Dirty, tatterdemalion in appearance
He's clothed in worn-out raiment, his hair unkempt;
Perambulating through concrete jungles with...
No place to call home.
He carries his entire life in his backpack.
No money to spend; hunger pangs relentless.
On the move from shelter to shelter, he has...
No place to call home
He's but a man the rest of the world forgot;
Loneliness written in his sickly sad eyes.
It's so harsh life devoid of creature comforts;
No place to call home.
Date written: 12/20/2022
The Wind Mocked My Brother
Serene it appeared to on the surface,
Its scarred face brother could not locate,
Her lips spoke as a false prophet,
But helpless brother did not inspect,
He was blown like the morning glory,
Brother was stabbed in the chest by the hands of cocaine and marijuana.
He thought it was praises he was given when loaded his footprint with people who followed him in his doom,
He tried to fit in, he never even knew which room,
Brother was abused.
The spirit that incites with the feeling which rises the serotonin levels,
Led a massive struggle,
Only because he wanted brother bedraggled,
He provided false oxytocin and fooled the boy to set narcissism lead him to the grave,
The grave where one is buried while perambulating the corridors of his dreams with no hope.
Brother was mocked,
Brother was mocked,
Don't say he used to be a star,
Where has he gone?
Beneath the blanket of the cloud of despair as he seeked to be repaired,
Addiction kills.
-Gabriel T. Saah
Like a spear
Perambulating through flesh
Leaving a tear
Incessantly so fresh
Is fear
Like a macrophage
Nursing your gash
Pouncing bacteria in a phage
Rigorously in a flash
Is hope
The good witch is still trying hard to collect the future
Nostalgic and post-modern she fondles her crystal ball
With soft hands she embraces Gaia and its sepia hue
Oblivious to oblivion she attempts to elude the inevitable
A monochrome reminder of the future’s soft calling
If the earth was flat warriors would fall of the edges
But her grip remains an illusion of human endeavour
And yet the photographer’s lens refuses acceptance
'My paradigm is one of lingering hope' he seems to allude
The voice of a renegade artist while the shutter is closed
The mind wanders along fantasy’s perambulating soul
Blends out a scream shot phases into caring surrender
Of a world not quite forgotten in hearts of compassion
Tables need turning and sheets hold fragrance of love
Flickering light embraces translucent impermanence
Its not rocket science to kindle an ephemeral candle
With astronauts on the moon and apocalyptic star wars
Prophesy’s calling however resigns to a parallel universe
In which the dark ages have come to haunt humankind
Clairvoyants see photophiles show and the poet must write
29th February 2020
Profile picture painted to please Jennifer Lopez
Smiles for miles to the dynamite of Taio Cruz
Sights, heights and flights into serene skies
Bereft of dour dues, hostile hues, cantankerous queues and bludgeon blues.
Laughter in a merry matter to flatter Nicky Minaj
No grenade on a serenade to degrade a flight to Bruno Mars
Urge age to assuage a morose message
Conveyed in hearts perambulating in rickshaws and cars.
African Queen croons tender tunes for Two Baba
Heartbeats, sweets and tweets when love takes over David Guetta and Kelly Rowland
While for miles piles of styles revile rattle sabre
As Cupid cousins celebrate in a style grand in a gregarious gland.
Ouch! Message hits bull’s eye with a cry…No more Cleopatra, Romeo and Juliet
Venomous viper vanquishes vaunted friendship
Torrents of tears dent Eden events. No more merriment to fete
Julie stolen in July, Julie flown Heavenwards in a shrouded ship.
Her face is tilted
She just silently stare at me
She doesn’t talk to me no more
Her smiles not as reassuring as I remember
“Talk to me”, I whispered
Nothing! Just more stares
I smiled and turned her around,
She didn’t giggle
I set her down and start
making funny faces
She just keeps staring
Her beautiful oval face,
black hair and powerful lips
still a work of nature
Her face still in that same position
it had always been
Why won’t you talk to me?
I have a lot happening in my life
you need to know
I need your guidance
’cause I’m afraid,
afraid I’m no longer that innocent
child you once knew;
one who hardly got angry
You was always here but for some time now,
you’ve quietly slipped away
Tired of gesticulating and perambulating,
I took the large frame and
hung it back on the wall
where she had always been
Maybe one day, she will finally speak
to her daughter again!
Perambulating in Jail
‘Hey you in the middle march on in median mediocrity’
No subversive elements needed no lateral thinking and
no thinking per se is required once you follow the crowd
‘No eccentricity get into that box until no box is required’
So-called traitors poets intellectuals struggle with blame
are deemed the fifth column since we should be all equal
On the battle fields of evil ‘you are with us or against us’
while the golden mean of virtue and reason withers away
in dire misappropriation of the ancient theme of wisdom
‘Stay on the path’ and soon there will be fences and bars
when you will finally accept the message and convenience that
prisons and goal post surely protect all of us simply from our Selves
Unless of course we chose to march in the centre of convictions
behold as treasures the journey without the meddling middlemen
or women who claim the truth from poisoned cages of indifference
April 2017
the big P
it was in it’s own proud prominence
the path that entered your world
innocent
ruled by beast
brawn
blood
pressed in tensile tension
awakening in sleep
asleep in wakening
a one note song
spewed from a
two sphered voice
spiraling into the fulcrum
of your fecundity
it was in it’s own stuttering singularity
a part pieced partly from
paltry presumptions
petulant pursuits
penetrating into palsy
perturbed then pallid
plucked
pruned
passed
into peculiarity
punctured
pitied
perplexed
into perpetuity
trapped in pubescent possibility
perambulating at the periphery
of your heart
just beyond the miracle
of profundity.
A Winston churchill’s declaration
to a tiny nation situated in the dark continent
due to its magnificence and sight capturing habitat
only matched by the electrifying effect of its hospitality.
A country where wealth has long made a short call
and yet to return to where it is needed.
Starvation on Boda-bodas, perambulating across its communities
as a longing for good life is never satisfied.
Yet happiness supersedes lack
on a nation which is tree loving;
a global competitor in Bananas, pineapples and Avocados
and a home to extinction-kissing Gorillas.
Satisfaction from pan fried grasshoppers
equates the appetizing feel of Italian pizzas and Turkish Donas.
Gender division of labour quite one-sided
where men are roof installers and women, the actual builders.
No wonder, female engineers and contractors
have long attracted the norm in a society
which is in love with Bicycles
and buttoned by a twin dry seasons.
Bwindi and Mhahinga are major game reserves
but its stand out feature so unique
is the simple fact it’s the youngest country in the globe
with one in every two, fourteen or below.
Desiccated stems scattering amid taut hands;
Lingering footsteps among conjoined velvet roots;
The interval’s inertia an anxious psychosomatic swell.
This once stale earth is now littered with perpetual fractals;
A kaleidoscopic reverence descends in mute pulsating breaths.
Stretched faces adopt the slithering temperament of gnarled bark;
Snatched sentences break and collide in waves of meditative mitosis;
Incessant cyclical (e)motions converge on a bluntly obstinate awe.
Luridly tremulous marvels stalk beside perambulating horrors;
An ethereal world saturated by fresh irrefutable certainties.
Space suspended beneath an impulsively precipitate sky;
Staggered exodus governed by periodic disorientation;
A dazed echo lingers and reality becomes an escape.
Flour sacks I remember you so well
full of golden grain, bran or flour
a slight but delightful musty smell
perambulating the atmosphere
Sacks cut up for all sorts of things
cloth shoes and dresses even trousers
rough coats that did not keep one warm
scarecrows dressed in sacks
Vegetables stored in sacks that are stacked
in rows inside the dutch barn ragged edges
where the rodents have been chewing happily
a veritable feast they will not go hungry
Sacks of cloth rule in my book
paper is not the same no way
a soggy mess when it rains
ripping as you carry them
Hessian sacks people knew would last
paper is only good for bonfires
or as twists to start the parlor fire
airless no good to store food through winter
written 11/22/2013
contest Whatever Happened To Flour Sacks
.
Her perambulating
my dream
winking
Her eyes
fluorescent green
in a soft white
percale
coaxing me
with her to
undress
And then the ringing
in mine head
Oh my
that alarm clock
Beyond the measure and mead
of circadian rhythm and habitual rhyme
beyond the frequencies and amplitudes
of perambulating waves and recalcitrant lines
Beyond the clamor and din of nutmeg and time
cleavers and butchers and earthmen who climb
Atop the weathered brow of
life's grand conflagration
an old man disembarked at the final destination
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