Do birds still sing?

Do birds still sing in times of war?

Or are their solemn songs in lament? 

Of life lost and death gained. 

A requiem for the dead, or a mockery for the fallen?

Do birds still chant in oppression? 

A wail for the dead, or a howl at the bloodlust heavens for spirits gone?

Ironically I do see, birds indeed sing for their masters in deathbed, 

to what end I could tell only were I a bird.

So I await, 

till the birds sing on and the time ticks on 

'til the gods send us all into the same unkown eternity, 

then we shall ask, 

do birds still sing?

Guest post - by Ostvald Ayew 

MM XX IV

It's like the old days,

no traffic and no electricity..

The roads were full of dirt

and dust was the air we breathe.

It's like a throwback moment,

when newest car models,

had to be pushed to start the engine.

The trails through the farms,

connecting to the main roads,

had been drawn by feet,

the constant walking,

the grass gave way.

The rocks lined across the river,

safest bet to cross to the other side.

When it rained, the rocks disappeared..

& then you had to change route,

to get to a bridge,

if it was lucky enough not to have been swept away.

The houses were scattered,

the name neighbours was foreign..

but everyone you met you knew,

small town.

The shops were miles away,

you had to buy breakfast the night before.

Milk came straight from the cows' udders,

bread was baked by the famous Mandevu.

The children played the role of a clock..

That's if, the cock crowed but 

because you couldn't snooze,

forgot to wake up.

They told the time, they told the seasons.

You'd see them in the mornings,

walking to school in groups.

You'd hear them play over break times..

& they'd fill the roads on the way back home.

The holidays had them everywhere,

making happy noises,

getting creative and being themselves.

The parents were always seen around,

or were always at work.

Those who worked,

worked far from here.

They would walk, at times, 

3 hours to work.

It was the other side of today.

It was the other side of what we have.

The game of patience

Impatience, a name of pain;

a game insane, 

pain for the plain,

a claim to the thrift,

a drain to the swift.

One step at a time,

there's no need to rush,

pushing edges down,

crumbling bricks down,

reasons to frown,

an anchor to your feet,

to drown.

I can't breathe,

it's suffocating.

The thought, intimidating..

The thrill is amazing,

the results, 

. . . not comprehending.

The harder they ball,

the faster they fall.

The want now,

the need now,

never-ending.

When can I breathe,

breathe in then breathe out;

. . . slowly comprehending.

What's the speed limit?

& the reading on my meter?

The brakes come screeching,

the effort comes scripted.

Doomed to fail,

too fast a stride.

Did I run too fast,

too fast past the finish line?

It's crazy.

The need to be hungry,

and the thirst won't be quenched.

One sip at a time?

With all this wine???

The curtains close fast,

faster than they opened.

The thrill of the moment,

is tripping.

Am like a dry sponge 

that absorbs too fast,

you can't even blame me;

I'm learning.

Taking that one step at a time;

learning to be patient.

I am mastering the game,

the Patience Game.

Hey there, Sunflower

Hello there, Helianthus..
you lovely sunflower,
you precious being.
Yellow and golden on the outside,
radiating joy and beauty,
smiles and warmth.

Your petals reflect your beauty,
and your leaves complement you.
Your long stems tower you up above most
and the ground you stand on, today,
is in good terms with your roots;
your past, where you've come from.
You are the sun in my garden,
literally.. & I guess, hence your name:
Little Miss Sunflower.

But tell me why,
oh, dear Sunflower,
why your innermost is dark and cloudy,
why you shine so bright to the world
but your within is in contrast to your without.
You're life on the outside and lifeless on the inside.
Has your heart been through so much?
Has your fight been too brutal?
Who wronged you, beautiful one?
Who stepped  on your shoes?

But something tells me, I might be judging,
the book by it's cover.
You've protected your heart.
You've guarded your within.
The dark and cloudy I see,
is an illusion to what's deeper.
You've put a shade to that which you value most;
you've hidden your treasures behind a veil,
a veil that only the deserving can walk past.
You've seen the pain, you've felt the hurt,
and you know very well,
prevention over cure.
You've cured your heart,
and prevented the hurt.
The dark and cloudy I see,
is the long steel-reinforced hardwood doors,
at the entry to a palace,
that only the royal have the access to.

Keep glowing, keep radiating,
the rightful prince is on his way,
the golden key in his hand,
and when he gets there,
you'll hear him knock,
three times,
he'll open your gates,
and you'll hear him say:
"Hey there, Sunflower"

Write me a poem

Of all the days, of all the nights,

I remain alive in this world,

today’s is the night I want,

you to write me a poem.

Grab a pen and piece of paper,

sit in a room full of peace,

and peacefully, write me a poem.

Let the state be pin-drop silence,

let the noise you hear, distracting your ear,

be the scribbling of the words of your craft,

the words of this poem.

Let the ideas of a lifetime,

fill the pages of this poem.

Let the reflection of my past,

guide you. Lead you. Direct you.

Under the beam of the moonlight,

with memories of the sunshine,

let the rays of creativity,

illuminate the touch of your pen on paper,

and shine upon your versatile creation and wild imagination,

that will live and leave an eternity of impression.

Impress me, write me a poem.

Write me a poem, 

a poem of joy, a poem of sadness.

A poem of laughter, a poem of tears,

A poem of seconds, minutes, hours,

days, weeks, months and years.

Write me a poem I'll read in the future,

still relevant and smile about the past.

Write me a poem that will tickle my fantasies,

and make me chuckle,

then chuckle again,

before bursting into an uncontrollable laughter.

Tears of joy.

Make this poem my toy.

I am grown up now,

But make this poem my toy.

Something I will play with,

look at and smile.

Something that will understand me,

for who I am, what I am.

For who I could be, not what I've done.

A toy. Something that will always be close to me.

Write me something to look at before I go to bed.

Write me something to wake up to.

Write me something to read alongside the morning newspaper,

as I take my breakfast.

Something to read in the middle of my morning run.

Something to read when I'm dressing up for work,

Something to read for days on end,

Nights in bed.

Write me a poem.

Write me a poem,

because then, it will mean so much to me.

You are not like the rest of them.

You are special.

I want a poem so special.

A poem I will treasure.

You know me too well.

You know my highs and my lows,

my likes and dislikes.

You know my do's and my don’ts,

my silence and my loudness.

What makes me happy,

what tears me apart,

rips open my heart.

You know me from the start 

and will to the end.

You might be a little mean,

but if that's what it'll take,

for you not to be fake,

I'll let you write it.

I want a real poem.

I want a straightforward poem.

A poem that will serve it to me hot,

no matter how cold.

So before you start writing me this poem,

understand that you will need to understand me.

Remember that you will need to remember me.

If you want the poem a mess,

understand and remember,

I won’t mind a beautiful mess,

nor the ugly truth.

As beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder,

the beauty of this poem will lie in the hand of the penholder,

which is you.

You hold the fate of this poem in your hands,

you either make it or break it.

But please make it.

In case you break it, break it into a well-crafted masterpiece.

For all I care just make me smile when you’re done,

Because all I want, ever wanted,

was you, to write me a poem.

Write me a poem.

My Silent Ambition

My silent ambition,
for the better things in life; the finest things in life,
for prosperity,
for peace, tranquility,
for the things deemed as vanity,
for the dreams turned to reality,
is unspoken;
unheard of, unmentioned.
It is as silent as the dark of the nights,
silent as the shadows under the moonlights.
It treads in unheard of paths,
hidden from the plainest of sights.
It is graciously careful, not to trip and
awaken the wilds of the forests,
loud enough not to awaken they who sleep.
It is like a fire,
that doesn't crackle too loud,
or burn whatever is in it's heat.
It burns up softly yet silently,
like a gas fire that hisses,
almost passionately but burning twice faster.
It's effective; that's what it is.
Silent but effective.
It produces the desired effect.

My ambition was born in turmoil,
subjected to contempt,
grew up in shame,
trained in strain,
and left to mature in difficulty.
It is a product of patience,
but is not in itself.. because it pushes,
it fights.
It fights to become what it pleases.
It creates a want so loud in me,
but also creates a need to keep it silent.
To be patient, till the right time is nigh.

Ambition is ambition,
whether loud or silent,
realistic or unrealistic,
priceless or has a huge price to pay.
Keep stroking the flame,
whether minute, typical or immense,
till it completely burns you up,
puts you to flames,
to be.. to become.. to live.
To be the ultimate you.
Dream. Live. Repeat.
& that, Ladies and gentlemen, is
my silent ambition.

Pocketful of sunshine

I have one full pocket!
One pocketful of sunshine.

And  it's blinding,
beautiful but blinding.
Beautifully blinding,
that beyond the horizon is a place,
a place we can go,
a place we can abide in.
A place that is binding.
Binding us to solace, 

beautifully binding.
We're lost but can find it,
even when we're hiding,
It's right there in our pockets,

full and to the brim,
beautifully shining.

Dig into your pocket,
your pocket of bliss..
because everyone has it,
I do, you do, we do
all have a
pocketful of sunshine.