Others

His first poem #NatureIsSpeaking @conservationorg

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I still remember him reciting this when he was 4 years old, now he’s writing his own words…so proud…

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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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Others

Genocide is just a word

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As the 1st of October draws near, this is what I’m thinking about…

nyonglema's avatarwaghni

Happy celebration Cameroon

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
?? On…

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joy

The Monkey Series: David and the Painter by Balla (8y old)

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Once, David the monkey was breakdancing in the woods. Then he saw a building; he asked himself: “What type of building is that?” when he went closer he saw it was a painting shed. The painter was Peter the evil dinosaur. Peter wanted to trap the heroes to take over the world.

David asked: “Please may you paint a picture of me?”.

Peter said: “No, unless you give me a dollar.” He needed a dollar for his machine to work to trap the heroes because when he is painting he was actually turning gears for the trap. David knew his plans, so he said: “Team Jungle, I need you guys!” Suddenly all of his friends came.

There was Tornado Flash, Basher, Undercover Car, Pouncer etc. Tornado Flash made the fastest tornado. He does that when he is angry because Peter has an evil plan. Basher bashed the shed. It fell in the terrible ocean where sharks live. The heroes decided to make a plan to trap Peter instead. Undercover car scared Peter, he landed on a trampoline. Peter bounced really high. Pouncer jumped and pushed Peter even further and it was the right time because Peter’s cage was going to trap Peter. Peter said, “You’ve not seen the last of me team jungle!”

The animals and the people thanked Team Jungle for saving the city in the woods.

The End

(c) balla

joy

The Monkey Series: David and the dinosaur by Balla(8y old)

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Once, there was a monkey called David who was taking a stroll in the forest. Then, he saw a gigantic dinosaur called Peter, but Peter was evil.
So, David said: “Please may you tell me the way to the Magical Desert?” Peter said: “I know but I won’t tell you!” So, David did this: he jumped did a backflip in the air and kicked the evil dinosaur. The dinosaur fainted on the ground in the river. So, David had to look for the Magical Desert himself.

He looked in every place he knew but couldn’t find it. So, he used his GPS, but his GPS could not find it. So he used a machine called the Knower. It knew every place David was in. So, he used it to find the Magical Desert, but it stopped working. He thought he was in the Magical Desert, when he was in it.

He made magic, and it worked. He was happy because he was in the Magical Desert.
The end.

(c) balla

love

Myriam Batjoachim #motherofGod

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The Angel offered to seize it all:
    Your peaceful days gathering water
    Your anonymity doing God’s ways,
    Waiting for your spouse to take you
    In order to save an ungrateful people.

You said yes!

The governor forced you on a census, with
    Baby pressing your bladder,
    With back ache, spots on your face
    No room to calm Braxton Hicks
    Just you Joe and the animals
    And the grass the animals ate
    And when it was time to push,

You said yes!

The prophet embarassed you with your newborn,
    He promised you the grace you knew
    He promised you lots of pain new
    And you pictured the sword, your heart
    And figured greatness breeds pain
    And looked at Joe’s encouragement,

And said, well, yes!

And at Cana, where the harps hung on empty cups
    You turned to your baby boy
    All grown, all full of hope,
    And bade him do them a favour.
    Yes, you set it all up, for his
    First miracle, and the Lord

Said yes!

And throughout his ministry, he would taunt you with denial
    To teach love of neighbour beyond family
    But you were the first disciple,
    You rode his pain, you shared his joy
    And I can picture the conversations of
    Mother and son, advise shared, wisdom shared
    And through rain, sun, hail, gale, miracle,

You said yes!

And when his coronation came close on a donkey and palms
    You saw the blood that would end
    The journey of love; you saw the manger
    The temple, the sermons, the crowds,
    The miracles, the thorns, the cross,
    The blood that would end it all.

Yet, you said, yes!

And as John watched your tears reflect his blood, whence
    You couldn’t parch his raging thirst
    Nor re-nurse those childhood wounds
    Nor hug the pain out of infant tears
    Nor sing a lullaby to ease the sleep
    Nor rub his back to heal the pain,

Your tears said, yes!

And as they took the nails out his hands, as he lay on you,
    And love slithered to constrict your chest
    And the tears bubbled out to heal his death
    You sought to comprehend it all
    And prayed the roles were reversed,
    And God said, you’ve done well my child
    For the salvation of many, and again,

You said yes!

(c) nyonglema

fear

To the Modern Parent’s kids

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Dear all of you living in the 21st debauchery
Of feel good madness, zombies gawking at shiny blocks
Of plastic, which spew tonnes of nothing to capture
Your minds.
I’m sorry that your freedom is freedom to do the same
As everybody else. The advertisement industry
Finally got your flag, and you’re raising your arms
To hail symbols you don’t understand.
You’re Chinese mercenaries in a Trojan war,
African slaves running the slave market.
I’m sorry that your parents gave up.
Literally gave you up to the television, internet
And everything else that added sand to their hour glasses.
There’s hope for you, but till then, I’ll pray for your freedom,
And that parents will actually look after the root of every kingdom

(c)nyonglema

joy

Which one #freedomToChoose

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“Or” is quite a peculiar word:
It includes everything, yet excludes some of them.
It rows the boat forward
And helps it stall sometimes. It contains wealth
And millennia of dirt
In one lump of discovery in poorly lit alleys.

But take away the “or”, and your core is but sea,
Silent, unperturbed, bound to move within the crevices
Of the Earth, where blood is used to extract ores
To take away your “or”. Without that oar, you’re pieces
Of hope floating the torrent, you go where it goes
You flow where it flows, and crash where it crashes.

(c) nyonglema

We take our capacity to choose for granted, but it is not so…choosing is a luxury. You could choose to read this or not because you have a device connected to the internet; some only have the choice not to read. You can choose to like a government or not, in dictatorial regimes, you have but one choice.

You hold a weapon, keep it sharp, and use your choices wisely.

love

A tall mountain top #forMum

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Dear Readers,

I had to share this little jewel from my 8-year-old son; something special he wrote for his precious mum. It’s so unexpected that he came up with something so special…and she loved it.

So here goes: A tall mountain top, by Balla.

Enjoy,
Kind regards,
nyonglema
__________

A tall mountain top
As tall as you can see
With lovely flowers
Grass and trees

I love to
climb up there
It’s so tall that it nearly
touches the
moon.

(c) balla

fear

Free thought #politicalcorrect #PC

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Politically I correct in white blobs the lines
Of the words I wrote for his eyes;
Well, for their ears in a voice so
Powerful it could start wars or more.
“You can’t say this.” The cat purrs
Nonchalant, rubbing against my foot.
It’s hungry, but I can’t say that.
I must say it needs food as I part
With part of my chicken wings.
“You can’t say that.” It claws away,
The poor creature I saved.
It was a sunny hour on a tired day
With sweat camped on my face,
And work slowly eating up my brain.
I saw it homeless…hmmm, no…street camping
With one eye gouged, scraggly fur
And dark…hmmm…coloured blotches.
Compassion picket it up and cleaned it home.
“This just won’t work!” I asked myself
Who’d want it blind…hmmm…of poor sight?
Tended is caked wounds…hmmm…skin lesions
And brushed dirt off its fur. The speech
Was looking whiter and whiter, though.
But it just chewed away like on the fist day,
When delicious milk in my silver bowl slithered
And constricted grave hunger. And I kept
Blobbing out: “weak”, “pain”, “man”, “black”
“Woman”, “white”, “poor”, “rich”, “tears”, “God”.

(c) nyonglema

fear

History, unloaded

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And they gouged its eyes, and ripped out its ears
That no future generations could hear of all the pain
Caused by pseudo-science or thoughts born in fears.

When you think you know what you do not know,
And leap off the ledge into the burning desert snow
You don’t realise how terrible is your crazy show.

But your kids will, and they’ll start screaming
How silly it was not to consider the heat, and that’s
Where we are today, we know more about being

Human. We know that skin colour is just a DNA
Variation, that language varies like wind directions
And that cigarettes will mess up your later days.

But we don’t know if skin colour will stop causing pain
Nor if language modifies the way we live or think
Nor that weed will mess up your later brain.

But I do know that by wiping the mistakes, hiding
Cracks in our foundation, we’re building a shaky future
Where the politically correct act or denying

History was nasty, by renaming, breaking, burning
What once was celebrated for valour, just to fit our mould
Creates ignorant youth who’ll start the same wheels turning.

(c) nyonglema

Words from today to stir a new tomorrow from yesterday

Nnjika

Count your blessings

HIT THE MARK MORE OFTEN

Hit the mark more often

MEIJI'S LITTLE CORNER

Reading, Writing, Hearing and Tasting the Art of Life

Linda J. Wolff - Poetry. Urban Pen Publishing. Resources.

Poems in a Coffer

When reluctance gives in to the urge of expression....