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.
(c) nyonglema
Watering cans #cameroon #bir #kamikaze
It’s a big question in my mind how much liquid earth can take?
Like if I were to empty litres upon the barren ground of caked
Desert, when does it overflow to stop my ambition of a lake?
Lakes are fun to be on: the waterjet splashes speed soaring,
The arms windmill to move you splashing, speeding, boring
Through the water, laughing, while fishes stare at nothing
Nothing is what the media said was poured on the ground
But I saw the litres ambition to be more than gunpowder sound,
And watering cans spilled their contents on watering can mounds
And in the mound it’s about 5 litres a-piece, slowly ebbing gross.
Blood has a thing for making my stomach curl, and loss
Has a thing for making my eyes unfurl. Both are plain gross.
Gross lies in the media proliferating gross lies to the public,
While watering cans….Did I just call humans farming objects?
Like we’re growing food for some starving child in our republic?
My republic? No a human with holes watering the ground won’t
Grow any food. Won’t heal any wounds. Won’t go out hunt,
Or caress a little kid’s cheek. But guns, guns, they’re totally blunt,
About causing blunt trauma to a nation seeking growth overall.
You can’t silence these cats once you set the nips on your garden wall
And they hang around, they multiply and make humans lamentation walls.
The wall of ego brings watering cans. The porous soil is tired.
Is the ambition to make a lake? Is the ambition for war to retire?
We’ll maybe never know, and till then deserts, blood, heaps, fire.
(c) nyonglema
The End #live
The End is at the start of every movie like winter and snow.
Like Autumn the most, the rest will surely surly follow
While you frown. There are things an eraser must allow
And things tattooed next to your eye, just below the brow:
The End is at the start of every movie like winter and snow.
It’s easy to ignore the metal chipping away as the engine churns,
Or the magnets slowly turning away as the Earth turns.
Even Kobe knew his jersey was meant to be hung off the floor
The fire from the line tamed, and yet it’s easy to forget, for
It’s easy to ignore the metal chipping away as the engine churns.
But let not the day be your friends opening the door with hats,
For there’s no cake, no replay, no rewind, just you and the facts.
Facts haunt you in that instant: your beds in disarray, unmade
Are where you must lay, and they bring you acrid lemonade,
But let not the day be your friends opening the door with hats.
So be ready, for every movie like Winter and Snow
Has its moment, and you’re the artist putting on your own show
And when the Producer pulls the curtain, we want rounds of applause
Let the next act with no drawn-out we-‘re not ready pause ’cause
The End is at the start of every movie, like winter and snow.
(c) nyonglema
Country off Law #Cameroon #freeMiMi
Truth, trough, through.
Health, stealth, felled
Truth brought joy the moment you spoke it
Troughs are where they went to stoke it
Through it they drove fire after spokes hit.
Health was what she had before she spoke it
Stealth was how New Bell made the stroke hit
Felled is the word to describe where hope is
Hope, a strange word,
It carries an upswing like a plane taking off,
Or like an uppercut swinging into your voice box
Either way, nobody raises a finger when truth
Is felled into a trough with thorough stealth
And the health of a nation cannot pull through
Every one stands and watches the vampire eat up
Their neighbour. Turns don’t go round, they stop
Just before the protagonist gets saved by his pop.
The lawyers got it, the teachers got it, the students
Got hit. The gutters are a comfy place to be lonely,
With sewage or not, all were potent (but sordid) portents
The chalkboard got covered with the same lesson like Bart,
“I will not speak against the old man with the darts”
“I will not speak truth, lies about him or his art.”
Silence is a crime. Violence is a crime. Living is like grime
Where slime fills your thoughts, and you can’t expectorate,
Because they expect you to with cocked rifle and unjammed nine
Just before the protagonist gets saved by his pop,
The vampire eats up the pop, and we realise this won’t stop;
Freedom’s Caesar at Pompei’s feet, gasping, gaped, you move to act but,
Breathe, heave, leave
Sigh, cry, die.
(c) nyonglema
Silence
Bullet holes never make noise.
The wife watching the blood ooze from her heart she had given to be kept
Will surely scream for help in a wilderness where hospitals are unicorns.
The kids watching will maybe be quiet in shock, for death is something
Strange, like an old unicorn, like a dying unicorn. Their tears will speak.
The assailants will most likely keep screaming and thudding, as they protect
Their team from the bullets they called for. Carrying their wounded and dead.
The guns will keep firing, as their owners pull their legs about freedom
And their bullets silently steal blood or steal souls like mini-Reapers.
The government will pass blame, the opposition will pass blame, and both
Will stay silent on how they can stop the bullets from making guns loud.
But bullet holes never make noise.
They just wring your heart, hopes, and joys in one silent instant, and leave you
Clutching your breast, squeezing the person who now must also remain silent.
(c) nyonglema
#RIP Charles Wesco. God’s got you.
In Justice
The cats have given way to the lions, which is but normal,
And the dogs have left the hyenas too, which is but normal.
The deluge is feeding the thirsty soil, then drowning it.
Crowds gathered and stuck their eyeballs to the CRTs,
Tuned their ears to the frequencies scrambling out the court
Or council, picking the words apart, indulging in idea sport
And clinging to one hope…the unspoken one, the forbidden one.
Then the judge and justice did the Rocky dance and none won
And the lawyers lied, then bent the truth, and justice died,
While a whole nation bent over in pain and cried.
Never had I seen injustice in justice, or madness in wisdom.
The deluge is so bad that Noah is thinking of making a comeback
To the land he saved once, to save again, to save our pack.
(c) nyonglema
Believe
My people have beliefs as full as the Grand Canyon,
They’ve been taught to dream as high as it is high,
And to fear as deep as it is deep.
Their dreams are as colourful as the sand of the Sahara,
While they’d been thought to dream as high as the dunes sigh
And to bear as little fear as slipping down the slip-face.
There was a time they trusted in the might of their minds,
And wrought marvels in Odyssey’s of thought and craft.
The clay bent to the swiftness of the hands, and the iron
Broke to form new ornaments, and the copper caved in to
Adorn their bracelets, amulets, rings, and gold, the gold that
Beckoned loud to danger from the shores, laced royal
Vestments, worshiped the throne and cast the light
Rushing through the windows onto the king’s roof from
The crown. The scholars sang pyramids, monoliths, wrote
Them down on wood, on stones, on plants, in minds, in hearts,
The griots drummed away and the engineer turned down the volume
And it all faded from memory, till all left was silence.
A silence as loud as a pride chasing a million buffaloes
In a 1920s movie. As bland as a rainbow painted as seen
By Andrea Bocelli. My people have lost it all in injustice,
In what lies in the government’s hair: all lice.
And as the air thickens about the future, and nobody cares,
My people wish for the status quo, knowing tomorrow
Will just be another today, just deeper in the burrow.
But everything must end someday, even sorrow.
(c) nyonglema
Fly butterfly, fly
Fly butterfly, fly. In the past you slugged
Across the wood to catch some leaves.
You painted yourself colours that would shrug
Off the creatures who see only food
When they look at you.
The acid rain beat your coat, like the
Tears you shed for your digested siblings.
But on you went, midrib to midrib,
Waiting for the day you earn your reward.
Gripping the branches, you’d slip and restart
The journey to the green, from the ant-laden ground
Where a bird took one brother then another;
But you never stopped crawling
You’d always hear destiny calling:
“Die, butterfly, die!” And you accepted the cross
So, fly, butterfly,fly!
(c) nyonglema
Talking with bullets? Lose-Lose #Cameroon
It was easier before:
The cock crowed, Jesus turned, the tears flowed
The cock crowed, I turned, and the shower flowed
The cock crowed, luck turned, and tears flowed.
Easy solutions were easy to get while things were easy
But nine stitches rhyme with nine lives in their sick essay,
So time stitched hell and instead of being stitched in time
The fabric gaped open to swallow into its darkened slime
The baby, the bath water, the room, the parents, the villagers,
The fires, the char, the innocent, the pillaged, the pillagers.
It was easier before:
But we always want more, and the tears flow
But we always want war, and gun showers flow
But we always taunt luck, and the tears flow.
Easy solutions were easy to get but Greed’s chains are titanium
Laced in a diamond lattice tying down the maestro of pandemonium.
The constitution had saved once, but those promises fell into the slime
Stitched by hell to cut workers’ pockets to benefit organised crime
Where everybody wants favour, everybody seeks the power to sign
At the expense of kids’ futures, mothers and fathers crying.
It was easier before:
But now I need a visa, and I may not go
But now I need a visa, to live in my own home
But now I need a visa, to live.
Easy solutions will be easy to get where competence is worth any
But everybody wants favour, so logic took a stray bullet in the alley
And Cameronians closed their eyes on children crying
Everybody closed their eyes to the economy slowly dying
As if we were not one! I say we are one, and this war cannot be won
Until we become truly one: citizens, leaders (citizens), doing all to brighten the sun
It was easier before:
But now everybody is strapped, like that fixes anything
But now everybody is trapped like they can’t fix anything
But you wear your ego like that fixes anything!
It is still easy now:
Let’s get back to being humans, talking with humans.
That
fixes everything
(c) nyonglema
Blocked #writersBlock
Writer’s block is writing blocks all over me
To the point that worlds of words whirl
Round my head, enticing, yet I’m hyperbole
Of silence, absence. The blank page beckons
At muses from Italy, Stratford ‘pon Avon, the sea
And more, yet I’m nature’s tantrum in a tea cup.
I blame the clock: it’s inner workings have slowly
Robbed me of potential to let the ink rave
Over time, I’ve stood, poring at its inconsistency
Writing bullet and burn holes over all hope
And plunging the madness into deeper fallacy
While the Maker’s tears pour over a forsaken breed.
And I pause to breathe, wish to utter but heave.
I blame the clock. Looking up at it in early years,
I saw shadows of joy, but shadows? I didn’t understand it.
So, the words whirl and twirl me, and I’m drowning,
Deeper, drowning in a silent absent blanket.
(c) nyonglema
waghni 