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mumoren's profile
AGE:
45
LAST LOGIN: April 04
LAST LOGIN: April 04
Born in Nigeria, I soon left the country during Nigeria’s civil war. I grew up in the Middle West where I obtained my bachelor’s degree in psychology from the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Finding the Midwest too conventional I relocated to California and took my masters in Educational-Counseling at California State University – San Bernardino. Currently I am an instructor of psychology and an academic advisor at Barstow Community College.
When the literati speak of genre and writing style I find that it is moderately difficult to categorize my own style. I would classify my writing style as therapeutic writing; it is how I sort things out. The Sound That Whispers In Me was published in 2005. I am looking forward to the publicatio…
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They tell me pain is pain then why does it hurt me more to see a dirty crying child than a homeless hungry man? They tell me life is life then why does it tear me so to see a pregnant woman's strife than the old hang on to life? They tell me death is death then why does it torment me more to see a little coffin lowered than a large one carried? They tell me beauty is beauty then why is it that those who truly are the sweetest the last to be call pretty?
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Before her I had lovers not too many but more than a few. She came to dinner, entered my house, held my hand and saw my place. She touched a photo and skimmed through a book, then sat down to say grace. She lifted her head, looked at me, smiled and showed her good mood and with one sweep of her hand she swept my butter, pepper, salt and sugar condiments off the table and all but threw away my fine, white, table cloth. Before her I had lovers not too many but more than two. She entered my hous...
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Much can be told from our eyes, our sorrows, our difficult miles and the crowfeet from our lies. So much can be seen in a face, our race and even our social place, harden etched lines from disgrace. Much can be learned from the mouth, our town of birth or whether we dwelled north or south of the tracks. So much can be read in our hands, a manicured life of work or the callous from unmet plans. Much can be told from our eyes, the crowfeet from the lies of yesteryear or the gleam for tomorrow's...
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A million prophets and a million saints killed by one toy soldier. A million fathers, a million mothers and a million children killed by one puppet warrior. A million years a billion tears and a zillion dreams extinguished by a wind up toy. One million prophets and one million saints and one toy soldier, one toy soldier.
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There are moments when my thoughts are not preoccupied with absorbing fragmental pieces of the day. There are episodes when a complete valuation of my life is the work of my mind. In these times of deep reflection, a persistent contemplation is: "Whatever happened to me?" I must say this morose form of speculating was not present in the sunny years of my youth. I surmise it is wrong to presume yet I would declare the desire to resolve my query is the lord of my thoughts and perchance this is ...
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What was good was the beatnik style you chose or the familiar or un-pretentious tone. The allusion and comparison to the craziness of California was also nice. A bit schizophrenic in how the poem jumped around and the good parts became somewhat scattered.
I liked the raw untamed manner in which you wrote this piece and like good poetry, you emphasized certain key themes such as: "….baring your teeth like a furious animal…." The last line I was not so sure about, but good poetry that showed instead of stated.
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