Lies

Waterfalls start slow:
Drops fall on unknowing rock, 
The stream grows, the End. 

(c) nyonglema

After Trump 2

So now Trump lost, and Facebook, Twitter, Alphabet, Hollywood and the MSM won...

Hold back your tears, Marcus Antonius, as the toga
With holes which is prop to your words.

Lost for words, the crowds try to catch your every word.
Their ears try to synthesize hope from them, 
The man on the pedestal will no more give them such hope
And hopefully he taught them how to fish. 

No more will their voices be heard, even 
As the gramophone goes silent. 
For four years they heard their echo with solutions
And saw these take form according to their wish. 

The storm within seeks an outlet to simmer down, 
But Caesar wasn't enough for the conspirators.
They want more blood, as a cat taunting its catch, 
The murderer stabbing the lifeless victim
Forgetting that anger leads always to great evil
Especially when egged on by a victor's muzzle.

Hold back your tears, Marcus Antonius, and keep peace, 
In spite of Newton's third law, hold back, keep peace.

(c) nyonglema

History be kind

Put on your soft mittens as you mete out punches
The stench of despair has sent the flies flying
As wretched voices die in the agony of the trenches, 
Smoke, fire, death, silence, blood slowly crying. 

Don't let those tears disappear without telling
Of how they came to be. From aching gland burning, 
From swollen heart entrapped dreaming of belling
Of events that cause in all for justice a yearning 

Don't let the fires chew up the browning pages
Where once sordid tales told the willing student
Of what would come this way, or that way, the wages
Of right, wrong; the way of the vile, of the prudent

Telling of wretched voices dying in the trenches, 
Of smoke, fire, and of blood slowly crying. 
Don't let memory die as they split us into tranches
To silence half, then lead both halves into trenches. 

(c) nyonglema

After Trump

What if Trump lost, and Facebook, Twitter, Alphabet, Hollywood and the media won: 

The people are stunned, hanging on a breath
To see the fallen giant hiding in shame. 
Fear, confusion fills the senate, as death
Lingers on the faces of hate untamed. 
Iron on their toga flows down their arms, 
Down to the iron in their fateful hands
Hanging on the final breath of the land's
Greatest leader, hanging frustrated and calm. 

Sullen the face of Brutus the conspirator, 
With shadows emerging from his wrinkles
To ask questions: heroes or vain traitors? 
Wrong or right? In barely a star's twinkle
The future was set, and in this dead calm
With J's blood still fresh on his hair strands
Clinging to what was life, what was grand
Brutus ponders what good was done, or what harm. 

At Pompeii's feet, sprawled is the victor, 
Ironically repenting for his actions past.
And the people, confused and totally unsure
How to continue the game with the dice he cast
Seek a new leader with such venom, yet much charm, 
Fighting for them like he had a magic wand. 
CNN will finally never need to recant. 
He put the future back in the people's hands. 

(c) nyonglema

My ancestors hate me?

Bring me a white goat he said, your fortune is bad he said. 
Leaning on the shoulder of my uncle, my cells shiver 
Even as I hear they're hot from the thermometer, 
My pounding head lets the sound in from his chanting, 
And my burning nose hugs my sintering eyes. 

White lines zig zag and jiggle with his dancing skin, 
The hazy bones on the ground tell him everything. 
He knows everything, especially things I don't know. 
He speaks with my grand mother and grand father, 
And even people further into my genetic past. 

But my mind couldn't sit still: A white goat? 
To appease my Uwu, who taught me to pair my socks
To avoid tornadoes in the room when I find just one? 
Would Doh really hate his son's son to the point 
Of wishing him dead before any stub on his chin? 

The calligraphy of incensed smoke fills my thoughts, 
Staring at his mouth calling my aunts and uncles
Who seek a slab over my unbreathing head. 
Is this where dreams all come to die? Where the 
Maker warned we will be misled into cavorting with Evil? 

My uncle tells me this is ok, tradition suggests, no, DEMANDS, 
That in times of trouble, we should guess through bones
Which of those who love us in reality, through the smoke
Can be declared jealous, heinous, whether dead or here, 
So we can hate them, and thereby build up this lie as truth. 

(c) nyonglema









Beads held together


God says it
Humans write it
Humans comment on it
They reach consensus on it
God sends one to bind it
Humans reject Him and it
Humans try to bend it
Humans fight for it
God saves it. 

(c) nyonglema


When the Pope is wrong, pray, pray a lot.
Even Peter was wrong, was corrected: 
Infallibility doesn't mean perfection
Nor does imperfection mean fallibility
Papacy doesn't make a mortal God
But our immortal God maintains the Papacy
Like Moses holding the stone tablets.

Weak Men

"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



Face #covid19

Itches are like flies, carrying pestilence
From ranch to branch, restlessly destructive. 
Where do they come from? Nobody nose! 
The ice of their land went dark when sunlight 
Left them nomads on the human body. 
My fingers have a fancy for them, my hands
Dart to dance to their fickle rhythm. 
Van Gogh possesses the evil paint, and my fingers
Like dry brush upon easel, screech out The Scream: 
Nobody ears it, nobody ceases. In that moment 
Death plots with the 19th crown to walk into me. 
My lungs want to heave
But my face takes its leave. 

(c) nyonglema

No End #stopwar #ambazonia

In a conflict, the more sensible person should call for a negotiation, whoever that person is. Guns only call more guns.



Where the sunlight gives a dying kiss to the watery ripples
Of orange despair, my mind wanders like a lost soul. 
Souls get trampled under dusty boots on the drying 
Bahama grass, bent over and trying to recoil when 
The foot leaves it; it has lots to say but its lips are sealed:
 
Children played here under hopeful stars yesterday, 
While their crease-browed parents argued about the 
Next stop in their journey to nowhere. The neighbours 
Looked at their Cicam cloth on the floor in jealousy; 
Theirs was bare soil, and little food for their brood. 

Children sprayed bullets at soldiers yesterday 
While their wide eyed friends laid in red cells, 
Staring into the distance, avoiding the sight of 
Brother hacking brother. The macabre sacrifice of Cain, 
The macabre machination of Nagato Pain unleashing
Upon the calm Harmattan smoke-laden wind. 

My mind wanders where hope and despair clash with rage. 
Everybody's right in the painting. All that's left,
Are corpses, explosions, revenge, decapitations, and a 
Government that threatens extermination of vermin 
For foiling their plans of total control and greed
Makes you only vermin to be eradicated, cost what may
Come what may! Vermin is vermin even in a cradle. 

(c) nyonglema


Impeach

The flies hover round, humming a dinner song. 
The smell is marvelous, and taste builds a throng.

Rigor mortis holds their feast in place like pebbles
Laid round hand-decorated ceramic on tables:

Once, he moved around and guided with orders,
To sway his country good and keep its borders.

Then, HE decided. Not anymore, no, no more.
"Fact" is dead and "I heard " took over this shore.

And suddenly judging a presumptuous bribe
Is wiser than doing so for an actual bribe diatribe

(c) nyonglema