THE BARD: A MAN IN HIS PRIME

THE BARD: A MAN IN HIS PRIME: A MAN IN HIS PRIME Constantly faced against the elements, One has to wonder if a Man is useful with his time. A Man wakes up early in...

A MAN IN HIS PRIME

A MAN IN HIS PRIME

Constantly faced against the elements,
One has to wonder if a
Man is useful with his time.
A Man wakes up early in the morning
To prepare for his nine to five.
The fresh, untainted air from the early morning dew
Makes a Man appreciate life anew.
The pain of His yesterday is therefore
Stripped away by the calm
Soothing silence of the stars.
The appearance of a shooting star
Is a testament to the fact that
The Universe will be good to Him that day;
"Make a wish" the shooting star says.

The early morning moonlight
Seems to tell the Man what to do.
It tells Him that in its splendour
The fullness of life is true;
"Today, everything that is good will come upon you".
It speaks to His heart
Without banter or slander.
It informs Him that just like its light,
His fortunes today will shine bright.

The early morning sunrise is like
A glimpse into His future.
It rises up in majesty,
Its radiant rays swallow up the earth
In light and brightness that is unwavered.
The cool wind that brushes across his musky face in the morning
Is a sign that His day is going to be filled with gloating.
Therefore, it is His day.
Today,
He is destined to conquer the earth,
Destined to cultivate and harvest the earth's hard turf.
Isn't it His sole purpose here on earth?
Isn't it His purpose
To rule over land and over all animals?
Isn't it His purpose
To multiply, fill and conquer the earth?

Yes, He looks at the sky with hope
Because he knows that something extraordinary
Is allowing Him to cope,
To cope with the pressures
Of being a Man in a feminine world.
To cope with the heavy burden
On his shoulders
That is brought about by being tagged
With the title of "bread winner".
That morning,
He starts to believe that thriving
Is not beyond His scope.
He is a Man in His prime.
And today,
He is looking forward to showing this prime.

A poem by Bruno Edgard

THE BARD: WHERE IS THE VOICE?

THE BARD: WHERE IS THE VOICE?: WHERE IS THE VOICE? Someone, anyone; Please indulge me. Please tell me; Where is the voice? Where is our voice? Who do we run to? Wh...

WHERE IS THE VOICE?

WHERE IS THE VOICE?

Someone, anyone;
Please indulge me.
Please tell me;
Where is the voice?
Where is our voice?
Who do we run to?
Who do we turn to?
Who can speak on our behalf
When neo-colonialism and capitalism
Cut our economies in half?

Who is the next Kwame Nkrumah?

The next Jomo Kenyatta?

The next Muammar Gaddafi who will tell it as it is.

Who will have the guts to say "NO"

To western faces who benefit

From the destruction of many African places.

Who has the guts to Mandela
Our motherland; Africa
To a great PRO-AFRICANIST effect?
Whose bold words and coarse voice
Can coerce our corrupt leaders
To reflect on the fact
That Africa is alive?
That Africa is a living, breathing being;
That SHE is free to be herself.
She is not a slave.
She deserves, no!!!
In fact, she is owed
Dignity and respect.

Who can tell the rest of the world

That we have our own culture?

That we have our own music

And our own tulips.

Who can voice our concerns

About the dangers of GMO?

Who can stand on a hill

And proclaim to the vultures?

Saying;

"The concept of human rights already exists

In our cultures"

"Whoever said that we are insufficient?"

"That everything that we do is wrong"

"That we cannot take care of ourselves"

"That we need to dance to the tune of Uncle Sam's belt"

Who can speak for us?
And by us,
I mean ALL OF US.
Yes, Africa is one;
In her full, splendid
Beautifully shaped body.
...For a body that is divided
Is the true definition of death;
Different parts of the body
All wanting to go their own way.
Each part of the body
Being controlled by different nerve endings.
This phenomenon causes her to feel hurt.
Can you hear her?
She lies there in the street.
She is wearing a torn African print dress;
Screeching, screaming;
"Mpwera!" "Mpwera!"
Why is she screaming?
It is because she has different men holding
On to her dress, wanting a piece of her.
They are men of strange colors;
White, brown, yellow et cetera.
They are holding on to her
Like they own her.
Inside the get away car,
There is a man of native color.
He is the get away driver.
He waits for the men of color
To bring HER parts and their asses into the car.
After this is done, the get away driver then drives
Them into the white night.

Where is the voice that will unite us?

The voices that we had have either been killed or dethroned thus;

Where is the voice that will put humpty zulu back together again?

Where was that voice

When it was needed in the streets of Cairo?

And in the streets of Benghazi?

Mother Africa's heart froze in the wake of 2011.

She refused to pump blood to her left shoulder.

...Where is the voice that will hold her

Firm and steady in it's righteous and zealous hands?

Where is the voice that will whisper into her tingling ears

The sweet romances of a devout lover?

Who will speak on her behalf?
Who will speak on our behalf?
Where is the voice that will

Bring us together?
So that together,
We will raise HER.

A poem by Bruno Edgard.

THE BARD: TOWARDS MIDNIGHT

THE BARD: TOWARDS MIDNIGHT: TOWARDS MIDNIGHT ................................................ She looks at me And I look at her. She is beaten and disheveled. An...

TOWARDS MIDNIGHT

TOWARDS MIDNIGHT

................................................
She looks at me
And I look at her.
She is beaten and disheveled.
And I can't properly breathe.
Our feet are both grey and cracked
From war.
Her battered dress is a short, dull red and yellow,
Though it must have once been bright and as long as the Nile flows.
I can't see what I am wearing but my shirt and trouser feel torn.
We are both sitting with our backs against the wall.

We stare at each other in silence.
We are in that place,
In a place beyond violence;
A tired, dull and emotionless silence.
The fire that is in between us is steady
But it is slowly running out.
So we sit there,
Looking dryly at each other.
The hut that covers us has walls that are painted with soot.
I cannot move,
And from the looks of it,
Neither can she.
What are we going to do?
Are we just going to sit here and whither?

At the corner of my eye,
I feel a stinging sensation.
The cause of this sensation
Is a very bright light outside the hut.
It is probably from the moon.
It towers over all things
And conquers all darkness
By dispersing it with light.
..........................................................
What do we do?

Is this what fate has led us to?
Is this what destiny prepared for the year 2022?
....Her eyes are still beautiful,
They are colored a dark brown spectacle.
In this still night,
They especially seem to have a poignant glow,
Beauty and sorrow mixed in radiant flow.
They forge together to form a rainbow.
Those eyes;
They have no more tears,
No more fears,
No more nightmares.
All they have is a blank expression.
........................................................
Where do we go from here?...........

THE BARD: WE WILL NOT BE CIRCUMCISED

THE BARD: WE WILL NOT BE CIRCUMCISED: WE WILL NOT BE CIRCUMCISED We will not be circumcised; For as long as I can remember, We have been undermined, Disenfranchised and para...

WE WILL NOT BE CIRCUMCISED

WE WILL NOT BE CIRCUMCISED

We will not be circumcised;
For as long as I can remember,
We have been undermined,
Disenfranchised and paralysed.
We have been stigmatised,
Brutalised and quite frankly sodomised.

We will not be circumcised;
For a very long time,
You have held us at gun point,
Eagerly pressing the finger joint of the trigger
So that you have our guts splattering all over like dropped coins.
You have called us names,
Names that are devoid of praise;
Musiru gwe,
You say.
You have called us lazy, crazy
And rumour mongering chimpanzees.
You have riddled us with shame,
Showered us with blame
And stripped us of our manes.

We will not be circumcised,
You have broken our hearts,
Spit on the creative arts,
Stolen our body parts,
Showed us death charts
And soiled our breakfast.

But we will not be circumcised;
For our greatness lies
In our identity.
In what we see, what is before our eyes.
What is in our spirits, souls, hearts and minds,
And not what is between our thighs.

We will not be circumcised;
For our minds are awoken to the path of the token,
Our spirits may be unhinged but they are not broken.
Our chins are chiseled  
But are firmly lifted high up into the sky.
Our countenance is steadfast and will never die;
We hold our confidence with pride.

We will not be circumcised;
You will have to attend the ritual cleansing alone
Because our fortitude,
Our minds and our foreskins are set to remain on
And strong!!!

A poem by Bruno Edgard

A LEADER CANNOT BE TAMED

A LEADER CANNOT BE TAMED

A leader cannot be tamed!!!

Step forth into the great domain

And look onto the horizon

Onto the lush savanna plains,

And you will see that

You are meant to conquer, multiply and not maintain!!!

A leader cannot be tamed!!!

Once that halo is above your head,

A different path you are destined to tread;

One with rocky paths and short nights on your bed.

You know that you have to wake up early in the morning,

That at that time till late;

The sheep need to be fed,

Need to be bred;

You always need to keep a steady head,

Because!!!

A leader cannot be tamed!!!

Multiplying influence is the game

And in this game;

There is often a lot of criticism,

Often a lot of cynicism,

Often a lot of sarcasm;

But in your arsenal;

Sacrifice and countenance

Are firmly in your stead,

You think with your head,

On paths of knowledge and wisdom you tread.

A leader cannot be tamed!!!

For it is written as part of all our membranes

That we must multiply sustenance all over the world

Without any restraint...

...A leader cannot be tamed!!!

For the world is counting on it,

Counting on YOU!!!

To lead the sheep to the shed,

To lead the heavens down softly to earth's bed,

To open the eyes of those who are engulfed in darkness,

To feed the hungry who sorely need to be fed,

To bridge the gap between the can't do and the can do,

To bring faith and prosperity to the weary

To be the shoulder that everyone lean's on...

...To be the light that is always switched on!!!

You see a leader cannot be tamed!!!

For the world is counting on you

To multiply your influence!!!

A poem by Bruno Edgard. 

THE BARD: WHAT IS RACISM?

THE BARD: WHAT IS RACISM?: WHAT IS RACISM? What is racism? Some people call it The true face of fascism, And the true calling of the Nazi regime. Is rac...

WHAT IS RACISM?

WHAT IS RACISM?

What is racism?

Some people call it

The true face of fascism,

And the true calling of the Nazi regime.

Is racism just about color?

Is it white against black?

Is it black against white?

Or is it even black against black?

I know that there are different terms

And different faces of it.

So what is it?

A trusted source informed me

That racism also means

Urban black against rural black.

Is racism the placard 

That many disillusioned blacks carry as

They chant through streets that have monuments?

Or is it the pressure that

Africans and African governments daily feel from Western governments?

Is racism found 

In the green card 

That has thrice been denied

To those of steadfast African pride?

Or is it in the "blackish" racial slurs

That we blacks often point towards those that are white?

Is racism and segregation

The selfish pride with which we

Boast about our different tribes?

Or is it a thing as trivial as

The subtle differences between you and I?

Huh!!! Man!!! you tell me,

There is an ongoing Ugandan notion

That the Baganda and the Banyankole

Cannot sit at the same table

Nor look each other in the eye;

That the north and south of Sudan

Cannot come together to make peace.

This is what racism really is;

The dividing lines are not just drawn by color,

It is not just as simple as black versus white.

No, it is the line that is drawn between you and I.

It is that time;

When I turn my face away from my brother's eye,

It is that time when we close our

Homes to the people that war is trying to find.

It is that day;

When to our brothers and sisters

We stop being kind.

It is the act of our hearts being blind

To the plight of our fellow mankind;

Be him black, brown, purple or white.

It is the short and fast exit

That was taken by the proponents of Brexit.

Racism is when we think that we are too superior

That we turn our backs from humanity,

From brotherhood;

Be him black, brown, purple or white.

A Poem written by Bruno Edgard.

THE BARD: PERSPECTIVETell me what you seeTell me what you he...

THE BARD: PERSPECTIVETell me what you seeTell me what you he...: PERSPECTIVE Tell me what you see Tell me what you hear, Tell me what you think is clear. There are many voices speaking, There ...

PERSPECTIVE

Tell me what you see

Tell me what you hear,

Tell me what you think is clear.

There are many voices speaking,

There are many ghosts in corners squeaking.

Everybody is shouting loud,

Nobody is getting heard.

Everyone is saying something,

And yet everyone is hearing nothing.

Is Donald Trump really colluding with Russia?

If so, is it really a bad thing?

Is the "democracy" of the democrats out to get him?

Or is it just a losers' witch hunt?

Nothing is ever as straight forward as it seems,

Especially in the political scene.

Politics is like a girl who is humble and virgin at morning light

And yet displays all her amenities by night.

Is the Ugandan government the only villain in the story?

Is there an opposition party?

Or are they different sides of the same coin?

Isn't everyone centrally a racist?

When we turn our backs on our brothers and sisters;

Of different tribes and different colors;

Isn't that what racism really means?

How can we really end racism

When as black people we display racism towards whites?

Is light better than darkness?

Or is darkness the sweet prequel before light?

Are we who we say we are?

Do you intend to keep your word when you shake that hand?

Do you intend to truly Love that girl when you put that ring through her finger?

Can you honestly say you fight for justice

When towards that child you pull the trigger?

Can I honestly say that I am who I'd say I would be?

Can I honestly say that the person that you meet everyday is really me?

MIRROR MIRROR ON THE WALL!

MIRROR MIRROR ON THE WALL!

What do i see when i look into the mirror?

The Bible says that i should look at a righteous bride.

However, that's not what i see 

And thus within me there exists an uncomfortable tide.

When i look into the mirror,

All i see is a fat overweight image.

One that is vivid with bubbly things and stretch marks,

I can't stretch or squat without feeling a fat burn.

All i see is shame.

I am ashamed of taking off my shirt in a swimming pool,

Ashamed of the fact that on the beach my upper body will never look cool.

So i cover my shame with vests and under garments,

In order to cover my shame and avoid torment.

When i look into the mirror,

I see a lack of dimples

And a manifestation of pimples.

I see a man who can do better,

I see a man who can never get her,

I can see the tears that every night taste bitter,

I can see a lump that no app can filter,

I.....I....I can hear sorrow say come hither!

Just behind me on the mirror's reflection,

I can see the clock ticking in perfection.

I can feel my heart racing in paces to fears' election.

This reflection informs me of my worst perception;

That i am running out of days, out of time in quick succession.

My fear is no longer a suspicion

I am failing my mission.

I am a disgrace, a pain to look at,

I am the reason the word loser exists in English diction.

.........................................

Wait, wait a minute....

If i squint my eyes to the right

And look closely towards where the mirror captures the light.

The image flickers, changes

And i can start to see a new entity

A NEW IDENTITY!!! 

There is hope after all,

Everything is not bleak,

I am not a freak.

I am a NEW IDENTITY!!!

A Poem by Bruno Edgard

THE BARD: AM I NOT STILL GOD?

THE BARD: AM I NOT STILL GOD?: AM I NOT STILL GOD? Embattled, Broken... Disenfranchised until sorrow became a franchise. All natures of tongue you have spoken, ...

AM I NOT STILL GOD?

AM I NOT STILL GOD?

Embattled, Broken...

Disenfranchised until sorrow became a franchise.

All natures of tongue you have spoken,

You kneel, you crawl, you scream, 

You sprawl, all the way round.

You roll until dirt becomes one with you,

Becomes common ground.

With your eyes looking up to the sky you sob.

Your dreams have been shattered,

And your goals have been battered.

Your heart has always been crushed.

....So you ask why? 

Why is this happening to me?

How can you say that you love me,

And yet sorrow consumes me?

And i ask you this in return,

      Am i not still God?

 Your parents died when you were still five years old

Right about now, you cannot find a steady job,

He told you that he loved you,

And yet all he wanted to do was to baby bump you,

As a result, you feel like your future prosperity is now deprived.

There is cancer in three parts of your body at age 25.

Your folks are staunch Christians,

So you tried so hard not to sin or to lie,

And so you pray;

Please!! Do not let me die!!

So i ask you this;

    Am i not still God?

You have exclusively sinned all sins.

You have fornicated in every different way,

You have revealed your private parts,

As hard as the sun emits sun rays.

You have been a witch to witchcraft,

And lost terribly in spiritual warcraft.

Thus you lament;

"I am not worthy Lord"

So i ask you this;

    Am i not still God?

My promises are true.

He/She that is weary should come to me.

I shall give ye rest.

By my stripes ye are healed,

By my Grace ye are perfected.

My blood is into you by Love injected.

Seek and you shall find,

Ask and you will receive.

Pursuant to this, 

I would kike to repeat;

"By my stripes ye are healed"

And so i ask you this again;

       Am i not still God?

A Poem by Bruno Edgard.

MALE PROSTITUTE

MALE PROSTITUTE

Right around the corner from where i stand,

There's a man that i cannot understand.

He stands face high wearing nickers on the street,

Looking for lickers who can dance to the beat.

Now, don't get alarmed by my choice of words,

Because all they do is simply tell it as it is in verse,

These words they speak wisdom to the heart.

Back to that man,

Hmmm, he needs a name,

Let's call him Stan.

Now Stan sits cross legged,

With his cross fit trained"entumbwe"

Showing out strongly.

At regular intervals he raises up one of his legs,

Opens it up wide,

In order to reveal the secrets beneath his cross dress.

Ah!! He sees a customer,

Stan ensues to whistle at her,

Calling her, taunting her, telling her...

I only charge in dollars.

She smiles, nods her head,

And then follows him to a different corner.

On the corner of that street,

He jumps right on her,

Listen, 

In this story there is no place for honor,

No need for trousers....and

After a couple of minutes,

She gives out a scream and it's over!!!

Stan returns to his corner,

Bewildered, drained, dehydrated,

But for some reason after a couple of minutes,

He is refreshed and sober.

He has this look in his eyes.

A look that suggests that the night is not over.

"The night has just began"

"I have to make a little more cheda"

"My life has to get better"

"I will sell myself to the highest bidder"

"I will sell my soul to the highest bidder"

"I will move my hips with vigor"

...."I will sell my soul to the highest bidder"

When Stan goes back home in the morning,

Drowsy, sleepy and yawning,

He opens the fridge and looks for a soda,

The purpose for the soda,

Is to drown out that taste in his mouth,

That is bitter.

His lips and hips are sore,

His dignity is far beyond shattered and torn,

Yawn!!! He moves towards the table,

To pick up the phone so that he can roam through Instagram.

On his way to the table,

He stops and stares at the mirror.

As he looks at the mirror,

His vision is blurred,

But the image is clear.

He is a male prostitute,

The image is as clear as can be,

The male prostitute that is looking at the mirror is really me!!!

A Poem By Bruno Edgard

MY BROTHER DOESN'T KNOW ME

I am proud to be African,

I am proud to be black,

We are strong, We are no longer slaves,

We are no longer pitiful.

We are proud to be black!

We have been brothers since the beginning of time,

We have been cousins since the start of the 19th Century.

...So my brother no longer knows me.

It's not that he owes me,

It's just that he disowns me,

Through the lack of actions thereof that he shows me.

Our kind is rooted deep in history,

But he reacts ever so slowly to the problems that are before me.

Sorry, i know that you have enough trouble in your house,

The torture you have endured in your own house is appalling,

Truly, our kind have faced and continue to face the worst brutality.

That is why i was of the view that we stick together,

In order to solve the problems in both houses,

In order to curb the habit of being abused spouses.

The power that we would wield together would be immense,

The power of Wakanda would be intense....................

..........These dreams have stayed locked and decaying in the dream closet,

Our hope is quickly dwindling down the hopeless faucet.

I open up my eyes and you have been added as a slave master to the docket.

You had a picture of us but you forever hid it in your pocket...

That's what i mean to you,

A distant cousin in a distant memory.

When all the fingers point you join in with distinct allegory.... 

I am African, 

I am Black,

We are Black...

But we are not brothers.

A Poem by Bruno Edgard

Looking Into The Hague

LOOKING INTO THE HAGUE

I lift up my eyes and as clear as cool might breeze,

I see Angels surround me.

In the distance, i see bodies of dead acquaintances climbing.

They fly towards the Moon like its their salvation,

Beyond this fleshy world, there is a nation.

The unseen seen climb up and step into the moon's station.

The stars light up the path to the gateway,

There are two paths into which the souls can stray;

One of them is wide and open,

The other is narrow with rough edgy bends,

Death is in the air, death is the new trend.

The Moon keeps staring.

With it's light beaming,

It calls unto wandering souls,

Streaming....

Home is here.

And as sure as daylight is clear,

The graves open up and dark dots rise in the air...

The destination to this flesh is unclear.

But to those immortal mortals, 

It's as clear as grey hair...........

Do not take me there,

Not now......

I still have the Lord's work to complete.

My race is not yet finished,

My Father is surely still in it,

I still harbor strength in these dreary feet.

In return for keeping me awake from that dreaded flight,

I promise to live a life with purpose,

I solemnly swear that i will no longer wing it.

Every corner that is filthy in my mind,

I promise to clean it.

Let my life not stray into a path that will end it.

To the ones flying, I salute you.

To the faithful ones,

I know that where you are going is beautiful,

You have taught me to be careful,

To be careful with this oxygen that is plentiful.

We, the people of soil and bone celebrate the path that you herein walked.

We celebrate all the beautiful words that you spoke.

As you fly into the nimbus filled night,

Please know that we will forever be grateful,

That we shall forever honor you;

For your courage in 1942,

For all the wonderful meals that you cooked,

And for all the times into our eyes you looked.

We will always remember you!!!

.....They stand in a line close to the Moon,

And they look down at me, not with gloom,

But with a smile, a smile that eternally blooms.

They are leaving me now,

They disappear behind the clouds,

Hence their journey to the courts of Shalom begins.

And now..look at them ascend!!!

A Poem by Bruno Edgard.

THE BARD: The Woman That I Beat.

THE BARD: The Woman That I Beat.: The Woman That I Beat ............I went to the hospital yesterday. I walked slowly through the halls of Mulago, It was like a mo...

The Woman That I Beat.

The Woman That I Beat

............I went to the hospital yesterday.

I walked slowly through the halls of Mulago,

It was like a movie scene in slow mo,

I could feel a cold on my shoulder,

Something bad is going to happen,

When I walk through the second door on the left,

I will look at a face without any skin left.

Thump, thump, thump,

I walked to the door

Like i was walking to the gets of hell.

My heart was racing, pacing,

Out of fear and anger!!!

Anger that she betrayed me..........

(Cool down, Cool down)

......................................................

I'm a nice guy,

My Father used to beat me and my Mom

That's the traditional way,

Its the truth!!

But before you get my story skewed,

That's not the reason i beat her.

This is not that type of story

Where the son becomes like his father.

It's that story where i beat her because she angered me.

......................................................

I would like to say sorry to my therapist.

I lost it there for a minute.

There's no excuse.

A Woman should never be beaten.

A crystal that glows in a dark cave,

Should never be broken, cracked or even spat on.

She is so beautiful,

A scratch on her would be pitiful.

She brings life to the world

Thus she is a direct link to the creator.

........But why did she have to change the meter?

Why did she have to talk to total strangers?

Some times she would talk to other people not me,

And ooooohhhh!! I would want to strangle...........

.........................................................

I am sorry, sorry that i ever laid my hands on her,

Sorry that i gave her all those scars,

Sorry for the pain, sorrow and anger that i caused her,

Sorry for always threatening you into coming back,

Sorry for being inhumane, for the character that i lack.

A man should never lay his hands on a woman.

Especially one as brown and fair as the fruit of the Inguli tree.

Please Lord, of this violent curse set me free,

She is the best human being that i have ever seen.

...........................................................

I have finally reached the door I.....

...I...gave her a black eye.................

.........................................................

A Poem by Bruno Edgard.

THE BARD: INSIDE MY RHYME

THE BARD: INSIDE MY RHYME: INSIDE MY RHYME This is my thesis, Plessis, I keep my rhyme so fresh. It keeps me sleepless, I rhyme so hard it gives purpo...

INSIDE MY RHYME

INSIDE MY RHYME

This is my thesis,

Plessis,

I keep my rhyme so fresh.

It keeps me sleepless,

I rhyme so hard it gives purpose to the needless.

Open your eyes,

Don't cover the blinds,

And you'll realize that you're witnessing greatness alive.

Speak to the earth, 

I'm lifting the dirt,

I opened up my mouth now

These words they show you their worth.

 Here i stand,

 Witnessing time give way to the birth,

Birth of master who conquered and replenished the earth.

Speak to the storms,

I am the bird that ate the time keeping worm.

Power it keeps me warm,

I've devised a method that keeps me owning the throne,

Now you cannot take me away from this ruler's home.

.........................................................

Listen to me,

Open your ears as truth speaks.

On record i say my words shake the leaves off every tree.

Take me to the cancer ward and you'll see cancer heal.

Down on my knees

I open up my heart for heaven to succeed.

What you've got to know,

Is that i am seated on the throne,

And in this throne i'm no longer my own.

I'm graciously, intentionally the slave that nobody owned.

I speak while sleeping because the rhymes keep my heart beating.

Open my chest and you will see my heart bleating.

Understand that you can never give what  i take,

I take faithfully from these lines i spake.

Viciously, vividly i eat of the sun and moon's serendipity,

Then refreshed, i stand to take the test,

The test of time bringing thrills down to my chest

I waste no time having given all of my best

I take a bow and then to the Lord i leave the rest.

............................................

If you've not understood a word of what I've just said,

Then you need to go and pump some sense into your head.

I 

THE BARD: Tales of A Broken Heart!!!

THE BARD: Tales of A Broken Heart!!!: TALES OF A BROKEN HEART Go ahead and break my heart; Please, go ahead and slam my cardiac into a wall, The harder you love, the great...

Tales of A Broken Heart!!!

TALES OF A BROKEN HEART

Go ahead and break my heart;

Please, go ahead and slam my cardiac into a wall,

The harder you love, the greater you fall.

I was your slave,

So you threw me into the Lion's den.

And just like the Lions,

You suffocated me until you decided to tighten the squeeze.

You manipulated me,used me and tossed me like used orbit,

You didn't just break my heart,

You tore it!!!


Now i sit here;

Wondering if i should turn my heart black,

Black with vengeance.

You left too many stitches on me.

The greatest healer of the heart is anger!!!

Anger!!! Stamp a sign post on my chest,

That reads DANGER!!!

Danger!!! as i sleep around with all these women,

While letting in none.

And all this was BECAUSE OF YOU!!!


...What was once solid, you turned into glue.

Then you stuck it to pain,

And made it more proud and vain.

My heart is now a mess,

A real big mess!!!

Because you gave it love,

And then sliced it, slain!!!


Now you have done it!!!

You've triggered the voice of;

Destruction and obstruction,

All without having suicide as an option.

And now, now i seek vengeful satisfaction.

Because you broke my heart, shattered it,

Bashed it, smashed it

And left me devoid of Love.

The Dark Night

THE DARK NIGHT 

Evil is Rising.....

I can see it so clearly,

I can see the vividness of it's blackness,

It's tyranny......

This evil is overtly advertised through coldness,

And the bright moon.

I can hear the wolf and the dog howling.

They call out the names of idlers still in hiding,

As if to warn them about the darkness that is gliding.

It glides down the mountain,

And like a strange thing it has only one intention;

To swallow and subdue.

This Darkness captures and enslaves,

Courts and caresses the hapless idlers to their graves.

It smothers their lungs and churns their bodies,

Until there is nothing left like ashes that have been burnt.

The blood of those bodies ignite their blood like fuel.

There is nothing left, not even the forgotten stories of ash.

.....Somewhere else in the forest,

There is a crunching of flesh and bone.

You can hear it so clearly without the deafness of tone.

This sound is akin to the sound of wolf,

Tearing flesh off from bone.

Or like a bear mauling down a bony human.

When curiosity overcomes you,

And you decide to take a closer look, 

What you'll see is not the shadow of a wolf,

It's one of a creature that has for long run aloof,

That has for long made a mockery of the theory,

Of bones being teeth proof.

This creature appears after the dust has settled,

When one's eyes and consciousness are muzzled.

It ensnares its prey with a dancing worm on a stick,

Leaving the prey puzzled, then it SNAPS!!!!!

It eats human flesh in big chunks at first,

Then it nibbles the flesh in pebbles,

So as to allow the first chunk to digest.

After the feeding frenzy is over,

It then licks up the remains from its spiky short fingers.

The remains are usually pieces of intestine.

Its ferocious growl calls,

Calls for souls with which its dinner will summarize. 

I can't clearly see it's face,

It's kind of hidden in a misty daze.

But i can tell that destruction is it's prize.

As you go deeper into the forest on death top mountain,

You can smell an evil force,

A strange presence, 

For whom civilization and logic have divorced. 

It sends chills down your spine...

Because you can feel....

.....Feel an uncomfortable, unnerving, feeling reach your toes.

As you continue to walk through the forest,

Your hear a sound, and a squeak...

Something is looking at me...

Suddenly, i feel the urge to run.
I feel like my soul is being pulled out from under me.
.........It has caught up with me....................................
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!


A Poem by Bruno Edgard.

  

OBSOLETE

OBSOLETE!!!

Obsolete, Nothing.....

I feel nothing...

I look at my pen....

And then i look at all the blank pages........

They are staring at me.....

Waiting, waiting patiently.....

And all i see is NOTHING!!!

All i see is an empty space before mine eyes.

I feel the power of his glory divine.

And yet my heart beats at a

Steady rate because i feel nothing sublime.

What is causing this?

Is it because the last feelings that i had,

Ignited a response that was crazy?

Those coveted three words....

"I'm not Ready"

I want to write about substantial beauty,

About how the sun shines when your eyes

Are before me.

About how the sky turns blue

When you look up to it in Glory.

About how my ear wax disappears,

Every time i listen to your story.

Why is it that i can no longer

Behold that beauty?

Wherefore i sit on my chair,

Or on my bed and i just

Think about no one and nobody.

Why can't i write Love poems anymore?

Yes, i am filled with the Love of God.

But when it comes to writing about cupid's arrow,

I need a focal point.

Lo and behold,

Even though my feelings may be mute,

I know that one day,

Out of this nothingness

A Rose, a beauty,

I will uproot.

A Poem by Bruno Edgard.