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Posts Tagged ‘wage’

We have to spend our whole life getting up

each morning and see the many suns

rising courageous from the horizon.

A simple life- who knows when to retire

at night time and hug long-time companions

called pillows and dreaming dreams.

 

There are episodes here, which send ripples

into our seemingly monotonous existence

everyday. And we have to wage battles

with boredom and her sisters- called mediocrity

and irrelevance. But not all were lost.

Somebody needs to learn how to befriend them.

 

Some may think that something was lacking,

but perhaps in the company of silence we find

orbs of thoughts in the usual grind of days

like the fowls of the air having simple cares.

Season after season. Day after day. Aged

but content to the simple things that matter.

 

The small country talks over the weather

and life in the farm begins with asking folks

how the young are doing these days at school.

The familiar warmth of seeing old friends at a gathering.

The joy of witnessing someone else’s milestones.

 

The farewells and well wishes when someone

is leaving our own little places to discover

the bigness of things. There goes a little prayer

and a hope that nothing is wrong when one decides

to stay and carry on doing their tasks each day.

 

We might spend our whole life thinking it’s good after all, 

though it has never been easy and there are rough times.

 

But it will never stop us believing that peace within

is the only dwelling place, our enduring shelter

when the day comes that we will never be able

to witness the sun and it has forgotten to rise.

 

In the darkness, we hope our soul in its own little spaces

can see the moon and stars light up the evening sky.

While the wind whispers- all is well, we’ll be calm as the sea.

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Verges means being pushed to the edge.

Like you are being confronted at a knife point

and you just can’t turn around but to dive

into that abyss while you don’t know how deep it was.

You always say that you can’t let them ruin you

but it’s a plain lie you wish that all is perfect.

 

If only you can cut the wire and kiss the voltage.

If only you can let the rope grip around the neck.

If only you can break the mirror and embrace danger.

Would it change a thing? Ah but no, you just go on

struggling with your inner demons and chase them

wielding that sword to cut-off somebody else’s head.

 

For you, everyday is a waging battle of wits and reason.

Perfection is costly. Holiness is fatal. Which one are you?

Nobody is born a saint and you won’t believe it too?

Do you suppose to expect the world will applaud a hero?

You raised the bar too high and it left you there isolated

basking in your self-proclaimed brand of narcissism.

 

Tell me now then, how it hurts to held onto the razor’s edge.

Or screaming mad in silence when you temporarily got insane.

Does it worth to feed people’s expectations and drag your feet

into that unending precipice while you can’t discern the apex?

Excuse my French, but I think you need to stop this disillusion.

Take a turn towards the direction where your heart leads you.

 

You might be a simple man- confident and unpretentious. Free.

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His muffled voice breaks

the long stretches of silence

while his hand guided

young and untrained hands

practicing calligraphy.

 

Watchful and demanding precision

of copied texts exacting translation.

As he unbuckles the leathery tome

of secrets in a wooden chest.

Tradition, theology and religion.

Diaries, recipes, scientific notations.

 

Inventories, census, receipts.

Readings of narratives and poetry,

astrology, proverbs and magic spells.

The volumes of letters, last wills,

songs and words of blessings.

 

Spending hours and hours sitting

among the piles of pages digging

for clues and answers to mysteries.

The labyrinth of a culture. A treasure.

Each of the fragile pages a wealth

weightier than silver and the gold.

 

Piecing each fragment in a mosaic

mapping an ancient civilization

long forgotten. He believed, it was

here  in his hands lies the fiber, sinew

and muscle of generations of man-

the society is ought to remember.

 

So he became a warrior, obsessed

with the written word wielding

weapons of passion and wisdom.

With his small army of juvenile scholars

continuing an unpopular legacy.

 

Waging the classic battle against time,

earth bugs, heat, rot and decay

slowly finding its way like marauders

pillaging the essence of our humanity

into oblivion and brink of extinction.

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To this semi-privacy. An epitaph reads,

“in this sanctum, a restless, herein lies,

its opaque remembrance failing to breath

devoid of oxygen, rousing to the grind

like  a zombie of the worst kind”.

Against the ancient cracked walls, my fingers

will then, smear red letter stains of anguish.

 

The light bulb is my flickering moon

cocooned in cobwebs, I dread.

It went dead as it signals the start

of the many battles I will wage against,

tonight. My anger boils up, my teeth gritted

to someone’s snoring and the other’s whispers.

One-eyed as a pirate I will set to sail the hours

struggling against nocturnal enemies, those

bloodlust critters diving into my sea of sheets.

 

This nightly tryst to its mattress,

and bed covers sweat stained,

sagged by bouts of insomnia-

wasted and nauseated,

by the stench of coffee.

A back-breaking day

I will not slumber away.

Square inches of a shared space

I rented, a coffin to say a bed.

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The words infiltrate a mind’s sovereign

colonizing a niche of space within

Rock-hewn among these parched walls,

petrifying civilization, quelling revolution.

 

The maze of letters clustered like jungle

to simmering cauldron of thoughts.

The texts became glowing embers

of world wars waged in the past.

 

When sentences begins imaginary-

little flames gather into firestorm.

Of bourgeoisie killing ideology-

etching history in its annals of freedom.

 

Crusade to equality  is an open door.

A people force through closed windows.

Clenched fist of a Che Guevarra,

struggle between power and martyrdom.

 

The conqueror’s territory eventually falls,

while peasants set loose from their cages.

Voicing sentiments, marching on parliament-

unafraid of gunfire and waterbombs.

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