Happy Easter to all my readers. We celebrate the greatest miracle of our existence, a symbol of hope as we witness one of the greatest tragedies of our generation. Pick up your heart, somebody needs it now, and also tomorrow...hope never dies. Rise from the squalor of the promise of death. Your wrongs hold you down like ladders fallen To the ground, broken, crying. The stone off your back rolls to the ground; Your shoulder speaks out-of-breath to your brain, And mixed with stress, the message is amplified. Let it roll to the ground, this is a new day. "Mother, behold, I make all things new". Mother torn trying to grip the wind on its Way to the mountains. How do you hold the wind? How do you hold fear? How much pain can one mortal vessel hold In drips of blood on stone, and gasps for Air on wood standing in stone? All things are new. Behold, the rainbow Shoots an arrow of renewal past the sunlit Perfumed clouds. It's all so beautiful that I forget the nails, the thorns. The rungs of This ladder lead to a new height. Rise from the parlor, and celebrate far away From family and friends. The electrons will Bring your elation all the way: It's resurrection time. Do this today; tomorrow we'll all be back to our Day to day. (c) nyonglema
Tag Archives: covid-19
Counting
They were not perfect squares, you know, those hard plastic Sticks of myriad colours that between my teeth like grit Sent weird signals of unevenness to my infant brain. If you take one green, then blue, red, then green again, Addition turns into 4 unicorns you can right with an equal sign. They aren't perfectly sinusoidal, those hard to bear curves On my screen, with lab coat, glasses, and eagerness to serve Me the death toll...like I should pay for a Wuhan virus. I love when up it goes, peaks, and down comes the sinus Like sunset announcing a new dawn or some equal sign. Some say stop counting the dead, for dread needs a father. So as I toss and turn, afraid the virus gets anymore fodder, I count my blessings, like the song taught me and my Siblings to do when you'd rather shiver, melt and die. Naming the inanimate heals they said, you'll be fine. So I'm counting oxygen molecules for free floating around, I'm counting a bed shared, the hugs and smiles, sound From little children goofing around, arguing about nothing. I'm counting parents, siblings, forgetting squabbles frothing, For life's a dainty petal dancing on sun-bathed silver lines Of air, scintillating in a million diamonds of green leaves Whistling a new tune of spring, dancing with the puffs above. The birds flap their garments of rainbow gliding on sheaves Out of the sky to brighten a smile I bear like finding love In powder and smoke. Darkness is where these blessings don't shine. (c) nyonglema
Coal #hope
Do not be discouraged. Don't lose your heart as everything seems to fall apart. A chick will emerge from the shell; always does. What do you see when the rough fire eats at wood, Softly sintering what was splintered? It's weird that pain brings togetherness Where handshakes were fake, and escape Was the constant. Now we crave to touch, We crave so much as the mask falls off To reveal the despair on the decaying Banana on the medic's lips. Last touch Gone. What I see is pain, but not like Cain's on Abel. I see the pain of a pierced side, or thorns Crowning the start of a battle for souls. I see the pressure of nails dodging wrist veins, But getting some, missing the bone, hanging on. I see years of preparation, patiently waiting For that moment: the filth of coal felt like Victory to the Virus smiling. The crown of the Start of the battle, rattled to the ground. Pressure, battle, the victor won without a sound. I see Sunday morning, Peter's out of breath Chasing John, chasing Mary earlier in the morn. I see a cloth there, bare, where coal had dared To start tears down my cheeks with biers. See, The wood destroyed slowly became the coal of pain, but What I see is not coal on worldometer's charts; I see diamonds form, Love's pressure on the Sacred Heart. (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
Corona
And to crown it all we're all going to die! Or not. Despair is the flare from the barrel Next to the six-foot deep hole holding my stare: I can't climb out of CNN reporting in quarrel After quarrel that the air is filled with ire Not fire. They crawl up hands, to faces And dig into alveoli where life lies waiting To exhale through foetid mucus, a James Whale scare As the doctors bounce of beds defibrillating In vain or with success, but all in phases. No I chose hope. New phrases like social And distance breathe oxygen into more men Than the global promise of living without care! Oxymoron is the new hope for this ill omen! Greet-distance, Meet-noone, Work-home, travel-local. Hands-clean, touch-no face, calm-panic. But how not to panic in the face of a pandemic? The old, and vulnerable are main victim to evil's fair, But all carry the burden even in transparent tunic Taking some under for failing their civic duty. (c) nyonglema Stay safe. We can beat this. Wash hands, follow the hygiene and other instructions. By minimising the spread, we make more healthcare available to the more vulnerable. Don't panic, God's got us, and we got this.
waghni 