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Dark Lords

I walk and my eyes uplift
I cannot see ground;
my footsteps seem
gravity-defying.

Concourse with my
Inner Soul
has transmogrified;
a corner catchment
of random bliss
side-swiping me suddenly.

Frightened I was sure
I was ill.
How came it to be
that my unhappiness
took leave
stranding me
on some Less Sorrowful Shore;
what then can be my stance

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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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It Shall Come To Pass

Whirlwind is on the lake, wheeled, blowing on the lake
Sun fumbles in the clouds, fumbling from the east
Lights glare, flaring bright under the raked soils
And a son of man sings, singing aglamorous feast
Asong list, sighing, listing from the eastern sky

It shall come to pass, come to pass on the wind
And rock in, rock in like a washed plate
For in the blood, in the blood oozed on the cross
Clean is the heart, the heart and the planet
Within the sorrowful cold, sorrowful cold and hot blowing

The holy word speeds, speeding in the fresh
On the words, words of life and mankind
Needs a flip, aflip so hard and create aholy races
To the author, are the eyes, so hard
He opens, opening the room of hope and charity

As the son, the song submerge and upslide
It shall come to pass, apassover ever the voice

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poem by Paul Mwenelupembe
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Wish to write down

I wish to write down in pages
Though considerable time has been elapsed with age
I am still alive and able to manage
Life has not come to stand still but confined to cage

I know everything has to come to an end one day
It is life cycle and accepted by all as the only way
One has to depart early, in time or late
No one can attribute it to only fate

It is indeed sorrowful state
Words may prove less to narrate
The life may seem to be void
Yet it is fact and no can avoid

Heat may seem to be missing beats
There will lot of grief and sorrowful heat
Sky may not provide any clue for loneliness
One has to live with a reality and face

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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Voices Of The Night : The Beleaguered City

I have read, in some old, marvellous tale,
Some legend strange and vague,
That a midnight host of spectres pale
Beleaguered the walls of Prague.

Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,
With the wan moon overhead,
There stood, as in an awful dream,
The army of the dead.

White as a sea-fog, landward bound,
The spectral camp was seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
The river flowed between.

No other voice nor sound was there,
No drum, nor sentry's pace;
The mist-like banners clasped the air,
As clouds with clouds embrace.

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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Beleaguered City, The

I have read, in some old, marvellous tale,
Some legend strange and vague,
That a midnight host of spectres pale
Beleaguered the walls of Prague.

Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,
With the wan moon overhead,
There stood, as in an awful dream,
The army of the dead.

White as a sea-fog, landward bound,
The spectral camp was seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
The river flowed between.

No other voice nor sound was there,
No drum, nor sentry's pace;
The mist-like banners clasped the air,
As clouds with clouds embrace.

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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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The Late W. V. Wild, Esq.

SAD FACES came round, and I dreamily said
“Though the harp of my country now slumbers,
Some hand will pass o’er it, in love for the dead,
And attune it to sorrowful numbers!”
But the hopes that I clung to are withering things,
For the days have gone by with a cloud on their wings,
And the touch of a bard is unknown to the strings—
Oh, why art thou silent, Australia?

The leaves of the autumn are scattering fast,
The willows look barren and lonely;
But I dream a sad dream of my friend of the past,
And his form I can dwell upon only!
In the strength of his youth I can see him go by.
There is health on the cheek, and a fire in the eye—
Oh, who would have thought that such beauty could die!
Ah, mourn for thy noblest, Australia!

A strange shadow broods o’er the desolate earth,
And the cypresses tremble and quiver;

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poem by Henry Kendall
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Behold A Great Tree Has Fallen

Behold, a protagonist breathed last
A fallen tree that cannot be re-planted
Alas, this is melanholic
For the caring father has gone
To abide in his permanent habitat gone to his home
The well deserved rest.

Something goeth wrong my people
Something elegiac goes beyond shedding of tears
Though unarguably, no one
Could fight fate when it was unfolded
For this has been predestined
By him that created the universe.

Dekko the birds, singing elegy
All singing songs that expresses melancholy
Perched precariuosly on the oil palms
In sober moods
They betrayed their bitter desires
In the obsequiese of the great protagonist.

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poem by Israel Dammy Ipaye
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For Ever

OUT of the body for ever,
Wearily sobbing, “Oh, whither?”
A Soul that hath wasted its chances
Floats on the limitless ether.

Lost in dim, horrible blankness;
Drifting like wind on a sea,
Untraversed and vacant and moaning,
Nor shallow nor shore on the lee!

Helpless, unfriended, forsaken;
Haunted and tracked by the Past,
With fragments of pitiless voices,
And desolate faces aghast!

One saith—“It is well that he goeth
Naked and fainting with cold,
Who worshipped his sweet-smelling garments,
Arrayed with the cunning of old!

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poem by Henry Kendall
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Beowulf (Episode 16)

AND the lord of earls, to each that came
with Beowulf over the briny ways,
an heirloom there at the ale-bench gave,
precious gift; and the price bade pay
in gold for him whom Grendel erst
murdered, -- and fain of them more had killed,
had not wisest God their Wyrd averted,
and the man's brave mood. The Maker then
ruled human kind, as here and now.
Therefore is insight always best,
and forethought of mind. How much awaits him
of lief and of loath, who long time here,
through days of warfare this world endures!

Then song and music mingled sounds
in the presence of Healfdene's head-of-armies
and harping was heard with the hero-lay
as Hrothgar's singer the hall-joy woke
along the mead-seats, making his song
of that sudden raid on the sons of Finn.

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poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 3. The Musician's Tale; The Mother's Ghost

Svend Dyring he rideth adown the glade;
I myself was young!
There he hath wooed him so winsome a maid;
Fair words gladden so many a heart.
Together were they for seven years,
And together children six were theirs.
Then came Death abroad through the land,
And blighted the beautiful lily-wand.
Svend Dyring he rideth adown the glade,
And again hath he wooed him another maid,
He hath wooed him a maid and brought home a bride,
But she was bitter and full of pride.
When she came driving into the yard,
There stood the six children weeping so hard.
There stood the small children with sorrowful heart;
From before her feet she thrust them apart.
She gave to them neither ale nor bread;
'Ye shall suffer hunger and hate,' she said.
She took from them their quilts of blue,
And said: 'Ye shall lie on the straw we strew.'

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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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