Even in the midst of a crowd,
When the noise is loudest,
We can still hear resonant voice of depth.
Even in the midst of mist,
When the cloud is dulled by dimness
We can still let our eyes see.
Even in the midst of distant spaces
Shredded by the exigencies of life
Thoughtful moments are near.
Even in the midst of passing years
Interspersed by silence and chats
You leave a smile in your trail.
Even in the midst of abundance
Of gracious blessings received
You’re poised to welcome many more.
Even in the midst of letting today
Remind us of long ago
You’re blessed to look to tomorrows with love.
Even in the midst of these words
Born of warmth and tenderness
I’m sending you their gracious lift.
Everyday I rise
To a fresh
Behind the whistling
Of the pine
A sparkle of hope
Our land is a virgin, a maiden
Adorned with black gold of the rainforest
Surrounded by the wild of the coast
Shared in peace by her children
From the Cross stretching to the West.
That was then…
The maiden weeps, the maiden bewails
Her fecund laps stretched in disregard
And her hymen broken, her hymen
That conceals the differing ovaries within.
Now her soil is stained with blood
And her innocence sucked.
Her ovaries struggle within
To control the slimy fecund oily soil,
I mean of what is left,
While the imperialist jabbing heightens.
Our soil is oily, our oily soil
Soiled by the oil of bourgeois machinery
Imperiling our land with imperialist outflow,
Milking adversely our bio-diversity.
Washed away are the resting abodes
Of our fore-gone sires through
The bird-foot region to the Atlantic,
Leaving their manhood bare-buttock.
And now we struggle within
Increasing her pains, spilling blood
And intensifying the imperialists imperiling
Of her innocence, our fecundity.
She writhes in pain…
Suffering from the baton of abuse
Midwives are come to the rescue.
But will the confinement yield
And she be delivered of live births
That shall mock the imperialists
And restore her sanity, her resilience?
Or will her births be born still
Saying her gestation is not done?
Our divine quest mocks our being
And befogs our nature visible:
The creative instinct of a Creator.
Earth’s manifest vastness of His presence
Teaches that of being creative or divine
It is in the trappings of the former
We are held hostage in His likeness.
Trapped in the web of this likeness
The creative instinct bestows the divine;
Or does something else reveal the contrary
Other than these same trappings?
Come home, my love
Away from those dog-eared notes.
Come, let me sing
The lyrics of your lips.
Supper beckons from the bedside.
The turbine is down,
The moon shall be our witness;
…the pumpkin sauce
…the white spread,
Come, let’s sing our being
And consummate our oneness.
Out of our prison wall of satisfaction
In the dead of the day’s dark period
Slouch the goodies we lack:
A moment of this.
I adore it,
Admiring its lustrous sparkles
Gusting from the bluish bright cover,
The lapis lazuli of supernal glory.
The air speaks in silent hiss,
Every noise for a while asleep
Except the solemn converse of maker and made.
Returning, this vibrancy vibrates afar.
This morning I awoke
To the voices of yesterday,
The disposition and the flair,
The striving and the settled.
They all sang one melody:
Amidst the dark visage
Of receding laughter
And pensive hunger
The world is a beauty
For the sake of our souls.
The jasmine-scented path
With the deciduous cover
Recalls our first outing
When the hiss of your lips
Whistled in rhythm with the pine
And in the womb of the evening
Was born our virginal vow
To saunter in eternal tangle
And refresh our secrets
With these blossoms.
Filed under Poetry, Writing
We were hungry, in want of food;
And you told us we’d freedom from want.
We were fearful if we would die;
And you told us we’d freedom from fear.
We were speechless, without complaint;
And you told us we’d freedom of speech.
We believed poverty was our lot;
And you told us we’d freedom of faith.
And when we’ve come to self-discovery
Believing in ourselves and started talking
Refusing to give up until hunger is cured
You dared claim to yourself one more freedom
One we certainly do not desire:
Freedom to turn a deaf ear.
I’m grateful for the tears of the year
They’ve proven I’m human after all;
I’m grateful for successes attained,
They’ve strengthened my faith in me.
I’m grateful for friends that stayed
There’s some purpose in our bond;
I’m grateful for those that fell aside,
Our purpose had run its course.
I’m grateful for new friends found,
They prove that help is always around.
I’m grateful for each word I’ve crafted,
They’ve been my sublime guide.
I’m grateful for all I’ve read and learnt;
They’ve enriched my dance steps with life.
I am grateful for family, near and far;
They’ve remained great pillar of strength.
I’m grateful for the air and its breath,
The conveyance of life and freshness;
I’m grateful for the Truth I seek,
The embrace of my soulful dance.