THIS IS NOT MY GOODBYE

Picture Courtesy: www.thinkthink.wordpress.com


PROLOGUE


This is a glass of scotch,
No ice,
Hot and heavy,
Leaves you sweating like crazy.


This is bare bones,
No flesh,
Straight up ugly,
Nothing fancy,
Yet far from ordinary,
Nowhere near everyday,
Like no other day.


Metaphors,
Rhyme,
Rhythm,
Puns and riddles,
You’ll find none here,
If you should come across one,
Then that’s how this tale chose to be told,
I had no hand in that,
I only do as I’m told,
I’m not one to protest,
You all know I find words hard to come by,
I do not talk much.


This is a party,
A celebration of a journey,
But I’m sorry to say,
There’s no music here,
You’ll find neither drink nor food here,
If that’s what you’re here for,
Now’s the time to angle for the door,
I’ll hold no grudge,
If you choose to do so,
For honestly,
I feel like doing so too,
Sad part is,
I’m the one running this show.
It get’s no ridiculous than this,
Parties and celebrations
With music food and drinks a no show?
What next?
Concerts without a band,
Football pitches bald as vultures,
People watching television without television sets?


This dude’s off his rocker,
He should be clapped in chains,
With four white walls for company,
Instead you give him an audience and a stage?
Draw the curtains,
Turn the lights out,
Somebody get that lunatic off my stage,
Thank you.


THE MAIN EVENT

The only certainty,
Was uncertainty.
I sat down,
Behind my computer,
Somewhat sheepishly,
After assaulting the keys
Of my poor keyboard for a while,
Somewhat reluctantly,
On Friday, February 5, 2010
I published my first note on facebook.


I did not bother tag anyone in it,
Just posting it,
Was enough for me.
After posting,
I felt as though I just climbed a mountain,
Can you blame me?
I had not written a piece in a while.


It took me over a month,
To publish my next note,
Don’t ask me why,
I have not the slightest idea why.
On Monday, March 29, 2010,
I published my second facebook note,
Titled “MAN ABOUT TOWN”,
I sent out invitations in the form of tags,
To as many as I could,
Unsure of what the response might be.


If only I knew,
I’d have 37 comments in total
And 8 people liking that particular note,
I would have published my second note
Much earlier than I did.


It’s been almost seven months,
Since I began writing on facebook.
I survived the 5 pieces a week challenge,
It became my driving force,
I could not fail,
And I did not,
In fact,
I began enjoying that challenge.
At a point,
What initially looked daunting,
Became ordinary,
I turned to the newspapers,
A bigger stage,
I had the Daily Graphic
And Mirror in the palm of my hands,
Courted them for a month
And grew tired of them,
Between their politics,
Typos and pompous
We’re doing you a favour attitude,
I thought it best we part ways,
I felt them an inappropriate stage.


When a friend suggested the myjoyonline web page,
I thought her crazy,
Yet respected her for thinking me crazy enough
To tow her line of crazy.
I thought her idea crazy,
Not because I felt my work unworthy of that stage
Nor for fear that my work was inadequate,
Rather because,
I had no idea what they were all about.
In no time,
What seemed imposing became ordinary,
I was strutting around the myjoyonline offices
As though I owned the place,
Calling the editor at will,
It felt good,
But grew boring at a point after a few publications,
Somewhat annoying too,
They preferred I give them pieces for free,
Just like the newspapers,
So that was my cue to leave that stage too.


Then came the blog,
Right from designing it,
Through to publishing on it.
That was a feeling quite indescribable,
On days when I sat back surfing the net,
I’d type out my name in the google search engine,
And my blog would pop up in the results,
Felt like a little boy with a new toy.


Throughout this journey,
I’ve met amazing people,
I’ve learnt so much about myself.
My ultimate lesson learnt on this journey is this:
You will get so much farther in this life if you
Set goals far higher than the clouds and
Pursue them as though you were an alien
In a foreign land without the possibility of a helping hand.
Imagine walking into the office of the editor
Of the Daily Graphic Newspaper
And telling him,
Not asking or pleading
But rather telling him,
Why he needs your work in his newspaper.
Bottom line is,
It is better going it all alone
And asking for help when you reach a dead end,
Rather than anticipating a dead end
And calling for help when you’ve not even tried.
You stand to loose nothing if you try it all
By yourself first,
Regardless the result,
Whether positive or negative,
You’ve become a better person in so doing.


Whoever came up with the word
GOODBYE,
Probably must have been drunk
Or must have had a concussion,
How can parting ways,
Regardless how long or short be good?
There’s nothing good in that bye,
People always cry or feel something missing
After good bye.
So today I’m not saying goodbye,
What I’ve been doing for the past months
Has become routine,
Too familiar,
Made me too comfortable in my shoes,
Truth be told,
I work best when challenged,
Under mounting pressure,
Walking the thin line called uncomfortable,
Funny thing is,
That is my comfortable.


So today,
I take leave of you for a while,
Make no mistake about it,
This is never my goodbye,
There’s nothing good about that,
I take pride in the fact that I made
So many friends on this journey of not only mine
But ours,
I’m glad to declare that by your comments,
I never wrote a piece worthy of the tag “CRAP”.
After such a roller coaster ride,
This is my pause,
To catch my breath,
Sit back,
Inhale
Exhale
And tinker with the big picture,
In an effort to take the next step up the ladder,
So when you wake tomorrow morning to find
There’s no note of mine,
Neither have u been tagged by me,
Know that probably I’m seated under a mango tree somewhere,
Singing with the emerald green humming bird,
Having tea with a gazelle
Taking naps on the fronds of coconut trees
Planning the next journey for tomorrow.
Curtain’s not drawn,
Hat’s off,
This is where I take a bow,
Going away for a while,
I’ll soon be back in an encore,
God bless,
This is not my goodbye.


THE END

This is the beginning,
There’s no end to this tale,
Catch you soon,
With more tales from “The Graveyard Shift”.

CONSCIENCE

Picture Courtesy: www.preapism.com


Higher ground,
In the slums of society,
I found.


Among the cardboard shacks,
Muddy pathways,
Dirt strewn landscaping,
Pungent smells,
Vices dwell.


Runoff of society,
A well of free flowing poverty and disease,
Squalid
Squalor
The pauper’s
Parlour
Shanty towns of miseducation,
Relocations,
Evictions,
The lowly human condition.


Tis true,
Vice here does dwell,
Yet our vice sure does have a conscience,
Semblance of common sense.


In the halls of power
Greater vices
And genocides do dwell,
And what do we do to stem the tide?
We legitimize,
The atrocities of crooked leaders,
Giving them crowns and tiaras in coronation,
Thank yous in appreciation,
Gratitude,
For ineptitude.


Out in the market squares
Villages,
And slums,
The by-products of their crooked ways dwell,
Yet you call me
What’s wrong with society.


How easily you forget,
Every new car,
Suit,
And house you freely give out,
To leaders,
In the name of rule of law,
And service benefits,
A hundred brothers or more,
Add to our numbers,
Society’s slum dwellers.


You call me a slum dweller,
And I couldn’t agree more,
Chalets and apartments fit for kings,
Yet reserved solely for the poor,
Putrid,
Fetid,
With a hint of acrid humour,
But our poverty and vice
Cling to the walls of power
Like starch on pressed shirt,
Testament to the very failures of society,
Yet society comes at us,
As though we were weeds,
Disfiguring lawns with manicured toe nails.


Slumlords,
Looking to make an aesthetic example
Of modern day people living in trees,
But please,
Before I leave,
A question,
Do permit me,
What did society ever do for me?

PRISON

Picture Courtesy: www.ibtimes.com


Hurriedly,
As though the devil himself
On their tails,
Clutching briefcases,
With shiny faces
And angled edges in degrees of perfect 90,
Wearing smooth faces,
Yet grim faces,
Cursing Mondays,
Oh poor Monday,
Praying another Friday,
Oh good Fridays.


Just so they can venture farther,
Farther than the walls,
Of those complex office complexes,
Those shiny metallic mules called cars,
Air-conditioned prison cells
Handed them as incentives by wardens,
With those on the lower tiers,
Shouting,
A pay rise,
That would be good enough incentive for me,
They the inmates of an intricate prison,
Praying they do not fall afoul,
For after that cometh the warden’s wrath.


Come Friday evenings,
Right through to Sunday,
They manage forget all about their
Elaborate prisons,
Adorned with art and computers alike,
With staple guns and stationery,
Littering desks from the top floors
Right down to ground floor,
Slamming the closet shut on their
Shiny tailor-made prison uniforms,
They call suits if only for but a while.


Come Monday,
The warden sure does call,
Beating the gong in the town square,
Out in groups of two, three or more,
They will come scurrying out,
Like rabbits with ferrets on their tails,
It’s back to prison all over again,
Where parole comes only at 60,
And a dishonourable discharge,
A possibility everyday,


You can find these and more,
Only in prisons that require one be educated,
Possessing many degrees,
With a perfect command of the English Language,
Just so they can submit an application,
To become the newest recruit,
In a burgeoning fancy modern facility,
With lavatories boasting heated seats,
Walls choking on expensive oil-based paint,
And floors boasting more marble,
Than stone quarries could ever dream.


It’s all nothing more than fancy prisons,
A bit more expensive,
Than your everyday prison,
Just a wee bit more refined,
With duties and responsibilities well defined,
Slave drivers with slaves,
Better clothed and loosely shackled,
With carrots dangling in front of them,
As incentive,
Instead of whips,
Like it used to be in ages gone by.

JUSTICE SERVED

Picture Courtesy: www.africaheritagerivonia.com


He stood at the feet of the traffic lights,
At a busy intersection,
Arms outstretched,
Handing out leaflets,
Clad in colours,
Those of the one to whom
He bore allegiance.


Preaching change,
Questioning their politics,
He had embraced democracy,
A bit too wholeheartedly,
He took it all at face value.


Day’s before Election Day,
His campaign was at a crescendo,
Lips throbbing like talking drums
At the height of an African festival,
Oblivious to incumbency,
And tainted elections,
All he could see,
Was change,
Braving the wilderness,
Charging into the city streets,
Marching straight into the seat of government.


When the dust settled,
Results declared,
He was left with egg on his face
And a sour taste for dessert,
The incumbent had won by a landslide.
This caused him great pain
But a far greater pain
Was to befall him,


Wielding the reigns of power,
They set something elaborate in motion,
They said he had defaulted on a loan,
The hotel he was building was auctioned off,
Together with his home,
Tore him limb from limb,
Till all he had left were,
The shirt he wore,
A pair of shorts,
And his bathroom slippers,
Injustice,
Witnesses?
Many,
Even the birds give testimony.


His wife left him,
With children in tow,
Homeless,
Penniless
And destitute,
Insanity overtook him,
Swallowed him whole.


On hot afternoons,
You would find him,
Seated at the very spot where
Had campaigned months on end,
Surrounded by nothing more than pieces of paper,
No one really knew what they
Had written on them,
No one bothered ask,
For he was unkempt,
Looked rabid
And had lost his mind,
A pale shadow of a man,
Who once was
More than in touch with his senses,
So much so,
He could discern change,
Cry out change.


After months had passed,
We never saw him again,
We let his leaflets be at that very spot,
Some sort of shrine,
A memorial to a man,
Who embraced democracy,
Reaping injustice as just response
To calls for change,
Thanks to courts riddled with rats,
Holidaying in pigeon holes,
With pigeons out in the cold,
Surrounded by mountains of Swiss cheese,
And a political process,
Majestically adorned,
In colourful attires of white greed
And selfishness on angel wings,
Singing out loud the “Gloria”.


Gloria(n) - A hymn or set of words in Latin that begins with the word "Gloria" and is used in the Christian liturgy to praise God.

Talking Drums - The talking drums of Africa imitate the pitch patterns of language and transmit messages over many miles.

ADVERSITY

Picture Courtesy: www.erinsadventures.wordpress.com


Throughout life,
I’ve appreciated adversities,
Called them blessings.
Life’s lessons
Cloaked in angst.


I’m wary of success,
It breeds complacency,
Slowly dulls your wit,
Dims your candle,
No matter how brightly lit.


I’m happy in success,
Do not get me wrong,
Success has never made me sad,
If I said it did,
Call me a bloody liar.


Before me stood a mountain,
Towering high into the clouds,
My impediment,
Night and day,
I clung to its side,
Aspiring daily to its higher heights.


Breaking sweat,
My everyday toil,
Clothed in dirt,
My brown skin soiled.
Several days of grief,
On the hangman’s noose my belief,
Unbelief,
Lingering doubt,
The human trickery,
Nature’s bribery,
The downfall of many a men.


Good grief,
My sweet relief,
I stand atop my impediment,
Of a mountain peak,
Dogged belief,
Pinned to my chest,
A soldier of life,
Forever embracing the strife.


Then my tragedy,
The ephemeral nature of success,
Far out in the distance,
I spy a higher peak,
My success dwarfed,
In the shadows,
Of the greater challenge,
My adversary,
Forever my reckoning.


Dwarfed,
And somewhat miffed,
By a much greater feat,
I take solace in the shadows,
Of a daunting challenge,
Success the illusion of absolute,
Ultimate,
Only but for a while.
Success forever dwarfed
By today’s challenge.


Even in nature,
Adversity speaks,
The land rises and falls,
Among the mountain peaks,
Valleys do dwell,
For there to be life,
A heart must beat,
A beating heart,
Does rise and fall,
For one to breathe,
Inhale exhale,
A chest in turns of rises and falls.


Mountains,
Valleys,
Rises
And falls,
Adversaries,
Standing tall
In varying snapshots of time,
Spellbound,
That is time,
A mere spectator,
To an unending tug of war.


For one to succeed,
There must be a challenge,
In embracing challenge,
We look to succeed,
Success and challenge,
Twin adversaries,
On opposite sides of the divide,
Antagonism,
Rivalry,
Two squabbling puzzle pieces,
Complimentary of each other,
Only in opposition,
Life’s perfect tune resides in adversary,
Nature’s eternal balancing act remains adversity.

BROKEN

Picture Courtesy: www.egreyes.blogspot.com


Asleep
Yet fully awoken,
Dog tags and shrapnel,
My perfect love tokens,
Pinned to my chest,
Like a soldier’s medals,
By mercenaries of grieving years,
Clad in tears,
My yesteryears.


Cuts and bruises,
Time does heal,
But emotional wounds do more,
Than just make the heart sore.


Hangover emotions,
My banana peels,
Slipped and fell,
Mid-turn in a triple cartwheel.



Inoperable,
Doc’s verdict on my condition,
He said,
Time,
My only medication.


Missing keys in F-minor,
My heartbeat,
The unending cacophony,
Of a soothing rendition,
That farcical composition of,
Winded wind instruments,
Stringless string instruments,
Poisoned percussion instruments,
Squabbling harmony,
A heart’s nightmarish symphony.


Then you came along,
Like the stars,
My eyes did twinkle,
This bit of emotion,
I did understand,
Double-steps and pirouettes
My heart,
In a duet,
At the sight of you,
Two became a quartet.

Days on end,
I tried disrobe a grieving heart,
Clad in black,
Cheerful in tears,
Reliving past years,
Through to the last second,
Cumbered by ghosts of dreaming years,
Breakfast
Lunch
And supper,
With them,
I continually dined.


Months,
I the host,
Visitor,
A hole in heart,
With each day,
Cried a bleeding heart,
Poisoned,
By yesterday’s blood.


In my face,
You found missing, emotion,
But how does one teach a dead face,
Emotion,
Long gone,
Like the lost tomes of Egypt,
Stolen from the libraries of Alexandria.


My smiles,
You called grins and grimace,
Blushes,
You labelled much colder than a lit furnace.


Touch,
Abrasive,
You found comfort in the covers,
Elusive,
Slowly,
You became evasive.


Final straw,
The camel’s broken back,
You grew tired,
Became distant,
Perfume in the distance,
My only goodbye.


Unfortunate my plight,
I, that sorry a sight,
Nursing old wounds,
My chronic affliction,
You my duty,
Efforts summed up in dereliction,
Criminal,
Missing emotion,
Counted for little,
Dogged devotion,
Wishful thinking,
Only a fool’s notion.


Months on end,
My face a blank page,
The few written pages you found,
Had missing pages,
Countless outings,
There I sat,
Present,
Yet absent,
Frosty and icy,
Had become second nature,
Somewhat of a fixture,
But I could have been better,
If only patience had bestowed upon me,
Time,
For I was on the mend.
Today,
I read out the last chapters
On your departure,
My only regret,
I could not help you understand,
Broken,
Not beyond repair.

COWARDICE

Picture Courtesy: www.laprogressive.com


Cowards,
Living,
Dying,
In recurring cycles of
366,
365,
Leap years
Regular years,
Multiples in grieving years.


Fearful,
Entertaining fear,
But fear only draws death near,
Lacking courage,
Absence thereof,
The tragedy in your years.


Embracing sorrow,
Your perfect morrow,
Tears in tears,
Tearstained years,
The coward’s alive,
Good company,
Walls reeking decayed dreams,
Knitting quilts in daydreams,
Ambition,
Your nemesis,
Contentment,
Settling,
Your life’s perfect kiss.


Fairytale,
A tale,
Entailing,
Square pegs and round holes,
Sadly,
Your happily ever after,
Remains bitter sweet,
That unfulfilled you,
Tragedy,
Forever your cowardice.

THE LITTLE CHILD

Picture Courtesy: www.mydearlydeary.blogspot.com


Jet black hair,
In near linear braids,
Festooned in ribbons,
Picture-perfect,
Nature’s mathematics,
Symmetry,
The master’s artistry.


Glowing face,
That blissful spring,
Journeying farther than the Nile,
Enchanting,
Guileless,
My undenial.


Inch perfect smiles,
Calculated,
From ear to ear,
Fits like a glove,
Tiaras and crowns,
Divine,
Perfection,
That ray of shining light.


Welcoming eyes,
Awakening within your soul,
A sea of perfect calm,
The scent of starched iron pressed,
Egyptian cotton thread perfect sheets,
That tranquil sound,
Untainted peace.


Tiny fingers,
Softer than soft,
Palms,
So white,
Like David’s psalms,
Clear as day,
Little,
Yet so big on perfect,


Glowing far out into the distance,
For countless miles,
The eve of spring,
Yellow daffodils,
White roses,
Perfect blue wind,
Ever so pure,
Allure,
My beguile.


Shaky steps,
Your humble beginnings,
On seesaws,
And swings,
You barter with time,
Giggles and cries,
Nature’s unshakeable pride.


Patterns of speech,
Imperfect,
In growing tears,
Yet even in imperfection,
You tower unblemished beauty,
The height of perfection.


Sunny joy,
Grass,
Beauty evergreen,
Beaming radiance,
Soft and flowing,
That perfect song,
Like a bridal gown,
Comfort in one’s skin,
Only when a child.


The growing child,
Meek and mild,
A newborn lamb,
Clad in woolen joy,
Childhood years,
Untarnished innocence,
An almost godly magnificence,
That near perfect existence,
Nature’s absolute,
Perfection,
The little child.

INSPIRATION

Picture Courtesy: www.esdev.net


A total loss of control,
As though you’re no longer on your own,
A hand leading you on,
Pushing you
Almost forcefully,
To that magical stage,
Of thought profound,
Seamless,
Above ground,
With you clueless,
No different from a tool.


Imagination,
Amok,
Unclothed,
Running naked in the streets,
Like a featherless bird,
In flight,
A fight
Against descent,
Pictures so vivid,
Beautifully lucid,
Like the smell of olives,
Unblemished oil,
On the boil,
You the hostage,
An aromatic blockade,
A cascade,
Scents and sounds,
Fragrant music,
Separation from sight,
The height of imagination.


Stimulation,
Manifestation of creation,
Neither fore
Nor an after thought,
Boundless,
Flawless,
Syllables, sound,
Rhyme and rhythm,
Thieves of time,
Criminal,
A crime,
Words of diction,
Apostrophe’s, commas at attention,
Question marked questions
In punctuative salutation,
Free,
Like childhood,
Absence of inhibition,
A beautiful rendition.


On cue,
No hints, not a clue,
Unbridled imbue,
That beautiful tune,
It overwhelms,
Moves you,
Your thoughts in twos,
Energy,
Synergy,
The perfect duo,
Thrilling,
Fulfilling,
Uplifting,
In the clouds,
Floating,
Drifting,
Singing,
The absence of thinking,
Unflinching,
Incessant,
Not waiting,
Pulsating
Throbbing,
Like a swelling,
The dawn,
No, not the one before morn,
On me it dawned,
With eyes,
Yet I could not see,
Misplaced spree,
A fool’s degree,
Hangover from a melee,
Not once but twice sober,
Not a thing glossed over,
Here and now, I do decree,
Leaves rustling in the wind,
You are my tree,
Language unspoken,
Colourful breeze,
Pure magic,
Let loose on the grassy plains,
You set me free,
Inspiration,
Mine has always been thee.

TRANSLATION

Picture Courtesy: www.metacom.org


Not for the want of money,
Yes,
Money,
Quintessence,
Magnificence,
Earthly reverence,
Embodiment of the human presence.
Fleeting existence,
That monetary essence,
An evanescence,
Seducing common minds without conscience,
Overcompensating their diffidence.
Money does bring relief,
But only for a little while in the end,
It is a drunken escapade,
Inebriation,
On the eve of a restless dawn,
The beautiful morn,
Come sunrise,
With all the darkness gone,
The stench of alcoholic relief
Slowly washes away,
Leaving behind an insipid taste,
The borrowed skin you wore
Magically melts away,
Leaving you hangover,
Feeling poor,
For in it was your
Wit,
Brawn,
And iron clad reasoning.
As you rub your eyes,
Heralding the morning light,
Looking in the mirror,
You get wide-eyed,
Mystified,
Realization then dawns,
For in the mirror,
Stands the reflection of a feathered bird,
Surrounded by scattered pieces of corn,
Money,
It just made you a caged feathered bird,
Pecking at yellow corn.


What about fame, you ask,
Fame?
That’s nothing more than fool’s gold,
The Dutch courage of old,
A roulette wheel,
With ticking clocks,
Ticktock,
Tales,
An illusion of a demigod,
For out of common sand,
Your steps throw up dusts of gold,
With multitudes,
Behind you in droves,
You become a hive,
Calling out to bees,
And yes they do come,
Not for you,
But rather honey,
To them, you’ve become money,
But when drunks lose track of time,
They sell their souls,
To thieves of time.
Gradually as life gathers
Your sands of time,
The end draws nigh
With each sunrise,
Flirting with the clouds up high,
Mortal man with dyed eyes,
Till your descent from atop a perch,
It happens so fast,
You fail realize you’re without shoes,
Then you trip on uneven ground,
A bruised toe or much worse,
Common ground your famous gown,
Footsteps no longer clad in whispering gold,
But rather nothing more
Than ordinary dust.
Glitz and glamour in a hearse,
With missing tears,
The famous curse,
Thinning peers,
You begin to fall without a care,
Thinking the crowds still there,
Freely you fall,
But just before you touch the dirt,
Out to common ground you begin call,
Naked,
Not even common grass gave you a shirt,
Neither did trees embrace your fall,
Dirtied
With ego battered and bruised,
You begin beg the dirt,
Please swallow me whole,
I’m nothing more than a mime of time,
Fame lasts no longer than half after nine,
Sleepy lull in time,
Snapshots far expensive than cheap wine.


Timeless time,
Encapsulates us all,
Our days and nights,
Nothing more than flashing lights.


Up in the sky,
I spy,
A bird in flight,
Rise and fall,
Flesh and feather,
No different from one another,
In sync together,
A component of time,
Seamless and boundless,
That really is time.


Yet when you look up into the sky,
You just might see divinity in a bird,
A feat of nature that boggles the mind,
Testament to a higher power.


In comes science,
Equations and facts,
Hollow bones and feathers,
In banks and turns,
Gliding on warm air,
Plain and simple,
Pretty ordinary,
Explanatory,
Nothing more than a two-legged winged animal.


We all look at the world
Through different eyes,
From different sides of the divide,
Yet in time,
We all stand motionless,
Staring up high,
At a bird in flight,
No arguments there.
Religion, divinity in time,
Science, unraveling mysterious time,
Poetry, emotion punctuated with time,
Regardless the infinite facets of time,
Did we all not just see a bird up high?
Different translations of time,
This is why I bother to write.

SIGHTLESS SIGHT

Picture Courtesy: www.3dluvr.com


It was a Sunday,
He sat next to me throughout
The entire service,
Sang his heart out
And clapped out a bit too noisily
But only one thing about him struck me as odd,
He had dark sunglasses on
Even though the morning sun
Seemed content waiting outside
Among the trees,
Engaging some birds in conversation.


Come collection time
He gave me perspective,
Telling me a thing or two,
About his fancy church sunglasses
Come our turn,
He leaned a bit forward,
Reached under the pew on which we sat,
Producing a white cane.
He then began tracing a path with his cane,
Left me wide-eyed,
As though I had just witnessed magically insane.


Church had just come to an end,
As I got off my knees and proceeded to leave,
He tapped me on the shoulder
And began to speak,
He spoke of heaven,
Said he had seen heaven,
I could not muster a look more quizzical,
I thought him over the bend,
And nothing more than comical,
For he was blind,
Yet he spoke of things that required sight,
Pretty magical.
I sat back down,
Listened to him for a while,
Not out of interest,
Rather being polite,
He touched a nerve with his lack of sight,
I was moved by his plight.
For his heavenly tale,
I did not think much of it,
After all,
It was nothing more than a work of fiction,
And vivid imagination.


One day,
I walked in an unfamiliar place,
Yet I felt at home there,
It seemed more than familiar,
Though I had never been there before,
Do not think me wrong,
This place was all new to me,
I had never been there before,
Not even as a child.
The market place,
The old church,
Everything here looked eerily familiar,
My ultimate déjà vu.


On my way back home,
I was lost in thought,
A picture of utter confusion,
My reasoning had lost all punctuation
And I wished I could come to some realization.
The entire experience was quite surreal,
Pretty disturbing,
Somewhat unnerving,
But this feeling was unrelenting
Almost unforgiving,
It kept persisting.


I eventually fell asleep
Somewhere between unrelenting and unforgiving.
When I woke,
The blind man I had met in church came to mind,
I remembered him telling me of heaven,
It was then that I gained perspective,
He threw light on my confusion.


If I could walk in an unfamiliar place
Yet feel it familiar,
Who was I to be dismissive of him and his tale of heaven?
Probably in those sightless eyes of his,
He actually does see things
Those with sight are incapable of seeing,
Maybe in another realm,
I might be the blind one,
And him the sighted one.
When asleep and dreaming,
Do we not see things even with our eyes closed?
Never call the blind man blind,
For under the cloak of sightlessness,
Only heaven knows what he can actually see,
Probably heaven.
Sighted or sightless,
We’re all just might be capable of seeing,
It all depends on where we stand,
Only the blind call the blind man blind.

THE CANDLE

Picture Courtesy: www.sites.google.com


Clouds began to gather,
Your overcast eyes
The black island,
In the midst of white water,
Did more than shudder,
It poured for hours,
Seemed to last forever,
Yet there I was,
By your side in your darkest hour.
Out at sea,
Riding those perilous waves,
Salty water whipping my face,
Couldn’t bear the streaks
And skid marks left by screeching tears
Racing down your worried face,
As though it were an autobahn,
The host of a high-speed chase.
Search and rescue,
A crew of one,
I came to your aid,
On that murky day.


Then came morning,
With it the light of day,
Away went the clouds,
And pouring rain,
Calmer waters,
You stepped out of yesterday,
Into a new today,
Leaving me behind in yesterday,
Indefinite leave all over again.


All too soon,
You came calling again,
Darkness threatened,
Your day hostage again.
Those gloomy days,
Grimmer than grim,
Uncertainty reigned.
Your pretty face,
A picture of chaos,
Ashen grey,
Creaking knees,
Buckling legs,
Threatening to give way,
Shoulders hunched
As though against the wind.


There I was,
Among the flames,
Picking up the pieces,
In glowing cinders,
With smoke thick in the air,
Bringing you that ray of hope.
I stood atop the mountain,
As though possessed,
A witchdoctor dangerously close to incensed
Calling out to the gods,
I called for rain,
Caring less of the bellowing thunder,
And lightening flashes,
Those two,
My choice of light and background sounds.
Though those weights,
Were yours alone,
Yet I felt the pain,
As though my very own.
Your sleepless nights were
Never lonely nights,
I was company in trying times.


Time did fly,
Away with time,
Bringing back with it better days,
You found your smile,
You could dream again,
Slowly your laughter began to resonate,
With it I became an echo in the wind,
Slowly fading into the distance again,
Nightmare,
Unfolding tragedy,
My indefinite leave all over again.


I woke this morn,
Tired of the wait,
Days on end,
Cumbered by these weights.
When lights go out,
I come to your fore,
Harnessed and ready,
I carried the yoke,
Never complaining no matter how heavy.
Through your darkness,
I burn away,
Aging slowly,
In your gale I sway,
Forever absent in your light of day.


This just might be my swan song today,
I inch closer to the grave everyday,
With nothing to show,
Many days, I your scarecrow.
Driving away thieving crows.
In uncertainty, I your beacon,
Lighting your path, you lost no sequins.
Stormy nights, I’ve slaved away,
Only to come second in the light of day.
So today, I turn over this new page,
Just so I can rattle your cage,
I want to be nowhere else but on your centre stage,
More than just a candle in your stone age.

IMAGINE

Picture Courtesy: www.ellenrixford.com


Imagine,
A leaf,
Curled up in a ball,
Slowly,
Gradually,
Inconspicuously,
Opening up,
Stretching its crooked legs,
Till at that point,
It glides in the wind,
With no creases and folds,
As though pressed and starched with an iron,
Inhale,
Looking up to the heavens,
Singing halleluia.


Imagine,
An egg,
A sperm,
Conception,
With time,
A lesson of nature,
In full session,
Birth,
A girl
A boy,
A man
A woman,
You,
Me,
Family,
Tenets of,
The human constitution.


Imagine,
The rise and fall,
Your chest,
In motions,
Synchronized,
Civilized,
As though you were swimming,
Daydreaming,
An act removed from human being,
Like clockwork,
Always on time,
To the minutest minute.


Imagine,
Holding your breath at will,
Freely,
Without duress,
Then comes a lull in time,
Motion then begins to slow
To a trickle,
As though saying,
Oh man!! Thou are fickle,
The chest,
Your chest,
Begins to swell,
A revolt begins from within,
Tearing you up,
From deep within
The eyes,
Your eyes,
The windows,
Those peepholes,
Begin to well up,
Standing at the point of tears,
Knees,
In creases, creaking
Buckling,
Just like an overweight sapling,
A face, your face,
Through phases of colour,
Yellow, orange,
You begin to redden,
Ears ringing,
Life begins to echo,
Tingling,
A sensation in your toes,
Then for some reason,
An inexplicable reason,
Slowly the bulge,
That bulge in your chest,
Begins to wiggle,
It trickles,
Life in slow motion,
Beautiful emotion,
Peaceful,
As though on cue,
You begin to breathe.


Imagine,
A clock,
It ticks,
It tocks,
Over and over again,
Moving two full circles,
Everyday,
In 24,
We always have night and day,
At some point,
The other must give way,
It’s neither your will nor mine,
We all give way,
Now that’s a fact,
It’s set in stone,
We’re all just walking nature’s way,
Someday, we shall all pass away,
Oh life,
You can do so much more,
Imagine.

WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?

Picture Courtesy:www.blog.1choice4yourstore.com


What were you thinking?
A dear friend asked me once,
She set me thinking,
Like some wound up device,
I began fidgeting
More than once
Stuttering
Consecutively in three, that’s thrice,
In answering,
I realized no single answer did suffice.


Imagine a young man,
Fresh out of high school or secondary school,
Whichever of the two you think is cool,
Dreaming of a university degree,
Maybe even juggling two degrees,
In the space of four years,
By now you probably think me queer,
He must have had a few too many beers.


Funny me,
Silly you,
No beers here,
Just a young man in dreaming years,
Eccentric, maybe a wee bit queer,
I sure did dream of two degrees,
Possibly getting those in four short years,
Why?
I wish that were as simple as apple pie,
Sigh,
Hold onto your hats, we’re going sky-high.


I’d be crazy if I said I did not want a creative writing degree,
Is there even such a degree?
That probably might require a decree,
Tee-hee
I have no idea,
But that was the idea,
I’d probably go through that barely breaking sweat,
I’m not a braggart,
Just a nut,
With paper in his ears,
And eyes pregnant with verbs and conjunctive tears.


But there was a catch,
I was not alone in this cabbage patch,
Parental guidance,
Necessary, a perquisite in such an instance,
Where there’s an over-abundance of youthful exuberance,
The oldman said, you are free to choose,
You can even study to become a goose,
Just convince me son,
Throw me a line,
You just might have me hook-line-and-sinker,
All I want for you is a profession,
Not something that leaves you lost in translation.


In truth, writing is no profession
In our part of the world,
Books that sell here are textbooks,
And other educational material,
With parents struggling with tuition,
Just so they can provide an education,
Would you fault them calling
Tales of fiction,
And anthologies with rhyme and diction,
A meal too spicy for their digestion?


A writing degree was off the cards,
No need for protests and placards,
Choice of profession?
That’s no question,
Silly me, this quagmire almost gave me a concussion,
Every hobo knows 1 + 1 equals 2,
Thanks to this, Maths was quickly lost at sea,
Physics, aperture and focal lenses,
All those just make me want to take leave of my senses,
I needed something that allowed imagination,
Left you feeling proud as though you gave birth to creation,
With fewer rules, instructions and equations
I almost towed the line of architecture,
But these hands are incapable of drawing circles,
Shrubs, avatars and cute figures,
So I settled on Civil Engineering,
Those guys build houses, harbours, airports,
Highways, I bet they could even bake bread.
Given half the chance,
I just might have done one thing a wee bit different
Back then,
I would have put my S.A.T score to much better use,
I just might have ended up with two degrees from a foreign
Land had I tried much harder.
Then again, in doing so,
I just might not have met you,
Had I tried that harder,
I probably would have become a better writer,
But I doubt I’m that terrible a writer today,
Besides this is just a beginning,
Not an end,
Several chapters of this story remain unwritten,
Though I wish I could take a quick peek at how it ends,
But come what may,
Remember this much,
I never say never,
That’s my forever never.

BROKEN THOUGHTS, BLANK PAGES AND CRAZY GLUE

Picture Courtesy: www.fleetgpsconsulting.net


Today, I dropped my train of thought
For it was taut,
In so doing, thought I’d soften its demeanour,
Oh boy, what a dreamer.
It broke in several pieces,
Left me picking up the pieces,
Just so I could find within me some amount of peace
Among scattered thought pieces.


Before you I place these broken thoughts,
In several disjointed pieces,
So you can help me put them
In a near perfect pattern,
By then we would have managed
Piece together my train of thought.


Colourful me cheerful
Colour me golden.
Patch my frayed knees up with crazy glue
Paint me in streaks and stripes,
Of silly blue,
Paint brushes, bristles
And feathers dipped in gooey ink,
Bathe me at half past thirteen in morning dew,
As I dance on the lawns,
Making eyes at you like Pepe Le Pew.


You must think me crazy by now,
Wont fault for I’d think me crazy too
If I were in your crazy shoes.
Thought I’d leave this page blank,
But look at what you made me do,
Couldn’t even get it right
Trying imitate a blank page.


You can call me all you want,
Almost all that and more just might perfectly fit,
I bleed ink
Got paper cuts in reminders,
Webbed tracks in word footprints
All over my chest while asleep at night,
I’d write on plantain leaves given half the chance
But I doubt those leaves would be appreciative of that,
Maybe someday
If given the chance,
I’d go write a piece on the Great Wall of China,
With Kung fu and guns
Hot on my inky trail,
I might end up doing things so many
A few too many
Or few short of many
But there’s one thing I can never do,
Never expect me to leave a page blank
I was born to blanket the blank pages,
Fashion clothes for them out of words
In colourful ink,
Make them dance in closed circles
Listening to the sound of rhyme
Draped in tailor-made suits and ball gowns,
My greatest failure till this very day remains,
My inability to leave a page blank.

THE LOUDEST NOISE

Picture Courtesy: www.goldenboy.blog.com


You do not speak,
Never an echo,
You dance on the floor boards,
Yet your feet make no sound,
Your steps,
Far from heavy,
You tread gently
Ever so lightly
You make footsteps of a feather seem much heavier.


Even in the midst of noise,
You are there,
Just a little farther out
Where no one cares,
Yet when I listen intently,
I feel you there,
Waiting patiently on the calm,
Then you float gently over us all
Bidding us pause for a moment or two.


You bring a hush,
A world of quiet,
Sometimes deafening,
You are absolute,
You pick your moments,
You do pick ‘em well,
Never calling attention
Yet you do command it.
We cannot help but notice
When you walk in,
Because sometimes silence is the loudest noise.

VOICES FROM AFAR

Picture Courtesy: www.blogs.sacbee.com


From the first day we met,
You were so comfortable in you own skin,
I was curiousity and nerves rolled in one,
There you sat on your perch,
Smooth with a glint of shiny in your eyes,
Firm lines embracing your body from head to toe
In degrees of perfect ninety.


Not too colourful,
Neither were you dull,
You always managed blend in,
Though somewhat talkatively.


You always had something to say,
Your repertoire was quite diverse,
From music,
Politics
To drama,
You always had something to offer,
Never a dull moment when you came on.


A little boy,
Always sat at your feet,
Paying attention as you spoke,
Though I didn’t have the slightest idea
What you always spoke excitedly about,
I was rapt attention in human form nonetheless.
I enjoyed the sound of your voice,
That was enough satisfaction for me,
I understood the conversations you made,
In my own way.


Of all the different voices you could imitate,
I grew fond of a particular one,
That of Alistair Cooke,
I honestly have no idea why,
I guess the short piece of music
You always played right before speaking in that voice,
Was one I did very much enjoy.


From sunrise till set,
I always looked forward to hearing your
Many voices,
We seemed to grow on each other
Though all you did was speak for hours on end,
And I in turn listened to you for hours on end.


I remember times when growing up,
I would stare attentively at you,
With others milling around,
I’m sure they oft wondered
What I found fascinating in you,
But they let me be,
I could stare at you for hours on end,
Listening to your constantly changing voice,
Lulling me gently off to sleep.


When I woke,
Instead of see you,
All I saw were the barricades of a baby’s cot,
In those moments,
I would throw tantrums till I was
Let loose on the cold marble floor,
Then I would walk on all fours,
Back to where you sat majestically.


Years have gone by,
I can’t quite remember when you left,
Up on your throne,
Another does sit in your place today,
A tad shinier than you
With more curves,
And many buttons too.
But you are classic and timeless,
This new one’s a far cry from what you were,
You were the first to tell me of the BBC,
I enjoyed listening to Alistair Cooke
As he hosted “Letter from America”,
I miss those good ol’ days,
When a little boy was seduced by voices from afar,
Echoing through an old beige rectangular box,
Over a shortwave frequency instead of fm.
I miss listening to radio in the 1980’s,
In those days,
When you ordered radio,
You got exactly what you wanted,
Good radio with a smattering of static on the side,
These days,
If you’re lucky,
All you’ll get is different renditions of crap
Over a much shinier louder hideous looking plastic box,
With politics depressingly scrawled on both sides.

THE SCHOOL OF LIFE

Picture Courtesy: www.slate.com


Hard at work
Trying to plug a leak,
Set afloat in this leaky tub.
Among the reefs
Overlooking the fishes,
On the high seas,
Caressing the pale coloured waters.


My ship takes a drink,
Gently,
Slowly,
I’m at the helm of a sinking ship,
A stricken titanic,
Descending into the depths in slow motion,
On a journey doomed from beginning.
Cant bail,
Can’t seem to get off,
Each time I try,
I hit the deck.
A student of the school of life.
Situation, desperate
Position, untenable
Options, none.


On my knees,
I plead with father time,
Begging and wailing,
Please take your son back in time,
I need to do this all over again,
I think I set out on the wrong ship,
This one takes on water,
Can’t seem to plug the leak,
Try as I do,
Knee deep in salt water,
Seems all I got is a one-way ticket down.


Grey beard,
Staff in hand,
He bellows out from afar,
You never chose your ship,
No one does,
Look to your left,
Then to your right,
Think you’re the only one distressed?
Welcome to life,
Come your time,
The waves will swallow you whole,
You will descend into the depths,
Trailed by tears and grief stricken cries,
You embarked on this journey from birth,
Back then, you were too little to understand.


You cannot hold onto life,
You will lose it eventually,
On that day,
When your ship’s all but sunk,
Count the number of tears that keep you company.
Only great loss gives birth to tears
The greater the number who grieve your passing,
The more immortal you shall become.
Here’s the secret to immortality,
Live a worthwhile life,
Your deeds will make you immortal,
Legendary, an aspiration for others,
That is true immortality,
You can become immortal,
Reach out and embrace your immortality,
Welcome to the school of life.

SHANGRI-LA

Picture Courtesy: www.nocaptionneeded.com


There you lie
A desert,
Forever fallow,
Colourless and drab,
Your eternal garb,
Boasting lonely shrubs,
Nothing more than fleeting flattery
On the part of thirsty greenery.
Sand and time,
The crooked couple,
Air and a bubble,
Co-conspirators, doing the double,
They entombed the path, on which I walk,
Picked my footprints one after the other out the sand,
Like in tales told by old folk
Through creaking voice boxes emitting willful sounds,
At half past five, with a setting sun
Disguising a tan,
In a halo and a cheerful sulk.


A restless spirit,
I roam the sands,
In bursts and sprints,
This puzzle, I try decipher over again.
Unsteady has become me of late,
Heavy this weight,
On a journey so eternal,
One that leads to the Pearly Gates.
If only I could find a bit of shade,
That little piece of comfort that never fades,
Where I can unhitch my load,
Catch my breath,
Pause for a moment
And find stillness in the wind,
My calmer climes,
A glass of water in the desert.


Wind in the willows,
Restive
Twitchy
Edgy
And agitated.
Among the rustling leaves
You will most definitely find me,
In search of one ever so elusive.
Mythical,
Almost a dream in these parts,
But in between my teeth’s where I’ve placed the bit,
Sweat and tears on the pyre of life,
Through rain, sleet and snow,
I carry my torch,
Close to a chest,
Singed over and over again,
But I’d rather it be me
Than my torch extinguish,
I’d rather lose myself in a dream,
Than live a million years without one.


In between nightmares and dreams,
That’s where you’ll find me,
Tattered clothes,
Unclothed feet,
Bruised hands cradling a torch,
A man in search of Shangri-la.
As father time keeps his time,
My strength slowly fades away,
Nature strips away all that clay,
But if given the chance again,
I’ll do it all no different again,
Run the gambit,
Just so I can pull a rabbit,
Creature of habit,
Ambition my addict.
So on that day
When you come across bones and a skull
Cradling a spent torch in the dirt
On that narrow way,
My apologies, sorry I left without saying goodbye,
I could not wait for the cock to call,
Please do not remember me in a pall,
Be happy
Please be gay,
For I found a piece of Shangri-la walking this way.


Shangri-la(noun): reference to a utopia, paradise