We meat eaters
In the café on the first floor of our building
The food served is cooked on the day
Sometimes they serve fish which I'm not a fan of but when I have picked out the ing bones
the fish tastes fine
They serve wonderful chicken that only a few days ago ran around not knowing they would
Be lunch, but that’s life, we humans eat human flesh too when given a chance, living deep in the jungle and fried female **** are seen as
A delicatessen only served to the chieftains who are the upper class in their world and no, if you
Ask, there is no beans on the toast
In the palm of nightforest and rain
I leave imprints on sands ,
my flesh baked by the elements --my nipples and breasts darting towards the sky in full radiance of an alchemy,
where this womb in pure sheen becomes a cradle for ancient offerings:
tangle of thistle and roots sprawl on my bodice , glossed skin rubbed, flamed then offered to gods like mute lamb...
Slipping into this inner glow, I hear again men's whisper of my divine power
hidden within these molden eyes, fierce as sea glass , an amulet designed by Spirit,
my berry lips seemingly chanting of miracles,
of treasures untold...
I lay still among sandbeds and wait,
if chieftains and men would ever know
my heritage comes only from broken refuse of littered stones.
Valhalla
rest day
Sunday is the day of rest for most people
except for cooks, servers, and housewives
They have Mondays
that day hasn't got many customers
they can warm up, Sunday's leftovers
it is said ennui is the day when the brain rest
that is why the slamming of car doors
is frowned upon.
I know of a man when building a home, used
gravestones as building material
He stayed in the house one night
could not stand
the whispering voice let me out of here
it was all a mistake
Moved into the barn shared with two cows
a mule, a dog, and several cats
From history, we know of Viking chieftains
recently converted to Christianity by Irish monks
that when sitting doing nothing, the thought
of sex struck him
took out his knife and nailed his left hand to
the table forswore Christendom
converted back -to Odin and Thor's ancient faith
where Valhalla was a place of song and dance
and free Mjod for all
They manage to keep a fanned flame
These ones with no claim to fame
They don’t trade, build or make
Yet heralds ogle for their sake
And I to myself only wonder
That I find no rhyme or reason in my ponder
But I keep my opinion conservative
For my appetite craves no weird narrative
That one can be famed for nothing
It just doesn’t fit my hearing
Once there was respect for the audience
Until stardom clouded many a conscience
With sound worth one had to be endowed
Before presenting oneself before a crowd
And a few had glimpses of glories
With quotes and works transcending histories
Others galant warriors and wise chieftains
Glorified outlaws and vilified villains
Men had their names on their rights and wrongs
As preserved in folklore, poetry and songs
And until ideology once more underpins
Character, manners and disciplines
Ethics, decency and social order
Evil will have many for fodder
To be grazed on and trampled underfoot
Thinning fortune that another may have loot
And if you cringe at this possible end
Then with every fibre of you strive and fend
For the return of righteousness in our midst
As the bare and common at the very least
K. Muitherero.
From Rhegeds lofty peaks
spied sailing over Erins sea
pirates raiding from Innesfail
white sails catching the prevailing wind
as if flying them over the watery way.
Mannanans mares could not catch
nor hinder them from their
wicked and dastardly intent.
Taken as a servant lad
to serve at a chieftains table
questions he dare not ask
complaints he would not utter.
Growing tall into manly ways
with resentment and a nurtured hate
unable to comprehend his destiny.
As a man his life was touched
by divine and mysterious ways
forgiveness for his captors grew
A servant for his Masters will
to teach Gods will on Erin land
clearing out the serpants hand.
All was done and accomplished
amid astonished looks and wonderment
to Gods glory he gave praise
strengthend by the three in one
Padraig a servant of Gods own son.
It is the witching hour.
There are no breezes in a windowless house.
There are no shadows in a cave devoid of light.
There are no dreams in a sleepless night.
It is the witching hour.
When our endangered psyche roams.
When we are captured by pernicious spells.
When we are easy prey for rogue chieftains.
It is the witching hour.
When warlords game the system.
When sorcerers gaslight the faithful.
When conspiracy conquers fact.
Only the crestfallen sense the seamless
interval of peril.
Only the dejected resist the wizardry
of the despot.
Only the discouraged view the counterfeit
wallpaper of rot.
Only the discontented shout the truth
against the cacophony of sophistry.
But Stonehenge, the domain of the dead,
will always know first light,
will always vanquish the ruse of our sanctity,
will always sweep away the opiate specters
of tyranny.
The witching hour no more.
Light, the detox to our Stockholm syndrome.
The witching hour no more.
Democracy survives
to live another day.
Black liberation
BLM is a good and timely thing that happened
it freed black- America from the stigma of slavery
and freedom of the psychological burden
of being second class citizens.
But it was not meant to be a liberty to do as one pleased
upending statues and robbing stores.
This brings us to the police that must have the right
to to arrest trespassers,
But I fail to see why the law have to kill people because
they refuse to be arrested.
Let us bring back how slavery came about, it was
not a gang of white men running around catching people,
they could not have done this without the connivance
of the leading chieftains who had no hesitation
selling their own for a hefty profit.
I think this is important for the black-Americans to take
this into consideration before all white people are
brushed out of the true history
When this plague passes over
And we emerge from our arks
Let not the euphoria of seeing
The rainbow in the horizon again
Becloud our vision or deafen our ears
To the sound of heavy chariots from
The end of the spectral
From whence travel a people
In the direction of the sun rise
With boundless treasure
In search of new lands to sow
Crop and human seeds
Let us not stray far away
For these wanderers seek titles
They will come first as farmers
To buy our crops
Yet will not allow us a square metre
On their own soil
Their prisoners will dare to do
What our envoys dread to do in their land
They will pay bride prices
To become one with us
Nomads will seek to become chieftains
And will drink with primogeniture
Till they enter chambers of princesses
In the name of wedlock
And become lords of vast fertile lands
Which natives boast not of
We crave for civilization but
God forbids us allowing princes sell lands
Where dwell the bones of our ancestors
We shall welcome strangers but
Will not share our beloved land
With vile visitors
Lest when midnight comes,
There shall be no shelter
Limitless in length and breadth
Beyond measure in depth
Akash is the greatest field
Sheltering innumerable things docile and wild
Undisturbed, calm and peaceful
Truly resourceful
It never feels with anybody to compete
Permitting everything to pass through it.
Mountains, clouds, lightning and rains
Anything else like falling chieftains
Are temporary phenomena
Episodes in a drama
Vanishing waves in the river tide
Bubbles in the sea vast and wide.
A prosy prose for deity to mourn,
As the hunger stricken wobbles the ground.
Oh! the old retinues that feed besides our ribs.
Come again with their unbearable tax payers,
While the labourers' stomach rumble!
The ignorant chieftains stare from above,
While the Kwashiorkor kids parade the streets!
Farmers clank their basket and hoe,
For nothing to bring homewards when the farms never yield.
As the hard labour tastes no fruit,
Wife and daughter, are forever famished.
The sailor that despoil us,
Snatch the bouquet of our feast.
As we wallow in our hollow labour?
Leaving us despondent at the edge of the farm,
Oh! We are made for you to drain,
When the basket of yam fully stored in there yard.
The old retinues release starvation from its dungeon,
As hunger flay around street, whipping!.
The rise of commodities in the Bazar,
A loaf is bought at high price.
And the grain is untouchable!
This is a prosy prose for deity to mourn,
How housewives turn to modern beggars,
While the toddlers sleep with void bellies and empty jars!
As we wait for Cruzzatte to anchor the boats
and bring along the men with pull sleds for the carcasses
a teenage Indian boy on a brown pony painted with winged eyes
prances in and out of our slain buffalos, quiver and bow upon his back
the settling haze of violence ebbing around his undisturbed gallop
as if to see and sanction what we've done, completely unfrightened by us
his eyes fixed on me with a grin that says he knows the pleasure of the kill,
he be so errie in his handsome joy of this death scene,
through native sign language the poetry of hands in dance reveals the heart of a tribe,
Drouillard and I determine that his name is Young Wise
and is a member of the Yankton Sioux
I agree to let Drouillard return with Young Wise to the Yankton site
of 60 lodges 15 miles away, he will be a potential hostage
but he has accepted the risk like a family man
and if they harm him we will burn them,
their leadership will recognize the importance of our favor
and arrive at the Corp's camp with chieftains, curiosity and Drouillard by dusk I'm sure,
our respective nations must learn the path to mutual prosperity,
J.A.B.
Once i lived with an uncle in a sleepy coastal town
who had a very beautiful house help from upcountry
now my male cousin Kiki desired to have a relationship
with our beautiful house help who was very lovely
One day Kiki arrives home alone he tries his advances
she flatly rejects him he then tries harder than its allowed
with no success.. later that night he is summoned by my uncle
Kiki tries best to defend himself....but is severely reprimanded
Now my Chieftain uncle is given to punishment and for Kiki
our Kiki is ordered to spend the night in the Chicken house..
not the European pet chickens these are real African chicken
complete with a rooster who scratches Kiki mercilessly
Come morning Kiki is full of scratches but he has learnt his lesson
he apologizes like his life depends on it and high tails out of the house
Safari my chieftains uncle we all love him but is know to be really hard
when it comes to meting out punishment and our Kiki had it coming
Lewis Nyaga
mambo ya pwani
This is about family.......
Your Blue eyes are the product of centuries.....
Prussians banner of royalty
Are blue....
Since time began....
It was the Vikings and warriors....
Who left their sign behind......
Your family had a mother
Who tamed a warrior...
In days beyond history so long ago
With her smile and love...
She tamed him......
He gave her his protection...
She gave him a daughter
Her blue eyes....
He so loved her...His daughter.....
But more than that
She gave her her smile
No matter how much
The sorrow to come...
Deep within this child
Held a truth....long held
By Chieftains and Pagans....
That love.....and tenderness
Is a gift passed on....forever.
From your mother
To her mother...from her
Son....to his mother...
And to you.....
Centuries don't measure time.....
And why should you....
Your Blue eyes and smile
And sweet heart.....
Come from a time
When nothing else mattered
With out love....life
Did not matter....
Now it is today...
and Rhiannon is our joy.....
Her blue eyes...
The dim past houses warriors of yesterday
whose lachrymose trail of tears
continue to whet the sympathy of one diehard
dilettante commissar born and bred
upon the soil those indigenous Tribes
(with that ill-fitting misnomer of noble savages)
left their legendary mythic and epic legions of prowess
yet fell prey to a mightier force
whereby treasonous treaties played on innocence and naiveté
interestingly and ironically enough memorializing such mighty peoples
thru place names and sports teams
which patronage ranks as mere condescension
and barely compensates for compensation and vindication
for genocide plus gross mistreatment and sacrilege
of token Native American remnants
corralled on dirt poor reservations
still evoking the tormented ghosts of a forgotten time.