It's A Personal Reflection On Death And Separation Of Love. Poem by Joseph Ikhenoba

It's A Personal Reflection On Death And Separation Of Love.

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DEAR LIFE
There's always something on the jaded skies
That thumped the wavy spiral of my balloons
And that is death.
When we shut our lenses behind curtains
And our breath stiffened, our patches rigid
Our lips are stiff, and we can't smell or touch
That which makes us feel like a living flower.
Ah! The dark oceans cleared when my tower kissed the soil.
He was my breath, always spitting white morsels
Into the potholes of my acidic well.
But he had been suffering from the sharp claws of tumours.
His bark has grown lean, crystal balls sunken,
A chubby self grown into a flabby tassel.
I was always at his four feet boxes
Cuddling the hairy strands of his palms.
On August 25th,1998, however, the blue skies
Turned into a mirage of dark dust
When he muttered and breathe his last air.
A misty sweat drained through my spines
Flashes of thunderbolts ravaged my circles
Is this how bats and spiders lay on their graves
Fed upon by ravaging vultures?
I guess so.
As I stood at the mound of his dune,
My balloons burst into photons of dust
Knowing that the black sickled Hades has poached,
The encrusted diamonds of my soul.



REFLECTIONS
I saw the watcher bird last in 1993
At 7: 00 pm at Carrington Bay ward.
You know he was a gleeful tower
With ox bow lashes and ocean crystal balls.
He was the purest sparrow I gleamed at.
He always opened his doors and dropped coins.
For the Lazarus at Carrington streets.
Though his beauty had gone with the wind,
Two seasons ago, in the shadows of tumours.
How he adored her like the heavenly seraphim
At the golden temple of God in seventh heavens?
But time heals, and he has moved on.
Until the aquifer beneath his rib hollow
Broke down and thumped crimson liquids
Around his weeds and wires.
A frost adrenaline rush sojourned my veins
After glaring at his chiselled claws.
Then this milky thread skies
His bud whispered he has gone with the wind.
On gawking at a sycamore
A barn owl and black vulture hooted and howled
Maybe to feed on his carrion?
I sauntered a forest path home
My crown bowed to the ground
Wondering at the death of the black widow
Knowing our breath is as short as flames.

THE ST. PATRICK'S BELL
I heard the chiming bells at St. Patrick's blocks
Clanging from afar, in a burning ball of summer
I thought it was the calling of the marchers at Heaven's gate
To another round of bowing to their great, Breathe Maker.
But clanging and clanging, the metals toiled
And the harmonies of saintly calls
Soon reverberated into inharmonious symphonies,
Like a bell ringer, ringing and chiming for a requiem.
Then, as I knotted the cords, my two feet boxes
Shimmered with drops of sweat across my spines.
I saw a vulture on the cracked roof of the Sistine
Gawking to take entrails to its chicks.
Apparently, the blue skies turned grey
And the flanking velvet trees around a wooden corpse
With drops of crimson liquid and groans
Thunderbolt flashed across my crystal balls
That a rose has fallen.
On closer stare among the rubbles
It was the catechist, the purple cassock dove
Who never missed a sermon?
But he prayed for me that morning
As I trudge to the fountain of scrolls,
Only for the beleaguering, weeping canopies
To whisper, he slumped and puffed.
I flooded my feathered coats with oceans
Wondering how the claws of death
Can grapple the butterflies we love in a twinkle.

It's A Personal Reflection On Death And Separation Of Love.
COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Brooke Renwick 22 December 2024

Wow.

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