A CONSTANT SURETY

At the heart of the songs
from the bellies of our mothers
gentle to settle
spiced to soothe
peace prevails.

As the tears roll down
the familiar faithful face
and wishes are poured endlessly
from a desperate and anguish heart
possibilities flow along.

At the heart of the silent
supplications before the cross
at the stillness of the day
when all hell has broken loose;
so long as I know for sure
those relentless hands remains clutched
and the whispers flying off her lips
I am found by an unwavering faith
and I know I have won.

Picture Credit: ih1.redbubble.net

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WALKING IN OTHER MEN’S DREAMS

I know my people;

They will not hide from you their ways,

And care less if you’ve got any.

Candid, obvious and unrepentant;

Impossible to inspire;

Expensive to move.

You are only celebrated

For the celebration you bring;

The cost is yours alone to count.

So when my father comes to me

Talking of keeping a dream,

I can clearly see it in his eyes,

Consuming and burning deep into his spirit,

And I can tell from the beginning

That this dream is only receiving dusting

For another life; my life.

When he sits me down

To talk me into the success I can’t miss,

I feel the celebration already,

With every word falling into my ears,

The depth in the tone,

And the persistence upon insistence.

 

What he means is that I see clearly

Far into the near future,

To the day my success will come

Consuming the mood of the village,

And when other people too will shake his hand

For drinking from his pocket.

He means the day he can damp his hoe

At where he would never remember;

And reap his harvest from my palms.

When he can take that final rest

In his wooden arm chair,

Early by sunrise,

By the path running to the scorching fields,

Profusely puff his pipe pleased,

Donating himself a bait

To all inquisitive passersby,

So he can take the time to explicate

The sketches of praises of the son

Sung in pieces and bits in the grapevines.

And all these he will do,

Just to watch their faces as he tells them;

And if he could find someone,

Even a single helpless soul that couldn’t stop

His or her envy from sneaking into his or her face,

Then he can finally console himself,

And give himself a pat on the back

For making it finally

To the dream, his dream.

 

Read also “The Coward” at http://theafricancanary.wordpress.com/2014/04/10/the-coward/

 

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THE SOUND OF MEN

Do you not find it interesting and funny?

How men would only like to choose out of the many

Free things life gives

Like a dog to be loyal as long it lives

A cat to be witty and silly

Or to just grow and watch bloom a rose or a lily

But will choose to choose men

Untamable, unpredictable; to shock you every now and then

Fellow men of equal sanity and madness

Creatures of our images and likeness

Fallible and very proud

The empty ones so loud

Hungry and yet rebellious

Irritating and still very hilarious

To keep and maintain

And strive to attain

Everything in them and all we get in the end

Is nothing at all of our wild wishes

Why feel like everyone should feel like you feel?

Why be like everyone should be like you’ve been?

.

A dog to be loyal

A cat to be silly

A lily to bloom

We still had to come back with our unsatisfied ears to man

For this mysterious accent of men compared to none

Is there anything at all

Like the sound of words

From these old tongues of men

So sweet, and so sour

But we are what we are

Not the best and not the worst

Angels will go for angels

We are all we have

 

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A NOTE FOR BRUTUS

When you see my back turned to the warm sun

cuddling in the cold arms of my shadow,

bury not your nose in my breath,

so passing glances misjudge not this man continually sober.

 

Scorn not this everyday fool

like my sudden defiance

just cloaked you an instant piety.

 

I’ve learnt to keep my shadows where I can see

cos’ maybe I fear the unknown,

the haunting darkness I leave behind

where you’ve always found comfort

suffocating my shadows.

 

And still,

if you care to know, Brutus,

it’s you I fear.

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THE HOME I NEVER LEFT

Memories
Beautiful freaky memories
The momentary pleasant black outs
From time’s trances thrust through timid thoughts
Piercing deep into the mind like the lethal leister
Triggering reminiscences of moments pregnant
Flipping through life’s crazy memoirs
Memories of a place calling out in my sleep
Of shadows still gripping my sanity
Memories of the home I never left
Grandpaa’s horny rooster and his lazy crows
The sugar factory and its typical stench
Where nobody did I ever see pass by smiling
The remnants of the gravelly pitch where the daisies grow
Where the boys would leave their ball idle
And point fingers in their funny faces
Shouting at me, “Big Head can you watch the aeroplane…”
“Short Boy why are you so down…?”
But these nice idiots were all I had
Sunset in the coconuts before the high tides
The old ghost that strolls at the beach in the moonlight
Maybe someday, I’ll find my way back home
The dawn of a Sunday morn perhaps
Before the old priest drags his rusty bones
To the Chapel Hill to send the big bell chiming
I’ll be standing at the familiar old wooden gate
Panting in anxiety highly flared
And my knocks would be heard lingering for days
Echoing even from the corners of the Komenda bays
O’ you tender coast of gold
No place have I ever felt your likeness
Keep that faithful bosom warm
For the frozen dreams of this imbecile of a son
Where I’ll bury my worn out face
And I’ll try not to cry
So hard, maybe I’ll try
But the good Lord knows how much I’ll cry
All those tears I’ve stored being strong
All those fears I’ve hidden being bold
Not a speck of flotsam and jetsam
Of a hefty ego shall be left unshed
Before the last tear falls to your feet
Count not my absence as another lost son
I will find my way back home

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