I miss my first love
like a train I was supposed to catch years ago
I've made my home on the station platform
because now I'd rather just watch the trains go by
I miss my first love
like an appointment with a doctor
that could have diagnosed me with the early stages of loneliness
and cured me right then and there
instead the illness settled in
and every day I'm treating the symptoms while I search for a cure
I miss my fist love
like the bullseye on a dart board
I don't even feel like playing the game anymore
and my throws are getting more and more wild
getting stuck in the wall and the floor
I miss my first love
and the way I loved when I didn't know what love was
no tricks, no strategies
just me, and her, and whatever that was when we were

Who knew that slavery

was just the corner

of an odd shape

and that a few hundred years

of forced labor beatings

would prepare a people

for generations of fatherlessness

clashes with authority

the lashes on their backs

set many free from the morality

of obeying the laws of

"just" society

and with the banks filled

with whip lash deposits

they were well prepared

to go a few hundred years

without the guidance of fathers

them who stayed locked up

cages and chains for shacks and chains


http://kinyopoetry.com/

I offered a homeless lady

some food to eat

and she shook her head

and said

this is good stuff, you should enjoy it yourself

I asked her what she needed

she said it would be nice

to have a place to stay, a fire, and a bathroom

and a bed to sleep in

I was silent

of course I had those things

I offered her some money and some poetry

she took out some cash

and said, I have money

the poems never really captured

the meaning of her life

I never really appreciated the meaning of her life

it would have been

like taking away her homelessness

http://kinyopoetry.com/

Brightly lit screens,

in the midst of my clutter and chaos.

I’m half man half machine,

my soul pours itself through these electronic windows.

Other streams reflect back at me,

from other souls raging on their own seas.

No wisdom only knowledge,

I still sit and study in a followers college.

A constant balance of quantity and quality,

measuring the weight of those who follow me.

and await the words of my interpreted prophecy.




kinyopoetry.com

High synth notes

Japanese thunder

you amaze yourself



Walk with headphones

through grass patches

and brightly lit streets



heavy petroleum clouds

nigerian gutter feast

of trash and telephones



prepaid cards

litter homes floors

in cardboard sandals



shuffling past pubs

London clenched ribs

teeth breathe heart beats



Kick old orchestras

through instrumental mixes

modernity insanity




kinyopoetry.com

Vision sometimes becomes blurry

when darkness moves at the speed of your sight

and the shadows encroach on the peripheral of your vision

and looking for inspiration becomes like being in a tunnel/

​

At times like these a second pair of eyes relieves the pressure

another dimension to add to my  line of sight

At times like these another pair of eyes combats the haze

and the horizon of your perception leads me to brighter streets and metropolis waves/

​

Like neon lights

in the mall after dark

like wedding rings and violin strings

like a silhouette of light etched upon the night

A muse references the future through the now

A muse makes even the abstract man aware of daylight and sunshine

Why even still call them people

aren't they more like things

and even then what sort would they be

even trash we don't throw out onto the streets

but maybe they stand

as gatekeepers

to our humanity

allowing men to choose who they are

by how they see the homeless people


kinyopoetry.com

I’m lending Trayvon Martin my pen

because it might be enough to clear the static,

because it may be enough to point straight through

the thick smoggy thoughts of society and law.


If I was a young black man, which “I" am

I’d be a little upset that someone killed

my brother. Never mind my other dead brothers,

or the other cases I see of police treating

people like me with inequality.


Should Trayvon have surrendered himself to

Zimmerman. Should young black men have to

be passive to stay alive. Do we allow

people to shoot shots in

the chests of most resistance.


What should black men do? It seems best

to cry, but I don’t feel tears coming.

What should any man do, expect think

clearly enough to know when something

is wrong. As for Zimmerman he is not

evil, but he is a killer, and his brothers

blood is on his hands. He should at least

cry, or try to feel the tears coming.


The only voice that speaks is the

word of the law. Even Trayvon is silent,

the dead hold no grudges, and gunmen

go dumb under the cries of spilt blood,

I keep telling myself justice is process

making better days from dark ones,

but it seems like every bright generation

has to step aside for the tears coming.

Thank you Lord for saving my yesterday,

and for saving my today if I make it to tomorrow,

but if I fall on the battle field today

who will offer You my thanks when the sun rises tomorrow



All I have been constructed into

is like a seeing a building being built

while some of the stones were crumbling,

You are the Mighty Creator, moving towards completion



All the earth declares Your marvelous wonder,

and so oh Lord how can You be mindful of a small voice

that professes in it's own language, it's own weary gladness,

again, make the singer's song sweet to his own ears



Mighty Lord Your majesty contains all things,

and so the honorable sons of God declare

that all the earth should exalt the name of the Lord,

thanking Him with singing and dancing because they too are the blessed property of a Holy King



Let not my thanks fall into the abyss of woe,

Let not those who stand against Your Glory see me silent,

Let not the earth be scorched any longer,

but let your people honor You, carry those who thank You to your Holy Mountain Top Kingdom

That single leaf

looks as if it has some grey in it's green

because the clouds in the sky are obscuring the sun

overcast days polish the sun white

and the dusty leaf hangs

looking like it will last

it would be cool to the touch

and bitter on the tongue

it's transpiration

those sweaty lungs

there are a thousand

a few bunches orange

a few brown still hanging from the branches

there are four thousand fallen

crunchy like baked chips

breathing no more

leaves number 997, 998, 999

hang from branch number 8

during the 4th hour of a day in the second millennium of man

a dark night spins dreams simultaneously

and a single dream leaf contains a record of eternity past

like an old friend who suddenly knows magic

and reads shakespeare

leaf 998 is a streak of ink

on the pages of life

like a glorious ray of sunshine

peeking it's head

into the future, heaven

like slipping between the curtains of the present

breathing for tree 700,237,112

How many know

that the atomic bomb

was a time machine

every thing under it's blast

had it's personal time pushed forward a thousand years

in the blink of an eye

a thousand years

in only seconds of life

it was strange for us to see

what we all become

when bones and buildings became dust

the scars from rips in time

caused contamination and cancer

time travel and life do not fit well together


http://kinyopoetry.com/

Do my poems have special meaning

to people with skin like mine

do the lines

call to black blood

do the stanzas call themselves nigerian

does the punctuation long for Africa

when caucasion men read my poems

do they wonder why their

skin prickles

are the words more apt

to line the dreams of young african women

laying in bed

happy to have found

their ancestral home

within the pages of

of my metaphysic constructions




kinyopoetry.com

Yesterday I raced to get to the air pregnant,

awoke early to get to the starting line,

vacant pavement.

Today I wanted a new beginning,

to be awake finally,

to the erasure of all things,

precedents, that make desires incredible.

The sun gives light,

like fresh batteries.

Who did fashion who,

sun fashion man,

did man fashion sun,

did man work himself to get grace from the sun,

did sun work sun to be good for man,

or did air work both sun and man,

to be it's good children.

The fashions do change,

but one thing remains the same,

man is in a world well suited

for new beginnings.

I wish that I

could fly from here to heaven

with golden wings

my ears full of cups of feathers

I want to sleep

but sleep denies me as it's brother

I cannot weep

for I am experiencing the joy of life

I wish that I could

fly from here to heaven

with enlarged eagle's wings at my back

my soul chiseled out of marble

placed on a silver pedestal

hewn from a constant gaze from your eyes

I want to say that I can love

for you to be the love

you are like a day

once come and gone

with me busy moving

from past to future

I wish that I could swim

for a thousand miles

and never tire against the waves

cut through tempests

evade lightning strikes

and drink a spirit stronger than mine

from your lips

I wish that I could breathe

and feel the wind

and breathe again

Even if I were to sleep forever,

I’d soon become aware of my dreams,

and as my desires entered the scene,

they’d be upset left alone, unfulfilled, undefined,

unrefined a waft upon unremembered things,

but there is still hope in the rise,

in the lifting, in the morning,

in the joy of the waking sun.




kinyopoetry.com

If her fierceness be tamed

then let the world end

I’ve seen enough of complacent men

to know that shouldn’t be one of them

A wild thing is enough on it’s own

the only suitable home for the living



For if she be the sea

then I’ll be the clouds

and if she be the wind

then may I be allowed

to sail on into eternity



kinyopoetry.com

I’m sorry
I made you that I could change
I made you think that I would
I made you think that I could

I wanted
To see you lean on me
For you
To hold me down
Keep my feet
On the ground

I wanted
To touch a piece of heaven
Feel the lightning strike my heart
Tear the past pain apart

But you
You deserve love
I deserve
Painful isolation
I deserve to be alone

You
You deserve the sun
You deserve the moon
You deserve the light

And I won’t stand in your way
Cuz when I pray
I know I can a trust Jesus
To remind me of love

But baby
Whenever we’re together
I know I’ve done a good thingn
And a good things been done to me

And even if I forget it
And start walking down the wrongs road
I can trust Jesus
To remind me of us

So give me, the grace to say I’m sorry, because I sometimes I have a bad mind, and go through some hard times

That last piece

of love

left today

fading

out as I watched

The flame out.

cold took it's place

such pricking cold

when the mind

forgets love

it begins to hack away at the soul

unless you apprehend

your head with

the justice of your heart

it will make you cold

and thin

and empty



kinyopoetry.com

If you spend your entire life

digging rocks

and then you find a rock

that says Jesus on it

you are lucky to have been digging rocks,

from then go and do whatever you wish,

but don't sin,

and hold on to the power in the name of Jesus.


kinyopoetry.com

Life is a mirror,

reflecting the heart placed

on it's placid surface,



Time is tabula rasa

7 layers of water stacked through

perpendicular dimensions,

and yet no two parallel.



An apple fell from a tree,

through six dimensions of man

and invented gravity;

now there is a black hole somewhere,

and the only way to escape it is to

release all matter,

and to become even less corporeal

than light.




kinyopoetry.com

The devil has two options
**** me or quit
because continuing to mess with
is creating the most epic testimony

I can tell when my heart is searching
and when it is far off
when waking does bring me closer to the sun
but farther off

but it will come back
when I've put the moon to sleep
and my enemies far off
and my dread far off

what is the weight of beauty
a cloak you can never wear
but only carry
and when they try to take it from you
they can only pull at your skin
leaving your hands holding what you'd rather drop

when your hands
are all that's left
and you deliver beauty your destination
it will finally redeem all your sins

all the words of men sound drunk to the sky
except occasionally the words of drunk men
which saturate briefly with thanksgiving and awe
drunk on all the varied hopes of man
his arsenal of staffs
for the long journey
the unwilling gypsy
unaware of what it means to have a universe as his home
and the earth as his pillow

When you truly invent a new type of beauty
you will never know it's place
and those around you will trip and awe
until they finally learn to circumvent your presentation

you will go from bright
to an invisible sun

the sun will one day call you kindred
and name you it's successor

the invisible sun
will become the only one
and the city at the bottom of the hill
where the children of the ones who walked away
will build solar panels and plant gardens
beneath the newly invented beauty of your sun