This damned domain of dominoes destined to fall
This doddering diatribe deliberately designed
This dwelling damp as deadwintered Darlington
This deeper dream of dungeons and dragons
This desperate dirge of dying deliberations
This drum droll as December’s daylight done
This decorated delightful deck of diamonds
This driven date that doomsday deselected
This dotted, dashed diary of dark desperation
This demystified danger we dryly decompress
This dead, defunct day that drew disgust
This damned domain of dominoes all fallen down.
17.4.2022 6pm
The Night Hawk
Whom shall I tell my tale of woes?
who shall sing with me
my song of oblivion
the evil that descended hearth-stead,
in the tail of a winter night,
swooped upon us like a bald eagle,
as vicious as a hungry wolf,
raped my mothers and their daughters,
and planted in them his abomination.
Who shall I tell my shame?
The unthinkable event of that night
had left behind unthinkable souvenirs.
Now, my mothers’ bellies are swollen with abominations.
Whom shall I tell my fathers’ dilemmas?
My fathers now accept congratulations for another man’s evil.
What other option do they have anyway?
I have tried running away,
but I still hear the echoes of my imaginations—
the penury of my mother’s voices,
giving birth to abominations.
Running won’t cleanse my roots of the abominations.
But where do I begin?
Everywhere pongs of abomination.
How do I begin?
When my mothers even love the abominations?
When do I begin?
Maybe when the sun trades shift with the moon?
I cry like a mother hen.
the night hawk has whisked my offspring.
I do not cry so the evil one would release his clench.
I’m only crying so the world would hear my voice.
History is the mirror through which we see tomorrow.
She is the apartheid portrait and silhouette of liberty in Port Elizabeth.
In Cairo, the pyramids would show you her hidden hollows.
Through the Niger River, she led Frederik Lugard to Lagos.
She is the archeologist's land-mark of Blood Diamonds.
You could ask the Congo’s, Angolans, Liberians, and the Ivorians,
They would tell you that Free Town was never a free town.
Yes! Freedom is never free at all.
We were rivers of blood and forests of bones.
We were snapping twigs and broken glasses.
We were these and more, in search of a big Tomorrow.
Hurray now, the Tomorrow is here
Maybe not so ‘big’ (correct me if I’m wrong).
'Children are the leaders of tomorrow',
a songbook we were forced to buy at school many years ago,
My father had no money, ergo, I was forced to borrow.
It was the only way I could learn and sing along with my peers, damning my ego.
Alas, the leaders of today are still yesterday-leaders’ alter-ego
Are people not born because others should be gone?
How then would the beautiful ones come
when the ugly ones are still very much in form?
When exactly shall we see this big Tomorrow?
I have one great thing that comes so warmly
Tears soaked in love.
My darlington -- pigmy doll.
I rolled my heart like a roller on your tiny cage;
I dewed the evening tide in your leafy page.
I gleaned the minutes to write;
I felt your hug and enjoyed your bite.
In my airiel music I hear "Papa"
That sooths and waters the ground;
In my dismay, I tie your shadow with me;
In me, I am filled -- I found.
Your stretched tiny arm
Your lofted happy boundings;
Your half crescent lipline,
Your flued eyes and that, soundings.
No graeter poem have I heard;
Nor, any greater music arreyed in art's shelf.
That sweet soumd PAPA
Is the best poem itself.
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