"One day you'll fall in love" I heard the knife stab my ear drums For that word had wheels with sturdy spokes And rolled away from the bleeding guillotine With the hearts it had stolen, then broken. Romeo fell up the balcony while the bats Roamed the sky, catching the bugs in his Poetry. The melody cast a shadow at Juliet's Door and with his head over her heels, Her heart was gripped by the lyrics Pouring into the secrecy of that instant. The crickets sang the background, and Everything heaven seemed to hang in the air, The breeze waltzed her hair, her dress Throwing shimmers to enthralled Romeo: Never to part, they'll live the ever after ... Romeo's dead, then fall Juliet. Over and over the Poison and the Dagger Start as toddler Egos, wanting what they want And nothing else. Led by the fear of Being on an island, we seek to put the Other in a cage, and have them lark Out our favorite songs to the rising Sun, with pretty feathers, as pretty As the bars that we have offered them To look out through. Who wants to be alone? So Romeo dared choose the suicide of women, And Juliet that of men, each conquering fear of Their worst death to defeat their worst fear, For who wants to be alone? Maybe it wasn't love after all? Maybe the judges gavelling unknowing children To a future of multiple homes, fathers and mothers Or single homes, with guns drawn across the parapet Aren't breaking love, but something else? Maybe I shouldn't fear the word as I've been taught By decades of soap operas, movies, stories And by this dog-eared blue and read Oxford dictionary. Maybe we're all wrong to think when we own A person, we are doing it for Love? Maybe love is giving it all, and even more Till we have no more blood to pour? Maybe Love has given it all, and even more, So we know how to love our neighbour? (c) nyonglema
What got you here, won't get you there. -Marshall Goldsmith ------------------- Curls of hair tumbling down my chest, Falling from my neck, The black on my face Say I'm ready for battles to mate. Each strand whispers to the other: "I'll protect you from the strikes", As they expect a foe, similar to me, To punch, bite and scratch. Protect the vitals: A cushion for blows to the head, Where the control tower plans the win strategy; Another for blows to the chest, Where energy is supplied to the weaponised sinews; Another for blows to the groin, Where the prize of all this mayhem sits safely. The times have changed, though, and such fights, Are not the path to procreation. Neither are our socialist governments A path to independence. Protecting us From blows from foes, similar to us, They once curled, and some were cut out. They took the blows, that we may be Free. But, the times have changed and such fights Are not the path to civilisation. They seek to control the head, They seek to constrict the chest They seek to conscript the groin. They give the blows, that we may be Free to do their chores. In truth, the times have changed, And even if the policies look great It's time to go bald. (c) nyonglema
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.
Her thoughts percolate into my ears like acid rain
Reined in, tied to loads of nonsense from new-world
Worldly thoughts I loathe, for venom is their ocean.
Oceans of bliss in their ignorance masks the ensuing pain.
Pride in her riches like my daughter’s first picture;
Picturing formless ink forms as more of number “1”s.
One day she’ll doodle and it will make sense, but now
Nowhere near Picasso’s are the art in her feature.
Pride in riches: she called Africa the richest place!
Placing my bets carefully I side with her view.
She then said the diamonds and gold sustain that too!
Too much for me ma’am…but mine’s a different place.
For rich or poor is defined by so much more than stones
Stoning soldiers to death, stone cold killers from kids
Kidding with adult toys (not those …jeez guys! Be adults!),
Adult toys that suck life and blood and call retaliative drones.
Come on! Those aren’t your riches…they are Earth’s;
Earthly things outliving our decaying remains,
Remaining for the next generation. We could have picked
Pickets as currencies, or flowers…just anything and set its worth.
For the real wealth is people together working equal,
Unequal, Good, evil. All people as long as they are happy.
Happens that that’s what also brings economic wealth.
Wealthiest nations have the highest density of people.
The leaves of her premise sway about on the roots of
Offish bar-talk: “They get raw and process and sell,
Sales price escalating in the process so the initial person
Persistently can’t afford what has come of his stuff.”
But maybe there’s the catch: It’s not your stuff!
Stuffed with plenty from mother nature you watched
Watches scattered in rocks and metal about your garden,
But never sought to assemble any, never used your stuff.
So while you hid and counted the talents in hand
Handymen handled theirs, building all that we see around.
Round the centuries Africa did, then Asia, then Europe, then…
Then Jesus’s talent parable’s paradox suddenly stands.
So while Africa whines about the stuff being stolen
The real loss is the exiled minds who’d fathom new ideas,
Ideally within their home. But there the hero is non grata
Grating his life away amidst corruption and opportunities stolen.
A lot of talk of how Africa’s rich for its resources, landscapes…blah blah! No! what Africa has is people. People abused for being honest, abused for seeking change. But people capable of great things, but pushed into egocentricity by the artificial adversity created by the people appointed to get them out of adversity.
Africa’s quite huge, but this is the commonest trait. Our leaders spoil themselves on their people, and education suffers, then research suffers. The major cost of finished goods is the R&D we don’t do due to stolen (not embezzled) funds. Lots of wasted opportunities.
Africa’s time will come when Africa’s people’s time will come…when they shall be heard. When Africa stops looking for the fault everywhere and really introspects in a deep SWOT exercise. When leaders actually start to serve.
Leaves flooded your dreams of youthful nights:
A young caterpillar crawling about the jungle
Dodging the sight of hungrier beasts in the heights,
And the ground beasts dreaming of you and their tongue.
A white streak in a ballet of windy green leaves,
Gripping, then crawling, then gnawing near the midrib
Then gripping, then crawling, watching what the spider weaves
As flies dance about as if they knew there was no return to their cribs.
A tough silken box later and you’re clothed in glory
Vestments singing bright colours for the whole world to know
Fluttering fleetingly from bough to bough in a fairy story
Where you’re king, queen, prince, horse and coach
I know you reminisce the crawling and gnawing of youth
But Time’s persistence is such that you can never have both.
Remember as you wish those days that, in truth,
History’s devices need be adapted for the present to suit.
I miss the days when each rock was a boulder,
When peeling off the skin of a cheese triangle
Decorated with a smiling cow was such a wonder.
I miss running up trees and around the concrete jungle
Aimlessly full of hope, happy to be life’s soldier,
Fighting for dad’s cause, adhering to mum’s angle.
I miss bewilderment at technical prowess in elementary solder
As the capacitors sprung back to life in that CRT National.
The world’s years are now heavy on mine and life’s such a ramble
At this stage where I can feel it all on my shoulder.
The gardener cares;
Winter pines solemnly watch
Flowers start to bloom