Flap away and as your wings survey
The drying death below, tell me:
What do you see?
Do the bloated barks of leafless trees,
Brown in death, and laden with grief
Seem anew to breathe?
Do the fungi grow in coloured sheathes
On trees that felled by water swam before,
But now rest ashore?
Oh Raven, Raven, only water above all else
You saw, all around you one ocean swells?
Flap away and as your wings survey
The drying death we know, search around,
For dry ground.
Do the torrents that tossed us far and wide
Now slow and ebb as the tide begins to drop
Beneath mountain tops?
Do the oceans now divide like post-storm clouds
Up above, and sip back behind the rocks
That held them locked?
Oh Dove, dear Dove, only water above all else
You saw, all around you one ocean swells?
Well flap away and once again survey
The drying death that haunts us night and day
And find a way.
Oh, you found an olive start to live again,
As the sun bedazzled each leaf in emeralds
Set in gold walls?
Oh, you found strands of green to build a nest
To start anew nature's run which took a break
For 40 days!?
Oh Dove, oh Dove, if only again the emerald shone through day
Once again to say the fear has been whisked away with pain
And humans can carry on life in a new akin to the old way
Out of the nest, to neighbours to love and break bread again
(c) nyonglema
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The TV is telling me a movie story, But
I can't relate. Nobody in there looks like me.
Even the games I play have been carefully
Curated to exclude me. My day to day life
Is not on the walls of the backgrounds I
Shoot at. Not even the enemies look like
My daily struggles,
But I play on. Artificial intelligence tests
Miss my demographic, pushing out machines I
Can barely relate to, bearing the fake smiles
That poke through my skin in public spaces where
The world expects me to blend in, to grab a chair
Into their special lounge, where only I and my peers
Weren't Invited.
Yet I'm blamed for the crimes that are committed,
And the police won't hesitate to test their suppositions
On me, for no matter what I do, no matter my position,
I must have stolen this car, and everything else as well.
My kind has committed some egregious crimes that swell
Above all the good I do in my community. Going to hell
Is the promise
The world has for me. They don't know me or my pain
In not having enough like me to relate to; seeking
Friends amidst the throng whose eyes look menacingly
In fear of what I could or would do to them and all.
No matter what I say or think or do, the vitriol
Just can't end. I need one whom I can dare to call
And relate.
But even this meal that temporarily heals me will
Be considered something I stole of a hardworking
Man's back. Taking other people's stuff is the thing
All imagine me doing; this house I worked to buy
Must have been ripped of some miserable family guy.
These fancy clothes must be the blue to a conman's sky!
How else
Could I have these, earned through hours and hours,
Sacrificing family relationships, my health, my loves,
Just to hit my targets of making in concrete new flowers?
Nobody believes I tried to change the world my way
'Cos to the world, robbing to climb is the only way
We the 1% make a living.
(c) nyonglema
If you earn > $ 800 000/year, then you're part of this chastised minority: enjoy.
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"Touch your feelings. Cry. Show that emotion."
I remember one who did that as the plot thickened.
Speaking of truth from his purple toga:
Purple dripped to the floor because of his fear.
An emotion.
It crawled off hanging flesh on a back.
It trickled off the whip, splattered on stone.
He feared losing his position in the hierarchy.
He feared being labelled a tyrant.
He feared being labelled too clement.
Truth knocked at his door, offering
Salvation.
He chose his weakest emotion as guiding star,
And led Barabbas to lonely babies and future orphans.
Standing there, drowning in fear, fear, fear,
Beset by crystal balls drawing his fate
In paths to future outcomes in purple blood
On the city walls, amidst the clamour, his
Gumption
Was vaulting over a bowl of ostrich water, washing
Off the blood saying, "It wasn't me! Fac sicut vultis"
Where was the Evangelist, to write the guilt,
Shame and justified tears, as the eclipse shook
The temple to its foundations, stole the light
Off the world? To watch him watching Him on His
Mission,
Shedding the tears of repentant strong men, but
Only, this time regretting "what if", "what if".
(c) nyonglema
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Only yesterday you put your fingers in my eyes
As if to dot them, to make them more perfect for you.
Today, you cross my Ts and with ink, dot my i's
For our conversations have got richer with each day
And as I recall cradling you to sleep with many tries
For you would stare, looking for everything new
In the living room, where you and I crawled like spies,
Discovering every nook, every cranny, every day,
I relish you now, on your way to start your own fires,
On your way to be the spirit that brings out something new,
On your way to reach mine, then peak at a higher spire
On your way to change the world, your way.
(c) nyonglema
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As mere mortal man, where do I go for strength?
Reels of death give me the L in a reek, like
Lazarus died of covid19 in a past story of a tryke
Tumbling into Jerusalem in tears with 2 sisters.
"Pull Heaven to your breast", I hear that often,
And belief is Atlas lifting Earth, Jupiter plus
That weird new 9th planet, because Pluto was
Not enough pain to bear: something newer, heavier
Is what I need for strength, till I stop to think.
Whom did God call to for help when fear gripped
The roommate of flesh? How was the switch flipped?
"Not Mine but Your will be done" Nothing heavier.
(c) nyonglema
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What got you here, won't get you there.
-Marshall Goldsmith
-------------------
Curls of hair tumbling down my chest,
Falling from my neck, The black on my face
Say I'm ready for battles to mate.
Each strand whispers to the other:
"I'll protect you from the strikes",
As they expect a foe, similar to me,
To punch, bite and scratch. Protect the vitals:
A cushion for blows to the head,
Where the control tower plans the win strategy;
Another for blows to the chest,
Where energy is supplied to the weaponised sinews;
Another for blows to the groin,
Where the prize of all this mayhem sits safely.
The times have changed, though, and such fights,
Are not the path to procreation.
Neither are our socialist governments
A path to independence. Protecting us
From blows from foes, similar to us,
They once curled, and some were cut out.
They took the blows, that we may be
Free.
But, the times have changed and such fights
Are not the path to civilisation.
They seek to control the head,
They seek to constrict the chest
They seek to conscript the groin.
They give the blows, that we may be
Free to do their chores.
In truth, the times have changed,
And even if the policies look great
It's time to go bald.
(c) nyonglema
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Words from today to stir a new tomorrow from yesterday
waghni 