"cautioned" poems
Witchcraft and wine
it comes so naturally,
and now that you’re mine
I’m going to actually
try my best not to lose it.
If there’s a bomb then I will defuse it.
If there’s an offer I’ll just refuse it.
If there’s a card to play I’m going to use it.
Because you’ve got me under
Your blanket of stars and mysteries,
connecting our scars and histories.
In parked cars both sighing mystically
and back to the park where I was to shy to try anything.
Sorcery and scotch
you put me in a trance.
If you took it down a notch,
I just might stand a chance
that I’m not going to lose my head,
even with my cheeks burning red
getting brighter as you quietly said
“I’ll meet you tonight in our bed.”
Depriving me of slumber
With your healing touch and cosmic skin,
I’m within your clutch and freely giving in.
It’s too much and you have yet to begin,
removing my crutch and cleansing me of each sin.
I was warned of street magicians
and cautioned with tales of gateway drugs.
To not take my eyes off no matter the conditions,
because that’s when they tend to pull rugs.
“If you fall for one,
you’ll fall for them all.”
But this time I’m done,
I think it’s last call.
With your witchcraft and wine,
you make it look so divine.
Aug 15, 2025
Aug 15, 2025 at 7:11 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
songs of freedom in Kenya are paradoxical of themselves
they have become the songs of oppressive tyranny
they are not songs that were sang by freedom fighters
in the tropical forests of aberdares and Mabanga
they are blissful carols of powers that be
mouthed by the state poets in the deadly feats
of political sycophancy fuelled by cult of betrayal
and espionage, a real substructure of state dictatorship
they are not the true songs of mau mau
that were sang by Kimathi wa miciuri
they are the songs of the top crust of the tribal
and political powers that be in oblivion of
the cultural revolutionaries that countermanded
cultural Darwinism of European imperial gamesters
they are not the songs sang by Elijah Masinde
of Dini Msambwa that spirited up cultural aura
of cultural dignity;which cautioned certainly
an African against the cultural call of the white culturalizer
the African to balk and turn his back
and **** and spit scornfully at cultural trickster in the colonial ploy
to dance for Dini ya Msambwa in the spirit of war and fires of war
that is to be fought in preservation of democracy and cultural freedom.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 7:19 AM UTC
Dear Lovely, my tormented fair-maiden
I write thou in love, transparent and unhidden
I know you seek answers that are hard to find
searching this soul and this ****** heart of mine
Seeking the signs of a lover's true intention
while hanging on the lips of every word mentioned
You look and you hunt through your longing
to discover if I am your true belonging
I know by the pause's in your words spoken
that you're trying to avoid another heart broken
I've been honest, dear Lovely, with every answer given
and as you slowly say my name I begin to give in
But these walls I create are for the protection
of a heart once fooled with misguided direction
Everything I do, I do for our future
so you know difficulty inherent with this suture
With caution I proceed, by no cause of yours
But from past loves I've learned there are no do-overs
I, with pounding heart, beg of thee, please understand
that on this earth we can walk hand in hand
But time heals all wounds, and these are freshly made
I can love and never leave, dear Lovely,
once the scars begin to fade.
Jul 9, 2011
Jul 9, 2011 at 12:06 PM UTC
And the cyclist said to the seafaring man that it was the best **** poison he had ever drank.
The seafaring man was uneasy, wishing that the cyclist would put the bottle down.
He had cautioned his friend in the past--
"Poison will **** you, you know. That's the very purpose of the stuff."
-- And the cyclist's reply had always been the same:
"Well, I've had two swigs, and it hasn't killed me yet."
Then three swigs, four, five....
"Yes," the seafaring man would press,
"But it makes you horribly sick every time. You've told me so."
The cyclist would give a peculiar look and say in a peculiar voice,
"I know what I'm getting in to. And it hasn't killed me yet."
Months later, the seafaring man left the cyclist's funeral either sad or disappointed.
He wondered if the death went down as an accident or a suicide.
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 7:11 PM UTC
the doctor cautioned me…
no rough S?x my boy, your coeur très ancien,
ain’t up to the task, in fact, i urge you to forgo
the goings on you love to write about, leave them
words on the page, six to eight inches (!) from the
tippy part of your…nose; for distance makes the heart
grow fonder, life longer, when you ticker gets that
‘lost that loving feeling’, keep it lost for now, cause
I no longer make home visitations and cancelled,
I did, the refills on your ****** scrip, keep your loving
confined to the twenty six alpa-bets, so you grow
old, well, alive, cursing my name repeatedly with
a strong God **** and I’m sure He’ll be listening,
cause I know He appreciates a **** good poem!
Jul 20, 2023
Jul 20, 2023 at 8:48 AM UTC
The worst form of love
which loves with cautioned heart
building defenses against the feelings
to freely explore the depths
a machiavellian mind devises plans
sinister enough to stab love
behind the smiling façade
lies the most dangerous intent
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 8:07 AM UTC
I was born in this world without a choice.
if i knew what my life was going to be no doubt would i have chosen not to exist.
Born into two people who claimed that one was my mother and one was my father
because being a mother or a father isn't just producing a fetus its about living up to the role
None of mine did.
No choice but to grow up to fast
by age 5 i was hiding knives and tablets preventing my mothers suicide attempts
running around and crashing into that monsters soul
afraid i would take two steps back
and he would take two steps forward
he would hold my hand and take me to my mother
the rest is a blur
all i know was i would see her naked body and him next to her.
Cold heated shouts blew me away
drowned me in none other then sadness and fear
my siblings become like my children
who i tried to protect
but we would come together to keep each other safe.
the routine of hiding knives become a game we made
social services meant to care or to protect?
watched the monster silence us and left us and deemed it was safe
safe despite watching the "parents" argue
safe despite him being cautioned and kept away for beating my sister when she was 7
who knew these services would later be the reason why innocent lives were sacrificed for a cycle of abuse that would never seem to end....
Jun 27, 2021
Jun 27, 2021 at 3:52 PM UTC
6 sides
Latent enabler
Counterpoint to truth, amorphic
Dada to life
Callous Birth
Islands dripped in collagen
Mystic, effortless life
Tempests laden iota in tune
Riven
Licked flat, obtuse
Crescent stench
Pagan cells
Hazard the thought
Pick the Atlantic cherry
Reach further than comfort
Pushed & consumed
Spirited paste
Jesuit told in spheres
Lament interest, matted quill
Totem, Saxon tribe
Inflections of hearsay
And Swastikas on parade
Guilt of the blacksmith, undecided
The arms of tablets
Ashtrays & tropospheric light
Another page turned
Capsules filled with perfume
Loose skin lost in relics
Temporal lobe
Cautioned indignant
Pardon the prose
Sonnets dissolved in ethanol
Caricatures of the fleeting
Of our cities last broadcast
Absorbed by times gone
Glittered pestilence
Canceling subordinates, powdered Semtex
Soup of the sewer
Lift the butcher above your head
Nazca lines
Suborbital
Silk screen with *****
Horizontal qualm toward revulsion
Incursion
Calm, cued and cubed
Lab coats coated in pharmaceuticals
Base compound, ionic bond
Covalent CNS
Sympathetic vibration
Default to nature
To theorise movement
Agitate intolerance, turbulence
Beautiful thought
Calculate causality
Passenger of licked lips
Token to latex
Croft in ear, to taste
Unlaced tips, rings of halothane
Bliss
Intrigued with obscurity
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 1:33 PM UTC
*"Being an introvert in an extroverted
world can absolutely be difficult."
Came across this on some blog.
Think it's more complex to be a mediocre, an extro-intro or an intro-extro...
you can't go all out... you won't remain all in...
you're doomed to be in the twixt. Yet the middle is dangerous...
The middle of the Ocean is the deepest, the middle
of the jungle is the riskiest... the middle of the garden
of Eden doomed an entire race...
for its existence... no driver would drive freely in the middle lane,
most run to the climbing lane soon as they see it.
Some say the Earth is trapped between Heaven and Hell...
maybe we're a compound of Paradisal elements and
the rumbles of the Hades...
the pawns in the Chess between God and Satan, the Jobs in the bible of now...
I'm a Junk of all trades & I'm afraid being in between trades makes me a master of non...
I know too much and yet I know nothing... I am an extro-intro...
I go out only until the plank starts to swing the other way...
I go out until I sense the cold and quickly run back to the lukewarm
betwixt for the hot is as fatal to my kind as the cold.
Am not an Author and neither am I a poet... Am a "Poether'' or an "Auoet", Am not philosophical neither am I Theological...am "philological" or "Theolophical".
I'm trapped at the equator... I'm neither an Eskimo nor an "Antactico"...
Not Ugandan nor Kenyan... Tanzania can't claim me
but there's yet to be a concrete East African...
maybe I'm African.
My point is some people think the middle is safe...
but I believe different. it's my opinion if you want to be a piglet be one,
if you want to be a puppy be a puppy for its fatal to be a Pipet or puppet...
both are instruments... even their use is similar.
My tragedy is am in between, am a mediocre, a pother,
an opssimist, a philothopher, a ctranger or say "Ukantan".
I'm just there... Don't be caught in my place...
find a place to belong... no matter how dangerous and risky...
always choose where you lie...always strive hard to find a prowess...
Go past the lines for History remembers those who are unique...
whether for the worst or the best.
Be the last if you can't be the first...*
**Everyone will remember Mabirizi for he knew how to be the last...
And sadly everyone will remember Museveni for he's good at keeping his place.
Who will remember the one in between.
Who will remember Besigye? Who will remember the servant boy that
cautioned Achilles against fighting the Thessalonian?
Who will remember me?**
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 11:42 AM UTC
i threw the carcass of your caring
solemnly down the cellar staircase,
locked the door & clogged its airways
& cautioned the corpse of the consequences
of burning bridges & building fences
before i slit its lips to ribbons
& dared it to mumble love again
ohh so the feeling bubbled up did it??
no wait here comes hate in its midst
one more final, lifeless twitch
before i collapse your cranium's measurements
Feb 7, 2010
Feb 7, 2010 at 6:25 PM UTC
The Red Sea! It lay like a distressed soul, unsettled, deserted and restless;
On its tile-paved shore, I leant against a lamp post, in the desert land;
Women in burkas busied themselves with their kids and picnic baskets;
While cats searched voraciously, among the rubble, for the left over bones.
On my left lay Sanaa, the once upon a time city of Shem, first-born of Noah,
Whence Queen Sheba embarked in all majesty with gifts for King Solomon.
And far, beyond the saltiest swelling Red, lay the darkly exploited continent.
Now, a warm gust of wind slogged its way into my lone distraught self.
Tides heaved, flickered their wet tongues across the rubble, and licked me,
Then withdrew themselves tired, but again and again returned half-heartedly
With much salty tears and sweats of ******* and sufferings of bygone ages:
The assorted agonies of the Mediterranean, the Indian and the Pacific deeps.
Through the dull splashes, waded to me, Moses and Aron and the Pharaoh;
They said: “Visitor, listen to the voices of the depths!” And I heard well
The abysmal rattle of chariots, wheels and bones, uncarbontestably ancient.
And in the splash of the Red, I scarily tasted the tears and blood of torments.
Then they cautioned me: “Beware of the pseudo-democrats and pseudo-reds:
The gunpowder brokers!” and quoted: “In this world, you’ll have troubles.”
And now, the Sea sounded: “Sorry my dear son, I’m here to bear all these.”
I sighed in pain, but the Sea, through the burning lamp posts, smiled at me.
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 1:27 AM UTC
The Red Sea! It lay like a distressed soul, unsettled, deserted and restless;
On its tile-paved shore, I leant against a lamp post, in the desert land;
Women in burkas busied themselves with their kids and picnic baskets;
While cats searched voraciously, among the rubble, for the left over bones.
On my left lay Sanaa, the once upon a time city of Shem, first-born of Noah,
Whence Queen Sheba embarked in all majesty with gifts for King Solomon.
And far, beyond the saltiest swelling Red, lay the darkly exploited continent.
Now, a warm gust of wind slogged its way into my lone distraught self.
Tides heaved, flickered their wet tongues across the rubble, and licked me,
Then withdrew themselves tired, but again and again returned half-heartedly
With much salty tears and sweats of ******* and sufferings of bygone ages:
The assorted agonies of the Mediterranean, the Indian and the Pacific deeps.
Through the dull splashes, waded to me, Moses and Aron and the Pharaoh;
They said: “Visitor, listen to the voices of the depths!” And I heard well
The abysmal rattle of chariots, wheels and bones, uncarbontestably ancient.
And in the splash of the Red, I scarily tasted the tears and blood of torments.
Then they cautioned me: “Beware of the pseudo-democrats and pseudo-reds:
The gunpowder brokers!” and quoted: “In this world, you’ll have troubles.”
And now, the Sea sounded: “Sorry my dear son, I’m here to bear all these.”
I sighed in pain, but the Sea, through the burning lamp posts, smiled at me.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 8:53 AM UTC
He brought us up with dovish love
He cautioned us to be serpent wise,
He took us to schools each of us
In a genuine dream to forestall future misery
He fed us well from his meagre earnings,
He discriminated not love among the siblings
We grew up united in family bond,
He made us all to walk tall and proud
As sons and daughters of credible father,
He taught me in particular to read Mahatma Gandhi,
He inspired me with love for Napoleon Bonaparte,
He named me Alexander as a nomenclatural ritual
To procure spiritualities of charm and intellect,
He did us good and indeed we must all agree
As evinced in the love he gave to our mother,
We saw no fearful stress of threatening estrangement
As our mother always clang to us with superior enthusiasm.
He only began to feel pain on every swallow,
Saliva, other liquids and solid stuffs he painfully swallowed
He lost and lost weight on each day as we could do nothing,
But his wisdom and sense of humane picked,
Phenomenally usual precursor of impending death,
He got emaciated and weakling, his feeding decimated,
I desperately took him to hospital and surrendered him
To a man wearing humongous glasses on his bearded face,
The community of that place called him a doctor,
He checked my father and came out with a stark tiding;
Young man, your father has throat cancer!
The barium swallows has indicated all these,
There is eminent presence of tumors and carcinoma
Known for their foul perpetration of oesophagus cancer,
I received this dooms day news with mild trepidation,
He was discharged back to his village home
He died two days later in his hut, on his marital bed
The wooden bed with wick-work of strappings and strings
Crafted from stone hard animal hides and skins,
And it was Christmas day of December 2000,
At three in the afternoon, when my father died
Succumbing to death caused by throat cancer.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 2:34 AM UTC
My mother always told me to not play in the street.
But when I was three, I was invincible.
I could fly.
So I shut my lids and soared-
Until an old man and his Chevy's bumper stopped me.
And ever since then I look both ways.
My grandmother always told me to not touch the stove,
but I still attempted to grasp the macaroni pan
But all I got was a patch on my hand of searing scarlet.
And after that I never learned to cook.
I wonder why no one had cautioned me of love.
Because I have this scar under my arm from pavement
And I have this gray patch on my palm
But I have nothing to show from love.
Where is the lesson?
Maybe I am still a foolish little girl.
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 3:49 PM UTC
Check Please frustrated one man yells in a dinner
he's wound up/
Over there one guy stands in the entrance seems eccentric/
A quick flash of brightness followed by thunder
closes and shakes the umbrella A young fella/
We did it looking for correct change he dismissed it/
I've seen through the fabric when others would have missed it/
Been looking for you all day to review the linguistics/
My dear we've eloped the veil has been lifted/
My apprentice no more when I start you finish my sentence/
My life's work when I begin who knew you would end it/
Tremendous young fellas on the terrace feeling esoteric/
This is life altering he cautioned him/
As they contemplate their next move/
I'm just waiting for everything we know to not be true!
Aug 7, 2016
Aug 7, 2016 at 11:29 AM UTC
Jack and Jill went up the hill
This was never in dispute
It was how Jack fell down
With severe lacerations to his crown
That the jury had to conclude
Jill had a bun in the oven
The news was all over town
The bakers wife was aghast
Her husband and his shady past
He liked a cream ****
Though, when cautioned down the red light district
Cream was never mentioned in the Constables statement
Back to that ill fated day on the hill
Jill says Jack was going down, on her
He was certainly on the edge
A couple walking their dog, state the baker was on the ledge
This was later dismissed when the couple admitted they didn’t have a dog
This was light relief for the jury in this sorry affair
Mrs Black didn’t turn up to church on Sunday
The stand in vicar didn’t know this, being new
All hell broke loose as the witness swore
Jill gave birth on the floor
A black child appeared
There was uproar
The baker shouted to his wife, with a frown
Three women stood up
So he sat down
They all turned to the bench
The Judge was holding his gavel
Somewhat in despair
Dna later found traces of poor Jacks hair
The Judge was taken down, mumbling
She said she was on the pill, Jill
That was the end of this sorry tale
Though, the papers ran amok
Mondays headline read
Jack and Jill went up the hill, with the folks of Trill for an **** and thrill
But things got out of hand
The Judge saw red, and whacked Jack dead
And they all came tumbling after.
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 1:22 PM UTC
Moved by the sonnets of musketeers
I was,
kept in motion with the force of a rose
And adifferent name that smelled as sweet
Set to rest by Ravens
Calmed by stories of his beautiful Anna-bell-lee
She
Comforted me with tales of Caged Birds
and the songs filled with dreams they yearningly sing
I was taught to love patiently
And that although love hurts it does not envy
I was freed by teachers with words of wisdom
Taught to not look at words but the lessons within them
I heard the tell tale heart and was immediately cautioned
Meeting my own guilty concience
Felt just a bit nautious
I walked a road less traveled
And met phenomonal women like Mrs. angelou
Im ever dream within a dream i walked
I found a dream deferred then born anew
And at the end of my bountiful journey
Somewhere where the diverged road bends
I hope to be touched again by an angel
Layed to rest in a place where the sidewalk ends
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 6:04 PM UTC
Yesterday
I fell asleep
Thinking of you.
Mind had cautioned
That re-remembering
Your bespectacled face
Wouldn’t be easy.
Had felt
Pity too
For its exertions
And exhaustion.
Today when I got up
Couldn’t see you
Where are you now?
What are you doing?
Will we ever
Wake up together
On a grass mat
One morning
Some life?
How many mynas
Would be there
In the courtyard then?
One of them
Is looking for something
In the courtyard now
See?
Let me help it
Find the way to
The next life.
Translator - Shyma P
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 10:49 PM UTC
you live in a crumbling castle:
bricks of musty newspaper
mortared with decades of dust
solidified in grease, cemented in decay.
you constructed an impenetrable fortress.
your storehouse is filled with broken plastic,
moldy photographs, crusty nick-knacks.
here you count worthless tin trophies,
shattered glass and empty bottles.
you're drowning in your treasury.
there was a time i knew that castle well:
palace, gaol, it held me fast.
i could be captive or courtier
but your role never changed:
benevolent or tyrant, king you reigned.
but a castle of refuse cannot stand forever;
an empire built on brutality topples.
subjects eventually revolt
and refugees seek brighter days;
fleeing or fighting, the kingdom falls.
yet you remain, clinging to the rubble:
scraps of paper, broken records.
rusted memories and fossilized mistakes.
wandering towers of unread books,
a broken king repents alone.
and here i am, a knight on a horse
to sweep in and hear you, to dig you out.
but when you cry for help i falter--
cautioned, i yet hold out my hand,
but you can't let go and i'm afraid to go back.
it's gone and we're gone and she's so far away.
you live in a crumbling castle:
bricks of words you can't take back
mortared with decades of mistrust
solidified in guilt, cemented by hurt.
you're trapped in your pitiful fortress,
and i cannot get you out.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 12:56 AM UTC
He looks hither, thither and then afar
to question the shocked silence of his fear.
Above him reigns a scintillating star,
wrought in the dark sky like an icy tear.
He moves between plots of freshly-dug earth
with the cautioned step of a wounded fox,
and discovers traces of that second birth
which calls pale men to the funerary box.
Dead, interred but yet forgotten so soon
no grave bore the name of him who once was.
Like a stolen kiss beneath a full moon,
these men were disposed of without a pause.
This is what terrified the aging Pushkin so.
Death itself inspired no unusual woe.
But he lamented those names lost in snow.
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 11:27 PM UTC
When I was just a little kid
Uncle Jeff talked to me
About the things people said
As opposed to what I could see.
He cautioned me to listen
And watch people carefully
He promised me an education,
Just made for little me.
Do they walk their talk
When no one is around?
Do they mean the words they say, or
Is it just a lot of sound?
Do you feel you can trust them
With what you put away
Or do you think they will cheat you
And take it for their rainy day?
There are those who even as children
Prefer what other kids get
They grow up to be criminals
So you must not forget.
Another word for criminals
Is a word called ‘politicians’.
They’re very strong with cheating
But not good at admissions.
Money in their bank account
Is all that’s driving them.
Look for their integrity?
The pickings will be slim.
They look for what they can get
From you in many ways.
The cards are marked, you can depend
And they know all the plays.
Do they walk their talk
When no one is around?
Do they mean the words they say, or
Is it just a lot of sound?
Do you feel you can trust them
With what you put away
Or do you think they will cheat you
And take it for their rainy day?
You and they don’t think alike;
You can’t guess what they think.
But you can bet when they suggest
The idea will highly stink.
Your best protection is to hide
When these creeps are around.
If you have to pack your things
And move to a different town.
I have learned my Uncle Jeff
Was wise beyond his years.
He had a lot of wisdom stored
Securely between his ears.
He shared them with a little child
And I listened to what he said.
I heard his words as clean pure truth
And kept them in my head.
Do they walk their talk
When no one is around?
Do they mean the words they say, or
Is it just a lot of sound?
Do you feel you can trust them
With what you put away?
Or do you think they will cheat you
And take it for their rainy day?
Jun 14, 2017
Jun 14, 2017 at 11:07 PM UTC
Balanced at this point of time,
Fractious as the case may be
Cautioned as to why we men
Most unctiously, cross women flee.
Brought to heel by subtle stare
Insinuation lingering there,
Caught out short by razored phrase
Abruptly severing…outrage,
Castigated without word
Rendering rebuff absurd.
Yet born to kiss and stroke the brow
But ultimately lost, somehow,
That give and take,(with **** smile)
Demolished slow in time’s worn guile,
Angelic then, in evening light
Extinguished now with tension tight.
Standoff in the cold of dawn
Sees all affection now withdrawn.
Balanced at this point in time
An utter need to kick the dog
Retreat to haven’s dark tool shed
To mutter hurt and swallow grog.
M.
Composed, (with tongue in cheek), for a poor weak ****** who quickly saw his Heaven on Earth become Hell.
23 February 2017
HAMILTON NZ
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 11:31 PM UTC
~
For this of castled velvet throne
A queen does weep a single tear
Bleak shadows of this night have grown
To cast upon her heart this fear
Reflection polished marble floor
Her silhouette of humbled reach
Now shutters via nightmare’s pour
Alone of bridges fought to breach
Beyond the window valleys sleep
Soft candle flame in slumbered night
Flickering her pain felt deep
Burning through in cautioned light
An empty throne aside her heart
Its warmth now chilled of worried feel
That day her love he did depart
Read messages to long conceal
Her single kiss of cherished due
A farewell bid, pled safe return
Lost amidst this sorrowed view
And loneliness again did burn
As if the dawn had been his shield
In misty haze on moor’s harsh breath
Of forest frame it had concealed
A moment quick of arrow’s death
She takes this single tear she’s cried
Into a glass of liquid clear
This droplet of her love applied
Her broken heart to wish him near
And brings this potion to her lips
Such bitter taste slow going down
A whispered hope in swallowed sips
To then remove her saddened crown
Upon his throne of gold now rests
She breathes one final moment pure
Her eyes now close of wishful quest
To be with her sweet king once more
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 12:19 PM UTC
We've been cautioned to surrender
Before jack-boots hit our streets;
It was an open warning
With podium bleats like sheep.
They side-stepped all discretion,
They pivoted 'round masked stealth;
They aired their anonymity
On the media's lips of wealth.
And there, behind the curtain skirts,
Lurking in the wings,
In shadows and back street doors,
They listened,
Pulling strings.
Sep 17, 2022
Sep 17, 2022 at 10:44 AM UTC