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Rico Lowe Jr. (@panafrico) – the message

the message
stale dreams crust over like a syrupy sweet
after all what’s to dream if chance of miracle’s bleak?
what’s to fight- if a man invests fear in defeat
what is love but a curious leap? – off the edge
what’s the purpose of men fighting for peace? –
when its said temp-tation and lust make men weak,
who’s to blame for the blood in the streets?
the hust-ler or the politician giving the speech?
y’all don’t hear me, if the world was to come to an end,
would the poet proceed to narrate with the pen?
doc-ument the event,
how those waves rose over our heads,
swallowed us in a tide- of death
what the may-ans said
does the soul really die in the flesh?
are men capable of righteous steps?
thine eyes have met- too many murders,
not enough sermons,
what else is veiled be-hind my curtains?
you will never know
and i guess thats the lesson of life
stop questioning; start counting blessings tonight,
the man that knows something knows nothing
but even men that know nothing know the feeling of suffering,
life is complicated, search for your vantage
and maybe then we can understand what the plan is,
together.

 

 

 

 

 

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Photo Credit: Photo by “My Life Through A Lens” on Unsplash

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Checkmate

There was a time when checkmate was her future.
Then, she pushed a pawn, he advanced a knight.
They meddled with the squares,
black and white before them,
compounding into a lovely shade of gray.
He predicted her moves well in advance.
He may capture her queen, but she’s a goddess still,
taking his bishop deep within her game,
moving towards the grid that’ll change her name,
that makes her cherish the place they collided,
the end they strive to attain, with her on top,
in his face, in the place, on the board,
where even if he leaves her tied up in a corner,
with no moves, insane, she won just the same.

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What is Poetry? – part 3

What is Poetry? – part 3

Poetry doesn’t necessarily rhyme,

it just climbs out of the mind,

out of a recess in time,

obsessed with success

and blind to the cold shoulder it usually finds.

It’s a mess, it’s sublime,

it’s a knife as a prize,

it is life in the eyes,

it is death, of a kind,

it’s leaving something behind,

it’s caressing the past

and the future that lies,

dormant though brooding

ahead.

Who says poetry is dead?