Choices

Where do they find their solace when time takes toll? 

Choices that is. You know, when a fur coat seems better than a wind-breaking
piece of plastic in a shop where the browned decay of the sales lady’s teeth
hint at the bad breadth of its shoulders, and the colours seem off, but you’re
worried about the environment, so you lean towards it and away from dead animals.

Where do they find their stretch when time takes toll?

At one point you’ve got many, and at another the page is blank. Even the word
to start a poem hides behind the distractions of the day, and your choice to watch
Infinity Wars till 2am, and be up to your employer’s hobby, your livelihood, by
4am, which meant that your brain factory remained littered with yesterday.

I’ve noticed how choices impact choices, no troll!

It’s like the Mahjong possibility counter, and the kanji sign you just clicked
to reduce it, or when you go for a piece further off to the left, and the counter
goes up the sides of your cheeks, like to say you did the right thing by chance
or by calculated meticulousness.

My daughter stares me in the eyes as I get daily old:

I answer her that every action from that first cry she made hanging upside
down with amniotic coat has determined where she stands now, and every
action she freely wills will determine the amount of freedom she can exercise
as time takes its course and my hairline reduces my freedom of hair styling.

My son stares at my lies, head cocked like “It’s getting old!”:

I tell him freedom comes from sacrificing freedom, like Isaac on an altar, or
Joseph in a well, or me writing this here, or Jesus on a cross, or hitting a campaign
or running trail, or studying for a test, or digging up fossils, or just helping a
neighbour: the more of your freedom you forfeit for the right reasons, the more
you’re ready for the fullness of more freedom to forfeit.

(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

Working for the white man #noRacism #coloursNsmells

This is what I learnt from working for the white man:

  The rainy season will come each year, and so will the dry
  And bosses can be mean, they can be sad, they can be shy
  And life will move on even when the targets seem high
  And the team will be there, to scoff but sometimes say fie
  But they can lift you high with a good laugh, or just smile.
  I learnt to be humble in front of challenges, for God
  Put them there to shine through the successes we got.

Then,

This is what I learnt from working for the black man:

  The rainy season will come each year, and so will the dry
  And bosses can be mean, they can be sad, they can be shy
  And life will move on even when the targets seem high
  And the team will be there, to scoff but sometimes say fie
  But they can lift you high with a good laugh, or just smile.
  I learnt to be humble in front of challenges, for God
Put them there to shine through the successes we got.

And,

This is what I learnt from your puzzled mind:

We’re all the same deep under, and the colour doesn’t determine
  What success or failure or iniquity or sanctity you bring.
Black, white, dark, spiked, light, night, yellow, mellow,
  I’m looking at you looking at me, but we’re all one big shadow
On this sphere spinning in nothingness. That colours, smells
  Are just ways to make the labrador hate hounds and spaniels.

I learnt to be humble in front of challenges, for God
Put them there to shine through as we merge into one pod.

(c) Nyonglema

On Addiction #slaveToPleasure

It pulls you as much as you pull it
It pulls you as much as you pull it.

You’re both master and slave to each other,
Satisfying your raster of cravings in destructive instants.
And in those instants when the cage feels sweeter,
You’re trapped further by some form of trance.

It pulls you as much as you pull it
It pulls you as much as you pull it.

You draw it towards you, feeling like an eagle
Patrolling your turf, oblivious to the nails sinking into
Your hands, as delusional you feel you’re in control.
You’re not. Each pull of yours meets Newton’s memento.

It pulls you as much as you pull it
But won’t push you even if you push it.

What ?! That’s the puzzle that rings the alarm:
You’re stuck in a draining flooded tub
And elusive are the objects which could grab your arm
And yank you out. Even when this beast was but a cub,

It pulled you much more than you pulled it
It’s pulling you much more than you can push it.

(c) Nyonglema

Behind the Scenes #preparation #hardWork #hustle

Did you ask him what he did behind the scenes?

The artist puts on an electric show;

The surgery’s done without sweat on the brow;

The painting looks sophisticatedly plain as what you could do;

The machines are fixed without much ado.

But did you ask what he did behind the scenes?

 

The melody’s perfect, but it’s just a piano;

The building’s perfect in 2 months, no more;

The plot of the story got you laughing for two;

And the bulb is on with a flick from you.

 

Did you ask her what she did behind the scenes?

The goal’s marvelous from a kick of a shoe;

The plane soars over the ocean with you;

The medal’s won by a long javelin throw;

And the target’s hit on the other side of the war.

Did you ask her what she did behind the scenes?

 

Did you ask them what they did behind the scenes,

As they learned the skills and honed them,

Sweat and pain and fear and bitter phlegm

Each time they failed, but dusting up to try again,

And loving each minute as they drew close to perfection:

That’s the iceberg lying behind the scenes.

 

(c) Nyonglema

Tired #workDay #9to5 #labour #job #fatigue

Pins are pricking my poor body;
It’s night and the owls are gone.
The roar of horsepower have replaced their song,
And night is now a lonely toddy.

8 hours on farming my payroll eagerly,
With sweat and tear; each minute is scarce.
So rushing around the hive, looking for my fares
I don’t feel pins pushing into my day’s load stealthily.

As the night crawls in, and the boss calls out;
And the office shrinks, and the lights go out,
And the files pile up, and litter sleeps about,
My face sinks as this routine goes day-in day-out.

Don’t think wrong, my love’s my job;
But just like Job asking the Maker about woes,
I scratch my pain, stretch my back and nurse my throes,
And watch these pins sinking in like desert drops.

At last at home, lying on a couch to think
And scribble my thoughts in a big blot of ink,
I start to feel the pins relish as they sink
The pain of fatigue into each one of my limbs.

(c) Nyonglema