Best Cowrie Poems
"The 50 Move Rule"
Thomas Crown
rolled his smile
around her frown
Romance blew a warm breath
over her pristine cowrie shell
Voodoo Mojo Bag
There,
just there,
an Ocean made a Blue move
In the Red
Life
Black Black White
White White Black
Read,
A story to tell
White White Black
Black Black White
The 50 Move Rule
Thomas Crown
rolled his smile
around her frown
Love
has no strategy
Chemistry, richter scale rated
The mind being not vacant
Each piece moved in the puzzle
towards Walter Mitty
Calamity Jane
rides like Godova
into the Windy City
Unannounced
Packing pieces
of a puzzle
Thomas Crown
rolls his smile
around her frown
White White Black
Black Black White
Romance
with sharp teeth
bites ...
The 50 Move Rule
Checkmates
Pieces on a playing board
Life
Alligned?
(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
“I Like It “/ Moby (Octave Edit)
https://youtu.be/q520gk_rmDE
"Butterfly" / Lloyd Cole
https://youtu.be/vf9odSxCyio
"I Like It" / Moby (Original, Slow Version)
https://youtu.be/TdXLNHWmurM
“Are you following me?" she asks, but doesn't meet my gaze.
"Yeah," I say.
"Why?"
I give her the only honest and true answer I have.
"You're where I want to be.”
("Leaving Paradise")
"I grabbed my book and opened it up.
I wanted to smell it.
Heck, I wanted to kiss it.
Yes, kiss it.
That's right, I am a book kisser.
Maybe that's kind of perverted or maybe it's just romantic and highly intelligent.”
“Love, like everything else in life, should be a discovery, an adventure, and like most adventures, you don’t know you’re having one until you’re right in the middle of it.”
(Brushstrokes of a Gadfly)
The 50 Move Rule
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fifty-move_rule
Written: June 23, 2023
______________________________________________________________
Bonds packed with zeros—harmony, grief, regrets,
In this endless cycle, memory no longer begets.
Your poetry is a symphony that stirs my soul.
But also a river of nausea in which I swim, whole.
Lonesome, dispossessed, my being in unrest,
A fetish for the departed, my electrons protest,
Darkened with heat and sound, aching for release,
Delicate slights, hunger, I cannot appease.
Bear me safe, classy, an echo of frustration
A decadent counter-revolution, my salvation.
Invention, force, and calculation may fade away.
But the lessons from failure forever stay.
The struggle mistake, the clarity we seek,
Caesar black vision is bold and unique.
Metaphors communicate wonders untold,
As a monkey and a cowrie shell, a story unfolds.
The absolute, shallow, and devoid of depth.
All surface, a worry that leaves us bereft.
To be zealous, and lewd as we bleed at sunrise,
That is the contract, the ultimate prize.
The journey of life, filled with harmony and strife,
Grief and regret are intertwined in this mortal life.
Memory fades as we seek a fresh start.
And your poetry is an art that ignites my heart.
Despite the beauty, a nauseating river flows.
A discomfort that lingers, a feeling that grows.
I swim in its depths, bare and exposed.
Deprived of control, my vulnerability imposed
Within me, a fetish for those who have passed.
Their presence lingers, casting shadows that last.
My electrons, once vibrant, are blackened by pain,
Absorbing the heat and sound of their refrain.
His skin is coated in red ocher,
making it hard for his enemies
to notice him midst termite mounds.
He wears a headdress of cowrie shells
and ostrich feathers, for his battle
is a special day like weddings
and initiation.
His eyes remain as steady as the Sun,
reflecting greatness he sees lying
before him….
……………………………………………………………….
The lion's fur is wildly free in disarray
proudly displaying its untamed nature
to the approaching hunter under the hot sun
The lion yawns blissfully unaware
of the battle that's about to come
to an ordinary day like any other day
a lazy afternoon nap
Yet the lion's instinct is as sharp as a knife
picking up movements in the grass
with its tiny rounded eyes...
A Collaborated Poem with Teddy Kimathi
Copyright © 2016 June 18th
When
'The Arrow Of God' is
'No Longer At Ease'
'Things Fall Apart'
'The Voice' of
'The Enemy Within'
'Whispers At Dawn' saying
'Weep Not Child' as
'The House Boy' named
'Maru' looks at
'The Sterile Sky' and
'The People Of The City' run after
'Samankwe And The Highway Robbers' up to
The Juju Rock
Where lived
'The Black Hermit'
A man begotten of
'The Concubine'
'From A Crooked Rib'
According to
'The Cardinals' -
'The Interpreters' of
'The Shadow Of Imana'
But the
‘Mine Boy’- a
‘Second Class Citizen’ from
‘Serowe, Village Of The Rain Wind’
And a master of
‘The Marabi Dance’
Who doubled as
‘The Collector Of Treasures’
For his King said it was
‘A Question Of Power’
And so there was
‘No Easy Walk To Freedom’.
‘The Grass Is Singing’, he said
Pointing at the
‘Arrows of Rain’ and holding
‘A Cowrie Of Hope’ to the
‘Devil On The Cross’.
‘I Will Marry When I Want’ just as
‘I Write What I Like’
And, being
‘A Man Of The People’, I say
‘The Beautiful Ones Are Not Yet Born’
When I find
‘The Girl Who Can’ handle
‘Smoldering Charcoal’
And one who seeks
‘The Joys Of Motherhood’
And is not afraid of the
‘Dew In The Morning’
I will write
‘So Long A Letter’ to her
And together we shall explore
‘The River Between’ for
‘The Return Of The Water Spirit’
‘Gathering Seaweed’ at the shore
And ‘God's Bits Of Wood’
To keep ‘Dreaming Pachinko’ warm and
‘The Chattering Wagtails Of Mikuyu Prison’
‘In The Fog Of The Seasons' End’.
(Titles of AWS- African Writers Series books including poem title- except Whispers At Dawn. A tribute to the Authors of those lovely books).
When
The Arrow Of God is
No Longer At Ease
Things Fall Apart
The Voice of
The Enemy Within
Whispers At Dawn saying
Weep Not Child as
The House Boy named
Maru looks at
The Sterile Sky and
The People Of The City run after
Samankwe And The Highway Robbers up to
The Juju Rock
Where lived
The Black Hermit
A man begotten of
The Concubine
From A Crooked Rib
According to
The Cardinals -
The Interpreters of
The Shadow Of Imana
But the
‘Mine Boy’- a
‘Second Class Citizen’ from
‘Serowe, Village Of The Rain Wind’
And a master of
‘The Marabi Dance’
Who doubled as
‘The Collector Of Treasures’
For his King said it was
‘A Question Of Power’
And so there was
‘No Easy Walk To Freedom’.
‘The Grass Is Singing’, he said
Pointing at the
‘Arrows of Rain’ and holding
‘A Cowrie Of Hope’ to the
‘Devil On The Cross’.
‘I Will Marry When I Want’ just as
‘I Write What I Like’
And, being
‘A Man Of The People’, I say
‘The Beautiful Ones Are Not Yet Born’
When I find
‘The Girl Who Can’ handle
‘Smoldering Charcoal’
And one who seeks
‘The Joys Of Motherhood’
And is not afraid of the
‘Dew In The Morning’
I will write
‘So Long A Letter’ to her
And together we shall explore
‘The River Between’ for
‘The Return Of The Water Spirit’
‘Gathering Seaweed’ at the shore
And ‘God's Bits Of Wood’
To keep ‘Dreaming Pachinko’ warm and
‘The Chattering Wagtails Of Mikuyu Prison’
‘In The Fog Of The Seasons' End’.
(Titles of AWS- African Writers Series books including poem title. Whispers At Dawn by yours truly included. Tribute to the Authors of those lovely books).
The strange men made strange fruits
Point.
Strange
Strange fruits
fruits and Men
the difference only in color
Multiply the hate. divided. but blood is same
Between strange fruits and strange men, what is with us and those Different.
Strange
Strange
Creators
Strange men
Men had God
Fruits had god and Allah
The difference of cross, a tree and Crescent
Equaled blood flow by gun, arrows and swords. The winner, takes all history
The rest punished for your Gods sins, you are killing the cat for eating from your plate, yet you never feed.
Nothing
Strange
Men
Against Women
Strange
Sex
Strange
Men
Strange Money
Was with men
Fruits traded with cowrie, cows
Sum up, Money bought fruits in the market
Totally men hid the path, yet cleaned packed fruits still follow their way
Strange
World
Strange Fruits
Free from Men
Strange money still ties them
Poor fruit does not care about the tree
Add Men of God and strange money and fruit easily falls for tree
Eternal return, young fruits carrying the weight of the world, the Old carry the weight of time, someone help them right
Point
Point
Point
Neo strange fruits feeds strange men by praying to Men of God to get strange Money to pay for their death beds. We can only hope, the more the lines the more we perfect. Amor Fati?
His skin is coated in red ocher,
making it hard for his enemies
to notice him midst termite mounds.
He wears a headdress of cowrie shells
and ostrich feathers, for his battle
is a special day like weddings
and initiation.
His eyes remain as steady as the Sun,
reflecting greatness he sees lying
before him….
……………………………………………………………….
The lion's fur is wildly free in disarray
proudly displaying its untamed nature
to the approaching hunter under the hot sun
The lion yawns blissfully unaware
of the battle that's about to come
to an ordinary day like any other day
a lazy afternoon nap
Yet the lion's instinct is as sharp as a knife
picking up movements in the grass
with its tiny rounded eyes...
(A collaboration with Angeline Haikutwinkle)
How beautiful is she!
Her teeth are white,
sparkling in the Sun
as she expresses her joy
in her heart with a beautiful smile
Her eyes are as enchanting
as no story that has ever been written
or a painting that has ever been drawn
Here long, black hair
is decorated by cowrie shells
and river flowers,
making her to look like a goddess
Her skin is soft
and flawless, with exception
of a beauty-spot on her chin
How beautiful is she!
Nine rivers you swam
Bang, into the marathon
Now six rivers you row
Into the eternal riddle.
Thunder frog-jumps out of mouths
Rain splutters from pale sockets
...yestersay.
Now I adjust my backpack
In memory's frigate.
I try to smile
For I am not alone-nor ever will be-
You answer me in the tree-tops
And in the cowrie-dance:
I peep into tomorrow today
I crack the kernels
In the barns of years and years and years to come.
The little kitten pawed at the ground
Dug out the earth
The way its mama taught it
Then it squatted
And as though recalling something
Looked around
To ensure no eyes were watching
Its eyes met mine-
His, cowrie shaped and green
Mine, big, brown and curious-
And wide eyed
Perhaps horrified
It jumped away
And went round
The far corner of the house.
Before They Came
Sitting here with my daughter between my knees, I braid her hair; One by one I place the lucky cowrie shells in her hair. I hear the call and response in my village. The roll was being called. This gathering was different, “the drums tell us we must gather to meet”, as we will have guest to greet.
" Habari-Ghani” -'' What's the news'' The news is, strangers are here, to look for wives, they want to take us away./
The news is, our ways are not their ways, Father says we girls must go away to have a better life. /
“Your husband died and no one in this village will marry you”:
My father said;You have also have a daughter, you must think about.
Father spoke again: I have many other daughters, and I cannot take care of you for life.!/
As I arrived in this new land, My Husband, was not really my husband:
He treated me as a maid with wifely duties. I took care of my daughter
Until she was age fourteen – Then he sent her away.
I cried myself to sleep at nights and dreamed of Africa my home and how things were before
“THEY CAME”./
Things were fine, right before they came; We had our own way of solving problems.
Sometimes, I would get lost in thoughts that felt so real. It seemed as
I could smell the wood burning on the open fire, I longed to dance in moonlight with my sisters,
I wanted to eat again from coconut Shells; I wanted things to be the same as the were;/
Before they came.!
I could smell simmering pots of love cooking.
The pungent scent of burning wood and coconut shells....
I remember bathing in rivers./
The Joy of weaving our love in baskets.
It has been Five-hundred years, and I am still here in this new land, holding onto memories of sun filled oceans./
Trying hard to hold onto the times of happiness...Before they came. These things are deeply embedded “Mamas Laughter”,” grandmother’s wisdom” by blood, these things came with me on this journey./
For dear life I am holding on to our ways, unashamed, I long for my African life, my culture, and my happiness....” Before they came”!
Idol is there seated plotting
cowrie shells baptized dollars
cow-hide suffocated with air
comfort women in their best
Cambridge fraternity with honors
commander with his platoons
sky-men in their spaceships
class room wizards with sleepy eye
Champagne , coca cola, carrots
These are the dying gods
that relax on high thrones
intoxicate conscience
roll away the Bible, Quran
and call on humanity
worship me, me, me alone
my kingdom I’ll give to you
They tell me I love you.
They say that when I laugh with you;
my eyes shine like cowrie shells in shrines,
my cheeks dimple in gaiety,
my pulse thumps rapidly like the drumbeats of the gods.
They tell me I love you.
They say that my legs tremble like a virgin sacrifice
when I meet you.
They say that my body sways towards you
like a falling leaf drawn to the ground.
They tell me I love you.
But what saddens me shadow of my dreams,
they don’t tell me you love me!
Head honcho, forever bristling
Bleached exterior, this mask of
countenance
Princey, let me kiss you, my liege
We are only Men in Black -
Chieftain for the cause
Priest of neoclassism
Maestro of Propriety
You are.
He stamps and huff - truth or
farce?
This I do not know - I heard
Still the serprent, however sly leaves a print
It slithers - yes, and leaves a print -
Wiil Imposer
Chief Impostor
Usurper
You are.
Head honcho of feline wit
Your back never rests next to our
feet
This bloated extremity of covetousness
Is bottomless, an abyss, a vacuum -
Pathetic dominus
Bringer of Locusts
Cowrie counter
You are
Truly you desire this:
My lips pressed to your rear
My face mopping the earth
My nails digging the crust
The Goddess' emissary
Meister of duplicity
Exalted Prince
You are.
I feel the hand of the invisible smothering my skin
The rule Maker up in the sky
Lull my heart of a better tomorrow
With a make-belief smile i retorted
But the departure of grandpa
In September drained me
If my head is sitting well on my neck
And if the birds still build nest on my head
It was in the September
That a pack of owls invaded our hut
I was just boy in those days
But i could decipher a woman from a girl
So i was not a boy
But please don't tell papa
Lest he will invoke his iron fist on my coconut head
Maybe, he has coconut head also
Pattering feet all in the farm
Aunt and i contesting a bowl of eba
Suddenly, the rain began
It was the rain that ruined and rent my heart
Watching him groaning
Watching him beckoning for help
In a sharp glance, i look into the sky
Does the rule Maker care ?
I moved swiftly into my room
Emerging with a machete
To fight death
But the dreaded monster left with grandpa
It was in September
Today, i stood before his tomb
With gins, ginger, garlic, and black goat, and cowrie
Last night he requested for all these in my dreams
Because there is famine and economic crunch were he stays.