~
Hark!
He knocks.
Time, it's time,
the Kuroi Jukai within me.

Finding an unordinary
drifting off to sleep point,
a hollowed-out spot,
where I can let
God dream for me.

Whistles in the wind,
in lullaby the sky and sea
seem to trade places,
bending around me
as vertical blanketed surges.

My carcass is a colonization (of bones)
for my dearly departed ones,
forbearers of migration,
seeking endless sea,
until like them,
I settle upon
their ancestral shore.
~

Freedom was a writer from whom his name was stolen.
That of whom left his breaths on every page he wrote the meanings of which, were torn from his chest.
He was the fruit of his works,
of his labour.
And was the whistle in the wind that blew that blew through silence.
Hanging tastefully in the air.
A sweet sensation.
Who grew from dismality, was named and married to him as Hope.
The growths of their union,
the words of the tormented writer and the melodies of the candied breeze,
were songs of story sung for acres.
And who’s dawned legacies are the working times of their lovechildren,
Emancipation and Liberty.

I know, I know, I am nobody
I am not worth remembering
I am wasting your time, I'm sorry

But I just want to try to be
Someone worth something
Like some sort of celebrity

I am no master like Keats
Or Basquiat or Mccartney
Or a philosopher of Greece

I am just a half Man half
Wolf parasite From the city
Who others pick and laugh

At. But I hope that in my poetry
I may become more than human
Something lovely like a rosary

Or magnificent like strawberries
With the redness of life blood
With the life force of eddies

I just want to outlive my flesh
Be remembered by some descendant
Live my life afresh

I want my poems to flood
The plains of their soul
And travel through their blood

Or be a lighthouse in the wild sea
That life offers them and be
A guide to the safe shore of creativity

Or be the lullaby as they sleep
Through the night of uncertainty
And give them dreams deep.

But as things stand, all things falls apart
And I can't even find comfort
In the traces of my art

So I take what's left of myself
Walk through the woods of my life
And find rest in the universe's shelf

I'm writing a poem for you
So that I could exist again
For a short time anew

So that I could share my heart
Fingers blossoming red
With the blood of my art

Read it on the mountainside
Or by the sea, or in the desert
As if I have not died

And sing it to the people
So that I could be heard
In their souls and let it ripple

Or keep it to yourself
It doesn't matter. Put it
In the notebook on your shelf

Take it out from time to time
To amuse yourself for old time's sake
With my simple rhyme.

All I want do is to touch
You from beyond this existence
Because I love you so much

This is the only way I know
Words I wrote on a screen
I have no other skills to show

It will require bit of humanity to:
Lose yourself in serving others,
Soothe their pain,
Plant smiles on their faces,
Brighten their day,
Lift their spirit,
And strive to restore them for a better future.

Your humanity, my friend
Is your eternal legacy, which is more precious than your wealth, Education, and a lifetime worth of accomplishments!


Hussein Dekmak

I confiscated many things
That don't belong with me
I tried to return my sins
Even now, they haunt me

I seeked the better life
People posted on their stories
All illusions makes memories
For always what I thrive

Legacies where heroes die
And pass on through centuries
I shot one to the moon and sigh
One day, as I die, leave memories

Woke up to cheer
but l had taken aback
devastated for the news
for he bit the dust
but said heroes come and go
but legends are forever
and will always be remembered
and his legacy left to inspire
the flower of age.

My mother gave me a dowry
a brimming chest of treasures
a heart of rare and precious gems
she collected long ago

She filled it with her words, her thoughts
and things she knew I'd need
she piled high with hopes and dreams
priceless trinkets all for me
and topped it off with years of love
and a life of merry traditions

Then knowing that I'd need a map
by which to guide my life
she gave to me a legacy
my Bible, pure and right
and taught to me the art of prayer
a rare and genuine gift she shared

I am blessed to be a mother now
with a daughter of my own
and I can't wait to share with her
the love that I have known