I look so harmless and unassuming, I am Peter’s aunt of course
He was a sickly child, but now he is on Marvel’s watchlist in full force.
Part of me thinks he might possibly be Spiderman, but I could be wrong.
There is so much energy in Stan Lee’s magic comic book series, long.
There are many comic book versions of who I really am.
My identity was not kept secret by the readers, and I was a gem.
History galore followed my antics; I was portrayed as everyone’s aunt.
To think of my nephew Peter Parker as Spiderman? I simply can’t!
To be engaged or married to me is almost sure to result in death you see.
I have had many husbands, fires, floods, and villains burgle me.
All of this angst and anguish was created by the wizard, old Stan Lee.
I was finally wounded and killed by the Green Goblin, on mainstream TV.
I have a wife, a son and two granddaughters,
I have nightmares.
A 'having' cannot be held onto,
a Keep, a Fast, a Hold, all are synonyms
for a fortress....
my aspirations crumble like ancient walls.
When I pluck a pretty wildflower
from a verdant meadow -
a momentary kiss of joy,
an enlightening ray of sun....
then cometh the regret, the withering,
a racing time outpaces any moment.
I have bad nights,
the dark always wins over any internal light,
I am transfixed, wide eyed looking at phantoms
that burgle my mind,
or do I rob theirs?
Who built this machine that
both devils and angels struggle to maintain?
Grace is doled out into my open palms,
and I must watch the blessing evaporate
before it reaches my lips.
I have bad dreams.
Blurry eye balls - up to it close.
Right there
clinging
on the screen door swinging.
Mantis, a big bug come to mind-prey,
or are you praying to come inside?
A plus size Insectivore
at my door
basking in its own eerie light.
A deadly beautiful grin
wants to come in.
We are not alone
green aliens abound,
have been around
clinging to this spinning Earth
for all their worth.
Mantis-like, they have parked
their flying craft in our brains.
My blurry ball of sight - blinks.
I see you!
I see how you burgle my mind
then crunch it up
in your mechanical jaws.
You can't fool me -
I tremble at your stillness,
beat the air with my fist
but
you're always there
until you magically disappear.
Your black eyes bulge
at my fuzziness,
pierce through
my soggy-eyed vision
like it's me,
me that's the weird one!
I am a door; I open and close.
I go hither, I depart to enter.
One world is an umbrella for another.
I slam, I click quietly, secretly,
if you see me on one side
you'll find me on some other far-side.
Here is another wooden reality.
There is always a handle to turn;
if I turn it right
I can avoid the left side of a brain.
Avoidance lurks in the locked lock.
Acceptance opens a gift
for the asking of it.
Beyond the entrance,
(for a heartbeat),
I am placeless, not here nor there,
not yet a toehold,
phantom-like, cold former feet linger
rooted in a fractured concrete.
The tale of the door is a mystery;
inner and outer burgle one another
only discover
who they were before this.
There are people, with lots of money
who want more and more
and will deceive and lie, to have their way
There are people, with not much money
who want more and more
and will burgle and rob, to have their way
The rich want, more money and power
so they deceive and lie, to have their way
The poor want, more food and health
so they burgle and rob, to have their way
A full-gorged moon opens its illumined glare.
Ghost lights flood the dens, burrows and nests
of all creatures,
a limpid dementia swirls blood-red clouds
in predatory eyes.
it enters bedrooms, cellars, attics
creeps beneath crawl-spaces.
It follows us into slumber
raises the bones of shipwrecked dreams,
dreams that none may speak of.
Magnetic glimmers pull together
all that stalk in shadow,
pale beams burgle darkened branches,
snare the unborn in unformed wombs,
seeds voices there before any egg is laid.
In the hearts of the desperate,
its creates an iridescence of last-hope poetry.
!t changes the stories that we told yesterday
into legends and tracks along moon paths,
then withdraws into the remoteness of
a reflected dust.
In daylight we commence to call out:
"Did you see that moon last night"?
while others reply:
"No, I must have missed it."
It's 4:30am and I can't sleep,
the sheep leap and lay in a heap,
told me they're tired and got shut eye,
even my own mind has shunned I,
lets just freestyle this rhyme and see where it goes,
it beats laying in the dark watching that ghost,
across the room that never comes close,
my mind protects itself from some images,
probably awake cus my dreams have edges,
nothing on the tele but Teleshopping,
trying to sell pots pans and mops but I'm channel hopping,
maybe I should count that instead of sheep to drop off,
it's dark and rainy outside and there's strange noises up in the loft,
I don't really care though as long as they stay there,
if it's burglars it's funny cus they'll hide til all clear here,
and what weirdo would brake into and burgle the attic first,
a junkie on crack thinking he's superman singing Fred Durst,
Limp Bizkit I want a biscuit in a whiskey,
I'm tired now I've bored myself, I expect I'll sleep in a minute,
this poems over matey, find something else.
Everywhere we were, we were in the mood of seeking eyrie
At times, life’s roses and prickles prerequisite no banana
The forest accommodates amazing trees and flowers pulpit
In the sun, the minds are working hard and none is in bikini
No flower’s free of five bee visitors until you see the moon
Geckos game in the forest doesn’t interrupt bees work song
Monday, bees sit on flowers in sun colleting pollen in tandem
Emergency tasks help make sweet honey without burgle
Randomly all bees are at work and sweat red like a porter
Anytime honey will feed everyone and the queen alpha
When it’s night bees are sleepless for toiling hard plow
Poem by Mugisho N Theophile
Poverty is not a slogan
It is a reality in our organ
Though for time immemorial it had begun
it is not to be treated as bygone
When in situational Poverty
There will be absence of property
May be due to job scarcity
Then you almost become a nonentity
For some it is a generational poverty
And so they give in to lazity
lack of great deal of ingenuity
may engage in unnecessary curiosity
To be factual and kind
The worse is poverty of the Mind
Category of idiot such is lined
Even when given the sun he will not shine
His mind is on price and not value
Rice and lice may even mingle
Provided they bubble
He may even want to burgle
For those genuinely poor
kept pressing but closed is every door
Sleeping at times on a bare floor
Despite observing every law
Facing it all
Ensure life doesn't play you like a ball
Be wise and read handwritings on the wall
Embrace it when opportunities call
sometimes you will need to start small
Rely on God you will stand tall
Surely, with him you will not fall
And your plane of life will never enter a stall.
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