To Paddle One's Canoe Over Still Waters (A Poem About Fictitious Love Stories)

To Paddle One's Canoe Over Still Waters



Seeming storylines are child's play

Appearing to you like 'tis

something funny


Out of our little trembling political


If only stars are the silent majority


They must twinkle—endlessly, without a noise


No matter how far we are,


The light year spanned space-time

to have brought

me to you


—wondering, now, if vice versa is





In a sense of delight that had made

young lovers swoon

'Tis a mother's loving caress to a



A perfect love of Astrological


And forever they will

choose to share lovingkindness



—to each other & for others.

As well.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Reedited on 11.23.2019 (I have supplanted the {minor misspelling of "light year"} but this time, I think I have added a period as its resulting emendation, due to a possible lack of it which was previously left unnoticed).



This is a repost from my Twitter platform & which has been edited for a very minor misspelling of "light year".  I have corrected the two-word noun.  For anything else that I might have edited (e.g., I might have also missed), that could only be involving a tweaking of the form (e.g., which might have been changed/affected by my copying & pasting method of the verses; either that or other copyediting stuff like by changing fonts/font sizes).  Thank you for checking it out.

The Gorge


What makes us cry? What makes us feel so insecure that we throw ourselves from the worn down path that we trudge in our quest to keep sane and allow ourselves to be thrown into the cavernous hole of hell that is so dark and without meaning that our minds simply shrivel to a structure of most insignificance? It simply can be blamed on the coarse and hostile words that are thrown down like thunderclaps by those that stand on the isolated cliffs above: To which we seek the most of solace from. But to say that the individuals are to be solely blamed is to ignore the high cliffs of comfort that the blamer grants those that fire these heinous slandering's, that grant them immunity from their own words.


We walk a path between oblivion of the mind and the souls destruction, void of a sense of right or wrong to which our pride consumes like a cancer. For many, this road is filled with sharp stones made from our past grief's and the far too ominous memories which seek to hinder us in our pursuit of the happiness that we are often told is but to be had at the posting of a picture or the following of an icon. These jaggered rocks prick into your skin and bled you of all positive blood that your weak veins pitifully pulse in an effort to delude you into thinking it all is but a headache of a former life.


To your left, the words bounce back and forth, playing squash against your skull; causing you to topple backwards, your hands splintering at the pressure that the memories of your downfall and the black abyss is to your right: Its so very tempting to take as a purple black bile oozes from the rocks and takes you to a small peaceful area, an eye in the storm. The shouts and calls become distant as the whisperings take hold of your bleeding ears that no longer want the harsh hardship of the torment that the path presents. You listen to them a'e the screaming of the privileged tell you that your life, so frivolous and lacking in the proper worth to be worthy of happiness, just needs to end. The whisperings argue that life only begins when you cast aside the microbes of possessions and into that unknown that the chasm offers.


On the path, the shouting and screaming stops. The chasm ends its mutterings and leaves you on the floor, your humanity spilling out on the rocks as your eyes and will grow weak. You have two options.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Second poem, hope its alright to read as I know it was good to write it!

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I stared into the blue eyes,


Expecting a rebel,


A piercing stare sharp as ice,


Only to find the eyes of a leader.




Instinct directed it,


The paws leaving imprints in the fresh snow,


The white fur casting an aura in the darkness.


I trailed behind like a student following its teacher,


Eager to reach my destination.




The path is lit as if a car's headlights are directing through the night.


Only I don't hear an engine,


The traction of wheels against snow,


Or the horn warning against collisions.




I hear light panting,


Soft tapping of paws against the snow,


And howls into the night,


Informing its brothers of its sudden flight.




I was lost,




Alone, in a land alien to me,


Afraid of its dangers and saddened by the thoughts of never returning to my family.




I knew of it,


The blue eyes...


They would peak out from behind the trees,


Taking my breath away,


Leaving me both frightened and stunned by the beauty.




It ran forward,


Passing frozen rivers and hooting owls, hiding amongst the trees.


My eyes sought out the light that lay ahead,


Of civilization.




My blue-eyed leader came to a halt,


Looking back, informing me of reaching my destination.


I knelt down, stroked the white fur and retreated to my home.


I turned around, seeking the eyes of my leader,


The blue eyes of my wolf.


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An Excerpt - From a Short Story

“Now this, my lovely young lady, is but one of many examples of our shop’s flawless craftsmanship. Made with layered steel and coated with pure, gleaming silver; this candelabrum will not only allow you to bring light in to whatever sanctuary you choose; it will also make you the envy of all friends, neighbors and chapel-going patrons who may lay eyes upon your purchase!” With this last word, Nevony lifted his arm in a grand gesture to all of the closest passers-by in the marketplace, some of which glared at him warily.

Shel giggled with one hand held to her lips. She then placed one finger on her chin and showed the boy a playful, speculative tilt of the head.

“Ah, I see, I see! But how can I be sure that this candelabrum will stand the trials of the day-to-day? How can I even be sure it will survive the carry home!” She said, with a bright smile that displayed her perfect, white teeth.

Nevony shared in her smile and looked down at the candelabrum, which he continued to absentmindedly polish. He then held it high towards the sun, allowing it to dazzle the young priestess as it fully captured the shimmer of the morning, which was slowly creeping towards the afternoon as they spoke.

What’s a boy to do? He not only wanted to impress the beautiful young woman that had come admiring his wares; he also wanted to prove that he and his master crafted the finest metal in all the local posts. With a sudden realization, Nevony seized the candelabrum by the base and slammed it on to its side with a booming thud. Shel flinched at the sound and then watched, unsure of what to make of the boy’s sudden burst of enthusiasm. He reached beneath the center of the wooden counter top and, after a moment of blind searching, heaved a heavy metalsmith’s hammer by the hilt in his dirty, bared hand. Without word or remark, he unceremoniously raised the hammer as youthful slyness returned to his face. Understanding dawned abruptly on the poor girl, and she attempted to dissuade him in futility: Nevony’s hammer fell in an immediate blur, and her voice was drowned in the immense clatter of shattering silver plating and rigid, sculpted steel. Reacting quickly, the young priestess threw her face to the left as a wide cloud of glinting shards and dust engulfed her from the waist up.

The market was still. One could hear the faint howling of the light breeze, as all eyes turned to stare at the two in silence. Shel lowered her arms and looked at the young lad: his one hand still firmly grasping the hilt of the hammer, sunk as it was through the very surface of the counter below. Its head was buried several inches out of sight, surrounded by ruin. Nevony’s face was covered in a thick layer of sawdust dotted with shimmering silver flakes. The candelabrum lay strewn about the counter, the floor and even hung in the drapes in pieces of every conceivable size, with two major parts having been thrown on opposite sides of the workshop. The boy’s face was resolute, yet absolutely vacant. He stared, unblinking, at the crushed and broken space where the candelabrum had once laid on its perfectly-grafted side. Sweat began to gather on his brow, which quickly dripped down into the corners of his eyes. The sudden and salty burn shook him from his stupor, and he turned to face the rabble that had come to surround him.

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September Days

An autumn chill seasons the still atmosphere,
Leaving its harvest spice settled on golden leaves.
Distant aromas linger of freshly bound books,
following the watering temptations of a delicatessen.
A man's jacket wore him like an owner,
suited to complete his eclectic persona.
Blondie brownies showcased indulging taste,
all the while oatmeal cookies kept warm on a plate.
An unending sea washed us ashore,
from a school of fish to lost nomads on dry land.
His world displayed the unending literary arts,
as that too was my cosmic identity.
The twine of captured words awoke,
while gathered books slept on wooden shelves.
A dreadful call was cue for the closing hour,
yet my stubborn hourglass stood fixed at half full.
Its colored sands sifted at a graceful pace,
as if a sign for the god's reinvention.
Time's infinity of scheduled events,
catered to the fulfillment before expiring.
Polished eyes soon morphed into the twilight's solstice,
luring an invite to drown in September's last days.

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American Galaxy [Book. Motion Picture, Theatrical and Television Dimensions]

American Galaxy

Celebrating the People and the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave   

Remembering the Union's Faith Foundation   

A Loving Higher Purpose for the People   

Copyright © Ugonna Wachuku