Day to remember those who perished
In wars and skirmishes abroad
Let their images be cherished
By those who knew them from the squad
To pin a pennant of "Old Glory"
In earth where heroes lay in rest
Their lives were short, but what a story
May their memories be blessed
Let's honor them as time is going
We move afar from battles fought
They gave it all, and we're bowing
Our heads; in angst, respect and thought
May 26, 2025
trickling streams enlist fingers stroke
translating silent stares script air bubbles
soul skirmishes dying and breath twitches
her amort jabs shatter blind eyes
soft breaths linger aphonic sighs
surfboarding alongside rocky creeks
you wish to decry me with metaphors
whispered secrets shared solely betwixt us
words untied weighed by fireflies glow
bemoaning to aurify amid fiery solar flares
hoping for air in a pathless stream
let me shed words from balm of dry lips
you said that you might catch them
I've seen the way a glass dances, though
slips through your fingers and shatters
I hear a forlorn violin pluck its strings
catacombs lurk in a hollow cage
when it beleaguers, it wails and shrieks
an uncaged spirit walks with a dog
left, just a beshrew echo in a silent world
Cutest prattles of children I adore
Are now the loudest cries I bear
Oh, No! The grieves of these abandoned souls
The worst sounds I have ever heard
Mesmerizing songs of endemic birds I carried
have become a threatening alarm now
Migratory birds missed the way to their hometown
Endemic ones sense no way at all to escape
Minerals accumulated river
is now of blood spilling over
Obnoxious odour it is,
I couldn't carry further...
Daily prayers and chants I hear
have turned into laments with fear
Thrumming thunder drums I bring
turned out to be the horrible skirmishes
Two military factions strictly crafting their plans
Echoing the sounds of huge bombs and gunfires
Reigned over their people by creating boundaries
Unfortunately, this unbiased breeze is same for all
Amidst this tormenting situation, I still try to thrive
to be a solacing breath to the struggling souls out there
If not, I would have become a windstorm
and ruined the entire place certainly
21-Oct -2023
Where is my steed the king asked his wife
She kind of knew but she valued her life
She lied a bit guiding him to an unsuspecting patron
Steed joined her at court, dressed as a pretty matron.
Steed was tired of skirmishes, battles and war.
He said “I am getting older, and my body is sore.”
Steed had always protected queen’s husband, the king.
Queen gave him apples, sugar, and a break that entire spring.
Oh, dear Sparrow! Fallen still
Softly feathered where you lay
As of a soldier gently eased
To sleep in dreams away
Whose dying wish was lost, was lost
In wars of yesterday
Your folded wings are nestled close
Your uniform unmarred
There is no stain upon your coat
Nor mark upon your bars
It seems from battle you emerged
Without a battle scar
For there you are composed, serene
Your earthly visage calm
No sign of struggle or of strife
No specter of alarm
Nor outward damage I can see –
Within, then, be the harm
Where broken wounds internalize
Beyond the battlefield
Where kamikaze skirmishes
Could not survive the steel
And solid soundness of the pane
Which from you did not yield
To you then, fallen warrior
In tribute, hear my prayer –
That you may soar unbounded, free
With worry none, nor care
In everlasting flight on wings
As virtual as air –
A coward easily gives up in the morning
And even in the evening:
In brewing fights to lie low
And during skirmishes unhelpfully slow.
Battle strategies offers the hothead,
Courtesy of the war novels by him read
Bu on some secure seat still fastened
Long after combats have been hastened.
A reason to readily stake our big money
And if there’s none our bees’ honey:
That the fire in his eyes will never spark
Nor his voice drop a bull-dog’s bark;
His fists never wire pulverizing punch
Nor his kicks make receivers bunch.
All cowards are warriors never composed,
A chapter right from beginning closed.
It was not the epic battles
It was daily skirmishes
Gallantry ready at the helm
Sword and shield raised daily
To squelch and silence the infidels
He was a Christian crusader
A hero, brave and indoctrinated
To not appreciate or tolerate any religion
Except his own, which applauded his killing ways
He spilled their blood gladly
With no remorse
or thought of his own comfort
He gave up twenty years of his life
To please his mother and father
Killing his way through non-believers
Not realizing their faith was every bit as solid as his own.
~~A chess match is an opaque mirror into societal clash.
Slippery rules and taboos playing upon a checkered past.
Balcony kings and queens glaring down on the lower caste.
Ramparts buttressing crooked flanks, serfs in the murky front.
Devouring dirt, taking the brunt of many skirmishes to come.
Senators riding sky horses, gliding so high above the fight.
Neighing nonsense -fanning their brand of hellfire lies.
Speedy-tongued bishops blitzing on the slanted slide.
In our faces, showcasing only the wrongs of our lives.
Black and white toppling ungracefully to the side.
Flimsy smiles and flint handshakes without dialogue.
Another fiery stalemate on the blazing horizon.
Words as offensive weapons
dwell on ugliness of bad-humored life.
Words as effective tools
dwell on beauty and truth
of good-humored health,
empowerment,
love.
Yet, swords become plowshares.
Plowshares are repurposed as unwieldy swords.
Regenerative intent becomes degenerative chaos.
Degenerative discontent becomes regenerate
tipping points
within silent complexity.
Can words become weapons
for active peace?
And still tools
quietly feeling unresolved
in silent external/internal wars?
Between curious ancient communioned minds
and courageous ego-independent bodies,
Between original health-tooled womb
memories
And today's wealth-weaponed tidal means,
unsustained strength
yet resiliently flowing ways,
transparent patriarchal dissonance
revoicing maternal confluence,
empowering vulnerability;
revolutionary stillness
actively listening
between quiet health-wombed rememories.
Wisely employed wellness tools
for feminist well-being weapons;
cooperatively-managed words
for hearing beatific Truths,
re-seeing Ways,
rekindling communicating Lives;
Revolutionary politics,
awesome economics,
wondrous revitalization,
compassionate communion.
A Blanket from the Bin
The cold hospital is not an evil place, on purpose.
It is frozen to slow down the progress of death.
It is harder to attack that way, (“demise”) it moves sluggishly…
Allows doctors, nurses, caretakers and loved ones,
a chance to do skirmishes, that offer a tomorrow, at times.
Angels, they move gracefully.
They are outside the realm of hot and cold,
and live between the lines of love and hate.
They fight battles unseen, with dark foes…
ever trying to bring down the innocent and beautiful.
Prayer warriors, go willingly into the artic night.
Daring to come against the heat of ice too cold,
to be just “cold” any longer… burning like hell itself.
They bring their words, of their King.
They bring His Light, to shine.
They are not afraid.
The place… is given warmth
by all those that make a difference.
It is given peace,
by the patience of perseverance.
It is given,
True Hope,
by the Son of God,
Jesus.
What wonderful and frightening imaginings time has dealt
in having lived these years and seen and felt,
decades plus of sadness, joy, and laughter,
fear and love, unhappy happy ever afters;
First came the dreams,
rising out of poverty and self-worth upon this earth
then the early crawl and fallen steps growing out of birth,
distrust and hate in skirmishes after a world at war
when soldiers, fathers, and sons sadly gave their lives
for freedom to reign as their world's prize
suddenly in the shadows filled with innocence
power mongers hold still with lies at will insolent;
the people struggle, live and die, laugh and cry
as louder voices wield the reins
and steal the freedoms gained
does history ever change?
I pray for peace, asking for God's blessing;
for our need has never been so pressing.
Wars and skirmishes are on the increase;
asking for God's blessing, I pray for peace.
Devastated by war, cities crumble,
treading on bodies; the injured stumble.
And Hope dwindles, until there is no more;
cities crumble, devastated by war.
Brutalized and starved, the women are raped,
for their men died fighting; no one escaped.
As newly gained territories get carved,
the women are raped, brutalized, and starved.
Children die mutilated and abused;
when military tensions aren't diffused.
There are no morals when the bullets fly,
mutilated and abused; children die.
Peace is a dream; war is reality;
politicians deal in hyperbole.
Inflated egos stifle a child's scream;
war is reality; peace is a dream.
Another name is added to the ongoing list
authors, actors, visionaries, advocates of change galore
now, passed on to the obits of evermore.
Too many from my youth and younger ways
found the cause and time to mark your days
with dreams and wishes, seeking changes on parade.
Today, the less well known
seem to cater to kings and dictators on a throne
with the masses bent and adoration prone.
World Wars and police skirmishes
sought to imprison those who resist
and a generation's senses awaken and with fires burn.
History repeats itself until we learn
freedom reigns free only if we earned
the humanity for which we yearn.
Up the dark barricaded staircase
with a monitor well focused between their legs
they came to digest an ego
caress ten long fingers aflame at tips
Imbibe bright juice
heal a chequered heart
mount the focused quartz
don weathered leather
as African heroes of the past stare
through windows draped in
white chiffon
They smooth peppercorn hair
in ecstasies of bliss as delicate oil
flare their nostrils, ignite their liver
while township youth play dice upstairs
modelling their future on one man alone
as jazz tunes are whistled from corners
a piano remains covered in velvet
with a blighted knight trying some stunts
and wizard talks tales of Mecca
then prays on centre stage
They twist locks and slit bars
violet Sun stream in
all is touched with gold as he glances
at their toes, skirmishes their
breasts in figures of eight
on a path to the beyond
White Witches in Wind
Which is the real African dream?
building an independent continent?
decolonization of neocolonialism?
I think it is a no!
Which is the virgin African dream?
is it life of mutual brotherhood?
can it be continental patriotism?
I think it is a no!
Which is the African dream?
becoming a world super power?
protecting resources for posterity?
I think it is a no
African dream is a dead dream
whenever the Africa begins to dream
noises and skirmishes wake him
out of bed he runs!
But I think I know African dream
It is individual not communitarian
ballooning belly, head, pockets with pride
then skating the planet!
The African mass does not dream
once noise ejects them from dream- beds
they trek to where citizens have dreamt
to pick bits of life!
Africans, do dream virgin African dreams
Nothing is so precious, nothing is so great
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