August 28
Do you know about him
The little tall man
Living in the brown street
His lips are hard
Like where charcoal is made
He feels high more than alcohol
And always scorn his wild hair
Do you know about the natural leaf
That scorned him
For the first time
He feels his lips
With a sedative herb
And forms a circle in his skin
There are dirts
Waiting to be heaped away
He picks them up by chance
Along with a clipper
He moves with the cloud
Seeing double shadows on the way
Laughing at him
Finally at a waste bin spot
The dirts are abandoned
He picks up the clipper
This is the best place for hair cut
He sits loving the moment
While passersby share laughters
Swirly
Twirly
Pearly
Swirly
Charcoal moon sketch, swirly, twirly, beam
Crater pockmarked, pearly, whirly, dream
Nascent
Crescent
Ascent
Clement
Charcoal moon patch, nascent, crescent, sphere,
Lunar seas flow, ascent, clement, sheer
Dreaming
Weaving
Drifting
Floating
Charcoal moon watch, dreaming, weaving, scheme
grey rock debris, drifting, floating, gleam
a tree without limbs~
charcoal holding the silence
where stories once lived
I am a hard, darkest charcoal born from the brightest flames that have named our continent.
I grew up breathing in the history of colonialism and slavery, breathing out the smoke of pain and suffering.
The rain that washes us comes from the smoke we breathe, and yes, just the faces, not the body.
Our roots moved many rivers and mountains; now our seedlings lack all they need to grow.
Our leaves were falling without new buds as our stems stood bare with paintings of our past, roots barely holding the shrinking infertile ground.
I grew up through this flame and became the only stem redder and hotter than all.
The sour water that washed my parents to my roots made me the hardest to be fallen.
I did not remain fresh; I had to shrink, dry, and burn, releasing the fumes that chase every ogre and beast.
I speak and act from the roots, so now our seedlings will grow.
To win her whole heart was my sole goal,
In summer, I tanned just for her soul.
I sunbathed at Lagos Beach,
A Black there to woo a peach,
My face is now blacker than charcoal.
Light and Darkness,
two opposing forces.
A bold indifference
to the vast array of color
being their sole commonality.
And yet,
there is Gray.
The marriage of these
polar opposites amidst
the spectrum of Light
births a new cavalcade of shades.
These Gray colors reflect
the best of both worlds.
This, as all things do, speaks of life.
From the light Gray joys of laughter
to the dark times of displeasure,
life too is on a boundless spectrum.
Happiness is thought of as a place,
the end of strife and birth of peace.
But the Light of your life
is truly the days forgotten.
The sun was never brighter,
wide smiles made the world a treat,
and it was always
the first bite of chocolate.
The Darkest times of our lives
are often thought to be in grief.
But what time will truly be darker
than our last?
Such is the human condition,
left to play with the pieces remaining.
Dreading all the way that final day,
ever longing for years passed.
It is better to approach the shades
as inquisitor of their teachings.
For all men have feared the Darkness—
and curiosity is the death of fear.
winter sonata
small feathered friend's happy song
blue skies uplifting
I run my hand through my coal colored hair.
I blink the tears out of my dirty eyes.
I pick the skin on my caramel arms.
I fight the thoughts in my weighed brain.
I freeze as i hear the poisoned yells.
I run, as it's too late to reason.
I'm chased by the monsters and their sharp teeth
and i ignore their sharper words.
I hide in the cell i call my own.
I hear the voices beyond the barrier.
I ignore the screams of pure hatred.
I hear bangs and thuds but i don't unlock.
i hide in the room i call my home.
I talk to the voices that aren't there
and i ask them not to leave me.
They voices leave but the monsters don't.
yelling the whole way.
i see a silver shining square and hold it to my chest.
i close my eyes and brace myself as the shining sliver turns red.
My coal colored hair is brushed back.
My dirty eyes widen in shock.
My caramel skin is stained in blood.
and the thoughts in my brain have won.
teribium,Curium,actinium
sheres of charcoal.
they seek such to
make generated dissisha.
samples the need
for energy.
the need to produce
the world wishes a
freedom from what
currently exist.
Des-alpha motaium.
2nd Elergy For Auntie Betty Akinyi Oyugi.
Life is scattered.
By Juno Byron(Junior).
Life is a balloon
Inflated full
A'n given to a baboon
Wherefore? though white as wool
Life is a pot
Resting on her head
With water it got
Cool cold as the dead
Life is a charcoal
Collected in a heap higher
Statued to make a roll
Waiting for th' great fire
Life is a nestling
Inside a nest
Lonely chirping
Built over a river to rest
Life is a live band
Played once enthusiastically
Made of a good brand
If played 'ice- loses weight drastically
Life is a flower
That once blossom
Then dry at summer
In the fields at random
Life is ice cream
Scooped into a warm tongue
And melts dim dim dim as a dream
Whose alarm has rung
Life is scattered
Broken
'nd can not be gathered
Yours,mine,hers,ours,his shan't be remembered.
Assiduous Betty is gone!
Charitable Akinyi is gone!
Benignant Oyugi is gone!
Munificent Betto is no more!
Time is a good friend
We shall plant and harvest
And all shall we'll end
When we believe in Christ.
Draw the embers into the wood
Stroke it like it's a three-legged stool
Blacken the charcoal of a dying fire
Fasten it to a sun swelling brighter
The object is to lick the smoking flame
Soberly thoughtful to call out His name
Should a flash shine brilliantly
With a radiant outburst of joy hotly
All about warming the frigid darkness
The ocean in which stars are as jellyfish
Will appear to the seers as Lumiere
Clearly my dear it's an Austral Hell
Toss another log into the house of Hades
Balance it on your heaven party gate
Strum the drum to conjure up the worship
The song that worms the hawthorn brush
Into its strip tease yank along
Moon moss to heavy metal music loudly
Pound the ditty along to His shouting
The anthem of a wench's wrenching
The diddly of concerted celestial voicings
Heard charring with a fire from within
The product of an incandescent spell
See that which is bright always rises twice
Conditions darken before they go black
Then Hell behaves with new eyes
And the story is told in pantomime
About a joy and how it lingered a lifetime
Night assaults in charcoal smudges,
repeatedly cloaking the horizon in darkness.
Hollow ruins coat the empty space in agony
as loneliness clings to every surface,
breathless in the brewing alchemy shift.
The barren and jagged mountains,
though cold and bitter in shadow,
are abruptly caressed by a balmy breeze
exhaling secret incantations into the dampened surroundings.
Beneath the heavy silence of night,
blankets of celestial fires and moonlight foil
spill a summoned revolt across the chasm.
A measured mist of cooled water drops
ventures a dance along a cluster of murky trees
at the edge of a hushed clearing.
Beyond, a presence, plagued and exposed
by the arduous web of darkness,
beats a crippled, even antsy rhythm.
The cessation of its burden is nigh;
the emancipation of daylight - a fated end.
A lone black crow
sits on a limb of a tree
amongst a crowd of trees
that surround the townhouses.
The trees' silhouettes
are drawn on the brick;
on the shingled roofs;
by the Sun this Late January.
The dark shape of the crow
is starker than the trees' cast
of the night color; it is spectre-like,
within the arms of the spectator-like trees.
The branches are frosted with yesterday's spitting snowflakes.
Their bark is the tint of stones;
or the grains of sand on an Irish shore,
viewed on the one rainy day
of a journey so long ago.
A squirrel scurrying up the tree
is the same color-
of the rough or smooth stone,
bleached by the Sun;
of the wet sand of the shore in Ireland,
whose dunes crouch to watch the tides ebb,
to see the pull of the floating Moon.
The squirrel blends into the mourning dove
tinctures as if he were a captive
of the Winter day..
or brushstroked into an oil painting.
The crow, hue of a cold desert night,
lifts to fly away.
The shadows become new shapes
in the shifting sunlight..
they become charcoal spirits
in her sketch of an agued morn'.
Vertical lines drawn freehand
Even pressure is at his command
Continues top to bottom straight
As each line appears he contemplates
Being part of the whole drawing being made
It records his latest escapade
In charcoal each line has meaning
Of that day of memory so full of feeling.
© Paul Warren Poetry
What has the world comes to be?
Hatred has taken the mantle of power,
Without mercy or calmness,
And 360° stratification.
What has the black done?
Yesterday, harassment,
Today, killing and hatred,
And tomorrow, slavery i guess.
Is it a sin to be black?
Blacks with enormous fortune,
That glows like diamonds.
We are also human.
They are whites, we are blacks.
Ours skin is the difference.
Is egalitarianism still alive?
Crying.............
It is not a crime for being black.
Our rights, trampled upon,
Without justice.
Racism of the highest order.
Alimi Abdulkabir's Poetry
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