The Mandrill
I feel sadness for the mandrill held captive
Behind the cage bars. His listless demeanour
Is unnatural when compared to his free aboriginal cousin
In the African jungle an ocean away.
Despite his gaiety of colour display
And distant stare through amber, hollow eyes,
With laboured mouth ajar for teeth to bare,
He expresses neither aggression nor submission
Of territory dominance or subordination.
There is no bobbing of the head or crowing,
Nor slapping of the ground or rump showing.
These primates are the world’s largest monkeys,
Safe from leopards preying and human hunting;
They, his keepers say, are lucky to be in a cage,
Enjoying life’s comforts to a ripe old age.
Joni, playing the jazz trumpet with your voice
Joni, who hated the music business
Joni, who was attracted to artists of all kinds
Like a moth to a roaring fire
Who in turn attracted and influenced like-minded minds
Around your flaming heart
Inviting others in, hesitantly, less it hurts too much.
Joni, you grew older than your age
Joni, eternally young, for you have the voice of sincerity
And naked truth on your side.
The artist supreme.
You lasted longer on this green earth than your companion Vincent,
Your mentor Miles and the locksmith Signore Picasso, who unlocked many doors for you.
Joni, forever young
Forever in hearts who yearn to accomplish what you accomplished.
Not fame and recognition, but entering the holy of holies,
Into your inner core, where you made love to yourself.
Home is where the heart is, they say
Joni, you showed some of us the way home, and we are eternally grateful.
Joni, you laboured to express, rather than impress,
With your smattering of artistic bursts
Like a bright sun behind a cloud, unable to contain its light.
This house has been set ablaze; ashes rain like snow,
covering what has become my deathbed.
A weighted blanket of ruins lies heavy upon my chest.
Laboured breaths and the taste of soot coat the back of my throat,
stifling oxygen from reaching the whites of enervated eyes.
Blue-tinted lips incoherently whisper, flirting with my demons,
living in purgatorial gloaming
whilst my spirit hovers between diminishing light and shadows.
Reality blurs, amalgamating with hallucinations
where demons dance in a macabre ballet,
reenacting repressed sorrows,
torturing an undead heart to the brink of insanity.
With each twirl, each act, tales of desperation are etched onto flesh.
Riverlets of blood stain the sheets bright red,
as tourniquets are nowhere to be found.
There is no way to halt the flow;
emotional instability will be my bloodletting.
Every second ticks by a little quicker
until each heartbeat grows fainter.
A clenched jaw relents,
eyes roll backwards,
and a damaged soul is severed from its mortal coil,
yet its fate is left undetermined,
flailing in the in-between forevermore.
By God's grace*, my child-like faith still prevails
weathering aging trials I can't miss
amidst triumphant smile of glowing face...
...grateful to greet each day with praise-filled zest~~~.
...mindful of nutrition and healthy ways
while reaching-out from loving heart's abyss
prayerfully ready against death wails.
*1 Corinthians 15:10 But by the grace of God I am what I am: and his grace which was bestowed upon me was not in vain; but I laboured more abundantly than they all: yet not I, but the grace of God which was with me.
February 17, 2026
3rd place, "ONE ON ONE WITH MYSELF" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Nette Onclaud; judged on 2/22/2026
Some wish to fight for Africa
Being an African by birth
Proud of our fathers land
We wish as much to fight our stand
While we are fighting ourselves
Most pray for a rebirth
Some want to be british
While many admire Paris
We have all laboured to build Abuja
But many still heart Lagos
And others are accenting Port harcourt
Yet we all hail one Nigeria
Fighting for Africans
Fight with one hand
The other hand preserve at allegiance
To fighting other Africans that want you hellish
Nigeria will be great
Though we all smell Oduduwa
Biafrans are unrelenting
Very soon Hishbah will crave out something
Continue praying
As we do hope; many scupper
There is still hope in waiting
But how do we convince the rangers?
A complete surprise, the message came through
“My friend I’ve something to share with you
I’ve written a song, and I am so proud
Would you like to hear? Turn it up loud”
Immediate reaction - that’s not your voice
The music, so polished; A.I. made the choice
The words may be yours, and the words are true
So what do I say now? What do I do?
Cos I believe music should come from the soul
Deep and meaningful, a laboured over toll
A computer assistant used to emulate
Trained on the generic styles that dominate
My friend I am happy that you are so pleased
If it helps you express yourself, then it is good indeed
But you’ve played a game, used an app, an A.I.
The creation is lost, a facsimile, a fake I cry!
Maybe I’m fast becoming obsolete
For believing as I do, (do I hide some conceit?)
My old songs sit forgotten and covered in dust
But A.I. can’t have them, I just do not trust
Where is the line in the creative process?
How much credit can you take for the success
Of a song or a story which you merely nudged along
And A.I. is always right, even when it knows it’s wrong
Fall seven times, rise eight
Shake off the dust, shed the weight
Soldier on with increased stride and pace
Unwavering and wearing a brave face
For the man who believes lives
And God who forgives gives
All have sinned and fallen short
No man’s will is a formidable fort
His building and watching are in vain
His own ways and means must be slain
And too his appetite for transgression
If God’s Will must find expression
The old must waste and face ban
For the full making of a new man
The Spirit of God puts up insistence
Overpowering the flesh’s resistance
And since so little of self was involved
No flesh claims to have had this resolved
Praise be to God for His Grace
Being our edge of Truth in life’s race
For the picture would be grim and dim
Had it not been for Him
And so where we gloated and rumbled
We now stand redeemed and humbled
Not by might, not by power
Nor by the apt knowledge of the hour
Did we find ourselves favored
Or claim to have so laboured
We were carried on eagle’s wings
We who are now made priests and kings
K. Muitherero
Laboured breaths
with each strenuous uphill step,
taking in the ancient spirits
from an ancient world
when the earth was venerated.
Every stride taken prompts visions of
the Chaquis who journied this
rigorous passage.
In an empire of siwi, corn and orchids,
rock etched with lichen, sweltering heat and winds that bite;
a worn path of rugged stone and steps
rises then falls through the damp cloud forest
on Pachamama's curves
leading to primordial sacred sites.
Tasting the victory of reaching
that final destination evokes
emotions of gratitude, while honouring
a vanished civilization and those who perished
defending their ancesteral province.
Amid the ghostly essence of the terraced terrain
a lone condor circles above-
Said the Heifer to the Ox: “O‘ sorry Ox,
How terrible to work your heavy yoke,
All day to wheel around that grinding spoke!”
She lay lazy in the shade of nearby rocks.
But Ox plowed onwards. Hearing Heifer’s knocks,
And paying no heed to her pitiful smoke,
He laboured, knowing well the dreadful joke
Which soon was to repay her mindless mocks.
And just then came a large procession near,
Garbed in diadems and resplendent frills;
“O‘ Heifer, if only you’d known your lot,
You’d have held your tongue and lived life in fear!“
The priests, dragging Heifer to the high hills,
Offered her to gods whose favors they sought.
(Inspired by Aesop's "The Heifer and the Ox".)
We’re just being ourselves
We’re not presenting ourselves
on a plate, commodifying ourselves.
We’re refined and pared-back—plain
but with an intriguing complexity.
We’re simple and indestructible,
our diasporic styles, assembled in a frenzy
by spontaneous instinct, need no audience.
You’ll find us in the coffee shops, the libraries
streaming and scrollin’ to unheard, noise-cancelled, beats
or in the bars kickin’—let the music play—I can’t talk much about it.
We’re not overly thought-out, sure, we ruminate, but then we’re
automatic rather than laboured, creative without overthinking.
We’re emotional and immediate, but clearly avoiding
slightly scurrilous condom entanglements—yeah
—there are reasons. true, true, true, true true.
.
.
Songs for this:
Let the Music Play by Papik & Sarah Jane Morris
Soda Pop Confusion by Variety Lab & Kidsaredead
The winter was long
it came in like the lamb
but continued to roar like a lion
the snow came down lightly
piling snowflake after snowflake
soon it became knee deep
it continued and became waist deep
instead of walking thru water at a beach
it became walking thru heavy clinging snow
each breath inhale and exhale
become laboured by the cold and exercise
instead of warm sandy water in bare feet
we were in deep heavy snow with snow boots
dreams of warmth and the sun and far away places.
“Does the universe really rehearse,
emotes of heart before penning love’s verse?”
~ quote by poet
It had all makings of a masterpiece,
nuanced right down to the smallest detail
but the flow of symbols brought forth no peace,
to afterglow trailing the comet’s tail,
so fake adornments needed to decrease,
else maze of metaphors would make taste stale.
Soft sounds of silence, sparking like stardust,
bypassed mind and spoke directly to heart,
etching thereon light strobes, love ousting lust,
seeing thereby patterns of old depart,
wooing the void, in time gaining its trust,
that divine consciousness, then inks its art.
How may laboured breathing weave words of love,
when all save man know, grace flows from above?
Your tired hands of laboured time
Touch me on my shoulder,
I feel reassurance flowing through
Though aged and much colder.
These were the hands that once
Supported me when I fell,
Then they were strong and warm
Still, I feel they’re noble.
When mother was lost to angels
You suffered much within,
Never showing me your grief
Bucked up strength to begin.
I was only ten years old
When mama passed away,
You became all I owned
You cried, yet, made me smile away.
You became all I owned,
I know you cried every day.
Today the hands still help me
Through darkest days I see
Lost my wife to the wild sea
But your hands are still there for me.
They were lovely girls in the neighborhood
To their family, they stayed pretty good
Learning to trust God --- in faith and in creed
As they shared and cared, showing kindness’ deed.
As daughters of parents, serving as light
They respected Dad and Mom with delight
Regarding them as guardians by their side
Grateful for their protective loving guide.
They are sweet ladies, reared to grow up well
“By the grace of the Lord”* … that’s what they tell…
They are my aunts, beautifully blest
Their childhood photo prods us to do best.
*1Corinthians 15:10 But by the grace of God I am what I am: and his grace which was bestowed upon me was not in vain; but I laboured more abundantly than they all: yet not I, but the grace of God which was with me.
2nd place, "Nursery Rhymes" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Eve Roper; judged on 8/27/2024
Sweating in the rustic dusts of Nazareth, you laboured.
As a farm labourer, ironsmith, weaver, and shepherd,
You ploughed with the peasants, who were curious yet loving.
They were teachers from whom wisdom, like clear streams, flowed, gushing.
You walked, pondering over the Sea of Galilee.
Where fishermen struggled like lilies amidst barberry,
The breeze, amalgamated with the Abba message, blew.
With you, the fraternity of the folks, day by day, grew.
You read about all philosophies and theologies.
Small or great, each one therein had unique ideologies.
The rich, though they seemed strong, bent in the winds of faith like reeds.
You held all of them in the same balance, mending their creeds.
Each herb, shrub, plant, tree, blossom, fruit, and weed imparted wisdom.
In the soul of each seed, the lord of lords founded the kingdom.
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