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The Soul of Music

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The Soul of Music The chord Is odd. And the string, Like a spring. It flows Like a droplet in a hose.. He took hold of the drum stick, He held the very peak Like a scroll About to roll. Take hold of your violin And remember not violence. Strike you conga And shop in konga, Think of your wind instrument And get ready for merriment. He touches the string And it rang, Then I saw sleepers in the mortuary Smiling, though in sanctuary. Music has soul anyway. AUTHOR’S NOTE This poem reflects a deep fascination with the mysterious and almost supernatural power of music. It moves from simple sounds and instruments into a larger vision where music becomes a force that transcends life and death. The imagery may feel playful at first, but it gradually evolves into something more profound, suggesting that music is not merely entertainment but a living presence capable of awakening even the stillest silence. The lines carry a rhythm that mirrors the very subject of the poem, allowing the reader to f...
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SACRIFICE

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SACRIFICE Luxury rides are pounds of blood. Mansions, a thousand head count. The useless, and choiceless man takes the contract. He gives hope to the man who is desperate for money. He gives him an advance To claim the balance when the job is done. Genuine work builds slowly, But the darkest trades rise overnight. Speak no truth about the truth, Manipulate the figures in the book, Force sense into the stubborn ledger, Tell the accountant his share. Money will speak, And men will keep the secret. Sacrifice is pain, Giving away what is loved. He gives his wife for this same money, His parents are wagered, He wants to belong. To be first among men, To sit with the powerful, To stand among the elite, To command influence, To walk into power without question. If wife and parents are not enough, The children may be  added They must not die, But they may be broken. Let their eyes grow weak, Let their bodies lean uneven, Let unseen wounds define them. And let them smile- A laughter no one ...
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MY COUNTRY'S REQUEST

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MY COUNTRY'S REQUEST Herod! Even Herod has desire the head of John A mouth-watering bounty has he offered, Even the double of the figure is not Enough an offer to secure the field of blood. We have brothers out there Called the “prodigal sons” Men whose hands are stained, yet called our own Even such great resources cannot bring them back home Yet the same wealth is set aside To reward the fall of the righteous For the head of John I know a fool is wandering, searching Even for John himself Not for him though, but for his head He wants to win the bountiful bounty All thanks to my country who can keep mute. To Deborah "the second" Who keeps the neck that holds the head, Bravo! Think not about the first For life isn't the one that ends when breath seizes. Perhaps, it could be Cyrene Joseph Blessed hart thou for feeling the weight of the cross Anyway, thanks to my country for keeping mute. How costly is this head, Even the unseen head! How troubling it is for him who has...
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A Global Appreciation of Readers and Literary Influence

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  Soulflame Magazine: A Global Reflection of Thought, Poetry, and Human Experience Soulflame Magazine stands as more than a digital publication. It is a living archive of thought and feeling, a meeting point where reflection and poetry embrace the complexity of human life. From its earliest beginnings as a simple creative blog, it has grown into a space where moral inquiry, emotional honesty, and poetic expression coexist. It began with a single vision: to create a platform where words are not only written but felt. A place where life’s moral choices, human nature, and personal growth are not merely analyzed but explored through the lens of poetry. Over time, that vision took shape, finding structure, rhythm, and an audience. What started as a personal writing outlet has gradually become a global reading space where voices from different nations now converge. Today, Soulflame Magazine reflects a growing international readership. Visitors from Singapore, Hong Kong, the United States...
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MAD

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MAD  " I ’m Not Mad, I’m Misunderstood"  What does it truly mean to be misunderstood? In a world where perception often outweighs reality, individuals are frequently judged not by who they are, but by how others interpret them. This deeply reflective poem explores the fragile boundary between identity and perception, questioning even the assumptions people make and the silent battles fought within. At its core, this piece is not just about confusion or sanity, it is about self-ownership, the courage to resist societal labeling, and the quiet rebellion against being defined by others. Through layered metaphors and introspective language, the poem invites readers to reconsider how quickly they form judgments and how little they sometimes understand. If you have ever felt unseen, misjudged, or misrepresented, this poem speaks directly to you and that experience. MAD You look at me So deep into the eyes of him Whom to you is a confused fellow And you ask but your very self Why at...
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HOW IMPORTANT IS QUARREL

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  HOW IMPORTANT IS QUARREL! How about Mr Joshua Who tapped the daughter's back glory And she took it so mean I'll never fail to mention Sir Ken Who asked a sister, “Do well to drop it on my bed” you know what that means Not to talk of Sir Duke, a Reverend! Who knows about her underwear And where it tears. You desire that I say more? In the cause of protecting their images Mr. & Mrs. Ben have bent their daughter's womb My boy! Never tame the untame Tame that which can tame it, “the mind.” They should...that I die with this little swamp Of secrets. At which, if no fellow hits, it dies in me. Peter Simon! Begone with your sword For him who the sword so cliff, death comes This, they all know. Him who teaches and they who hear The same can relate. AUTHOR’S NOTE This poem emerges from a profound reflection on the hidden realities within society, realities often concealed beneath silence, fear, and the desire to maintain a public image. It considers how wrongdoing can be widel...
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BOOTIES OF WAR

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BOOTIES OF WAR Away a step from the scene Where a baby mourned her mum who lived no more It's painful, for us who wept, found no comforter. And those who did, took not his advice. For their fate was controlled by the stream of endless ocean That sprang the baby's eye  Who took no suck if not from mum Who exists no more. Back from the scene For you shall behold and sleep no more. There lies a river that sustains canals That flows to an ocean which gives Wave to no ship of merchandise. What ended him was the edge of a sword Pierce into the soul. All she labored for was her  vessel of honor, Who now, is to men Of valor a booty of war. Toasted like vow wine, prepared just for the master's use. Keep that sword! Or shall you again race while your mother lame? I know! Always had it been in the blood to spill. And yet, there be no Napoleon Who will show, only to behold it conquered. Those who've seen it take it, a film. Those who have heard it, a story. And those who've exp...
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