There must be something within you
Whispering the same teachings
As the voices within my heart
There must be many blessings
Slipping through your fingers
Playing in the palm of your hand
To finally rest within your vessel
There must be a reason
For why I long for you so deeply
There must be one day
When it will all make sense
Heaven has never let me down yet
And as I take the steps up
The stairway to heaven
I cannot help
But to imagine
That you will be there
Reaching out for me

Yet I cannot be sure
There's no proof
Of the whispers that reach my ears
There's only rumors
And the scent of your sheets
That I should not have
Layed my hands upon
But I changed them anyway
Who will speak against me
When there's no proof
Only whispers that reach their ears
I only have valid reasons
To back me up
And a pleasurably guilty consciousness

squinting up the leaves of the bountiful tree
i espied a mango ripe and soft with goodness
as the sun came gently filtering through
aloft the wings of a little fellow with a long beak
and a brisk song to celebrate dinner found
my feathered visitor hovered above the vintage prize
and as his thirsty proboscis drilled the succulent mango
the warm enticing juice, natural and healthy as ever,
drip-settled in the base of my hungry open eye
i thought i heard a flourish in the triumphant bird-song
such as one at the fall of a big wicket; and
in that slow-motion moment, i knew: the mango was his,
and it'd now be eat and let eat, till the last delectable mango

this is the part where we say
it was nice knowing you dear
go to your destiny with no fear
let my tattered heart shed its tear
as i feel you slip away from me
on a morning when nothing makes sense
because you have chosen to go and make cents
in the ignominy of a fabled land across the big river
and i shall without doubt in the days ahead be in a shiver
and weep when i think of the things we do for nothing
in this world of sorrow and intrigue from the schemes of others

so much drama
so much negativity
sadness everywhere
and I stand optimistic

little bird up on high
out of me tease a sigh
and thrill me till i'm prone
flap your graceful wings
and rise into the blue
little bird heaven-bound
sing your catchy song
but dear please I pray
don't make it too sad
lest the sky weeps
in deep melancholy
and my eyes in reverie
sympathetic, soak the world
with a flood of sad tears

Mother of the children
            I'm here
Yes I'm here, but I'm so tired
I have a knife that's sharp and indiscriminate

W hen he of the itchy fingers is around
keep an eye on your fowls and your goats!

When he warns you about your fowls and goats
He's being evasive; I'm the village stud, ask your wives!

Mother of the children
            I'm here
Yes I'm here but I'm so tired
I have a knife that's sharp and indiscriminate

Sleep, baby sleep, and be silent
I don't need any water; your father is here
He's sweeping my nether  lands with a broom that tickles me
So sleep, baby, sleep, and let your mother be a queen tonight

Mother of the children
            I'm here
Yes I'm here but I'm so tired
I have a knife that's sharp and indiscriminate

there are certain lessons
that life always guarantees
so, no matter how long it takes
we always come full cycle in the end
living with and loving a ******
is foolhardy and always misfires -
girl he will prize you away from decency
and love your money like a mad schemer
till the dead man weeps in his grave
weeps the tears of a sightless cadaver
whose one -time true love has gone bad
whose children are strangers and captives
in a home their father bequethed
now this smooth operator, sideburns, cigars and all
reclines in the dead man's armchair
and sips the dead man's vintage whiskey
in a vile act of virulent disrespect
and the voluptuous widow
worships the ground he walks on
she rolls around the house to please him
as her dead husband's children join the orchestra
of too many children weeping

There's folk on the news
on the tele tonight
and all of them
making me sad,

they're all of them
thumping on tubs tonight
and waving
American flags,

and it's not so much
the waving I mind,
or the sound
of tubs being thumped,

it's more the thought
that human kind
will thump them
for someone like Trump..

like sugar and spice in separate jars
opposite but complementary, neatly-packed
and labelled on Mother's clean shelves
sweet and cloying like sunsweet sugar
tangy and exotic like the spices of yore
that launched hapless ships into stormy waters
that's what this thing called life is like
often  a dream to live and revel in, but also
a nightmare of garish detail in relief
fouled by the ghoulish glee of decadence
and the things that we do to pander to our tastes!

the moon tonight my darling
riding the fluffy clouds of night
its aura a lovely ethereal blue
is like the skirt riding your thighs
and i'm thinking, oh that blessed moon!