DJ Drop the needle on the record
And send strong waves singeing my synapses,
Nudging my senses, confounding each cord
Composing my sinews to move in accord,
Enthralled by the notes dancing on the staff.
(c) Nyonglema
All posts by nyonglema
The Irony of the Red Smiling Cyclops #nuun #nassara #genocide #isis
It appeared on the doorpost as a Cyclop’s smiley face
For some Cyclops WhatsApp icon, but red-themed application
Yes gruesome red, in contrast to the expectation
You would get from a smiley face, even for a Cyclops.
It quizzed my curiosity and I dug further on Google’s interface.
It appeared on the search page as the queen Isis,
Long told in Hieroglyphics, Cyrillic and Roman alphabet,
Patroness, mother, queen, blessings with love met,
But unlike these grim Arabic script in an ominous logo,
And tales of death, pain littered with deeper crises
It told of “nuun”, 14th letter of a blessed script
In which many beautiful and wise thoughts found life,
A letter which told of blessing and not of strife
Being in a position multiple of seven, a number blessed
By God Himself when he Earth and Heaven in 7 breaths whipped
It told of the Magen David, a shining star, which should be a good thing
Only that it brings memories of gaunt bodies piled in trucks
And human experimentation, and as history at our door knocks
And Isis or Isil opens to let in what we dread most
“Nuun” is stuck in my iris with pain and scary sting.
For I have seen the blank stare of heads painting in red drips the pickets
And Leonidas’ 300-style gore re-enacted in modern city streets
As heads are divorced from bodies and all around are scared heartbeats
For even bloodied child clothes cover head-less bodies,
As Christians are beheaded like one would roast crickets.
It brings back memories of my ancestors up in the Samba regions,
Fleeing the harsh choice given to them by the jihadists:
To adorn the village picket or join the cause of the Islamist,
Forced to create a third choice, which was to leave their homes,
Friends and family to pseudo-Islam or lurid lethal lesions.
Is it that time again for Iraqi Christians?
Shall the world once again watch the Red Indians’,Tutsis’, and Jews’
Story take gruesome form and hack through human sinews?
How many litres of innocent blood, and kilogrammes of hacked human flesh
Are needed to realise the vanity in the life of Homo sapiens?
(c) Nyonglema
Rainy Season #Murphy’sLaw
We ran from outside, ducking and hiding
As rain in monstrous drops our faces a-riding
Drenched our gear
But we made it in here
…then the roof caved in and rain did more riding
(c)Nyonglema
Crazy in Love #Love
What fluttery feeling fills my mind so?
Why my quickening heart beats in frenzy
When I hold your frail fingers in my grasp
And pull you closer to count your heartbeats
As in unison these frantic pumps hum
The melody so sweet to Cupid’s ears?
Ah my sweet silken-skinned angel-voiced love,
Today we dine, wine, tender kisses share
To build this seed beyond our human grasp.
Forever feels like now and though time’s pleats
Unfold to drive us to top or bottom,
Now feels right; the benchmark to future years.
The fear the future bears my enthralled heart…
The fear that in future we grow apart
Grips my night time dreams as you in my grasp
Peacefully cuddle close in cosy sheets
As if to console thoughts so bothersome,
Thoughts of you looking back as my heart shears.
To miss the well won’t leave my spirit well.
To miss you…well…pain I can hardly tell,
For just the thought stings like hornets: a wasp
For each bone, tissue thought…I clutch the sheets.
Now feels right: you peaceful on my bosom
Healing these imps which are but baseless fears.
(c) Nyonglema
Patience #beTheChange #Gandhi #startChange
Quietly waiting…patiently waiting.
It’s been 30 long years in this carousel
Going round and round without abating:
Same pane on the windows and tears on the curtains,
The changing weather leading to animals mating
And flowers changing, then dying, then blooming again
Contrasting so badly to my life monotonously deflating.
Some say it’s ageing, the journey we all will take
To grey and wither, but I’m heavily hating
The fact that it but happens to me. The same thing
Over and over, but as disappointing as bad blind dating.
The same sorry sentences engraved in processed wood
To misinform me, make me mellow, sedating
My wisdom to the point I know no better
Than to sit distraught, depressed, desperately waiting;
Waiting for the change Sam Cooke promised.
Waiting instead of starting change, waiting patiently.
(c) Nyonglema
Thenar Memory #R.I.P.
What can I do about the fact that you’ve left?
Tears? Beat the ground till it’s deeply cleft
And opens to let you out?
From heaven, can you hear me shout?
Why does such a natural process feel like theft?
They say there’s such a time as fit for farewell.
Well, I’ve learnt you can’t believe all you hear tell,
For I still know your number
My thumbs vividly remember,
How they dialed your sweet voice to make me feel well.
(c)Nyonglema
A baby’s smile #smile #baby #innocence #newLife
Can you describe a baby’s smile? Let me try:
A breath of fresh air while the sewage tanks are drained;
That momentary silence when gunshots fill the air;
Cool palm oil on your tongue after your first crab curry;
when you shut your eyes to stop incoming traffic glare;
when a persistent cramp finally disappears;
Taking off your blistering work shoes when the day is done.
The pureness of the lines, and the innocence written in an infant’s smile cast all my stress away.
Unrestrained, untainted. The pure expression of appreciation that says: “Yes, you count”, “Thank you!”, “I love you” without uttering a word.
Those 5 seconds where everything means so much more, where nothing else matters than how happy this human being is of the mutual expression of love, as you smile back.
(c)Nyonglema
In the comments, tell us what your baby’s smile is like to you….
THE UNION #supportWidows #supportWidowers
From far away past where silent orbs
Danced to rhythms of unknown forces forging
Newer niches in cloud then soil then rock,
Smouldering, sizzling silently as time tic toc
Ebbed away, watching life on some lifeless rock surging,
To this day when we dance to the rhythm of Forbes,
The moon and sun in divine love urging
Have danced about the earth: light source upon a rock,
Bringing life to earth when the sullen clock
Calls out the grim owl, vile wolf, and sturdy sturgeon
Through the silent night nobody else disturbs,
Locked in eternal enthralment, watching the dark dungeon
Earth would be but for the sun- or moonlight it absorbs.
Moonlight from sunlight like new groom and virgin
Locked in an embrace older than Eden’s first baulk,
But sealed forever to work on this blue rock;
Bringing light to life on earth at dawn then dusk, merging
Efforts: sun casts its beams on daytime suburbs
But when the earth turns as if to shun its scourging,
That age old mission bound to fail as dusk struck
Finds new life in the passive glitter on that battered rock,
The partner playing its part, for so it was from the first forging.
From far away past, as far back as the silent space orbs,
The sun and moon in sublime love urging.
Have danced about and cast shadows out of this rock
And so it should be, for when one’s gone and you lose the rock
Foundation of the union, then is there but darkness and dirge in
The picture, and the survivor is just a lifeless rock listening for hope in the orbs.
(c)Nyonglema
Sheep in the fold
One sheep two sheep three sheep go
Four sheep five sheep go where the others go
six sheep seven sheep walk into the door
Seven sheep going to where they do not know
Eight sheep nine sheep walk into the door
Ten sheep eleven ’cause the other ten do
Twelve sheep thirteen see stains upon the floor
Fourteen fifteen march to where they have to go
Sixteen, seventeen heads start to roll
Eighteen, nineteen sheep have left the fold
Twenty many more follow as they go
Following stains and sheep heads upon the floor.
(c) Nyonglema
The gods are passing
Picture this: the sun engraving sweat streaks
On your sizzling skin, stinging your eyes
As the humid heat hits your cheeks
Painting pain all over your 37°C-and-rising
Body stuck in the thick traffic like on all weeks
Barely breathing, headed home from the day’s trials.
And a-blaring come crowding the air those sirens:
The horns from cars speeding as if to mock
Our stillness. The cops with walkie-talkies pulling reins
On all who wish the way home were shorter:
“Order!” “wait!” The horns go from shrill – and since
There’s “order” – to barytone peace while we still sweat.
The sun’s still engraving its streaks on me
The heat still heating my sorry cheeks
This metallic cage stuck amongst so many
Others like it, ordered to stop for the glorious horns,
Is starting to feel like a microwave oven to me.
But what can I do? The gods were passing.
(c) Nyonglema
waghni 