Teddy Ugonna Richard
AN ODE TO A SIGH’s SIGH
You feed the hunger of my eyes
With poetic nuances,
Exultant breaths, a symphonic
Medley of chords
Untamed in its rapturous anthems,
Sigh.
My sigh is a life thread,
Weaved upon tributaries
Of life’s follies,
An enduring encore to
Papal fidelities to dead knights
Sigh.
I am smitten by the Nile’s tears,
I write epitaphs to swan songs,
And plead plenaries of discord,
For history’s broken hymens,
Sigh.
Dead wives tales, end in Herod’s mitigation,
Sigh.
This Judas missive, my unbecoming,
I sigh.
Drawing each breath,
With exuberant tyranny;
Petulant miseries my enamored friend,
I seek redemption in life’s inglorious
Victories,
Sigh.
We all live to die, finding the Christ in
Watering holes, besieged by his perfidy
Of a phoenix,
Sigh.
Life happens, and our foul delights
Must atone in a sigh’s
Final eureka.
©Teddy Ugonna
Richard (TUR)
RISEN, A PHALLIC ENSEMBLE
Stanza 1
He is a wondering minstrel,
Intent on ministering his misdeeds,
He is a truant,
With a wench for a mother,
Yet, fate is beguiled by his piety
He dies a coward's death,
And, like a Shakespeare's sigh,
Is risen to
Torment asinine virgins
He is a wondering minstrel,
Intent on ministering his misdeeds,
He is a truant,
With a wench for a mother,
Yet, fate is beguiled by his piety
He dies a coward's death,
And, like a Shakespeare's sigh,
Is risen to
Torment asinine virgins
Stanza 2
He writes epitaphs to his inglorious
Wayfares,
A memoir sewn with dead men's chests,
And bought with decaying virgin's guilts,
He drinks to the misery of saints,
He fondles his phallic,
And cusses the gods who envy
His pride,
He blesses his path of riotous acrimony,
For in this, he found his true self,
He had died to fate's cupid arrow,
But, now, is Risen,
To offer a wreath to femme fatales
He writes epitaphs to his inglorious
Wayfares,
A memoir sewn with dead men's chests,
And bought with decaying virgin's guilts,
He drinks to the misery of saints,
He fondles his phallic,
And cusses the gods who envy
His pride,
He blesses his path of riotous acrimony,
For in this, he found his true self,
He had died to fate's cupid arrow,
But, now, is Risen,
To offer a wreath to femme fatales
Stanza 3
He sighs a wretched sigh of joy,
He caresses his phallus with
The art of a lover's artistry,
Michelangelo would envy,
He feels no guilt now,
Didn't the good book flatter the phallic?
Men were gods whose mortality died
On Virgin's prides ,
And like the Phoenix,
They rise,
Throbbing with esoteric hunger,
Pushing against the Infamous depravity,
Then an eureka of ecstatic symphony,
Ricocheting off the silent walls,
A testament to his phallus' s medley,
He died that day,
But ,..
Will be Risen ...
Maybe in Hell 's haven tomorrow.
He sighs a wretched sigh of joy,
He caresses his phallus with
The art of a lover's artistry,
Michelangelo would envy,
He feels no guilt now,
Didn't the good book flatter the phallic?
Men were gods whose mortality died
On Virgin's prides ,
And like the Phoenix,
They rise,
Throbbing with esoteric hunger,
Pushing against the Infamous depravity,
Then an eureka of ecstatic symphony,
Ricocheting off the silent walls,
A testament to his phallus' s medley,
He died that day,
But ,..
Will be Risen ...
Maybe in Hell 's haven tomorrow.
©Teddy
Ugonna Richard
GOOD
Good-A Theater of Absurdity called Life
Stanza
ONE
Good
comes in diversities,
Good is
an eloquent testament to
The
parody of niceness.
Both
are cheap allegories
Of dead
values,
Drunk
by men stoned on
The
eureka of weed,
STANZA
TWO
Good is
a corruption of stupidity,
Many
are deluded into its
Welcoming
darkness,
You are
either a saint or
The
devil’s advocate,
STANZA
THREE
A Good
thing is an abstract aberration,
Just as
people are neither good or bad,
Poetry
is either good or bad,
Its
flavor determined by the
Flourish
of its artist,
Lost in
his utopia of escapism,
STANZA
FOUR
Being
Good is a moral entrapment;
You are
drawn to its embalming embrace,
But its
Judas is its
Lack of
judgment,
A
judgment mired in the decaying
Tombstone
of humanity’s inglorious
Miseries,
DENOUEMENT
Don’t
be good,
It’s a
derision sung by
Dead
poets for the lost salvation
Of a
race completely smitten
By the
theater of absurdity
Called
Life.
©Teddy
Ugonna Richard
I am he that stomps the ground
and grinds the ground,
I am fly,
I care less for niceties,
I couldn’t bother with novelties,
I am fly,
I glimpse the sky's tears,
the earth dried off its lament.
I am fly,
stuff happens, we all sing dirges,
I bless fate and
medley’s flow,
I am fly,
I wake at the sun's yawn
and waltz through the day's page
dusk smiles sadly,
I am fly,
strangers meet
love choruses,
a new swan’s song births,
I am fly,
I love my life's thread,
I answer to no heathen,
my prayer is my anthem,
I am fly,
I sing lullabies
in my sleep,
suck on my thumb,
wait.
I war with babies' chants
in my sleep and
steal their innocence,
yet I am fly,
because hell will freeze over
before I give a hair's breath,
because
because
I am fly.
Ugonna Teddy Richard
Ugonna Teddy Richard
(worthy of mention)
I’m thankful for
the dawn's breath,
its smile refreshes my
docility,
I am thankful
for its warm nightingale
song,
I am thankful
for the choral medley
of the sun's orchestra,
I am thankful
I didn’t die
but live to die
one day at a time,
I am thankful,
for love,
Its Judas hands found me
and I’m thankful
I would not be denied
by a peter,
I am thankful
I am breathing
fresh lilies from untamed flowers,
I am thankful for this chance,
to spit on death's door,
and thankful I can sing epitaphs to its inane decrees,
I am thankful for my sunflower,
thankful,
I can rise each morning with her in my mind's cocoon,
a place of refuge for twain lovers,
I am thankful I can write ,
misery is a cruel master,
time is a wise student,
I am thankful, for a new swan song will birth,
from much heart bed,
and I am thankful to my muse,
for the profound imbuement to pen
this epistle of wan thankfulness,
for its better being thankful ,
than being a Jonah ,
sold by lesser devils to ocean depths,
I am thankful ,
for being thankful,
let the stars bear testimony,
I live to die ,
and die to mirth,
yet I am thankful
in all things Thankful, regardless.
Ugonna Teddy Richard
There are worse things ;
and they are terrible things,
one of them is,
I forfeited my name
in the sands of time,
I sold my soul to
the perfidy of gods
is another,
I lost my essence
in the arms of a heresy,
and the decaying fragrance;
of Judas praises,
I’ve had worse,
I wrote poems
upon the sigh of the sun
and made love to
the moon's tears,
I’ve had worse.
I’ve been vain.
I’ve lost my virginity
on the platter
of dead poets,
whose lyrical fatuousness
is my undoing,
at the altar of vanity,
vain's token offerings
derided my piety,
and denied me
safe havens,
Vain is a mean garland
wear it like a Macbeth
and write as you like it
or sing an Ode to Nightingales,
yet the malady of King Lear
shall be my curse,
I’ve had worse.
Vain is my rite of passage
to hell's bliss
for there, eternity has no
pride,
which goes before a fall.
If there was ever a worse time,
It is the day I died,
an inglorious bastard,
undone by the last bastion of vain.
Yes, I have had worse.
I hsve been too vain to
admit it.
Ugonna Richard
verse 1
the rooster crowed
and I beat a row
across my brow
a frown with a roll
she yawned astride
my chest,
with a sigh for a conquest,
it made my heart beat a request
good things come to those who wait
kindle my fire, she the quaint
I was in cloud nine in yesterday's sigh
kindle my urn baby
make me cry anthems for a ruby
let my sigh of songs
beat an octave of pleasure
across your thighs of Wuthering heights
I found my lost sonnet
I played a lyre across your twin hills
kindle my urn
fill it up with your tame kisses
kindle my fire, lass
let me die in your waterfalls
kindle my urn
let it burn bridges
across the sweet desert
of your nape
kindle my fire
let my lust
become a Macbeth
who died to sleep
and earned the kingdom
of a whore's Judas’ kisses,
even Portia wouldn’t mind
for lust must come to judgement
let my lust be kindled
or die a poet's prayer.
Teddy Ugonna Richard
Boys will be born,
they will become fathers of men,
boys will be raised,
look at life,
it is bitter sweet,
it causes you to cry rivers,
ploughed by misfits,
that's my cross,
You sent an emissary,
that fought death's stare,
that eroded my joy,
and sent me into derisions
of angsts fit for a shrew,
I gave you a boy,
I raised you a mean shadow
of you,
You left me adrift ,
On an island of puritans,
Who slew my chasteness,
I raised you a boy,
And I curse that day,
when my watershed broke,
and, pain's embrace soothed me,
there's no balm for your misery,
I raised you a boy,
I raised an Atila,
who will become my death,
my recompense
for a vaginal attrition,
Yes, I raised a horror.
A Golgotha for those pitiful Heathens,
I raised,
Nero.
Let eternity deny me purgatories
of delight.
they will become fathers of men,
boys will be raised,
look at life,
it is bitter sweet,
it causes you to cry rivers,
ploughed by misfits,
that's my cross,
You sent an emissary,
that fought death's stare,
that eroded my joy,
and sent me into derisions
of angsts fit for a shrew,
I gave you a boy,
I raised you a mean shadow
of you,
You left me adrift ,
On an island of puritans,
Who slew my chasteness,
I raised you a boy,
And I curse that day,
when my watershed broke,
and, pain's embrace soothed me,
there's no balm for your misery,
I raised you a boy,
I raised an Atila,
who will become my death,
my recompense
for a vaginal attrition,
Yes, I raised a horror.
A Golgotha for those pitiful Heathens,
I raised,
Nero.
Let eternity deny me purgatories
of delight.
Teddy Ugonna
Stanza 1
Lips glistened with dried blood,
Tokens of martyrs,
Nero contrived terrors fit
For the guillotines,
He said prayers for
Dead heroes,
Tears from Zeus
Watered his hunger thirst,
His base stood strong
Amid the howling denizens
Of Rome's pharisees,
He swore litanies,..
He would drink their cowardice!
Lips glistened with dried blood,
Tokens of martyrs,
Nero contrived terrors fit
For the guillotines,
He said prayers for
Dead heroes,
Tears from Zeus
Watered his hunger thirst,
His base stood strong
Amid the howling denizens
Of Rome's pharisees,
He swore litanies,..
He would drink their cowardice!
Stanza 2
Nero sang lullabies,
Only mad men would applaud,
His lyre bore testimony to
Cries of heretics,
Impaled by derelict Boors,
He laughed at the inanity of
Their devotion,
To a spectre of a Messiah,
Where was he to save these
Poor farthings?
Nero's base was unyielding,
Bearing the wounds of hounds,
Stoically,
Nero's voice was a cacophony
Of pain and misery,
Joy was an orphan,
For these hapless Christians.
Nero sang lullabies,
Only mad men would applaud,
His lyre bore testimony to
Cries of heretics,
Impaled by derelict Boors,
He laughed at the inanity of
Their devotion,
To a spectre of a Messiah,
Where was he to save these
Poor farthings?
Nero's base was unyielding,
Bearing the wounds of hounds,
Stoically,
Nero's voice was a cacophony
Of pain and misery,
Joy was an orphan,
For these hapless Christians.
Stanza 3
Nero's base took a foundling,
His empire began to unravel,
Rome's tears mitigated the wail
Of banshees,
The City of Seven hills burned
Behind him,
He couldn’t care less,
His mother had cursed him,
Before he impaled her on
His saber,
She was a pitiful wench,
Mothers were like that,
Sons were gods.
He, Nero, was a god.
Gods were vicarious.
His base would hold,
for fate would write
Eulogies on the pages
Of history.
His history.
Nero's base held ...
Sighed,
as lucidity became a wan song.
Teddy Ugonna Richard
Nero's base took a foundling,
His empire began to unravel,
Rome's tears mitigated the wail
Of banshees,
The City of Seven hills burned
Behind him,
He couldn’t care less,
His mother had cursed him,
Before he impaled her on
His saber,
She was a pitiful wench,
Mothers were like that,
Sons were gods.
He, Nero, was a god.
Gods were vicarious.
His base would hold,
for fate would write
Eulogies on the pages
Of history.
His history.
Nero's base held ...
Sighed,
as lucidity became a wan song.
Teddy Ugonna Richard
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