Shakespeare toiled over double trouble the steam rose from the water in the marsh as the cauldron bubbled, shreds of spirit bound steam tickled ruddy cheeks and sought interminable refuge in the heat, the night rolled over us the stream went silent, the palaver in the morning is of the bead steam-driven and compiled.
From Mazagon docks
On Bombay's shores
He sailed to Mombasa
Overland to Kampala
From one colonial hub
To the Pearl of Africa
The source of the Nile
The end of the railway
Moved by imperialism
In service of His Majesty
Using accounting skills
He toiled diligently
Empire worked efficiently
Extracting wealth quietly
Using agency of his ilk
Dividing and ruling
A good learner was he
Risk taker: entrepreneur
Started trading; thrived
Built a house; believed
The clock was ticking
World War 2, tolled
"Independence" came
He retired to Marna
Watched from afar
As it came apart
Protectorate to confusion
Kabaka and Prime Minister
He passed at repast
With grandchildren
It was no jest; gone
At rest in the village
His manses to decay
Wealth to scatter
Descendants aplenty
None like him
A mother’s love is both gentle and strong.
A guiding light throughout our lives. Through sleepless nights and quiet tears, she stands beside us through the years. Her hands have toiled, her heart has prayed, in every sacrifice she has made. With gentle words and wisdom true, she shapes our lives in all we do. She gives us strength when we are weak, and her voice is calm when we seek the answers. A steady anchor, firm and sure, Her love is deep, rich, and pure. When storms arise and shadows fall, A mother’s faith outshines them all. She trusts in God and leads the way, lifting our hearts when we lose our way. No crown she wears, no throne in sight, Yet she shines with heaven’s light. Her love reflects God’s grace above— A living gift, a mother’s love. So on this day, with grateful hearts, We honor you for all that you are. For all you’ve done and all you do, A world of thanks belongs to you.
In sun and in rain,
Toils of broken soles and blistered palms.
And the journey, tedious, ends in the dank
Leaves of a breathless forest; so rancid the undergrowth,
Hissing signals of danger in the darkest foliage of mankind.
I cringed alone.
So unkempt this unholy place, where the sun is
Mocked; so ungraceful, yet so glorious.
So cautious these woods, where the panthers,
At noon, watch with the keenest of eyes, silent.
Cadaverous each leaning wood, and misleading,
Every thorny path and track . . .
I have journeyed,
And so precious my journey that I seek life among
The living, and have thus toiled until I gathered and
Garnered the speckled pages of the apothecary’s creed.
Now the leaves in the cauldron boil, squeezed!
The content stored for squirting life into the living.
The gigantic acacia tree would testify
Were it not for savage ravages of rot
That erase feeble living things that die
After decades under sun’s missiles hot.
And the birds that chirruped and flew
About as he trudged over hill and bend
Long went like all weak beings of flight,
And no more can lasting credence lend.
If old baobab trunks had tongues that turn
Methinks they would solid testimony avail,
Of how devoutly he toiled in dews and sun
And never refrained from heaven-sent toils.
But since baobab trunks unspeaking are
And birds such fleeting breaths have they,
Can cold unfeeling stones their version say:
Tell how over them hopped he on his way?
Though villainous eyes those labors saw,
Witnessing their tireless winds and turns;
None would ranks of vile ignominy break
And end this betrayal that achingly burns.
And for want of witness this sobbing soul
Perishes and dissolves like a soaking loaf
Amid bootless heavens’ amnesic lethargy,
As cruel decades to a rude century morph.
Propaganda well well oiled
Slander all of us embroiled
Like a ripe vipers nest coiled
Dander and our blood boiled
For whatever whatsoever we've toiled
Whenever forever wherever spoiled
Don't pander the snipers must be foiled
Or our society like Rwanda will be soiled
our heart is soiled
though we toiled hard
lust foiled soul’s aim
The journey, the journey! everyone is touting.
The journey, the journey! nobody is doubting.
To hell with this journey, I care not.
I want, I need, resolution on the spot.
I have toiled long enough, I’m long past despair.
How on earth can I carry on in such disrepair.
I want to give up, I want to quit now!
I am going to do it, I promise and how!
Off in the distance I hear a slight ring.
The ringing the ringing! it starts to sting.
My eyes awaken and I hit my alarm clock
I’ll be damned if nothing had stopped!
Back to the grind, twenty four seven.
The journey, the journey! is far from heaven.
In the belly of Enugu’s coal-dark earth,
Men toiled beneath for all they were worth.
Sweat and silence, pickaxe and pain,
Digging riches, yet bound by chain.
No crown they wore, though kings they stood,
Their hands were scarred, their hearts were good.
But when they rose with voices loud,
The empire answered with gun and shroud.
November wept in forty-nine,
As rifles cracked a crimson line.
Twenty-one fell, dreams undone,
Beneath the unforgiving sun.
They asked for bread, were given lead,
By those whose flags in silence bled.
Their only crime? To dare to stand,
For justice on their native land.
The coal was black, but deeper still,
Was British greed and iron will.
Yet from that grave, a fire grew,
A cry for freedom, strong and true.
Oh Iva Valley, sacred ground,
Where martyr’s blood still speaks profound.
Not just a tale of loss and dust,
But how the broken found their trust.
Their names may fade from pages read,
But history walks where they once bled.
And every step toward liberty’s light
Was paved by those who dared to fight.
Toiled Cinderella
Grooms tighten the corset lace
Graced by birds and bees
Puffed up reddish face
Steps lead to loosing the shoe
Facing the music
Though nothing changes, nothing stays intact.
Some places I have loved are shrunken, spoiled,
and sights I’ve carried with me are now soiled,
polluted. I’m confronted with the fact.
But Rome’s eternal, even when it’s sacked.
It’s comforting to know that, when I’ve toiled
to keep alive a vision, and recoiled
from ruination, I can yet exact
enormous pleasure from what still remains.
The brooding phantoms which I have to face
are ghosts of my past self. As vigour wanes,
it pains me to recall each trait and trace
of what I was, in catacomb campaigns,
whose faded glory saturates the place.
Outside in the barn one late summer eve
a seaman toiled until wee hours of night
Solid rock surrounded by wood and nail
just the right size for "The Serenity Sail"
She lit an old candle by the window,
recalling sweetly their brave adventures
Back in the days when they were young
water was life and love was pure gold;
Over by the lawn an old weathered sailboat
sat waiting, for one more vigorous glide
"Lets take her out " he said as he toiled,
curving the wood and tapering to a point.
That night they slept in the boat like kids,
huddled under a blanket stitched with stars.
Tasting the ocean on her lips he sighed,
"Join me !" he said as she giggled, awhile.
Meet Bob:
Bob just lost his job!
Toiled twenty years.
Poor pitiful slob.
Meet Neal:
He cut a better deal!
Foiled his pension,
When he ratted out Bob.
Back to Bob:
Heard about Neal!
Heard about the deal,
Neal got robbed by Bob.
Neal shot Bob!
Bob bled on Neal!
Aah, who cares?
Anybody got time for Neal and Bob?
Different individuals, yet sharing the same heart,
Different individuals, yet united by the same vision.
They emerge from their shelters at dawn,
Invigorated by the morning light.
Boys with diverse talents,
They transformed the unused and discarded.
Boys of profound grace,
They knew how to summon the elements to do their bidding.
Boys of insight and wisdom,
They were regarded as blessed by the Divine.
Boys of remarkable strength,
They toiled from dawn until twilight.
They were separated in their search for the fullness of light,
Venturing apart in their quest to understand the mysteries of the night.
One by one, they disappeared,
Lost to the unknown,
Veiled by the unseen.
July 24, 2025.
I heard the pious people say, angels live in heaven,
and with the pristine celestial beauty they glow
as the sparkling stars in the far away milky way,
but I know they often descend on earth to be with us.
If you ask me how I’ve come to know, I would say,
I’ve seen the radiance of my mother’s heart glow
as bright as the cosmic shine of the gleaming star,
its luster of love swathed me like stardust-soaked flower.
In times of turmoil when the family was adrift aimless,
she toiled hard to grow our roots in an alien pasture.
To my uprooted uncertain life she gave a gift, a nest,
from where I spread my wings on the sky of future.
I flew high under the cover of her protective wings,
the wild winds couldn’t blow away the soaring aspirations.
In her shadow I live with her lingering love, memory molds,
for it’s her hands that sculpted me as what I am today.
She has left me for her new home a long time ago.
When in the sequined night I see the stellar sky glisten,
lighting the dark path to my final destination, I then know,
she is in stars above, shining in heaven with the angels.
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