stanford
linkden
github
goodreads
medium
twitterSummary
A couple of my old poems from way back when, with minor edits. Enjoy.
A couple of my old poems from way back when, with minor edits. Enjoy.
The Hijab of Faith
He looked upon the sullen land
at the dead men, the quiet men, the storied men
they all told of people gone by
of ages lost and tales untold
and the dreams yet fulfilled
A priest walked to a fallen man
his face all sunken in
he said his blessing
and whispered his prayers
but the poor man still stayed dead
The poor man finally got a ticket
out of hell, to the heaven which he had foreseen
wealth and riches came to him
and he finally would be happy
but he didn't know God played the lottery
So he bought some new things
and he went to the church
telling God of his good fortune
but he heard no reply, he did not cry
for he knew God was looking his way
So the priest walked on the field
bestowing his blessing this way and that
the dead men stayed dead and the living lived
and soon all that was there was forgotten
to the effects of the wind and the sun
The poor man stayed dead
the blessing had done him no good
for his soul went to heaven for awhile
but in God's game, faith
and wealth are not the only way to win
So the poor man lost
all he had, his wealth soon withered away
and the priest prayed again, yet
he went back down to hell
for God also played games
The Cataclysm
O Lord dost thou sing
Of a heaven and earth as one
With wings of old, wrought with gold
When call the tasks of ages
Then do send your pages
Though the blood of heaven spills down
O Lord dost thou sing
On the bed of Apocalypse
Wake the dead from eternal youth
When the sky turns red with tears
These men look up with open mouth
Till eyes reveal the greatest fears
O Lord dost thou sing
Once the dead pass
With wings of old, wrought with gold
While the living stare aghast
To the men who sail upon the Styx
Till their souls have past
O Lord dost thou sing
Of death and life as one
Which once begot, thou soon not forgot
Will the past soon willow away?
Times of old, times of new, clash in a day
The men look up, open mouth, wondering what to say
The Man, The Traveler, The Potatoes
On a cold winter day
out in the country side
a man picks potatoes and whistles a sad song
of an age gone by
He whistles for the kings and queens
He whistles for the battles won and lost
He whistles for the poor man and the rich man
He whistles for the living and the dead
A traveler walks by and ask
"Wha' ya wistlin' there?"
with a moment's pause, the man soon replies
"a tune to the ages gone by..."
"An odd lil man 're ye"
"An odd little traveler are thee"
"Why ya wistlin' ou'er in them fields?"
"Why thee walking out here in the fields?"
The traveler, in boredom, leaves
so the man continues to pick potatoes
and you hear the whistle carry
on that sad and dreary winter day
He looked upon the sullen land
at the dead men, the quiet men, the storied men
they all told of people gone by
of ages lost and tales untold
and the dreams yet fulfilled
A priest walked to a fallen man
his face all sunken in
he said his blessing
and whispered his prayers
but the poor man still stayed dead
The poor man finally got a ticket
out of hell, to the heaven which he had foreseen
wealth and riches came to him
and he finally would be happy
but he didn't know God played the lottery
So he bought some new things
and he went to the church
telling God of his good fortune
but he heard no reply, he did not cry
for he knew God was looking his way
So the priest walked on the field
bestowing his blessing this way and that
the dead men stayed dead and the living lived
and soon all that was there was forgotten
to the effects of the wind and the sun
The poor man stayed dead
the blessing had done him no good
for his soul went to heaven for awhile
but in God's game, faith
and wealth are not the only way to win
So the poor man lost
all he had, his wealth soon withered away
and the priest prayed again, yet
he went back down to hell
for God also played games
O Lord dost thou sing
Of a heaven and earth as one
With wings of old, wrought with gold
When call the tasks of ages
Then do send your pages
Though the blood of heaven spills down
O Lord dost thou sing
On the bed of Apocalypse
Wake the dead from eternal youth
When the sky turns red with tears
These men look up with open mouth
Till eyes reveal the greatest fears
O Lord dost thou sing
Once the dead pass
With wings of old, wrought with gold
While the living stare aghast
To the men who sail upon the Styx
Till their souls have past
O Lord dost thou sing
Of death and life as one
Which once begot, thou soon not forgot
Will the past soon willow away?
Times of old, times of new, clash in a day
The men look up, open mouth, wondering what to say
On a cold winter day
out in the country side
a man picks potatoes and whistles a sad song
of an age gone by
He whistles for the kings and queens
He whistles for the battles won and lost
He whistles for the poor man and the rich man
He whistles for the living and the dead
A traveler walks by and ask
"Wha' ya wistlin' there?"
with a moment's pause, the man soon replies
"a tune to the ages gone by..."
"An odd lil man 're ye"
"An odd little traveler are thee"
"Why ya wistlin' ou'er in them fields?"
"Why thee walking out here in the fields?"
The traveler, in boredom, leaves
so the man continues to pick potatoes
and you hear the whistle carry
on that sad and dreary winter day
-biafra
bahanonu [at] alum.mit.edu