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
Dorian throws the news around my phone,
And its not pretty. Some are sad, some are swelling,
And the rest curse the past as if death was an ally.
The words drip drop on the easel, and the brushes:
Oh they make grandiose moves...how do you paint 95?
With the purple of Kutama, a splash of yellow, and
Green and brown. It paints struggle with bars,
In white and peach and blue and red.
I'm reminded of a time when coins became
Empty notes, and the brush painted pain plainly
On poor people...but black is not such a good colour
To pour all over this tribute. Well, that's what
My painting teacher said ... and I just said "I know".
RIP Robert Mugabe,
May other leaders, especially in Africa, learn from your victories to bring freedom to their people, and from your failures, to avoid the corruption of power.
May God receive you in his bosom.
As I stared out the wooden window wishing
I wasn't sitting here, but thinking the words
To paint on this page, I create brand new worlds
That the teachers will totally dig relishing.
But you know sometimes you notice that one line
Is out of place, then the paragraph, then the whole
As the sweat beads decorate my forehead folds
I know I'll draw a line, and toss one into the bowl.
Despair decorates mistakes beautifully, but
I know muses loiter in strange places, like deep
Sea fish hanging their lanterns in a weird jut.
I reach in, and grab one before off it leaps.
All I see is doors,
You're looking at them picking the exit,
But each exit is more
Each exit is an entrance to new merit.
When I look at doors
I say a prayer, grab a hat, and in high spirit
Do a David Norris
For each exit entrances you with merit:
There's not a moor
But adventure like a brave Hobbit
Brings you victory... just in new habit.
9 is like something uncompleted, but with a tinge of very special.
If God multiplied Himself, there would be 9 of Him.
It could have taken 9 wise men to avoid Herod's whim
And those 3 little pigs if nine were quite the team.
9 is like something still being perfected, but already very Godlike
Like the 9 lives of a cat, which signifies eternity
Or my will for the whole nine yards with you with me
Or me on cloud nine at your breath forming "sweety"
9 melts the soul, mends the heart, and lifts the mind to new
Planes like you, always dressed to the nines,
Or me caught for nine years like wheel and spline
In the magic of your curves, thoughts and mind.
My golden adorned finger still sings the joys of December,
And memories flutter around my mind like butterflies amber
Probing the nectar from a pollen filled field, smiling as they taste
The joys of being you, and near you. 13 years seems like the haste
Of a boy to the Christmas tree, but it's not toy-time yet,
It's just a celebration of you and me, when hearts met
Lips formed forever, and hands sealed like cymbals
And the Seraphins played along as 9 years are just a symbol
To hold firm the objective in a beautiful God-wrought gimbal.
I still remember him reciting this when he was 4 years old, now he’s writing his own words…so proud…
The little icons play games on the phone screen,
As my little monster muses playing Subway Surfers,
His new drug, my new bane.
Well we parents are keen
To teach him how to live through all life offers
In words, hugs and a cane,
If necessary. I grab the phone like to grab his attention
Fleeting from object to object like bees in a meadow.
But really I did,
I grabbed his attention,
Turned it to the page opening up poetic knowledge’s window
In words unhid,
Yet unknown to me yet. Simple words he must recite
To mum and dad, and Mr Grumpy tearing through age three
Happy to have the phone
Not even turning right
To see the first performance of the object of sibling rivalry
And true friendship shown.
“If all the seas…“, I interrupt the poet rudely
Mouth hanging on the words, longing to…
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As the 1st of October draws near, this is what I’m thinking about…
It all starts with the “genos” part:
? ?If there’s no race, it doesn’t exist
?? So history gets braided into little kids’ hairs
?? Till they remember only the victor’s tryst
?? With death, in order to save our forebears
?? For graves never wrote history. A cyst
?? Of truth is hidden deep where the death of fear
?? Meets the death of youth at the barrel to the sun.
?? Lifafa is wiped with the shroud of Um
?? Till “genos” is but a word in beach sand.
And with no “genos” there’s no “cide” :
?? Self defence is the panacea of every atrocity
?? Little children with gaping brains
?? Young girls’ cocoons bitterly maimed
?? Young boys disappear to be brutally tamed
?? Humanity at the end of life gets hastened
?? And propaganda is Elvis doing a pirouette
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What are we teaching our kids? Life is becoming so demanding, that we don’t tolerate each other. Life has become so artificial, that we have forgotten that we are just apes trying to figure out how to make each day better.
As more and more couples break, I cry for humanity whose young are learning that this is normal, and our society which teaches to give up once they going gets tough, as if relationships were a bottle of vodka at the corner store: if you don’t like this one, you can have that one. Let’s walk the pain of life and relish it…that’s the only solution to abuse.
“Be strong, my child, never give up!”
The surgeon is pulling my soul out with kind words,
No anaesthasia, just kind swords hacking at me,
Taking away myself in lumps of tumour.
It had metastasised and eaten the bond away.
The bond that made me. The bond that made me me.
“You must be strong in the face of adversity”
Said he as instead of treating his humour
He became weak in the adversity of his university love.
I remember the smiles and kisses they told;
Stories of times that now seem wrinkled and old
Where they held hands, and wore bands
And raised lands, and made me.
“Never give up, never ever!”
Said he who was giving up on us
Giving up on me, because he couldn’t stand
To sacrifice anymore.
Because she couldn’t stand to grace his side no more,
No submission from either.
My tumour had birth a pride so big
It ate the bond, the bond, the bond that made me me.
“Learn to tolerate tough situations, they make you strong”
And two wrongs, only make me write
Pain in the blood of my cornea, calling to the corners
Of their hearts where love is boxed in, caged in,
Fighting larger-than-life versions of themselves
And losing, like my soul’s pain loosened to wander,
Yet I should bend only to my will, and tolerate
To be as successful as they’ve been along the way.
Never give up?
Fix me up, fix you up, fix us up?
Like “No” from the depth of a grave,
I killed my family in Latin.
A special thanks to all of you who ever came to my page to share my thoughts.
Your comments, likes, or just mere peek into my world makes it live.
To you who have subscribed to my posts, a very special thank you. What would waghni be without you? You are the stars that push my vessel to keep writing;
Let’s explore this world together, the best is still in the future…
Pick the words to use
Nonchalantly, right or wrong:
Stab me in the soul.