"Who wants change?"
I stare at the last instants of my son
I bare my soul to the sun: scathe me! bathe me
In scars that will heal! The Saian
Promised that pain brings new shoots from the ground
But who shoots flowers from a gun?
But I see flowers rising from bullet-made mounds.
I stare at the last instants of my son
And bear my soul scathing under the sun. Sounds
Are muffled. Hope sang birds' songs
Before on the trees above my lawn. I don't know
That bird, but I sure know the song.
It was Schroedinger's cat predicting my future.
But who shoots flowers from a gun?
Nobody! Nobody believes anything else will come
Nobody bares their soul to the sun
That song is either dead or alive, but nobody's looking.
We all want to see that cat run,
We all want to hear that song, the bird's, you know
I stare at the last instants of my son,
For no finger will be lifted higher than abandon
No hand shall be lent, only backs bent in allegiance.
(c) nyonglema
Tag Archives: hope
Vivre en semble #pretendUnity
Le moustique chante dans ces oreilles pourtant pas endormies,
Qui guettent les pas des ravisseurs qui tour à tour font
La garde. Le silence est tel qu'on peut entendre les fourmis
"…ma reconnaissance au peuple camerounais de m’avoir renouvelé sa confiance…"
Erigés sont les poils des bras à découvert dans ce froid macabre,
La peur a laissé place aux sanglots qui se sont effacés par l'indifférence
Face à ces murs en terre battue … ah ce mot "battu" "battre", "abattre"
"… en prenant des mesures nécessaires pour préserver l’ordre public…"
Battues et coupées du monde, les larmes salées semblent laver le tartre
Comme un plâtre qui se brise laissant la fracture à découvert. Ils saignent.
« … Porte atteinte à notre Constitution… » « … d’être mieux
Associées à la gestion de leurs affaires … » Les lueurs d’espoirs s’éteignent
Avec l’arrivée du soleil. L’odeur d’Hadès parfume la rosée sur les jeunes fusils
« … nous avons maintenu notre cap vers l’émergence. » Il n’est pas 2035.
On se gratte la peau, on nettoie les cils. On boit de l’eau infestée de typhii.
Avec l’arrivée du soleil, l’odeur d’Hadès parfume la rosée sur leur règne
« … continuer dans la paix l’œuvre de construction » La guerre ajuste son masque
Ils se grattent la peau, et ils boivent du Lestac, dehors sous des corps la terre saigne.
(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
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
To the Modern Parent’s kids
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
Which one #freedomToChoose
“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.
Autism #hope
Misunderstood
Like “Et tu Brute”
Like hating brothers,
Pain and love locked
Like “Et tu Brute”
Like hating brothers
Your cross is heavy.
Each day’s prayer begs to be
Answered, as despair is Romeo
Throwing pebbles at your roof.
But you don’t hear it,
You don’t fear it.
The world is a crystal from foreign shores.
You’re so far off it
Yet so near it.
They don’t get it.
(c) nyonglema
Let Geal Broblems Trevail #inAfrica
The flies dart around his arid mouth, whose sides point to the outline of his ribs attacking his parchment skin. The ground looks exactly like him, though older
A lot older. His mum looks no different; well a little more distraught.
She seeks solace in an empty box, where cobwebs acquaint dusty air and despair.
Then there was the one who had everything he needed, but couldn’t get to any meeting in time. His car fought time in impossible battles where potholes had cheat-codes to rupture tyres, kill the shocks, and shock the monthly balance sheet
Sheets of mud made 10km look like 100km, and the traffic madness made everyday on Earth like an eternal repayment of evil.
Then there was the one who wanted more. He took the fruits of corporate toil to build an empire for him and his child, but Everest seems an easier prospect for each step of the investment process, for each step of the electoral process, for each step of the hoping process.
Processing files gets trickier each person you meet, and civil un-clarity is the clearest form of corruption to be your defeat.
But the international community knows that the most urgent way to solve years of poverty, pain, nepotism, despotism, murders, mass graves, mass rapes, massacres, genocide, homicide, fratricide, betrayal, civil disorder, civil unrest, political abuse, constitutional abuse, religious abuse, educational decline, moral decay, brain drain, societal decay in Africa is with one solution: the LGBT liberation.
The solution to the proliferation of AIDS is to urgently encourage the more dangerous copulation?
The solution to poor healthcare is to urgently create new health care issues?
The solution to hunger is to feed a pack of NGO-related lawyers?
The solution to political injustice is to replace the meaning of the rainbow in your constitution?
The solution to inefficient functionary service is to add new clauses barely understood?
The solution to failing education is to reform only to include the LGBTQ-etc?
The solution to repopulating after genocides or disasters or diseases is barren relationships?
Well…
The fall of every empire starts with political correctness and warped priorities; only…Africa is not even out of the ER yet.
Where should we focus more the aid we get, and our resources: on something that divides the civil society and is the least of our civil issues; or on educating our children out of the inferiority complex and dependency mentality?
I pick the latter.
(c) nyonglema
waghni 