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Showing posts from 2017
LONG LIVE CHRISTMAS



Uncle John and the marshmallows

Yeey... It was winter

Ding! Dong! Ding!

Hooray! Here is Santa

Christ is born

Candy, gifts and toys

Bunnies and outfits

At least for today more Macon on my plate

And rum too, just not for me, though..

Long live  Christmas

The wimp villain can now live again

As Sunday is here soon too

GRANDMA'S PANCAKES.

Johnny… how could I describe him? He  was a young white boy born in some old Celtic town. Some typical white you know,a gruesome pointed nose, blue eyes, restless hands and a burning tongue with a pale skin and blue eyes, the likes of Scotland, wales or Ireland. He loved spending time with his main, "old bruh"..its grandpa actually, who  stooped from the resistance of time to let him grow younger forever. One could actually literary count the wrinkles on his smooth forehead. The old mans under lit den looked like a magicians corner or a witches hut by the forest edge. It was stacked with all garbage, old books, magazines, gramophones, records that he loved playing when granny was cooking pancakes  and other stuff that cockroaches knew better than I .I guess he did this to remind the old lady of  the days she used to sway her hips down the walk way and in her long pointed leather bootsstepped magically like she was in no mood or sane i…
PAIN

Ooh pain Who are you What is your name? Where do you come from? Are you to be understood beyond just an emotion? Say death, a malady,  blood on skin
You are a wound, a wound to the soul If I gave you the world would you stop hurting? If I gave you life would you be happy? Do my tears and wrinkled heart give you the joy? The pleasure? This spark of happiness inside, why does it irritate you?






#NB #writer's_thought We curse pain, even God because of it. But do we really understand it? I tend to think it is to make us weak and then stronger than ever again. If their s happiness sadness is not an exception.
CHANGE YOURSELF AND THE WORLD WILL CHANGE.

       I wanted to change the world at 9 but maybe I hadn’t known what it was yet . Yes, time flies where it got wings from no bird is lucky to have known as arithmetic confirmed I was 19 when I wanted to write this. Still all those years after teenage euphoria I didn't, but now I am lucky am doing it. I hadn’t known that this was the age the whole world was looking at you. Yes it was. I thought I sat on the world but ..heck ..who even has ever done that? The world sat on me. This floating soggy ball in space was on my head with its big hinds. The age of freedom had ‘dawned’. Illusions and beliefs all had got me into this cells. Practically living other peoples lives.

        Who am I? Self identity searches crippled in and reality too sent its chilly whispers down the spne. Like a drunkard sobering up from a heavy stupor by the dirty roadside from the burning sun, I started to pick up myself. To unlearn the learnt and to remove this tattoo…
 KILIMANJARO

If I could write, I could do it for Buddha The godly  essence,
as if I were reading from the ancient lost codes
or the undiscovered underground scripts... Peaceful as nature without humanity The doth glance from heaven Shakespeare still wouldn’t contemplate A seer blest because ego is awake And the soul in ink in this owl feather, fresh Dark as dark Not faded. The white suit and tie lie, I was too poor to buy But if time gave me wings, I could fly WITH MY POOR RICHES Maybe not on a plane But to unseen islands of the gods Where there's no nickel to feel its ugly weight on my thighs
neither its absence to anguish the blithesomeness nor religion, power politics to blind the eye. Where I hear lost souls roam the universe freely Ravening High over the snow caps of Kilimanjaro Macklemore, glorious.... This spark under the puffball skull The eternal fire, the burning spirit The fragmented realities,.. welcome to the optician on the mountain






#novemberhiphopmonthwritingchallen…
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WINDMILL DREAMS


Old wind house up the snaky charming river,
My mills to the breeze of change they rotate
Slow or faster
Just as the moody wind of a sombre day
Lazy, calm, ambitious and furious
For reasons still questions
These cogs, electricity to generate
Electricity for the keyboard, the keyboard for the artiste, the artiste from the mind
The wind for the mills, the mills for the yearn, the yearn for the tailor







      Jeez! What a designers veneration!!









This wind… what a fuel
Not like these carbon fuels
These blades...
Turn Might blades turn

The village lamp needs to glow… brighter
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Tomorrow I must dream



Hard floors
Rickety doors
Downgraded chores
Pockets with pores
Tomorrow I must dream
A dream bigger than the world
Trillion dollar dream
If  I vividly I had to contrast



In the dark forests
On slippery branches I’ll swing
Slowly on the quicksand
Under the furious  suicidal high ocean wave,

High above the uncompetable Everest  I’ll fly
Less a grain of worry 
Polished and sparkling with hope,
My wings, fins and grip stronger shall grow

                                                                                                                               I  TRUST






Night bird, these owl eyes must witness




                                              This conspicuous dream

                                                                 In pregnant daylight

                    To silence these silent cries




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Contagious illusions 




  Contagious illusions

        Discarded solutions 


Unravelled confusions







Arm twisted ambitions









Blind seers

keen deaf listeners

Derailed dreams



              hearts joyfully and                                    quickly pumping to                                        dead lies

what a murky sphere?
What rickety vessels
On a million mile sail
All th
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FLAMES OF RELIGION






Sparks will fly

hearts will burn... to ashes

like a wild church on fire





for straying from themselves

For being too hard to love

choosing opinion

Marrying ego, divorcing altruism

The beautiful little voice within 


IMBECILES


infidels of our own souls










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The plumbers Pipe dreams  










 I, my bottle of oak-matured  Irish whisky and the old mahogany pipe
A party not joined by my thoughts
nae my owl eyes
I can feel the elegance emanating from the reefer hazily rising
To the calm peaceful warm airs.
In the back of the retina the null void spaces
I can see the wisdom of the aged pipe
For wisdom and experience are
                                                   of blood Glitzy tomorrow on a dark today
Sunshine after the storm
Love and the world not into the head
Bed of thorns
Soggy floors and surfaces

Stand or seat?
I hibernate in queer spaces
And rest in strange places like a bird of night
Reminiscing In the clean sanitised UNDEFILED airs
Where no breathing creature’s ever been
Constructing these castles
Painting the sketches of conscious dream like a desperate artiste
With mad hope of selling his soul on leather to the blind eye





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Summer flowers



Summer flowers, I wanted to jot a poem about you

The way you bloom like poppy in the summer heat  

An addict would call you Osama

Boom!....





                                    To A revolutionist obama

                                  Yes we can!







You fell on ma path the last rains to the tropical heat

And colored  ma pathway

I pick your scent like satelite radar in the gentle breeze

For am just but a wolf on the hunt

Miss lavender…

Those jacaranda purple lips
How you caught my attention






On a young virgin night

Down the old post road

Under the shaky creaky dim streetlight

Triple lingual poem
Nahisi njozi nipo naye Toto ngozi oh my eeh Nyuma mama wee Gracious playboy This girl precious My heart, spacious Umwoyo gwigwe mulilo gusambanga  shee Niva ni amatsi ndivila lliva mama wee