A Word is Born

The quil blots its ink and a word is born

Hot Ether

whose gorgeous aura burns lambent like ether set on fire

Girl in Mini-Skirt

because a nubile girl in mini-skirt just walked by;

Spirit Soaring

and the Spirit soars in seminal poetics;

Poet's Muse

as the Poet's mighty muse parts the skies;

Universe Rattled

then the Universe is rattled avant-garde;

Whispering Hands

as two anonymous hands whispered to a heart;

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MY POETRY HOME — trespassers welcome

soldier at war Memoir From Afghanistan Written at Home (GRA, Ilorin) — Nigeria.
(Wednesday, November 28, 2001)
At last it was dawn at the front line and
the sky over Konduz was eerie-silent
after the fury of sustained air raids
the night before.

Though against the unwritten rules of
our bloody mercenary contracts, Sergeant Slaughter
and I had been planning to run away
before the next battle, for we were fed up with
the war and morale was at rock-bottom low.

But the earth quaked before we could
get far with our secret plans and many of us
fighters went flat with the rubbles.

A number of us groaned and yelled, but many more
of us had what looked like dead, silent smiles
smeared on their dirty faces — they were just
alive enough to have the strength of
dying with a grisly smile!

We crawled out of the ruined bunker and
broke through the month-long siege.
Then we ran through a dark, subterranean highway
(which is often) travelled by many but remembered by few.

We saw many loyal fighters loitering
along the way; and they wore fine
turbans and had long beards and they also
had gaping bullet holes through their
torrentially bleeding torsos.

At first they were indifferent to our
deathly passage, but when we stared at them for
too long some of them suddenly sprang up and
stood in our infernal way.

They lifted up their charred hands as if
to show us their fatal wounds; but then
pointed to several frantic scenes behind them
wherein we saw apocalyptic moves being made
in advance for some titanic battles yet to be fought.

Then said one of them:
"In war, whichever side that may call itself victor,
there are no victors; but all are losers."

"Welcome to the world of losers..."

Then they all laughed a dead, stale laugh;
and by the sound of their ghoulish laughters,
we knew we were right in the deepest pit of Hell!

© 2001, M-Auwal Gene III. All Rights Reserved
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"How vain it is to sit down and write when you have not stood up to live!."