Our Vertical Moments

CONFESSION

I have a negative freedom,

Isolating and weakening me very much.

I got hurt many times,

But the most important wounds

Were at my heel and my soul.

I broke my collar-bone of soul

In wrestling with my love for life

And I feel my heel like Achilles, when

I think of my freedom.

Maybe some gigantic forces are beyond my control.

Today, because of my old injuries,

I can't go on with my life.

I was told that my soul was mildly sprained,

But the soul injury was much more serious than I was told.

So, I'm abandoned, living with my pain.

I'm a modern person, being so well rooted

In the complexity of social forces.

My speech is always passively

And,without some form of universal care,

I'll never be able to go on this way.

I need to survive this battle,

My own battle.

My world has collapsed.

Do I really need freedom? Don't make me laugh.

Although, I began to think of my positive freedom

And the self-determination it entails.

I'm anchored in what I am

Because of my right heel

And my left wing of soul.

They doesn't let me hope.

I spend my time doing whatever I have to do to survive.

I pray for something real to come and save me.

Outside of that, I'm stuck where I am.

Does anyone know a reputable job,

Where I can make some money?

It was raining last night and I had

An amazing dream.

I was running in a new kind of life.

God, I miss that so much.

OUR VERTICAL MOMENTS

I'm your reclusive word

I can disintegrate

Your ideas

And recompose them

For our love

I would like to be

That inferred light from you,

Lost, somewhere, in the Orion constellation.

I would like to become a part of you,

As you,

Waiting that morning,

When we would be awake.

I need to understand

Your fictitious existence.

The blue bird, the bird of happiness

Is flying again

On the sky,

Being absorbed in it

As much as

I can perceive

Only its movement

To the limit

Between visible and invisible.

I hear only that sound,

Lost in itself....

Nothing is perfect around....

Perfection and equilibrium

Are all I mean..

I wait The Lord

To save

Our vertical movements, my love...

SAD WOMAN

If I could open my mouth to say

About what I keep inside of me

As this white lily that blooms today

And, without the sun, it cannot be.

Maybe I would know you would not come,

And no longer would I wait for you.

For you I wanted to have a home

And for you was all I tried to do.

How can I cope with sadness at night?

You had to follow your weary way.

My heart, once singing its songs of light,

Buries in melancholy, today.

I swim in my ocean of darkness.

I pray in my solitude,I'm pure.

I wait you, but my life means hopeless

And a thousand tears to endure.

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My Vote, My Vote, Where Are You?

Oh my country!

They have made you a hell

You are not saving

You are not a saved place for people

Hardship is the talk of the day in you

Unemployment is the songs of your people...

Your citizens are running,

To tell you who you are

Why can't you understand?

The elections have come and go

I am crying for my votes

For they did not count

Because of the unpleasant nature of my state;

I am talking of my nation

My state what good can we say about you

Oh my state!

When will you answer your name?

You have accommodate the same people,

Again, I say again...

People have cast their vote in van, in you

Because you have decide to west your people

The same people who refused to educate your citizens

The same people that made our secondary schools a dumping grounds

The same people that denied poor educational right

The same people who closed-up our industries

Oh my God!

They have rendered the people jobless

They appoint advisers based on their evil thoughts,

The people who love money and hate instruction

They have made our road pits and deadly,

Our roads legs overtake cars.

My God we are tired of this state...

For it is same people that do not care

The devil machines

They established a school,

School of kidnappers

They trained useful youths to crime

They employed them,

Kidnapping becomes a lucrative job opportunity,

Only for candidates from schools of kidnapping

They rejected the military pole,

From coming in to save my people,

Hundreds of people killed and wasted

Only, for money;

Their trained boys were are many;

They killed and send them to hell one after the other,

When they demanded for compensation

To stop them revealing their criminal acts

See them again sitting on our Government House...

Desperate politicians

Politicians without quality and standard

They knew they will fail totally

They rigged the election

Oh tell me if a four years is a four days?

Good four-year sleeping in the Government House.

A man who slept by 6pm and wake by 4pm

Did he not wake-up to eat and sleep back?

They paint two streets, black paint

For the election is coming

They claimed to have arouse from sleep

For the election is at hand

They are back to rule.

Black monkeys in a monkey village.

INEC what have you done to me and my people

What do I call this your unprintable character

Why did you spread this wickedness on us?

Mr. President. Do I exempt you in this?

For allowing rigging in state elections;

Oh my God! Take care of your people

Pay them back oh Lord!

For this is their turn to cry

For they have cheated on poor and

Take away what belongs to them

You are the God of vengeance

Avenge for your people are crying

For they have cause and has oiled sorrow.

My Votes where are you

I blame myself for casting you

I have cry for you

For they did not count and work with you

If they counted and worked with you

Joy and smiles would have been my song and of my people...

Uzochukwu N A is living at Umuimo in Aba, Abia state, Nogeria. He is an instructor, a teacher, adviser, upcoming articulate and a brother who Love God. He have works is in progress.
Click here http://uahappiness.wordpress.com/ or write me at uathegodsfriend@gmail.com seek to be God's friend.

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On Defining Poetry

When I was a teenager, I lived in a little cockroach infested drug hovel in Seattle. The tenants were impoverished and violent, but the night manager was one of the kindest and wisest mentors I've ever known. His name was Jim. Jim had a bushy white beard, big red cheeks, long hair, and thick glasses. He resembled an elderly Jerry Garcia. Jim spent most of his time laying around in bed watching television or reading, but from time to time he would come out of his room to cook delicious dinners for the tenants in the building's only kitchen.

Jim was very bright. He loved intellectual conversation, which may be the reason he took an interest in me. I was quite ignorant, but I enjoyed discussing subjects that many of the people in Jim's life couldn't or didn't. Jim gave me my first copies of Plato, Aristotle, and Rousseau. He also gave me some of my earliest lessons in poetry. I lacked experience in reading poetry at that time, so I can't really say now how good Jim really was, but I do remember that I had a very hard time understanding most of the poems he let me look at.

Jim gave me a definition of poetry that has always remained with me. He said, "Poetry is the art of cramming as much meaning into as few words as possible." At the time, this definition meant very little to me, but over the years, as I've read and written poems, I've pondered it, and I believe it is a good critical standard for judging both poetry and prose. I feel it falls short of defining poetry. Definitions should encompass all particular examples of the thing to be defined in one general statement. Jim only gave a particular example of a rule a poet might impose on himself.

Poetry is any writing that deliberately obeys rules other than the rules of prose. Prose does not require rhyme, meter, a certain number of syllables, a certain order of accents, or a specific pattern. Poetry may require none, some, or all of the examples I just listed. A poet may impose haphazardness on himself. He I may I require I that I every I other I word I must I be I. I included the word 'deliberately' in the definition to exclude writing done according to rules which the author mistakes as the rules of prose.

My definition may be accused of being too general. What about the rules of text messaging? What about the 140 character requirement of tweets? Are texts and tweets to be considered poetry? I acknowledge this problem, as well as some others, but I wonder if accepting tweets and texts as poetry would be a minor evil when one considers that the definition I offer comes about as close as possible to including such disparate works as The Narrow Road to the Deep North, The Canterbury Tales, Paradise Lost, The Waste Land, r-p-o-p-h-e-s-s-a-g-r, and I Used to Love H.E.R.

I'll close this post with a poem. It obeys the 17 syllable rule of Haiku. It attempts to cram ideas taken from the fourth book of Virgil's Georgics, the story of Jacob and Esau, some passages from Bertrand Russell's The History of Western Philosophy, and the usual themes of my poetry into as few words as possible. I hope you enjoy it.

I turn Orphic eyes
Upon a mess of pottage--
Eurydice lost!

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Warrior King

David was a man after Gods own heart

David played it close to God

David played it smart

David was a shepherd boy anointed to be king

The youngest in his family yet deadly with a sling

The Spirit of the Lord was with him from the very start

He put his trust in God alone a man of Gods own heart

Because he put his trust in God he never fought alone

Even as a small boy he killed a giant with a stone

Psalmist and musician, prophet and a king

Sending evil spirits away when his harp would sing

David was a warrior who fought his battles hard

He always prayed to God for strength his main offensive guard

David sought the will of God in everything he did

Written on his heart is where the Word of God was hid

What a mighty man of valor, what a mighty man of God

Because he put his trust in God he beat allot of odds

But David wasn't perfect there was drama in his court

He fell in love with Sheba in a soap opera of sorts

This was a married woman, but David didn't care

He used his power as the king to have a love affair

He tried to cover up his sin and killed an innocent man

God sent the prophet Nathan to lay bare this evil plan

David was so sorry he laid down on the floor

He fasted and he prayed and poured his heart out to the Lord

In all His infinite wisdom and all His bountiful grace

God forgave His servant, but He put him in his place

By taking his son and removing his throne, David was reaping all he had sown

David repented and confessed his sins; this is where true revival begins

Sweetest healing is complete, deep in the heart on the mercy seat

A humble leader's set apart; we must be men after Gods own heart

David had desired to build a house unto the Lord

But God told David he had killed too many with his sword

His said His temple would be built, but built by David's son

As for David God had everlasting plans He wanted done

It's through your seed I will build My house an everlasting throne

Speechless David struggled with the honor God had shown

Giving thanks and praises praying to His Holy Name

This prophesy fulfilled the day the Son of David came

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Potluck (Short Stories and Poetry)

Short Stories and Poetry

Jade and Ebony Days

Blow, wind blow! Strip the years from my youth; I will keep a few, made of jade, and ebony. Blow, wind blow! Pile the clouds on top of me, lash out with earth and rain, roar all you want sway the branches from the trees-at me, I will still sing, of those far-off days of Jade and Ebony, days-that my eyes saw the stars. I will catch the old and now gray leaves laughingly. Blow, wind blow, blow my last days to the green twilight, surging towards the moon, scatter my bones where you may, men have been slain for less, I will keep those few years within my breast, those Jade and Ebony days.

No: 2882/12-19-2010

Dedicated to those years 1974-1981

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The Great Dark Abode

(If there were no God?)

What would I do (you do, we do) if there was no God?

Perhaps kill at will like Saddam Hussein,

Pol Pot, or Bin Laden-who's to say? What could I lose?

What did these killers know that I didn't know, don't know?

((What were they told by the unknown, unresisting, mind?

We may call the devil.)(If indeed, there is no God,

Therefore, there is no Devil. Someone made it all up!))

I could kill, in the name of God, at will, to justify my evil,

Of cause; nothing new for humans-

It's silly of course, to think its God's will-

Be it Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, Hindu or Jew

Killing at will for no reason is a human trait

Animals don't even(think of) or do such things,

Unless they are cornered or hungry,

But never when they are full and complete...

So, if there was (or is)no God, and death is final-

(As Carl Sagan and Stephen Hawking would

Have us all believe-and we can add Darwin to the list,

And perhaps several others if you wish...)

There'll be no resurrection, no drunken parties with whores

In Paradise or in Heaven (or Purgatory; as some religions

Have glorified and sanctified for peace of mind and soul.)

Perhaps you'd knock on your neighbor's door, next store,

Take at will another man's wife,

Do as you please-even kill the husband if he

Showed up, if need be!

Be like Napoleon, Hitler, and Stalin; perchance, like

The heroes of old: Alexander the Great, Attila, Hannibal:

Or the Heroes at Troy ((fighting for blood and guts and

Everlasting fame...in the name of the many gods...)

(Create a war for power and control, for: land

And oil-for gold and glory and much, much more!))

Or just be among the many that don't have plenty,

Who may feel they have been scorned,

Who may feel a prayer for a sin cleans the soul-

Thus, they can kill and steal, at will before

Their story is dead and nil- (never to be told).

Who's to say what you'd do, if there was no

God (and let's add the Devil too)over the next hill...

But whatever you'd do, be no fool, -if there is a God,

May His graces and glory, nullify this poetic story

And help us all, before we fall, into the great dark abode!

No: 2959; 6-23-2011 (10:30 a.m.)

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Living the Life of a Tropical Fish

Be prepared!

Warm currents are now just beginning to emerge. So if you feel the need to shed those winter clothes, please feel free to do. New days are upon us. And the time may soon be right to have yet another drink. But please be advised that on the west coast of Gibraltar there is a silly little girl. Her hand is steady and her heart is gold. It is there that you should go. But let me tell you something, boy! The meat cleavers are in the kitchen so it would be better for you to avoid the Christmas rush. I suggest that you move on down to Montague street. There will be plenty of pretty girls with big nipples and amorous eyes.

So swim deeply and remember to bring your important books. Of course there is a fine line between being a lowly cretin and a master scientist. But the depth of your study will take you to places that other people will often be quite afraid to go. Yes, Jaques Cousteau was a madman. At night he would often fry fish like a young boy in an unsavory, insipid English upholstery store. But be careful on Bleak street near Montague, you might find the notorious mad hatter in a very rare state of mind. There is no doubt that he is the snowman. Yes, he is the shit. So if you wish he can teach you many new controversial things. But before you do anything, just look at the size of his fists. In winter, it has been said that he kept his girlfriend warm as she nestled between some yellow glue and a spartan horse. But above all I suggest that you look at his middle eye. It will give you proper directions. And you will know that if your cornea becomes scratched, you will be able to take a very refreshing swim. Believe me! I know that he won't mind. It is time to get back to the basics, my boy. And I know the snowman's fundamentals are extremely sound.

And just look at me. I haven't gotten to this stage without any degree of effort. Without question, Gibraltar is the right place for you to go. When the sausages are in season and the pretty girls fly, you will know that you have the pedigree. You will soon begin to eat like a massive pike. But you may be required to do some things that you may not have always really wanted to do. Yes I know that it is unfortunate, but every proud fish has its obligations. Share your knowledge. Bring it to the pond. You will be appreciated. Like a real fisherman, you will begin to understand what real living is all about.

Gerald Marchewka is an American freelance writer currently living in Lviv, Ukraine. Gerald's most recent book "Straight from the Heavens: Li Bai's Poetry in Retrospect" featuring the Illustrations of Sebastian Fowler is now for sale on Lulu.com Questions about Gerald's projects may be forwarded to geraldmarchewka@yahoo.com

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Types of Short Poems - Haiku

Short poetry is a favorite amongst many young authors, and why not? Poetry is a literature genre which encompasses a powerful set of tools set forth to explode emotion and bring about the best of authors.

One form of short poetry which young authors tend to love is haiku. Sadly, the haiku is often misrepresented by poets around the world. Many try to bring about their own definition to this type of short poetry. Again, sadly, this doesn't do justice to the poetic form. Nonetheless, whenever an artist tries to create art, it is fantastic. The world is definitely a better place with more art than less.

What is a haiku?

A haiku is a Japanese form of poem. In its original usage, it was an opening verse of haikai no renga, called a hokku. This opening verse consisted of a "cutting word" such as "ya" in Japanese (there is no English equivalent so normal punctuation such as a comma, colon, hyphen, etc are used), a word used to help the reader identify the season (actual names of seasons are often used, but words such as harvest, clouds, leaves, blossoms are as well), and a mora pattern of 5-7-5. A morae is not a syllable; it is a minimal unit of phonology used for timing and stress.

A mora is easy to find in many Asian languages, especially Japanese--where the equivalent is called "on." However, the English language is much more difficult when it comes to identifying morae.

Here are some general rules for morae:

The first consonant(s) of a syllable do not count as a mora. For example, the "d" in "dog" does not count as a mora.
The syllable nucleus counts as one mora in the case of a short vowel and two morae in a long vowel or diphthong. Consonants serving as the nuclei also count as one for short and two if long. For example, the "ai" in "tail" counts as two morae. Thus, the word has three morae. The "ai" and "l".
In the coda, a stressed syllable counts as a mora while unstressed syllables may or may not. There is no consensus thought on unstressed syllables in the coda.

A few examples of morae in words:

Jump = 2
Hello = 3
Cat = 2
Microscope = 8

Many people who write haiku claim the poetic form contains 5-7-5 syllables. However, this lengthens the poem an incredible amount, making the form much longer than it should be.

Here are the same words as before but as syllables instead of morae:

Jump = 1
Hello = 2
Cat = 1
Microscope = 3

Together, there are seven syllables but fifteen morae. Wow! What a difference. Over twice as many morae. This means, if these were used to create a haiku using the 5-7-5 syllable structure, the poems length would be at least twice as long. This is not what the original authors of haiku had intended.

If you are not comfortable counting morae, one school of thought for keeping the haiku a short length is to keep the poem under three seconds long while read. This will keep the poem roughly the same length, yet much easier for the English writer.

Next time you try to write a short poem, try writing it as haiku using morae. It will be an adventure and a great learning experience. If you have trouble counting the morae, just try to keep the poem under three seconds.

You may also wish to check out short poetry by Gary R. Hess or one of the many famous haiku poets.

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