Roses catch rays of sunlight in their red gaze, While a butterfly flutters by. Forget the butterfly. A blue jay descends on a ray, its wings ablaze, Throwing shimmering rays the way of the rose, And they play sun ray tennis, Bluebells, and sunflowers too are in that place, As the blue jay sings its song you'd hate to hear On a cold morning as dawn gently tickles your face, Half dreaming, half feeling your lover's arm Not too heavy, just cozy right, Singing lyrics that lull you out of sleep to haste The day away with chores, leaving the heartbeat Behind, and longing to return as the sun kisses the waves. I'm watching sun ray tennis between the blue jay And the rose, thinking about Love. You know, the Love that made the world and the days, Chose a people, and a cross, and who just Is. Yes. He said it Himself as Moses captured the phrase: "I am who is". He doesn't last, He just is, Like eyes locked in romantic embrace. Watching the blue jay, butterfly, rose and sun rays, Dancing their love around the halo they create, Bathed in the majesty of nature's ultimate masterpiece, I wish that all our love, all your love doesn't last, But rather, may this love always be. (C) nyonglema
Immigration brought America its first black president.
Sitting with this pen between my lips, as dad
Said not to, I'm twiddling and thinking of
Tigers looking into a mirror.
Do they see just the beastly muscle to rip flesh
Apart, or can they see the black, gold, silver, orange
Calligraphy of a meadow, plucked to glorious
Melody like a guzheng serenading the prey
Before Medusa's magic mars their future?
Do parrots notice the pale sparrow's envy at
Its militarily-decorated plumage which holds
Divine discourse with the sun rushing past
The leaves to caress a masterpiece chirping
Away under a pale green canopy craving its
Variety splash of colors upon itself?
Sitting and twiddling this ink, I'm thinking.
Are "precious" and "scarce" synonymous?
King Midas turned everything ordinary to something
Now ordinary, and by returning them to their
Ordinary state they became precious.
Could this be why I now miss the hair I hated to comb
In painful strokes? Or why I would prefer scrolling
My Twitter feed than feeding off my son's glorious
Imaginary worlds whence crazy stories spring,
But which I miss, because this is here, that is there?
Could this be why thrust from misery, to slavery,
Then to a land of freedom and opportunity whose
Prowess the paler countries of the world cast
Envy upon, wishing the variety splash of colors,
And music, and glory, and gold upon themselves,
The American from Africa focuses on the "African",
Missing the "American" in "African American"?
Could this be why other Africans come to America
And seeing the plumage, seize the Value in "American"
Live the American dream walking to Pennsylvania Avenue,
Saying "Yes we can!": but most Africans don't listen?