If it is conceived by the mind,
sanctioned by the heart,
it’s not fiction, a measure
of the real in every storied work.
Above me is a shelf-full having outlived
their authors, many their civilizations
along with their gods. There are not fictions!
Instead, transitory dimensions of being --
journeys limited only by one’s dragging
imagination --
I will consign a heaven where poets are
royalty; seated on thrones surrounded by
fawning fans. We autograph their copies as
they wipe our profuse brows, having laboriously
bleed one’s soul into the pages. Wherever
they are future carried and read, we are also there,
spirit cursing through Time’s Lyric Arteries….
The ancient Mariner!
That raging infernal!
Am I not the saga of my parent’s love,
each a manufacture of our God?
There is no fiction after the fact.
And woe to you, critics and editors,
savage murders of my fond text!
The heart will speak
with consent or not!
Will not be ruled
by logic Schooled –
Passion, a heart’s signet beat --
lesser thumps, go unrecorded.
No-way will a heart
be easily pacified – openly
bleeds~ inclined selflessly to feed
out...
Nor mere band-aide can
stem such profuse pouring, short of
a tourniquet noose -- its own rope
and spruce.
Yes, at its best, the heart cherishes,
and then, a pity, its own happiness
sometimes will raid – though the owner
tries reason, a world of intellectual appeasing,
the heart will simply not play nice -- will
not take its own tenderizing advice --
Will not let other source direct nor persuade --
The heart, of itself, both master and maid!
Stands in the shoes of the lonely and destitute
Is quietly wise, soft-spoken yet astute
Sows with joy the bounty of wisdom's fruits
Tends to the heart with words that soothe
Embraces that two, in unity, can stand resolute
Reaches across the silence with laughter and truth
Harbours a love that runs deep, flowing profuse
Offers her light without limit or excuse
Overcomes, by the Lamb's power, all cycles of abuse
Drawn closely to His side - forever her chains are loosed
Beneath a strawberry moon in sapphire sky,
on last limbs, spirit torn and weathered
Merciless passerby’s malicious lies,
mud clings as ancient as memory.
Shards of ice lancing, piercing,
in darkness and in profuse silence
Each frayed root carries burden
each stain, the wind proclaims.
Rotting bark leaves its prints into earth,
she lifts her last bating branch,
towards the abyss of emptiness,
her last redemption, salvation.
What had once been plush and whole,
had learned the language of stones,
the patience of cold rivers,
the stubborn song of survival.
Even the torn edges strand erect,
uprooted, plucked from soulless soil
The winding tree takes its last breath,
beneath a strawberry moon.
So I revel in being alive,
at the age of seventy four,
with no tangible boundary,
long and longer one does yearn,
for life’s garden of pure health,
my blossom, bloom, and bliss,
devoid of serious ailment,
that bristling spirit undimmed,
I still savour with such abandon,
verdant sights, scenes, sounds,
profuse vista, azure skyline,
wondrous rapids, bright streams,
tender love and human passion,
sheer late phase zest enduring,
my olden yet golden proud march,
year on year earthly nirvana
A king has arrived on US soil.' Protocol and
Shared interests, are undoubtedly the counterfoil, pon which promises and favor
Will carreen' while onlookers
are in close, and millions are on screens.
We have seen it before.' The very special bond, very chummy and pally, and so on; and on.' andrew
battenburg, has enjoyed all this.' Profuse warm
Wishes..Maybe some was just kid.? However
There's been some changes; as we all now know
No more andy.' Today its this
strange king.' With his
Queen in tow.' He's done it before so many
Times..Tet'e teted with kissenger, no hint
Of war crimes, no whisper of epstein
either, i'd say
Today.? Designed..They used different
tunnels i'll guess on the day.? I mean in buckingham
Palace l.! its easy to miss, a high level fixer
So nothing was ever amiss.' And no one in the
Present, of the throng of control, would ever do bad stuff." Pon their very souls.! and
Should a scandal break? even now" no one
Would knew anyone..( i can guarantee thst somehow.?)
motto
of
acceptance
fascinate
&
depict
attendant
intimations
emphasing
isolated
motifs
floating
metamorphic
metaphors
spreading
&
proclaiming
profuse
connections
We once called Dogs guardians of our compounds and our heart,
Heart of the household, warm as bread and bright as blaze,
Blaze that bowed at our feet in the inaudible obscure.
Obscure fell like a butcher’s shutter across the tetragonal,
Tetragonal where fidelity once flapped its tender tail,
Tail now dangles like a query in the market air.
Air profuse with starvation, a wolf wearing a hominid face,
Face of famine, carving memory like stiff bone,
Bone soup boiling where trust once had its residence.
Residence at the table set with silver and with disgrace,
Disgrace salted into every affectionate, rented inhalation,
Inhalation of a comrade we entitled as love before it became meat.
Meat of dogs have become preferred and delicious food,
Food for some people, for lunch or diner in homes or eateries,
Eateries' existing due to man's business of murdering and hating Dogs,
Dogs suffering betrayal yet they have been loyal to man.
Poem by N. Mugisho
WORLDS OF DREAMS-:-
derived
illuminations
shaped
elaboration
all-embracing
RECURRING IMAGERY
profuse
compositional
connotations
eternity
contrasted
as TRAINS OF THOUGHT
emblematic
reminders
imparted
before
after
Lightning strafed
the carbon sky
with blazing spears
and monster fangs.
Deep thunder boomed
like cannon fire
and rent clouds
from dreamless rest.
The grey néphos
wept profuse
to see havens
gored.
On the bridge
a maiden cowered
her moggy cat
in tow.
Sail and mast
trembled, racked;
a bygone king
bowed to pray
tossed on waters
thrashing wild.
The tempest sighed
gagged.
The spent year sinks in the captivating cauldron of history,
traces a fading furrow on traversed time by the setting sun,
etched on the realm of remote remembrance weary,
the new year comes blooming buds of promise one by one.
Janus opens routinely for me the door to the new beginning,
after my time crosses the corridor of the worn-out year,
I’ll weave unseen dreams in the tapestry of future ensuing,
unsung songs I’ll sing for the seasons as they will appear.
Along the path God paves for me I’ll begin the new journey
with cornucopia of resolute resolutions to make me wise,
reach amused the edge of the time plateau I don’t see,
yearning to greet 2026 with a joyous sunrise in my skies.
Maybe I’ll make naive the old mistakes many more time,
but resolve to commit them the way they won’t repeat.
I’ll swathe life with some fun, make jokes of me in rhyme,
and laugh my heart out as seemingly senseless stupid feat.
I’ll express profuse gratitude to those close to me I’ll see,
even if they don’t take me as I am with imprudence inbred.
For my muse my pen will be re-filled with ink in glee,
I’ll keep on writing poems that may not disappear unread.
A windswept mist whispers possibility
trickling down cheeks of strangers as she sashays on
Main Street’s square bares a brimming moon
hammocked on a muted sundown’s casting glow
Eclipsing from view is the last café,
a perky bouquet, a lonely sojourner
fleur-de-lis— yellow iris profuse
With an unwavering discipline held
as if carrying the coat of arms
Gisèle proceeds down the rue de chagrin
O bathysphere, thy sinking.
Seen: what, as you descend?
Life and death a-stinking!
Break fast around the bend!
Thy formation, O blastocyst.
From whence do you produce?
Rapier, twist! Slip, my wrist!
Pining, be profuse!
Throw sparks, O bright beryllium!
Electric wire, wild wind!
Fire of heaven and hell, come!
Tell me, tamarind!
Biennium, be bearable.
Split in half, two ones.
Pigeons, be thou pair-able?
How that parable stuns!
O boniface, thy full career.
Grinded? Inn. Goad gear.
Cliff by seaside, art thou sheer?
Are thy dropoffs drear?
Honey, O my kinkajou!
Leave it for the bees!
O for hearts that beat untrue!
Claim them, my deep freeze!
O tether to reality!
Cord etheric, hum!
Saffron scents in sabbath sea!
O tomorrow, thrum!
The Laundry Room
Aprons folded flat, tablecloths left lying on their back,
Black patent baby shoes piled in a stack
Against the tower of towels needed for a bath.
Dusty duvets rolled out of use
Toilet mats, underwear , socks all loose.
An ironing board, stands full of abuse
The sadness I feel is so profuse.
Scattered around is destruction and debris blast-
Things rendered shapeless and futile ,but to ooze
Disgust and infinitely depressing misery profuse;
What was a pleasure and intact heaven, is lost !
Paralysed life and sickly breath is just a doom;
What came up in the spirit and sprouts of affinity,
And the blooming faith finds its end to infinity;
Intense fire has left behind the engirdling gloom
Weird ambition and endless greed do always swell :
All pursuits and desires fulfilled,man doth chase
The vain, 'undo' prompts of the hidden mind base
That blind the vision of the ensuant horror sequel
From the lithic to the vicious latent missile,
Devouring pathos,Rage has stretched its arm;
The charm of living is lost in death and sick harm
The extant essence of survival is lost in a while
Gone are twitters,chirps and the fresh pearly dew
The blessing sunrise and the sweet cool breeze;
Dissenting waves are churning the settled seas
Old order merges with the ruined past for the new!
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