The stream (all workshops)
Oh, your love has untethered, unbound me
Heart beats an intimate dance, called romance
Your gnawing need for me, and mine for thee
consumes, alternate reality, a trance
I'm floating on cloud nine, sweet ecstasy
Ah, can this last eternally? perchance
Reflected gaze I feel like a beauty
My feelings broad as the oceans expanse
Your my soulmate, my best friend, my happy
No formula, not an exact science
except one on one, may add upto three
I appreciate our dalliance
Flirting is the fuel that keeps love red hot
MAY and DECEMBER
I waited for your call.
It never came,
It was 2:00 A.M.
No doorbell rang.
My heart began to sink again.
Every time you walked through the door
and I saw you standing there
I thought my soul would never bear
the ecstasy
When you ran your fingers through my hair
the softness of your touch spoke fire
and your caresses whispered love.
but nothing lasts forever,
you are May
I am December.
jewelled studs
stretched to forever
in an endlessly encompassing
quiescent deep
a panorama
aglow
an intangible taste
of a vast breadth
with future in potential
that shimmers just out of reach
.
20th December 2012.
THIS MORNING
Hills delicately touched
with seeping light of morning
dawning in the east,
they lie like icing on the cake of day,
the heavens tinted pink and grey,
pale blue a back-cloth
peeping through the haze,
the temperature ten degrees of frost,
a buzz of traffic dully reaches us
through silent roofs and trees,
the trees,
like statues of themselves,
there is no breeze.
DAWN
there is a mismatch between the Mayan
and
the Gregorian
current calendars…
earlier on, life was lunatic
lunar based
now it’s pragmatic
that is scientific
Equator oriented
hence you all are welcome
for breakfast at Tiffany’s
at 8.30 am sharp
22nd December
Into a new dark age
we go, marching,
careening headlong
[of soapbox poetry
there is no want
for many a voice
loudly rail and rant]
the terrain of our
condition and that
of our experience
has changed over
year upon year of
progress that has brought
us closer to the edge
of a generation that
lives on the horizon
itself
peering further on
beyond
to challenges invisible
to our yet untrained minds
In the end it’s all about women.
When men create it’s not to emulate the womb,
it's to impress women.
Yes, about getting in her pants
but more about getting close
There must be loss and grief in the parting,
because when men are all gone,
women will remain.
I listened to the year of songs
Wondered on what to sing
A song of choice and preference
From Africa of my childhood
I stopped to laugh at the sound
My baritone booming big
In dialect songs of stories
Of folk lore and moonlight tales
It is now a year of poems
I have a handful inscription
But none of them has got a rhyme
To decipher my native ways
Of African thoughts to English
Like the struggle of the hopeless
A malfunction reflects the dearth
This terra firma bereft of text
Teacher and schoolgirl ran away
out of the playground he wanted to play
for a long time she was groomed
in his presence, she bloomed
Teachers pet, lots of treats
extra stars and tasty sweets
he boosted her self-esteem
believing she shared his dream
He forgot about his loving wife
thought they would build a new life
he took her away to a hotel
thoughts of their activities, I quell
KEEPER OF THE FLAME
I am the setting sun
bleeding crimson-red
Into blue horizon.
I am the moon riding
In a midnight sky
shrouded yellow pale.
I am the Keeper of the Flame
with a prophet’s name *
and when I forever fall
I will have kept it written all.
*Jeremiah= Geremia
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