The Missing Piece

Nigeria 
Suddenly reemerged
A forgotten Place
Eyes still watching,
Crushed with pity
Abode la seesaws
No one could really understand
The mood of these children
Confronts in fears even in their dreams
Worries encroaches
Their little spaces
There was no longer
A day without chaos
Dearest motherland
In yet another springs
I will remember your struggles
Clasped in my memory
Bookmarked for resurgences
A place of last and failing hopes
Filled with disillusion
Where
Leaders look so disgruntled
A place where
Chaos has finally found a
Perfect residual
Where things are never what it seems
Humans are still laboring in vain
Where the gloating few reap other people’s labor
A place so exhausted with confusion
Greedily and grimy with
Corruption
Illusions
Fatalist.
And disgruntled humans
With necks built in their own
Perfectly -built gears
A place that claimed to have everything
Knows it all, if not everything,
A place where pride takes over humanity
A place where memos, are tactfully concealed
Yet you can fetch it from afar
A place where I was born’
A place where little lads are rerouted
From place to place
Slaughtered in batches
By the powerful few
A place where their rulers should be
Sadly remembered, orchestrated
Leave them ashamed to even compete
In the face of the universe
When you have publicly failed your innocent ones
What else does your joy give us?
It left us worried
Imaging
Wondering
Thinking
Worrying
That we are
Fully doomed
A place so
Hopelessly forgotten

Where humanity fail to exist
A place I knew not
Too long ago
A placed that has failed countless
Including those that served religiously
Yet died like a
Rat in a forgotten sea pans.

 

My Tribute To National Poetry Month

As a young girl growing up without my mother, one of the things that helped me through it all was my love for poetry and my God. It started back from home, where all I had left was hope  and my abilities to succeed as a young girl growing up in midst of chaos. There was so much confusion, especially when there had been too many peoples’ input. In my life, I had to move from one house to another; as someone who had many uncles, each house was different, then each lesson learned from each house was different too. So oftentimes, there was confusion in remembering all the rules from all these different houses. But my pain was far from  being over, pain from not knowing what would happen, it became more painful when I was looking for closure. That’s how I got involved with poetry.

For me, poetry has soul, it has rhythm, and for the most part, it is very consoling. As years have gone by, I have continued to invest in poetry. Why? Because it is very easy to shed tears of joy or sadness.

Recently during National Poetry Month, oftentimes there is a confusion about poetry which to me should not be. I think suffering sometimes leads  someone to obtaining wisdom that other people may not understand. In life, it easy to talk about what you know than when somebody else explains it to you. Also, as humans, we can only explain what we can to people but know that we can never get it right. We cannot have it both ways. We will be judged by it, especially with our honest intentions.

I know some people will be questioning  my love for religion when I can still lament on the pains I went through with my own writing. If you ever lived in my world, it would probably make more sense; it is real and almost cost me a lot. I have never had a dificult life as a child, but I have seen people go through so much.

How I escaped suffering was that I always sought advice from people that are more knowledgeable than myself. I always seek protection too from God. I may not be preaching the Gospel here, but I am a very religious person. But anyway, this is the best advice I thought I had cherished throughout this month of poetry. Advice to  Young Poets, even for people like me who are trying to publish their poetry, try to be hilarious. Have a sense of humor about it.

I Blog Because Poetry Cannot Be Serious.

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Advice to a Young Poet

  by Carl Phillips – See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/23506#sthash.pm2fqMVb.dpuf

Postcard: Advice to a Young Poet

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/www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/22946#sthash.dwzc7zDI.deEkdENG.dpuf

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by Cynthia Cruz

http://www.poets.org/images/post_cruz525.jpg

Listen only to the small voice.

 

© 2013, Academy of American Poets. All Rights Reserved.

Daily Prompt: Free Verse Poem Shadow

Prompt: Unleash Your Inner Dickinson

Walking over my shadow, I am dreaded with my reflections.

The glance at a closer range makes it bearable to watch.

I saw in a shadow, peace within.

A love so amazing,

A wondrous love,

A shadow where my reflection rains supreme.

In total sublimation,

Lofty in thoughts,

Protecting me from my own fear

Thoughts that cause me to tangle up and disappear.

You gave me the ability to carry on.

You liberate me from the rushing rivers.

Even in the strangest of all places.

Even when I stumbled over,

Of a concrete, in a mist of chaos.

I long for a peaceful river,

Quiet river.

Where the real shadow will reign supreme.

Where I will not be judged no more.

Where is my shadow, my beloved instincts?

Save me from my own nightmares.

Let me be strong for the work I have unfinished.

POEM: Young At Hearts

 If there is a way to go back and be 16 again

It will be so easy, won`t it, no ill feelings I suppose

At least we have all the things to share, things to say

Love flies at 16; it stops and fully develops at 18

By eighteen your heart must have tasted pain

Ironically the pain will continue if they allowed it

Remember you are a flower

By 22 you must have seen it all

Whether is pain from the entire unknown, for knowing and all of the above?

How could you not see the danger looming,

I guess nobody even warn you of an imminent danger.

Love is real if you believe it, it is wrong if you fall from the opposite side

It is soothing if you wait for the real deal

Yet remember you are the hope

Don’t let anybody just tell you otherwise

Be wise, be sensible, be kind and listen to your elders,

They have passed through those rough ages; it hurts if you think you know

Take your time; watch out for storytellers, less you hear all they want you to hear

I promised that they have only words less action

Why because they are just experimenting like all of us

At last you will end up like most of us did.

Went home broken

I wish I can go back and play my own music, the way I want it, and how I want it played out in real life.

Why because reality demands us.

Creative Mind

Creative mind

In a deep blue cottage

buried his mind on things never  been discovered

Waited patiently, glaring lonely at murky lanes

Create perfect words for those that will eventually find love

Thou softens dangers with a smooth rhetoric

An invisible creature, yet physically present

Thou sees beyond our imaginations


He often goes to places that other minds cannot go

See clouds in a deep blue ocean

Lift sand from a surging river

Wonder alone in the mist of fogs

Worried that he may not make it alive to tell his ordeals

Creator of words, imagination of likeness

concerned about his endless love for dangers

Calling All Pocketeers!

Calling All Pocketeers!
Tomorrow is Poem in Your Pocket Day. At this year’s annual event, millions of people throughout the United States will carry poems in their pockets and share them with others. Make sure you’re ready!

1) Pick your poem

Find the perfect pocket poem for tomorrow’s celebration by exploring the collection of downloadable poem PDFs on Poets.org.

2) Encourage friends to participate

Help your friends find their own pocket poems and share your experiences from past Pocket Days. On Twitter, help spread the word about Pocket Day by using the hashtag #pocketpoem.

3) Discover Pocket Day events from coast to coast

 

The National Poetry Calendar on Poets.org has listings of Pocket Day events from California to North Carolina.

Get inspired!

Here are some examples of creative ways to celebrate Poem in Your Pocket Day from participants throughout the United States.

Each year on Poem in Your Pocket Day, the town of Charlottesville, VA unites in a day-long celebration of poetry spear-headed by Jefferson-Madison Regional Library.

Abrams Publishing Offices, NYC
Shoppers at Mrs. Dalloway’s Literary & Garden Arts Bookstore in Berkeley, CA can pick up pocket poems by Bay Area poets.
 
At ABRAMS Publishing in New York City, staff have plastered poems throughout their offices. 
Falcon Heights Elementary School students
Businesses in Ferndale, WA, such as McKay’s Variety, Good Burger, Barb’s Pies and Pastries, Find Your Fashion, Kula Yoga, and Gentle Acupuncture will offer a discount to shoppers that share pocket poems.
Students at an elementary school in Falcon Heights, MN have celebrated by making their own poem-filled pockets, writing poems in chalk outside the school, and posting hidden poems.
April 17, 2013
From our Sponsors:

Special thanks to
the partners and sponsors who make National Poetry Month possible:
American Booksellers
Association
American Library Association
 

EBSCO
National Council of Teachers of English
 
National Endowment 
for the Arts
Thanks for being a part of the Academy of American Poets community. To learn about our other programs, including the annual Poets Forum, visit Poets.org. Poem in Your Pocket video courtesy of Wendy Saz, Jefferson-Madison Regional Library, and www.jonokino.com. Poem in Your Pocket student photo © by Nan Knutsen, Falcon Heights Elementary School.
This email was sent to nakanno1@aol.com by poetnews@poets.org |
Academy of American Poets | 75 Maiden Lane | Suite 901 | New York | NY | 10038

Ode To Who I Am

I know who I am.

I grew up in a small town in Africa,

a town filled with heat and a cool breeze at the same time to say the least,

a town where little boys hunt with catapults.

With smiling faces even when there was no hope,

a town where everyone had the same slate to write instead of using blackboards,

a town where children will carelessly drop their slate only to be returned to them by  just a passerby.

how many of them  even realized they were not writing properly.

I know who I am.

A girl who thinks too much, worries too much about others,

spent many days crying for all the kids who had lost their mothers at young ages,

because I was one of them.

To them I say, “There is always hope.”

To them I will always say to them, “There is refuge.”

To them I will encourage them to dream big,  not settle.

To them I will tell them  not to hear all the wrong voices. “Hear the good ones!”

I know who I am.

A girl heartbroken at the age of 2o years,

innocently waiting for love that came late.

It was so late, yet it did not spare me from pain.

Bringing me to question, what about it?

Part of what I have dealt with all my life,

I know who I am.

A girl that has nothing wrong to say to anyone,

a girl very conscious of the thin air in the sky,

a girl who can whisper hope to a dying kid,

a girl whose only hope was to write, write, and write.

A girl with so much to say, so much to share so much to learn,

A girl who is scared that Africa as a whole will never experience freedom as far as they continue to have selfish leaders.

Where is the hope, where is life, where is leverage?

A girl that has been given so much and much is expected from .

I hope all of you can make my dream come through.

I am a writer; I have mechanisms to quench pain. I am alert.

I love where I am now. It would have been different if I was still oversees.

Probably I would have been dead by now without saying all I have to say.

They always say to me, “Never bite the fingers that fed you,”

but I cannot help it than to lament about who I really am.