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A peasant sat and prayed
to the God of his ancestors.
The cool evening crept slowly
and the dust devil rose hastily,
Spraying mist of powdery brown
dust into his sunken eyes.
The cloud, as if It discerned
his dismal and dejected mood,
instantly formed a variation
Of comforting images
He was in a period of grief,
Visibly beset with gloom.
He ignored all of these
impromptu shows nature
improvised to curb his pains.
The tears came and came,
he shivered and sobbed until
he felt his loss had subsided.

With legs crossed and chin
In hands, he felt sorrow
and anger overwhelming him.
Perplexed by grief and
the thought of her.
"If only I knew how to fly.",
he thought, almost in tears.
His moistened eyes were motionless
Transfixed on the windowpane
Unaware of the gusts of wind
softly rattling the palm thatch roof
Of the disheveled gbafah he
he goes to whenever he needed
To be introverted.
He padded the soft silt with his
barefoot unaware of the colony of
fire ants as they mounted his limbs.
He was instantly jolted to reality
by the excruciating pains caused
By the fire ant's morsels deeply
embedded in his skinny patched
legs beneath his frail body frame

He missed the one and only love
He knew, his fondness for her could only be characterized as a malady of affection.
Ever since she left, every evening came and went without him taking his eyes off the main road leading down the overgrown trails beneath the canopy of trees. The day went by, but he failed to notice that dusk had engulfed the village and all around him were the burning flames of many diminutive fireflies.
He cared less about the pains still burning his now swollen feet. The eerie sounds of the night crickets echoed but he had one thought; to see his true love.
He couldn't get her off his mind and
It repulsed him to think of the possibility
Of her not coming back.

"Where are you my queen, what has happened to your promise you made to me about coming back to me?"
Come let's roam in the undergrowth once again. The hills call your name and the birds chuckle.
I am losing my mind, I'm forfeiting my staying power. come lets play, come.
"come, my love, come walk barefooted in these ponds, come let's dance and play in the rain. come and undulate your gorgeous
hips and spin like a flamingo in flight."
In tears, I remember how you made me smile, how you turn my life around and blessed me with your heart and beautiful smile. Come to me, come to me, my love.

#IvanBrookspoetry ©
                               [email protected]
This piece came from afar....deep from a sad place ,
I shed tears of ink
For the voiceless.
I am the only link
To the hopeless.

For the poor I scribble
In love and solidarity,
to highlight the struggle
and do an anthem of poverty.

For the poor and marginalized,
I speak power to the validity,
I bring awareness for those victimized
to quench the thirst of brutality.

I can flow like a mighty fountain
In the face of mistreatments.
I crawl valleys and climb a mountain
In times of impediments.

I can leak useful information
In the cause of injustice.
I can write a memo for a demonstration
On behalf of disgruntled masses.

I am the defibrillator of broken hearts
and the hope of the downtrodden.
I can write love poems and draw arts
Just to motivate and embolden.

I have signed many peace treaties,
and declarations of independence.
I have been used to get properties
And I have been used for vengeance.

I am the weapon of choice for intellectuals
and the shield of protection against violence.
I am the stamp of instant rebuttals
and the glitch of terrestrial intelligence.

#IvanBrookspoetry ©  #Bassapoet
The pen is everything..
How long shall they
**** our prophets,
While we stand aside
In hopelessness and  look?
Silah., oh sihah  oh Silah?
Oh Allah, said the Muslim.
Why lord, asked the Christian,
Shallom said the Jew!
A few of whom knows
What's wrong with the truth.
Wisdom is better than silver
And gold but the jew chooses gold.
This is not antisemitism,
This is the brainchild of capitalism
and the Occidental colonization
Of our minds lands and cultures.

Bob said prophetic things and he
sang revolutionary songs that
resonates to this very day.
We see the zion train every day
but it delivers nothing to us.
It comes empty but leaves
With tons of our resources.
But we ain't got much to say.
We see the smogs from the
Burning coals from its exhaust,
We hear the tots of the soul train
as it comes our way. we see
nothing but gushes of blood as
It seeps into the soil the Dutchmen
Stood on to decapitate the sons
and daughters of Congo.
Courtesy of King Leopold of Belgium.
Bob was right, Aa thousand years
Of history will not be wiped away!

#IvanBrookspoetry © #Bassapoet
Bob said a lot. ..some remember only  the *** he smoked.
Life is a perpetual party.
Dance alone if you
find no dance partner.
Dance with the fat girl
everyone calls **** Betty.
Try not to lift her up
If you don't want to hear
your ribs or shoulders pop.
Try to swing around her
and come face to face.
Wink and say thanks for
the beautiful moves baby.
She will melt and blush,
for you've made her happy.

Life is a perpetual party.
Come dressed as a clown
or suit up in a fancy suit.
Party wild and get drunk.
Dance all night if you wish,
retire early if you want.
Make sure you steal the show
Or be crown the best.
Make sure you out dance
yourself and the rest,
Sing along with the songs
you like and do it well.
Regardless of the pitch
Or the tune of your voice,
Own that song even
If you don't know the
Wordings and the timing.

Life is a perpetual party,
Everyone got invited by
He who planned the gig.
So rise to your own feet,
Jump to your far right,
Jump to your nearest left.
Rock to sound and beat
and do the split or boogie.
Breakdance if you have
the time and chance.
Moonwalk if space exists
and Flashdance at the end.
Make sure by the break
Of dawn, when the morning
comes and the light is out,
your last dance was a great one.

#IvanBrookspoetry© #Bassapoet
Life is a perpetual party...come dressed as a clown, up to you.
My words can't crash the market,
but it can sell ideas.
My words can not mislead
but it can vividly direct.
My words can't start a war
put it can sensitize warlords.
My words can't condemn
but it can seriously demand.
My words can not tear down
but it can surely uplift.
My words can not hurt
but it can not definitely heal.
My words can dig the earth
but it can circumnavigate the globe.
My words can not pierce stones
but it can reach deep into the soul.
My word can not wipe a woman's tears
but it can calm her down, reassure
and put smiles on her beautiful face.
My words can not bring forth lives
but it can transform many lives.
My words can not crush a diamond,
but it can soften a hardened heart.
My words can not feed a multitude of folks
but it can wake up the consciousness of
An entire generation with faded dreams.
Most importantly, it can motivate and inspire
them to engage and rethink and Move.

#IvanBrookspoetry© #Bassapoet
21-8-2019 words does a lot.
Women, bearers of warriors' marks,
You're the tough layers of the baobab's barks,
Best of the portraits that nature paints,
and Catwalk models of baggy pants.

You have been misled and misused
Your bodies and souls have been abused,
Yet, like a rose planted in a concrete
You majestically rose on your feet.

Women, flawless skins, lipsticks queens.
Fresh like shades of master's greens.
Big bones babes, skinny jeans chicks,
Gorgeous women, with kitchen tricks.
You are every woman, universal mama,
Rest in peace to the mother of Obama.
God bless every woman from Uganda
to the outskirts of the land of Wakanda.

African woman, Mother of humanity,
Thou are endowed with enviable beauty.
Eternal goddesses, brides of great kings
Multitasks babes, doers of great things.

Oh, Woman, givers of selfless love,
Sent to us from the great man above.
Oh, Woman thou are blessed,
You shall slay, was long prophesied.

This is a tribute to Maya Angelo's mammy.
Bless your lyrically poetic womb.
 a solemn tribute to Mother of LeBron,
The NBA GOAT, King James of Akron.

Curvy Women work your gorgeous hips,
Smile with your Luscious rogue lips,
Thou are the pollen grains of biology,
and the specimen of perfect anatomy.

Eve of Eden, the apple of God's own eyes,
You gave every woman bedroom eyes
that pierces to the core of diamonds,
Like hardened bejeweled armors.

Woman, thou are truly nature's bounty.
Showcase your freaks and sexuality,
For which your petals toast monthly...
Slay dear queen, slay perpetually.

You came from Adams's ribs to give life
Woe unto any man who mistreats a wife,
Thou are indeed a blessed assurance,
Behold your grace, strides, and elegance.

For Sarah Brooks, my deceased mother,
and Sarah Ivana Brooks, my daughter,
For white, yellow and Brown women,
and all beautiful black African women.

 This poetry, I penned for women is a tribute to everything.
For those nights you stayed up to sing,
Those prayerful songs only God heard,
Lying on tears soaked pillows in bed.

#IvanBrookdpoetry© Bassapoet©
August 16-2019
*This a solemn tribute to all women,
Thanks for everything!
In the land of the wise men,
where the wind blows ceaselessly
and the moon glows perpetually,
a great poet and his young protege
sat in the courtyard under the shadows
of the sycamore tree to meditate.
The protege said to his master.
" Sir, please make me a great poet"
The old master lifted his head
and gazed at the protege in awe.

" My son, you are a poet he retorted.
You have it in you. you live it,
you are engaged with it each day,
you hang with poets and read the
amazing works they penned.
You understand spoken words,
the unique linga Franca of poetry.
To find and get it out of you,  
you have to tear yourself apart.
go to where words reside.
Get into the minds of others.
Ask and read other people"s works.
Though it's kinda motivational,
but inspiration is everywhere.

" You see, the master told him,
every day the sun comes up,
it rises with a packaged gift
Unwrap it with tour mind
appreciate anything therein.
A disappointment and a bad day
can be a caveat for a writing
because it spikes emotions
and inspires one to dig deep...
My son, you have to write every day.
write about anything at any time.
rewrite what you aren't pleased with.
The more you write, the better you become.
The uglier the poems that come out
the better the poems that follow.

Write about the sun and the moon,
write in the morning and afternoon.
Write captivating and uplifting stories
about mermaids with beautiful bodies.
Or write about a wandering stranger,
who traveled in search of an adventure
with your hands, write about nature.
Using your mind, paint a beautiful picture.
Do this as often as many times as possible,
Someday you will achieve the impossible.

#IvanBrookspoetry (c)
August 11.2019
The protege's quest trended before it was written. I actually thought I was saving a draft, made of the title and just two lines. I just finished it
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