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
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
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
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
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.
"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
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
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
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
If only I had done more, been more, prayed more!
The sand and the mud are all mixed up
And the sun fish lie dead on the shore.
I wonder how they gasped for air, while the
Waves beat the sand, sending ripples of
Soothing sound through the air they couldn't breathe.
The plastics of the tourists are crab obstacle courses,
Once filled with juice, once desired
Now cast aside. Filth all around, and death follows.
If only I had done more, been more, prayed more!
The sand once a sheet of beige now is polka-dotted.
The dye finisher botched the mix, and the chaos
Created is just plain filth, and death follows.
I watch the Church tearing itself apart from inside
Like an infiltrated Iron-Man suit; from the inside.