Community Poems
99. In My Perfect World
by Kea Campbell
In a perfect world, you and I could saunter— free.
Breathing fresh, salt-licked air.
Where the ocean reaches for our feet, and the sun melts into the sea, and the sky drapes over its long lost twin.
Where the forest and the sky and the land love humanity dearly, like a neighborhood that could thrive for eternity.
In a perfect world, there would be no bicker of capitalists and environmentalists— merely political empathy.
I dream of boring news channels.
When red, white, and blue don't seem so embarrassing, nor disgraceful to half of the country, and "liberty and justice for all" hugs "all" comfortably.
When the government is wed to candor bound by the promise of life and liberty, and diplomacy relieves, and monopolies fancy consumers' well-being.
......
The Dream Patrol
by Evelyn Judy Buehler
Willie Winkie lived in a land of magic, in the region called Butterfly Haven;
For Willie was a diminutive elf, like the violet blossoms, of purple fixation.
Willie and his beloved wife, Elvira, lived highly organized, pleasant lives;
For magic impels ways and customs to differ, like buds, as spring arrives.
Everyone called Willie Winkie, 'Wee,' since most elves were notably bigger;
But, he was Director of Dreams, scattering joys of plum night, with vigor.
Violence was completely unheard of, inside their peace loving community,
......
Annual Hymns
by Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu
Sisters of the grey night,
Assemble on the chest of the hill.
The heavens enjoy seeing your wild gowns billow along
When the winds hiss with humble pride,
And when your restless lips murmur praises
To the Most High —
In elevated voices and strength.
Remember the summons and hasten
Towards the crest of the hill.
Curse the viper’s mouth and spit upon its fangs.
......
The Festival of African Rain
by Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu
The natives have
(since the seventh month peeped
through the lean crescent eye of the moon)
worn cloaks of festivities.
They dance the rites,
squelching proudly in mud and green pools
of water.
On their heads are smouldering fires of corns
And pears, and ingredients of a lush season.
......
The Bridge
by Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu
We call her Oma.
She’s a simple, old, haggard wooden bridge
In my neighbourhood,
On the shaved navel of the forest, heavy and solemn,
With the colour of an aged, wizened python,
Spotted here and there and striped there and then.
So ramshackle, but friendly, cosy to the naked feet,
With that royal smell of wood-cellar combined with
The health of ancient wine.
Nothing more . . . .
......
99. In My Perfect World
by Kea Campbell
In a perfect world, you and I could saunter— free.
Breathing fresh, salt-licked air.
Where the ocean reaches for our feet, and the sun melts into the sea, and the sky drapes over its long lost twin.
Where the forest and the sky and the land love humanity dearly, like a neighborhood that could thrive for eternity.
In a perfect world, there would be no bicker of capitalists and environmentalists— merely political empathy.
I dream of boring news channels.
When red, white, and blue don't seem so embarrassing, nor disgraceful to half of the country, and "liberty and justice for all" hugs "all" comfortably.
When the government is wed to candor bound by the promise of life and liberty, and diplomacy relieves, and monopolies fancy consumers' well-being.
......
The Bridge
by Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu
We call her Oma.
She’s a simple, old, haggard wooden bridge
In my neighbourhood,
On the shaved navel of the forest, heavy and solemn,
With the colour of an aged, wizened python,
Spotted here and there and striped there and then.
So ramshackle, but friendly, cosy to the naked feet,
With that royal smell of wood-cellar combined with
The health of ancient wine.
Nothing more . . . .
......
The Wrong Train
by Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu
London fog, harshly early with strained warning,
Looms all over the image of the hectic city
There’s the smell of mists and the taste of
Frozen rain gathered before dawn.
Pulses brake and start,
And lungs are besieged by distilled grime,
Industrial tainting.
I can’t see well beyond five feet ahead of me
As I labour to walk,
But headlamps from crawling cars and buses
......
Annual Hymns
by Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu
Sisters of the grey night,
Assemble on the chest of the hill.
The heavens enjoy seeing your wild gowns billow along
When the winds hiss with humble pride,
And when your restless lips murmur praises
To the Most High —
In elevated voices and strength.
Remember the summons and hasten
Towards the crest of the hill.
Curse the viper’s mouth and spit upon its fangs.
......
fleet-footed good
by Rikske Kessner
And as you walk through these familiar streets,
You notice small details you used to overlook:
The worn-out benches where people rest,
The graffiti that boldly splashes stories;
The fleeting smiles of passing strangers…
Each moment feels so much more precious-
Each breath a gift, not to be taken for granted.
You accept that endings are part of the journey;
......
