Long Zealot Poems
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subtitled: A Leg Up, Down
a rubaiyat
Near Damascus, Saul's hatred met its end;
he soon discovered darkness is no friend.
God deemed young Ananias the best guy
to tell Saul of the plan He'd recommend.
"Saul will kill me," was this believer's cry.
"There is no way I'll open up Saul's eyes?"
And He's right, unless God is thus inclined;
but fear weighs heavy, makes it hard to try.
Saul was a zealot in tradition's bind.
It's hard to see when customs leave you blind;
Saul was a Pharisee of great renown,
determined but with vengeance on his mind.
Both Saul and Ananias came unbound,
their lives took on focus as Light they found.
Now, Ananias can his trust defend;
and Saul gained fervor switching battleground.
4,Sept, 2012
I unconditionally love the eutony heard by
my soul when I hear certain words.
zing, zip, zeal, zest, zealot, zipper, and z,
are particular favorites, for several sing-songy reasons,
slithering into my dendrites in a pleasing way.
South reminds me of my dad’s Southside Gang,
a group of six boys who grew up together, bonding
in the mysterious ways of boys who live in a small town,
and find each other in Kindergarten, knowing they will
be together their entire lives.
Living the best life, as besties,
only one left, and I do wonder about him. Poor man.
The words 'church' and 'lurch' have a certain bite.
They click on my tongue.
Small town churches are the same, still helping us reminisce
about a society and a time when everyone in a community
rises up to straighten the youth out, and help them to become
the best selves they can be.
It is a mystery to me how they all gave me advice, none of it the
same, and yet I turned out magically all right. I have no idea
why I am such a sentimental mood his evening, but it is a rather
pleasant thing to cough up these terrific memories of a small town.
If you are still living in one, I hope you know how lucky you are.
Often I've been accused of being too righteous and wise;
a zealot putting all his efforts in an unquestionable faith,
and my trust is never weakened by a delayed promise.
Others have gone from this earthly place, to rest in unattended graves;
I've been derided by their indignant, loud laughter,
and you think I would have been intimitated by their offensive words?
Never did I react unkindly, just ignored them and walked away,
not knowing that they would have been cursed and faced punishment;
and with premonition, I had foreseen every event of their destiny.
Today, confiding in someone who will take time to listen...
will give me a reliance not smeared with absurd ridicule;
I can give good advice: unforgettable words that will remain.
Confide in selfless, trustworthy friends who show concern and self-assurance,
by their deeds you will know the trueness of their evident honesty;
so why wait and not run to one as I... and not start living without reluctance?
Maybe I shall live long
Long and long.
Perhaps I might not defunct
After emptying this long life pot.
My boy shall die while I'm exist
I shall place him beneath soil of gold in zealot’
To his surprise the pot was drenched
In his sight the pot was emptied
He winked and glanced at the pot a million times
So sober he was
‘Father, have you drunk the water?
Moreover, what is the necessity of this water?’
Asked small baby, in his sight, the pot was full of water
‘Father, I also shall drink from this water
And take a little home for my younger ones
And also for my friends’
With hands merged together
In the pot, small kid fetched the water
‘Father, will you drink more, this is sweet?’
Big kid stretched his hands out
And received the water and swigged
Realizing he was being self-interested
He could not live for just himself, but also others
Family and friends and none-friends
Must benefit the good act of his existence
So silent was the years passed by as kite
Two years had elapsed and this night
Pleasantly, big baby passed away just as night
But once more he realized
His children were his long lived
His children were his elixir of life
Thank you for reading me.
in it's beginning
all who opposed it sought an end
yet they marked it's beginning as unknown
and found it more complicated to
make quarantine and contain
sickness
those who find togetherness as part of events
and those who abroad in business or fun.
it has found away to cripple and grasp the attention
of those who are in opposition of'it's spread.
those who war are ill, and those who seek peace
are ill.
then might the mightiest of graces
humble the minds of man
to find himself the cure to the sickness he has created.
Chore and thus thy labors shall find remedy
that mans recilances comes from his fear of god.
yet the zealot speaks as he knows each en: and the scientist speaks
as each beginning is the right start.
Man and woman stay true to their allegiances to one another
and the lonely and displaced find refuge in being alone.
calm the shores of this stormy place, man will never have such power!
Man shall find these facts and streamline each difference
and on every shore all men shall began to heal.
and mourn those they lost to sickness.
pray ye this to shall pass.
pray ye this to shall be resolved.
Gone are the bright heroic heads waving along the highway,
Once so psychedelic in their vibrant, vivid display.
Only to wilt and die during the scorching summer,
Diligent first, by sowing seeds for any future newcomer.
Busy modern mowers deadhead the wavering brilliance.
Yesterday’s showy walkdown modulates their efflorescence.
Each brave blossom catches my eye as I mourn the array.
Spring’s dramatic demise leaves a monochromatic palette,
Promoting promises of harvests that stimulate my palate.
Regal raiment of tastes and smells overcomes my loss,
Instilling, rather, exuberance for salad greens to toss!
No mourning for what is past, as Summer now is boss.
Glorious Spring is gone, but I am a zestful Summer zealot
There is a beat to the world,
it burns and bites, it can calm & comfort,
it will arouse and it will anger, it is a romantic rhythm,
immutable and immaculate,
an unselfish music it is, life provides this sensative song
and we all perfom a dance of danger, delight,& determination
as a humble gratuity for it's majesty,
how could any rational person contend that Nature is imperfect,
who dares accuse life of wrong doing,
how does such turgidity exist, minds on meger budget,
oh but they do, ugly creatures of hollow heads have argued so pompously
to indict the cosmos with error like how fowl beggars cavil
about quality of charity,
huffing, moaning, and squirming in their rationalizations for feeling indignant about life
inglorious as dirt on silk,
wrangling like gluttonous mosquitoes, vile & clumsy,
if they were to admit life's absolute perfection
then more self accountability for actions need ensue,
how could they slander Deity without blame,
I spoke to a religious zealot, pious as pain to wounds,
he said, oh no, life, including human discretion cannot be perfect
for there is sin and gross debauchery,
I discussed the matter with a scientist, calculating as the I.R.S., he replied,
no no, you play semantic games, nature is immensely imperfect,
like the price of fame,
I politely requested an example of imperfection from him, he smugly said,
" genetic mutations ", what unabashed ego I thought,
his response seemed word game,
I debated a logician on the subject, thorough as an army ant this one was,
she remarked that the idea of imperfection
could cause imperfect reality,
I said, if anything occurs it must be, otherwise it would not happen,
imperfection is that which should not happen,
all that becomes real is present time impeacability -
J.A.B. %
KANGA BORA MARI YA ABDALLA
After graduation son of Walla
i lived at a coastal town
where the people so hated the warmth..
they chose to move at nite
in the clothes they were born with..
Son of Walla i was dismayed
I called myself to counsel
and decreed a holy decree
son of my mother
i would not let this profanity- continue
Son of walla i took up a whip
and whip them i did son of walla...
Urging them with strokes of the whip
to know the need- value of clothing up
many a wild lass recieved... strokes of the cane
Son of Walla i brought back respect
to a people who walked unclad
Son of Walla i geuss i did good
Mari ya Abdalla they called me...zealot..
some sneered behind my back.. but manners
imade sure they were taught
at the crack of the whip.. male and female
they feared me.. or was it my whip
son of walla i changed life for a lost people
Kanga Boora Mari ya Abdalla
ubora wa sitara ndo wema wa sitara
that was my message
delivered to a people
who felt warmth
instead of feeling manners
Abdullah was a student in my school.
He wanted to learn English very well.
The school had home stay programs. At that time,
I sometimes took in students. I’d had two
before him, and they had not worked out great.
Abdullah, though, was helpful and polite.
I’m sure, like other Muslims at the school,
he practiced his religion but was not
a zealot! He would smoke outside and not
complain about my rules. He fit right in!
How pleasant this young man’s demeanor was!
Alone in this big country, he had set
a goal to get into a college soon.
Though only Level One at English school,
his comprehension of the language grew!
I still recall the sweet way he would ask
to help me wash the dishes or to cook.
I showed him how to make a pizza dough.
We baked some chocolate cookies once and were
like old friends in the kitchen as we laughed!
But mostly I recall the drives to school
and chatting with Abdullah, passing time.
I wish I had him on my Facebook page.
No matter where he ended up, I know
he’s doing well and brightening more lives.
July 3, 2017
(Thanks to my friend James Horn who helped me with problems I had spacing on a different computer)
The Sardauna, the prince
Champion of the masses
The leader of the North
The defender of the realm
Princely yet accessible
The Prince Royal
The north your realm
Though tribe and tongues duffer
You still make the difference
Portrayed as a northern zealot
Of the scion of Usman Dan Fodiyo
Royal turbans in purple array
A great thinker and visionary
Achievements so colossal and huge
Colloquial rantings so high yet can't
be denied
Institutions still blazing the trail
Posterity have seen your travails
The Sardauna, the Northern Prince
Decades have come and gone
None in the northern realm holds your sway
Selflessness your true identity
Legacies intact, history made
Posterity the true judge
None have your charisma
Nor your impeccable persona
Those that took after you have all
gone astray
Going after the god of mammon
They are all pretenders
To the crown of your realm
With trending events these past decades
There is none in the realm that holds your
sway.
The Sardauna the Northern Prince