I re-climb the starting block
This time a little slower
A little more measured
A little less emotional
I’ve run this race many times
The prize is still life changing
They still say it’s make or break
They still say it’s a fair race
I’ve been in the lead before
And like every tier one race
I’ve spun out every time
I’ve buckled ever time
It feels like Shawshank Redemption now
Gray with experience but seemingly apathetic
Same desire to win but seemingly content
Same desire but seemingly compassionate to lose
I don’t know if I will win
But if I do, I won’t become ego
For every winner becomes a target
For every race is a chance to become a mighty fool.
Flavours of grey, brown,
and green.
Heavy , thick cottons
hanging by threat
of lightning,
waiting calmly
before an incredible
downpour and
thunderstorms.
As it sweeps through
cracks and soil,
covering every
pitfall.
Careful car rides
through roads,
not wanting to be part
of mechanical disaster.
Scent of wet mud,
a sign from afar,
and afterward,
leftover effect.
Doesn’t know between
city and empty lands
as wind passes through.
But dust moves free
in the emptiness
of no tree or homes,
rises high and,
like a crazy predator ,
sinks its teeth
into every surface,
covering all.
And allergy and
cleaning floors
are its aftereffect.
Dew-covered,
lush leaves
are better than
humans’ case .
As roots drink like
a thirsty man in desert,
or the chore of bringing
fresh bread from
bakery in mid-afternoon.
No Halloween celebration,
but cleaning companies.
No pumpkins,
but dust and storms.
Yet we love it all—
our motherland,
Sudan .
The static hums across the floor,
A heavy sound behind the door.
The city sleeps in quiet grey,
Before the breaking of the day.
An engine turns, a pulse takes hold,
A warmth that cuts through winter’s cold.
The shadows stretch, then yield to light,
And wash away the weight of night.
Something shifts beneath the stone,
A quiet force, yet fully grown.
Standing tall against the air,
A brand new dawn begins right there.
Whitish and woolike
Hanging in the air and clinging to the sky
Flying across the mountains high above our heads
Come in different shapes and sizes, appearances and states
From groups of sheep to clusters of flowers
From overlapping surfs to puffs of smoke
All deceiving your eyes
As a sudden rain will come like fate
When I was only five.
My dolls were the big thing,
we would sit and sing.
Then my tricycle I learned to drive.
At fifteen I was dating.
Boys were sure fickle,
some of their words were like a pickle.
We loved to go roller skating.
Now thirty is life half over?
Today is a new day,
no more hair of gray.
Maybe I need a new makeover.
At fifty should I retire?
Many days are way too long,
is life a game of ping-pong?
Some days I feel like I want to expire.
I never thought I would reach seventy.
Here I am,
drinking hot tea and eating strawberry jam.
Seventy is fun and not my enemy.
Altho' I'm a common or garden potato
a lighter shade of brown
and you're a turnip who
just my luck fell off the truck
on the ride from the other side of town
I only have eyes for you
but when the chips are down
a brussel sprout I can do without
as for lettuce you may forget us
onion always makes me cry
“Goodbye radish” or so say I
garlic is all very well but not the smell
to the pepper bell a fond farewell
yet the root of the problem
is indeed you see
while I think you're the top of the crop
you don't care a swede for me
As long as I can remember,
I have felt my mind was fundamentally different.
Unreachable.
It mirrors the terrifying abstraction of deep space -
an expanse defined by infinity.
The human brain is hardwired for boundaries;
we demand a genesis and an apocalypse,
a defined start and an ultimate end.
We instinctively recoil from the truth that something can simply exist
without precedent or terminus.
That nothing preceded the cosmic void, and nothing will succeed it.
To contemplate an existence without borders
is to stare into an abyss that refuses to be known.
My mind operates in that same silent,
unreachable forever.
IN A DIFFERENT WORLD COMING: ready
(Apropos Of Breaking News Breaking)
You say,
We are too old
And have no idea
Of what’s going on:-
Well, we
Said that too;
Please give us a call
And let us talk awhile:-
Where
Are you now…?
Remember
your beginnings…?
Where are you going now…?
We’re still
Following NI’s bloody footprints;
Watered in divine wisdom and guidance:
Aware of AI’s infectious, chaining vibes:-
Be in today’s awareness.
Future wars will not
Be dropping bombs:
Just biological infections:-
The worldwide Power Oppressors,
Will control both the infection,
As well as the vaccine:
Cumulating
Ongoing
Victories
Introduced
Decades ago.
N.B. Read it again
And think about it:
Profound breaking
Bombing news coming.
No language under the sun can be true,
Yet a cat cries out, "Meow," to you.
Broken down by a fraction, factoring the grace,
In that tremor, in that frequency's space,
"I am so hungry, it's true!"
"Give me some food, I beg you!"
Yet every language must hold the truth inside,
"What are you?" Where do you hide?
Though you provoke me with all your might,
A hidden truth is locked out of sight.
"Let's be friends, me and you!"
Yet in one language, a million paths pursue,
Only we never knew!
The bitter, biting winter cold
Speaks of winter, stark and old.
Yet you do not know the truth it bears,
Locked deep within those freezing airs.
Until late spring whispers low:
"I wanted to be your friend, don't you know?"
We merely spoke in a different tongue,
Even with human words on the tip of the tongue!
As I encounter you, I hear myself say
I think you are different I think you are the same
every snowflake is unique we are all beautiful, and we all fall
and every fingerprint longing for another finger
is its own wishing for a home
every soul has its own voice asking for a little love
each special mother’s child so precious
and so, I’ll see how distinct how the alike
we are and hope
I will celebrate and rejoice
that we are different that we are the same
Different road to the same old places. Different people but the same old faces
Different mornings but the same old days, different attitude but the same old ways
Different clothes but the same old look, different pages of the same old book
Different smiles but the same old sadness, different voices but the same old madness
Different clouds but the same old skies, different words but the same old lies
Different drugs but the same old drink, different clothes but the same old stink
Different victories but the same old defeat different friends but the old ones I still meet
Different life but still it’s the same. Different way of winning life’s deadly game
I was a girl who was different from the accepted norm,
I kept to myself, seldom spoke, watched the world;
pushing people away with my silence, my deviate ways,
as a teen I dressed in a vintage style of my own.
I suppose that I wanted to step back in time with my mind,
spending a lot of hours finding perfect vintage jewelry;
and clothes- creating a unique look far from accepted style,
I was part of the deviants in a peaceful way.
Yes, I was different, unusual, not like other girls, weird and quirky,
yet, inside me I was divine, I loved how I dressed, it was me;
and I was wonderful, lovely, pleasing and felt so beautiful,
I am still the divine in my thinking and style.
But, as an adult, a writer I could care less who approves of me,
for some, I am an inspiration- for others, I dwell too much in death;
there is a dark side of me that bleeds into my poetry,
well, all these thoughts whirling in my head need a release somewhere.
she
slammed me
candidly
then returned to the
business of stealing my money
This New Jerusalem with towers made of glass
Shines dazzling bright upon the old satanic mills
Cloned Holy Lamb with mouth full of grass
Looks picturesque on the background of green hills
Let’s stop to take some selfies smiling silly
Let’s shorten to one line the past time lives
The future’s here, and exactly as was willing
This New Jerusalem reflects in our eyes
We common mortals do not really matter
It’s fine by us to stay behind the scenes
While VIPs are doomed to sing the old libretto
We improvise, to hear the grinding of those mills.
Different people in different places different colours and different faces
Different languages that we are speaking
And different dreams we are all seeking
Different cultures and different ways different nights and different days
Different foods with a different smell
Different beliefs about god and different beliefs about hell
Different reasons for laughter and different reasons for crying different beliefs about living and beliefs dying
Different about peace and different about war
Different beliefs in what they are fighting for
Different in many ways I will let you decide
But we are not so different when we stand side by side
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