Words Much Like Poetry

Andromeda, Gustave Doré Part of the collection Dues for the Repose: From Words Much Like Poetry  by Wamuhu Mwaura "   Near Joppa, guarded by a monster of the Earthshaker’s lending , I left her chained without hope—for Perseus is long dead , abandoned to oblivion by the fickle beliefs of men —  " [ Kindle Edition for instant reading. ]

"In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends." ~ Martin Luther King, Jr. it was never my intent to give silence sovereignty, dominion over my kingdom hub. nor did I mean to gather self-pity and lay it about, a moat to the castle of my heart. I assigned no consequence, gave no thought to the betrayal my quiescence would become to those who had constructed— in dedicated manner— majestic tower rooms, placed at loving heights distinctly for my solace, if ever I had need of them. but know also, that I did not wish to place a strain upon the unstinting love proffered me— friendships nurtured through years that exist now only in memory— by tendering the account of my trials as they occurred. I thought my tragedies best told in the sullen aftermath, when the sound of their relation would have come across as nothing more than muted noises to ears that were ringing with the livid memories of my misery. on...

This was my response to a story challenge put forth by Milton Davis . Find his group, Sword and Soul , on Black Science Fiction Society . Today, there is time enough for stillness. Time enough to rest the calloused soles of my conflict laden feet upon the bare tile. Time enough to look west, out over the nshya , to the distant marshes. They give rise to a mist this day that reaches humid tendrils across the sprawling farmlands which divide the palace from the swamps. Mist which brings with it echoes, remnants of the fallen warriors of my tribe, who beat with one hand the shields which rest against their hips, as if those plates of finely engraved bronze were ingoma , and brandish their spears in the other. As they move toward the palace, they each in turn call out their names, and the names of their fathers, and the names of their sons, and the count of their kills. And as each finishes his recitation, he then takes up the battle cry which we sing as we march out to face our w...

argent light shines down upon a grave dappled hill. death does not walk here, instead it sleeps; though upon rare occasions, when the earth’s satellite seeks reprieve behind billows of sky-bound veils, the Sandman’s sway knows a brief surcease, and phantasms conceived of Platonic philosophy, rise from their crypts. they displace nothing of earth, nor of air, these distorted perceptions, these false semblances who make claims upon continued existence... Image: Howard Pyle, Pirate Ghost , 1921

day's end brings with it a silence that most nights remains broken only by words much like poetry and thought. into that lull I draw forth tableaux of times perhaps best left adrift on the troubled waters of auld lang syne. how viciously wounding though, the refusal of recollection, for at least in memory I can cherish you as once I did. and the inquietude of vast longing, frustration at time's lethargic pace, knows the kindest, though briefest, of stays.

tell me what is to be done with this half-heart, how to cope with Time while awaiting Destiny's verdict? will Destiny speak the words, words much like poetry, that will return me to you; words of potent conviction that will cause the ocean to fall away and no longer stand against me? I cannot fathom what possible offense I could have committed against the briny deep that it saw fit to punish me with its very expanse. I lay nightly upon the dwelling of my lonely stretch, my lonely patch of shore, contemplating my bruised portion... it aches where I tore us asunder. Image: Petr Kratochvil, Ocean sunset, Public Domain Pictures.net

This poem began as a short story written as a class assignment. I was a junior in high school, so the comprehensive editing that I've put it through over the years has been necessary. I wouldn't say that it reflected an immature tone of voice, but my writing style has changed drastically over the last decade and the story is one of my favorites. As I am presenting it here, it has been revised once more. The Intruder on the Beach I have traversed this beach for what seems eons; yet, time upon time, what I seek always eludes me. I seek it in the sound of the crashing waves, the smell of the salt air, the feel of the chill wind— which whips against my weathered face. I walk farther from the water’s edge. eyes scanning the distant horizon, searching an elusive peace of mind in the sun’s reflection upon the blue-green surface of the ocean, I walk. walking on sand that bares much witness to my habitual walks, and those of others, as evidenced in the footprints that crater nigh the ...

Wishing all our U.S. readers a Happy Thanksgiving!

Originally untitled, Sunflowers of My Youth was written sometime in the late 1990's. A despairing poem, it was among the first of such despairing works that marked a sense of loss of innocence. Was it only last night that I was so young In knowledge and in action Now I lay here far older than I was yesterday Soiled and unclean with a filth that will never wash off my soul Was it only last night that I was so innocent Believing in ever-lasting love which I now in my old age know doesn't exist Believing that love in its all-encompassing glory could heal a world torn apart by hate Was it only last night that the world seemed so flat Now it with all its rounded dimensions has come crashing down on me Bearing down on me with its overwhelming weight Causing all my fragileness to buckle and snap Devastating me with its one mighty stroke Was it only last night that I was so young Was it only last night that I felt so wonderful in my ignorance and innocence Was it only last night To...

Amazingly, for me, the two year anniversary of Words Much Like Poetry is a few short weeks away. Laughably, at the time I began this blog, I knew nothing of blogging and were it not for my cousin, I would likely still be ignorant of it. So, with her guidance and encouragement Words Much Like Poetry came into being. Self-evolution is a wholly necessary, unavoidable fact of life and as I evolved the blog evolved—where I'm concerned the evolution was a marked moving from hiding behind the pseudonym Gladys Moore to the use of my real name, moving from the simplistic introspection of a five year long relationship gone bad into far more riotous concepts and imagery, to conceiving the true course I wish to chart for Words Much Like Poetry . However, I'll be keeping mum about what my goal is for the blog. There are a great many things that need to be done to accomplish that goal and regrettably I'm the superstitious sort. I believe it entirely possible to jinx a thing by speaking...

to the sainted woman who stands upon the shores of her misconception, and hurls disparagements, guised in canons, for the path I have chosen, I say, "here is my deficiency, my destitution, my dissonance; here are the scars that I carry with pride and resolve, gained of the many battles waged; I survived, though not as you perceive, but with tender heart intact, ever and always the subtle victor."

I began keeping a journal in December of 1994 at the age of twelve. At some point in the first year of the faithful chronicling of my legend, I read the Diary of Anne Frank. I found myself suddenly bored with beginning each of my journal entries with the oh-so-usual Dear Diary, but I couldn't for the life of me find a "pet name" that I thought really striking. In October of 1995, I finally settled on D.D., which stands for Dear Diary. 10/24/95 Dear D.D. I feel so miserable right now. My heart aches so much for me to confess my true feelings. The torture my mind and heart (are) experiencing is almost unbearable. For so many weeks there have been few times I have cried, but I think the days of my crying every night are coming back. I am so desperate for what I want to be given to me. Many a time I have (en)visioned the things that I want. Yet every day is another disappointment. Bye! And so, she was born, this inanimate object which over the years became akin to a living en...

I can't remember the exact age that I took an interest in writing. I do remember my first self-published work though. It was entitled "Wrath of the Red Bird" and must have totaled no more than 4 loose leaf sheets of stapled-together paper. I was nine. The short-short story reflected a concept I was nearly obsessed with at that age. I was, and still am, a comic book fan. Terrible of me not to remember the name I gave my main character, a twenty-something woman who was known for her kind heart. I believe the story was thrown out a number of years ago, a victim of one of my late father's cleaning rages. Or, it's somewhere on this continent, in a room I haven't ventured into since a year before my father's death. If not there, then perhaps I left it in Kenya, buried in a box full of memories left in the safe care of my elderly grandmother. Let's, for the sake easy reference, call the main character of my first short-short story, Petra. As stated, Petra was...

While angry longing sweeps gustily through the channels that make of my soul a darkened maze, I listen to songs that have become like unto classics. And the thoughts and feelings that they were once soundtrack to, flood the angry longing, turning the world, this place where the meadowlark sleeps, into something more. The light becomes softer, gentle. The scrape of chairs and the ringing tones of cellphones, and the tenor and bass, alto and soprano of un-silent voices fade into the bearable facsimile of a drone. Oh, truly, in this moment, with Oasis's Wonderwall playing its sharps and flats, this path I've embarked upon once more is too poignant for angry longing to hold much sway.

i have traversed this beach for what seems eons, yet time upon time, what i seek to achieve always escapes me. i seek peace for my tortured soul, in the sound of the crashing waves, in the smell of the salt air, in the feel of the chill wind that whips against my weathered face. i walk now in an area close to, but not near, the water’s edge. my eyes scan the distant horizon, searching an elusive peace of mind in the sun’s reflection upon the blue-green surface of the ocean, walking on sand that bares much witness to my habitual walks, and those of others, as evidenced in the footprints that crater nigh the entire surface of the sand. a testimony of the pain of the world, perhaps? for a while longer, my steady gait gains me silent ground, the crashing waves and the seagulls and such that fly by my only companions. then, i hear them, moments before i see them, a young couple deep in heated debate, the battle waged a fierce one, words their tools and pain their weapons. i slow my already ...

"When to the sessions of sweet silent thought..." ~ William Shakespeare There is nothing sweet or silent about my thoughts. They are as a cacophony of thunderous emotion which boom against the brick walls of hindrance and despondency that I've built in my wage against an uncertain destiny. Am I bound for the immortality that is akin to rapacious craving in my terminable coil? Or am I bound for dust and the ash that I am namesake? A forgotten form that will dwell in the tide of longing that for eons has swallowed whole those that do not ever manage more than to live. In my mind, I shine brighter than the nova sun. In reality, very few look beyond the sullen shell that carries inside it my luminous core.

"Someone may have stolen your dream when it was young and fresh and you were innocent. Anger is natural. Grief is appropriate. Healing is mandatory. Restoration is possible." ~ Jane Rubietta I stole away my own dreams with the mistakes that I made, but I am not uncommon in that respect. The majority of the women in my circle of friends are single moms, like myself, and I'm sure the world over knows the trials and tribulations of women as us very well. Forgive my anger, but what right does that then give a stranger to disparage me? I've done the best that I could with the resources available to me, longing for more, but never asking for it. Poverty is not an easy thing to overcome, though, and I tire of the struggle of redefining my station. I wish I could turn away from the world at times, bury myself in the hot sand and bask in that ceaseless warmth, but I can't. Who would take care of my children if I did? What a saving grace they are, little human forms wrapped...

My stomach starts to coil in knots whenever I think of betraying the story of my life and placing it upon a public medium or forum where all those who care to read it may read it. I find poetry safer, much less stark than prose. Metaphor allows for obscurity, veiled and hinted meanings that are open to speculation and conclusion but remain unconfirmed. I begin to wonder, though, if I've lost something in my strides toward more complex verse. Do grief and misery become things lessened by lack of proper exposition? I hope not, for the exorcism of words is without use then, and I've failed to find relief in the telling.

I've been away, a journey through thoughts and feelings, and if by chance I stumbled over doubts from years departed, mistakes made in imitation of perfect calculation, frames of mind I assumed vanished, then that is my affliction. no, they are ever prevalent for the city's bend has brought me full circle, to the realization that I haven't gone anywhere.

Is this my new beginning, that point where old roads close and never drift again into the lane that I've now forged? Is this where the grand pedestal I've placed my independence upon finally stops quaking? I'm braver now than I ever was, though the fears still lurk in the darkened corners of night. I want, I need, I must, I will! I will, because they need me to. Because if I don't then there was no point in taking the risk.