Everyday concocts it’s trialsin a hot serving tray from Earth.
Flowers of Tuesday fits this aisle
when the casket holds its sour death.
January comes to mate the hole
and prays for me not to rebirth.
I would believe the sun’s new role
when the casket holds its stench’d breath.
May is a contract signed on stage
like the one Tony sealed with Beth.
It came drowning the fear of age,
until midnight found a new page.
So did August come to wage war
wielding enemies like Macbeth.
It mattered not who had the score
Only the casket held the debt
Did December ever come back?
Cause foreign pain plays the new birth
singing old songs that rocked the park.
I’m only here cause pain said so
righting my wrongs when cocks did crow.
Violet! A color that relates to her
like when we met under the grey – blue sky.
We started a love story together,
listen to the part my words made her high.
Violet! She rode on my mornings and noon
always sneaking out to see me at home.
Until this day when the Hulk came too soon,
he disapproved of me and where I’m from.
Violet! My phone has not rang in few days
my heart is drying up, it’s leaves fall off.
Will we continue this love tale I pray,
Since I wrote the book “rainbows and violet”?
The first time I begged your indulgence to help fix my broken piece you did it with ease, I felt at ease to tell you about the cactus holes, the mended bridges. I remember the dusty rooms we swept together and arranged the books on the shelves.
You took each candle that burned to keep me alive, where did you drop it again? Under the rain, it melted my candles, my life was dark and not only dark but cold. I cried and tears poured until evening came and morning and evening, and it turned to days, weeks and months, now I see the years and the weed that has grown has made me hard and high.
My wounds have been freshly torn, you say you ease the pain, if I let you whisper to it, only salt with feel happy to eat and burn me into tears. This is not for you, but for the one who’s shovel can still find the delves of my quirky timid heart. . .
You have dampened my night
with sour sound of your light
closely drawing me into fright.
I stare at you, I smell your sight
as you fashion my life from the height
of the dark.
Your words still fresh like Pubilius’ death
when once he was seeking truth in the earth.
Writings of a dying poet, Socrates when hung by pain’s birth.
I saw your soul lingering in these words and girth
of the solemn dark.
I will drink life and follow the sea side
to rest my consciousness away from the tide.
Do not find me, lest I shall hide
and let the divine comedy be my glide.
I know there’s a secret room for those who love the ride
when they sit in Limbo staring at their suicide.
I run from your darkness.
“I will wait for you even if it means the clouds will birth rain or sun – day or shadows – night, I will wait for you” she read it again and closed the book. She looked around hoping to find some sense of life moving in the room, hanging was a picture from the trip on the wall, his smile radiantly exposing his naked teeth. She sighed and sat on the bed as if she was waiting for him to come out of the bathroom.
Downstairs they had just arrived with him, the house was quiet despite the people it gathered but the air was still.
The night shall carry alot of stories
like how we folded our thoughts
and covered it with barren deeds.
It shall covet the moon with smiles of stars
it will be like the veil holding virgins
bounding their winter with frost of pain.
If sleep thus comes
We will both have arrived at the same time.
The air shall be noisily quiet
with breaths of strong willed emotions
blowing through the labour of our hands
rubbing itself together like the sun and sky.
The battle of pores and river flow
that breaks where stream comes just once
or more if sleep thus comes,
We shall be quiet with smiling dreams.
These walls shall bear us both a witness
and tell our secrets to the ground
when queens and kings don’t sing lullabies
and let our shadows play the sound.
We will both in merriment find your arms
and let you lead our rest to rest
When sleep thus comes.
The moon will be up in the sky.
© August 2016
Upon this same rock
where I have carved my name
for the world to the sea.
Is the path of the moon
rocking its shadows on her back
telling stars of my weakness.
I am a Jew to these prayers
mailed through the mean man.
They will never get answered
so long its enveloped by spit
a colourless word out of my mouth.
Shall my head find the winds to rest
when I worry about my nest?
Go your seperate way
you baggage of hurt
the tales of love, the tail of the future
carry your fear and leave me alone
to drink and get drunk on myself
and my guts in the hands of my gods.
This is the way I have cleared for you
through the pots that hold the mud waters of gold.
We have been dating since 24th February now and she still doesnt think we are compatible. How did we get here in the first place? I do not know.
No words as a poet has ever soothed her ears, for she believes poets only love with a cold heart, she called them ‘beasts’. I vowed not to argue that again since the last time we did and ended up making love like animals. I was a beast when I came on her.
Then yesterday for the first time she followed me for an open mic, sat amongst the audience with me, for each poet that came up stage, I told her the structure of the poem that was rendered through the open mic. Her face didn’t dial a satisfactory sigh or a wrinkle of joy. I kept wondering what to do, was it the popcorn, the juice, the a.c or the people? I didn’t know which, suddenly my name was called up stage.
I carefully climbed the stairs and held the mic by its neck and started ‘Beauty’. . .
There are your flaws
shivering in these clouds
winds fighting over inheritance
of night by its might
the same pale pricking strain of fate
dangling in the loops of dawn
Is a page of garbage eaten by today
swallowed by another, same as a leverage
intents with souvenir of poured calls.
Let the ticking sound stop the bells of
Someone put his hands into this plate
and it never got out.
My brother said so, when we gathered
under the thick mango tree in the village square.
There were chants of royalty, gold upon a head.
We called him father, cause his son was my brother.
Someone will put his hands into this plate
and so will I, his son always said.
Nights after nights we levied on his wisdom
when he picked up paint brushes and sketched new sons.
Out of rocks he gathered dust and spat it upon today,
he built a leader and like Joshua he lead.
If when we sat on his table, we saw the words
“Someone will put his hands into this plate
let it not be you”.
His love was colorless
there had to be no boundaries.
If he was home, he taught us to be windows.
If he was the sun, he thought us to rule the night-stars.
He quieted troubles between weeds and food.
He wanted grasses to grow tall,
so he would bury our seeds as we pray for a bountiful heritage
When on his crown we saw the halo rewriting
Someone has to eat from this plate
shall it be you?
Today I am sitting with an absent father
who is deaf to air, but dumb to life
Alive to death, and a light in the dark.
He left with his two hands,
And one he called his son.
I hear strangers ate with him as he dipped his hands
Into the plate that labelled
The one that puts his hands, leaves with his staff.
Who has killed our father, our silence now asks?
Please let somebody answer.