THE BLACK STAG

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

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                                                  

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 this pounds on a twig so frail Such  a poor vision for such a long foggy stormy journey This knees that hit each other when they walk This ears that hear nothing and no thing And nostrils that smell no scent But scent of every cent ever engraved Go’damn !corroded logic Eroded humanity What a delusion!!! To a tongue that can’t speak for itself

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

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

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 Near the thick  healthy hedge Your creamy  smooth voice and deep smile Vexed my conscience  in a quack  Lusitania became my name and Woodrow the embattled flesh sojourned   I couldn’t contemplate  for a thorn that could  tear through the calf tender  heart In  the mid day heat under this leafless

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