I like the showers of the sowers' rainfalls—
Not that it shouts, but because it makes plants sprout.
The scenery crawls as field greenery sprawls,
That can extricate droughts from despairing doubt.
Butterflies paint brighter the greens of the fields,
And flowers flaunt beauty as bright, fragrant shields.
In dreams I crave wet seasons to whet my sleep,
Whose supreme comfort sustains my slumber deep.
I hate the stains that dwell in corners and drains—
Filthiness, a taboo my death will detest.
I despise the dirtiness my soul disdains,
A deep aversion heaven and earth can't wrest.
So sew your flowers' seeds and weed my garden—
No matter your mistake, my mind will pardon.
Love will invent the wheel of our good rapport;
Just don't adore foulness I so much abhor.
It speaks ill torment
Vomit cloth
Special release ashing tarnish vines
Willful bonnet garden vignette
She loved me, she whispered in my ear
My ear was thrilled for ecstasy
Ecstasy with unconditional love.
Love became illusions and lies
Lies founded on hatred
Hatred tumbled my heaven
Heaven of virtual love
Love towards a Godot
Godot, a cybernetic Land
Land distant from me
Me deprived of her waters
Waters privation starts thirst
Thirst of man disdains
Disdains because even grass and trees dry
Dry trees circulate no sap and bear no leaves
Leaves hotness flips them down
Down to perish in an environment
Environment burning high
High is the thirst of man
Man suffering heat and thirst
Thirst, nowhere to quench
Quench it to redeem my manhood
My manhood requests particular water
Water makes man’s life
Life in inferno to become dehydrated
Dehydrated are men in such a hell.
Poem by Ndabuli Mugisho
The long, green tail twitching on the kitchen floor
Fills me with disgust, so I throw it outside.
I'm aware that my obligate carnivore
Has a secret that she disdains to confide.
The cat grabbed the lizard while crouched in the shade.
She enjoyed a meal of reptilian feast,
Yet she kept the tail, brought in to be displayed.
My sweet, cuddly cat, my predatory beast.
Some have said Jan has dung for brains
How rude are those who place disdains
on her poems in the soup
Their words are full of poop
Jan sits upon her throne and reigns
From porcelain commode she rules
Toilet paper and pen, her tools
She takes a morning dump
from a crack in her rump
One day she found dark colored stools
Her doctor arranged for a scan
So, off to the UK, flew Jan
From her brain to her feet
First an enema... Fleet
That kept Jan sitting on the can
Days later, she read the results
With mirth and laughter, Jan exults
She'd eaten licorice
Rumors were gibberish
Fools, were those rumoring insults
Jan's brain scan proved that she's alright
If her poems offend the 'uptight'
She just couldn't care less
If it brings them distress
Because she doesn't give a s.h.i.t.e
Evolution changes
the mind of man
All insight martyred
for wider scans
The magic filtered
as books proclaim
What facts uncover
and time disdains
Evolution fosters
a weakened soul
Each process stifled
the gist untold
Forever whittled
in narrow canes
Tomorrow empty
—the past defamed
(Dreamsleep: August, 2022)
Each one with his calvary
Or with his treasure,
blessed or helpless,
Conquerors or conquered,
Wealth and Evil
in every human being...
Each with a charming smile !
It's the same smile that disdains,
The hand that strokes is the same that stones...
With pitying eyes
or with a merciless look.
However, no one is fully
Correctly or completely sane —
To each his share
And the load he can carry.
So since the world is world...!
If the sin of pride is my condign curse;
then I own it, and I can do no worse.
If the world disdains me, not saying why;
then I can stand it, though I want to die.
Outcast for good, alone for evermore,
as souls recoil, ne'er to enter my door.
Because of pride, I'm kept from the Lord's light;
lost, I curse Heaven with all of my might!
(Too bad if some don't recognize my genius;
but know, great souls believe in their greatness.
So spite this world if I'm damned any longer,
for the burden of brilliance makes me stronger!)
Good poetry is in the eye of the reader
What one person loves, another disdains
Some like meter, some like free verse,
Like some prefer oak, others want cedar
For some only a proper sonnet reigns
While for others nothing could be worse
It’s hard to say which poetry is the leader,
written July 24, 2021
Above and beyond
locked in a glazed tourniquet
of mindful disdains
Embittered winter
indignant
spreads rancor
erudite in malice.
Irreverent arbitrate
derisive
disdains masses
sardonic in verse.
Vengeful slayer
belligerent
inflicts brutality
pitiless in wrath.
Steadfast rime
unyielding
immovable blight
resolute in rage.
(click on the pic to preview my poetry book!)
their disdains still linger
in my mind they are mean
but slowly i let it loose
with squiz on the mirror,
i can hear myself humming
of Christina Aguilera's
song, i am beautiful no matter
what they say... i sigh
my voice bounces back
like Apophyllite crystals
sparkling in the midnight
as i catch every breath
of my jaunty jiffy
i dance the beat of salsa
in the terrace 'til dawn,
under the moonshine alone
Always is a long, long time,
today is longer still
The beginning of what can never end,
consciousness distills
Tomorrow is the shortest time,
when looked at from today
And yesterday no time at all,
whose notion drifts away
Never is all time denied,
its twisted tongue proclaims
The ending to what can’t begin,
mindfulness disdains
Here is where the treadways cross,
all roads found turning in
And now the moment pre-ordained
—transcendence waits within
(Dreamsleep: March, 2020)
Real disaster is looming on the horizon for American life
this country’s leadership disdains the spirit of truth
its sycophants continue to embrace the lies
repelled by honesty and facts
mendacity guides their daily mantra
dark, evil poltergeists dwell in our White House now
death thrives in their hearts
darkness looms in our future
the only purification for lies is to vote
it's the only remedy that will
undo this undemocratic fiasco
Is the right proprietary,
is eloquence ordained?
Who gets to decide,
who gets the acclaim?
The writer of the lyric,
the critic who disdains?
Who gets to call it Poetry
—whose blood leaves a stain?
(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2016)
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