She’s underhand throwing words with her mouth
The boy leans in past natural borders, to study the agenda in her eyes
He is built like a bent paperclip,
with bottlebrush forelocks, a barracuda jaw.

Between her bare legs, she gently squeezes
a cup of iced hibiscus tea.
She reaches down and lifting it to her lips,
I feel mine part, in thirsting sympathy…

Her upper thighs blush wet with condensation as
The boys eager fingers click on her knee,
like ice cubes in her sweating berry hibiscus,
floral melt cascades down her throat.

Fairy breath lands on my shoulders - my silk overcoat
It makes me dissolve with memory
of my beloved tea picker,
a cocoa skinned Sudanese girl
traveling the road to market in Al-Junaynah,
swaying in the truck bed under a warm sun,
dreaming of red karkadeh flowers
and a paper clip boy.

The winds out of the west land blow,
My friends have breathed them there;
Warm with the blood of lads I know
Comes east the sighing air.

It fanned their temples, filled their lungs,
Scattered their forelocks free;
My friends made words of it with tongues
That talk no more to me.

Their voices, dying as they fly,
Thick on the wind are sown;
The names of men blow soundless by,
My fellows' and my own.

Oh lads, at home I heard you plain,
But here your speech is still,
And down the sighing wind in vain
You hollo from the hill.

The wind and I, we both were there,
But neither long abode;
Now through the friendless world we fare
And sigh upon the road.

*** it,
I should be on a beach
with a satchel full of stars
teaching
oysters how to reach for the sky
and
what am I doing?
shoeing horses for sixpence,

working for a pittance
is worse than the temperance
society.

i

here we are then
same old ancient desire
same old scream
we chide dull fire

of unending unrelenting
unforgiven..
gosh
will it never end..

our forelocks annointed
by a new ghost
something anew
we and i mean dead

toast look and pray
but it´s the same old
show a new day
we sit mouth open..

later,i will go to
the supermarker
after,
sit in the park..

then,climb so
many steps
and what will
be will be..

The Morning Sun ©


               Stanza 1 :

The short hand of my big,round clock
Diligently whirred the hour of nine,
And the unfailing sun - faithful to her calling,
Rose again to shine.

               Stanza 2 :

Arghh ! The tendrils of her luminous rays
Sprayed discomfort - exceptionally piercing,
The moment of silence aided the voices of
Chirping birds perching the leeward side of
A neighbouring roof,
Adding somewhat a lustre, to the
Unwavering heat that fortunately found a
Path through the holes of my crisscross net.
Unbidden,I refused to adore her glistening
Grace,
Wallowing in selfpride,I declined my warm
Expression of gratitude for all of her
Kindness during the rainy days.
With overwhelming disdain, I let low the
Fringes of a yellow transparent curtain.

               Stanza 3 :

Nevertheless, undeterred as ever, she
Increased the dazzling filament of her
Toturing flame,
And all I ever did was gawk intermittently,
At the grandeur of her charismatic display
As she waxed and waned delightfully.
Causing tiny,glints to appear on the
Edges of swaying tassles that adorned the
See - through veils of my living room.
Arghh ! There she goes again - her
Untouchable forelocks made me scoff : they
Were as deadly as those oily,boiling,spittles
Dripping down from the cut - tops of
Long-lived vulcanoes,
Which no man ever dared tame.

                Stanza 4 :

The sweeping swish of daytime into
Noonshift, shapelessly radiated those lines
Of light through the scuds of sheepish grey,
As indifferent as ever : no soul, dead or
Living has ever been fortunate to wear her a
Royal crown - oh nay !
I marvel in awe as I unwillingly did watch,
My poor, sullen eyes could droop at some
Point,
Inwardly jealous of her daily, scorchy, touch.


Jahmenmuze.

I got my polling card
to vote at a station
in a local school
and
I'm going to run or
rather stroll in hard
and make my mark
which
just brings it home to me
what these political types
tend to be

make my mark?
like I'm a dullard
and can't write

perhaps we should doff our caps
touch our forelocks
bow or curtesy
to these,
in most cases
landed gentry

and for those who still believe
after everything every politician
has tried to thieve from you,
I salute you
before
they shoot you down again..

Half a root
half a truth
hidden in riddles, ecclesiastical
proverbs, parables & psalms
every word of YHWz. is deep insight,


though a pastor may preach
& an apostle may exalt
we all know who was in 400 years of slavery.
ask the black oracle,


Although they build museum to trap our arts,
although they build schools to unlearn us our crafts,
and prisons to keep us behind bars,
but you can never truly separate spirituality from africa, man.

When the kingdom comes
the true origin shall be exposed.
some live in mansions
others sun burnt,
but their heart still handsome.
ethiopia, the beginning and the end.

El’, el, Eli-Jah Self,

Woe to the earth and the inhabitants in it.
“Ye simple” first called apes,
then became black monkeys,
now mentally slave to Science,
how long shall your burdens
be hung around your neck

Study your african proverbs,
understand the ecclesiastical of riddles
of the black communities,
sing to your forefathers in psalms,
let a parable be made known to you at night,

forget the forelocks
grab the essence of the word spoken by I Am long ago,
break the chains in your mind
same ones they makes you feel you need on your neck to feel alive,

Wisdom is better than silver & gold,
understanding builds a family home better than the purest diamonds,


“ye sluggard” do not become a mockery of the blood shed
or the sweat and tears that never slept by the pillar of cloud at night
and the pillars of Fire by day
that led the path
while your old souls suffer whips.
what has been that has never been seen before?


They stole our tradition,
culture & heritage
& gave us science telling us our forefathers are dead & gone
but agreed to their DNA in print in us,

They have succeeded in stealing the literature of your heart.
and tear families apart
how enticing is jewelry compared to good character.

Remember your name
children of Jah who says we have no more fathers.
remember your priest Eli
& how he slept,
and also importantly
remember JAH nor dead.

Tug your forelocks and back away
you peasants from Simpleton upon Strife
I smell you well from your penury and hovels
get up  and go till my grounds and grind my corn
my pleasure today to grind your wives and wenches
Commoners all with small pokey staffs and stunted daggers
your women cry ya'all cannot keepup in the setting light or at dawn
I need strong able saplings like me  to man the fields and tend acres
run, go tell your wives and wenches time to lay down and pay taxes
I put a linage in serfdom to cleanse out the dense uncouth gene pool