Petals #old #time

Ripe the garden plants, bright the flowers they bear
For bees to frolic and play till in future fruits be bare.

But I look at the flowers and see the petals fall.
Have you seen it before? Beauty and the Beast?

One petal drops to the floor: Thriller’s gone, the man in the mirror
fades into history, losing colour, washed by tears and more

The picture of the next petal on the iPhone blurs out while Steve rests
And Amy goes to buy the next one beyond our gardens with mellifluous voice

Harmonising Whitney, oh that’s a petal of my childhood I’ll
Misstep with tears as it sways and twists in the miracle of her wind

Not fast, not furious, gently falling, while Paul Walker walks
The stairway to heaven, staring at another petal on the aging rose

Of my youth’s laughter…oh Robin, oh Bernie, watch those petal go
Shall you make one more laugh infuse the pallid petal back to life?

And shall Chester and Prodigy harmonise with Anne Marie Nzie as another
Petal falls?

I watch them go, the falling petals, like the hair on my head,
Like the black in my chin, I watch the clock take one by one
And replace with something new, different, strange, something afraid
To ride my roller coaster heart, unlike those petals first to join
When life was a song, and the future was sunshine and childhood fun.

(c) Nyonglema

On your 450th: to the Bard

To the man who cheered my childhood idleness

When want of money seized the Mario Bros from me.

To the man who planted in me the seed of madness

To string words like multi-coloured beads to see

Some hidden truth, to say some itchy sadness,

To display the velvet waves of a grassy plane in some wilderness.

 

I remember “Et tu Brute” impressed on that page

Of beautiful poetry you wove into a thickening web.

Enthralled by this beauty, the Muse had me in a cage

And soon out of my own tottering pen, I would be a deb.

The Sonnets, Othello, Twelfth Night, Hamlet: my pleasant voyage

Into the Land of Words till sunlight to the horizon would ebb.

 

To the Bard of Stratford-upon-Avon on your birthday

To the speculation on the dictionary whence

You spun your magic and awed many in and beyond your day,

To the father of the deepest yet saddest romance:

The bitter tale of hatred to which Romeo and Juliet fell prey:

We miss your plume pouring life onto our every sense.

 

(c) Nyonglema