivion & suddenly light began returning
in the oddest way.
That was the day I realized I was never lost;
I just had yet to be found.
hour eight – without lyrics
Before, I was
drowning in silence.
Without you would be life without music.
Of all the things that move through me,
as the afternoon sunlight stretches over our bed
I give myself to you, taste my skin
like you do when our legs are tangled.
Our song comes to an end
You carry me to the water and I wait
for something more to come,
I stand naked,
not quite ready to wash away this day
I think about what kind of wood would I need to make a violin.
What about a boat to sail away in?
What about sheet music?
What if I capsize?
I hate to think of all those notes getting lost at sea.
Where does silence come from?