Sweltering and dripping sweat,
tillers of land prayed as they gazed
with frenzied hope and furrowed brows
up at a sun that glared relentlessly down
from a stubbornly cloudless sky.
Through August, the days limply crawled
into September.
The heat kept beating
and beating them down
until a few weeks later when
wind began to wail; trees trembled.
No lovelier shrouds were ever seen
than those gray shrouds of clouds
that delivered splattering droplets
which turned quickly
into sheets and sheets of rain.
It pounded ground
and soaked the thirsting fields,
and with the heavens,
the joyous farmers wept.
The sun's ventures to scorch the blossoms fail.
Goddesses Maia and Lakshmi sail.
Pre-monsoon drizzles cool the environs.
Optimism spreads wings, hushing storm's sirens.
Human forms are moulded to merriment
With the leaven of truth, good deeds ferment.
Clear conscience cascades from the divine source.
As a gentle breeze, love becomes life force.
For the tillers of land, it's a fair season.
In creating this, God has his reason.
As graces reach the zenith of goodness
May the Divine lead all towards fullness!
Tillers cost up to three hundred dollars
I don’t need one, I have a puppy
He digs a hole every day to bury his face in
All I have to do is stake him out like a goat on a chain
Wherever I want my garden
The noddy land
Reality is more than we see in an everyday happening
It stretches further into another dimension we call dreams
but are vital in living life.
What my ghostwriter tries to say is: dreams come true.
I was back in the valley where I used to live and was
greeted by old friends who only appear in dreams
asked me where I had been; if I told they would think
I was dreaming and looked alarmed; has he gone ga, ga.
Footwear is a must in the valley, which is free of cars
I had been the shoemaker making shoes for the ball
and clogs for everyday use when walking on streets
of cobblestone in the valley’s little town.
In this valley, only those who do practical work are
leaders, who get to vote, say, the tillers of the soil
and the men and women who make the food edible
distribute sustenance and feed the people soundly.
The people in my valley are peaceful and friendly
go to bed early, follow the pattern of the climate
this also makes them dull; when I’m well rested
return to the turbulence of earthly days and love.
Beethoven smashes one piano after another.
He shears through keyboards,
a peasant scything hay.
The composer's fingers listen
through touch,
they become deeper, more blunted,
a vibration of mallets.
Frown the brow,
push the plow
make music drive a steamroller.
His apartment is disorderly,
tools and equipment
are hidden in Dresden figurines,
in elderly Delftware,
ball-peen hammers crammed
into the whittled stems of goose quills.
Augers, grinders, and rotary tillers
are rendered into themes and motifs.
Wrecking crews hum and stamp,
tables thump out allegro dissonance.
Into this din and demolition
comes a heavy sonata
the hard-nosed 'Hammerklavier'
bulldozing a blunt pathway
into cramped 19th century streets,
where in the absence of safety barriers,
all but one turns a deaf ear.
Beethoven smashes one piano after another.
He shears through keyboards,
a peasant scything hay.
The composer's fingers don't grow deaf,
they become deeper, more blunted,
like mallets.
His apartment is disorderly,
tools and equipment
are hidden in Dresden figurines,
in elderly Delftware,
ball-peen hammers crammed
into the whittled stems of goose quills.
Augers, grinders and rotary tillers
are rendered into themes and motifs.
Wrecking crews hum and stamp,
tables thump out allegro dissonance.
Into this din and demolition
plows a heavy sonata
the hard-nosed 'Hammerklavier'
bulldozing its trenchant path
into the cramped streets;
where in the absence of safety barriers,
a defiant deconstruction
has begun.
It is set to take the stage,
We see signs of its coming,
The tillers eagerly await,
Its visit brings life, hope and newness.
March 5, 2022
MARCH IN Poetry Contest
The season the tillers earnestly await,
The thirsty and parched celebrate,
The dead are awakened,
The weak are strengthened,
An envelope of life and beauty permeate.
February 18, 2022
Grey vapour sated clouds extend their chain
Of rainy bursts and torrents at a glance
The hoarse throat whine from canyons weren’t in vain
As green shoot tillers bow to circumstance
Rush petals weave a chain of svelte romance
On river banks where oak beam timbres fall
Coy sika deer among his peers may crawl
Beyond that wetland canvass oiled at birth
An embryonic chain encodes its wall
With nascent human trails to cosmic mirth
Beethoven smashes one piano after another.
He shears through keyboards,
a peasant scything hay.
The composer's fingers don't grow deaf,
they become deeper, more blunted,
like mallets.
His apartment is disorderly,
tools and equipment
are hidden in Dresden figurines,
in elderly Delftware,
ball-peen hammers crammed
into the whittled stems of goose quills.
Augers, grinders and rotary tillers
are rendered into themes and motifs.
Wrecking crews hum and stamp,
tables thump out allegro dissonance.
Into this din and demolition
plows a heavy sonata
the hard-nosed 'Hammerklavier'
bulldozing its trenchant path
into the cramped streets;
where in the absence of safety barriers,
a defiant deconstruction
has begun.
It is May Day, today.
A day in the month of May.
A day set aside for the illustrious
men and women of the world.
Dutiful and diligent fellows.
Individuals with thoughts of change
for the global village.
A global village we all inhabit.
Great inventors,living and gone.
Explorers, far and near.
Business moguls,high and low.
Tillers and seamen in the nooks and crannies.
Deep thinkers who set things on the move.
We all have this day!
This day for us all!
Thinkers,workers and achievers!
The great now,the great to be.
The Christian life is not robotic
The Kingdom of God is very organic.
It is not "do this and you will get that"
But a Seed of life on His welcome mat.
It's not "do good and you'll get good"
But feeding from Jesus the heavenly food.
It's not "do bad and you'll get bad"
But hearing the warnings from his red flags.
It's not by principles or law based keeping
but letting seed grow, while you are sleeping.
We're not asking God to create the external
For we already have what we need internal.
I's not a structure you build so well
but a tree that grows; cell by cell.
It's not that you know each chapter and verse
But an agreeing heart to His voice you've heard
It's not a formula that you can do
But agreement to the Life inside of you.
The Kingdom of God is not for mechanics
But tillers of soil who love organics.
The Kingdom of God is not cause and effect
But seed and harvest for God's elect.
The roaring gun that knew no owners
The ghost incarnated in a metal
groaning in the Pearl of Africa
Terminating the blood f cattle keepers
Hurtling the flesh of land tillers
Tormenting landless hunters
Scaring away lions of Mburo
And leaving Mbarara homeless
Samba Samba
The gun of a dictator
The gun that killed Ugandans
The gun that liberated Ugandans
The gun that we know better
As close friend and closest enemy
The gun we still carry
FLOCK OF BOATS
Who hasn’t watched boats bobbing in the shallows
Restlessly pulling at their slack tethers in the softly breaking waves?
They are live things with souls that stretch out to the horizon,
And feel happiest with the splash of deep saltwater against their cheeks.
Their boards shrink with dry sun and shelter, paint peels,
For they need to swell their flesh in life-giving pitch and roll
And fill their sails with hopeful energy, their tillers leaning hard
Against the tide, and ropes taut as bowstrings, heading home,
Arrow-straight, as geese in a late autumn sky, before sunset.
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