12mn: I was babaw. I made a "funny" joke. You didn't laugh. Usual. I made a funner joke. And this time, you laughed.

1am: I changed our chat emoji to a nose. You realized you were turning 17 in 23 hours. I asked you what you learned from this year, and you said "I hate people", and I wished you didn't hate me.

2am: I was asking you what picture I should tweet for your birthday. Why didn't we get a picture last night. You're laughing at me for wearing the huge *** NASA shirt you gave me. (Thank you a bunch for that.)

3am: I asked you how the Mcdo was. You said "good". My tummy grumbled.

4am: You asked me if I was up and honestly I wasn't – you just woke me up. But conversations at this hour are the best so why not? You sent me some songs. And my groggy self listened to them half asleep. You said 20 hours til you turn 17.

5am: Kuya Soy just left. I am sad. You said jmsn at this hour is great – and he is. You're now gonna try to sleep (**** it, just when I was awake). I asked you what time you were born so I could greet you on that time. But **** it was at 7 am, still, I set my alarm. Goodnight and goodbye, for the mean time.

6am: I write because you exist. Woah that dramatic effect though (just kidding). But really, I am awake, writing my greeting for you. I fell asleep with my notes open.

10am: I was still asleep, you messaged me in reply to "I write because you exist", you said same.

12nn: I just woke up and I just saw your message.

1pm: I followed you with my 2016 account. You followed me back.

2pm: You sent me a hugot quote about walking away or trying harder. I think I'm going for the try harder option. You never know how close you actually are to your goal, right? You said you're turning 17 in less than 12 hours.

3pm: Easy to talk to, hard to understand.

4pm: I learned that your mom's name is Nilda. Hi Tita pls like me half jk. Actually not jk.

5pm: You told me everyone was making 365 accounts. Actually, it's 366.

6pm: I told you I was sad about kinder eggs having genders. "idk lol ugh HAHAHA"

7pm: I asked you if you were okay, you said yes. (And I wished that you'd never lie to me whenever I ask if you're okay)

8pm: Some ungrateful btch be tweeting about not wanting to get food for Christmas. You say "BRUH FOOD IS ONE OF THE GOOD GIFTS MY *****", I laughed.

9pm: You made me listen to Jidenna (aheheh ahas) and I'm reminded of your great music taste.

11pm: You told me your family was fighting. This is your "worst christmas". I want so desperately to do anything to make you feel better, and I am trying to help you.

12mn: Still trying. I wanna hug you to absorb all your sadness.

ESSAYS ON
LEADERSHIP FRONTIERS OF AFRICAN LITERATURE
By
Alexander   k   Opicho




Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya; aopicho@yahoo.com)

TABLE OF CONTENTS
Contents                                                                                                                Page
TABAN MAKITIYONG RENEKET LO LIYONG AND PREFECTURE OF AFRICAN LITERATURE 4
THE CURRENT EAST AFRICA IS NOT A LITERARY DESERT 27
AFRICAN WRITERS HAVE CULTURAL RIGHTS TO FORMULATE AND CREATE ENGLISH WORDS 31
LIKE PUSHKIN, AFRICAN WRITERS MUST CREATE THEIR OWN PROFFESSION OF LITERATURE 35
THERE IS POWER IN THE NAME ‘ALEXANDER’ 40
KENYAN COURTS AND PARLIAMENT ARE BETRAYERS OF HUMANE GOVERNANCE 47
AFRO-CHRISTIAN RESPONSE TO RADICAL LITERATURE IS GOOD AND SWAGGERISH 50
YUNUS’S SOCIAL BANKING IS A GOOD BENCHCMARK FOR THIRD WORLD ENTREPRENEURS 54
HEROISM IS NOT GREATNESS BUT HUMILITY IN SERVICE TO HUMANITY 57
KENYAN STUDENTS; YOUR MOBILE INTERNET CULTURE IS ANTI- ACADEMICS 61
WHAT IS THE MAGIC IN THE WORD ‘DRINKARD’ OF AMOS TUTUOLA 63
SOCIETIES IN AFRICA HAVE TO MENTOR BUT NOT CONDEMN THE LIKES OF JULIUS MALEMA 66
AMERICA WILL NOT WIN THE WAR ON GLOBAL TERRORISM 69
AFRICA CAN OVERCOME A MENACE OF **** IN EVERY 30 MINUTES 71
COMPARATIVE ROLES OF AFRICAN-BRAZILIAN LITERATURE IN THE POLITICS OF RACIAL AND GENDER DEMOCRACY 76
NEO-COLONIALISM IS NOT THE MAIN VICE TO THE GAMBIAN POLITICS 85
RELATIVE MEDIA OBJECTIVITY IS ACHIEVEABLE IN AFRICA AGAINST POWER CULTURE AND TYRANNIES OF TASTE 89
READING CULTURE IS GOOD FOR BOTH THE POOR AND THE RICH 96
VIOLENT DEATH IS THE BANE OF AFRICAN WRITERS AND ARTISTS 100
AFRICAN WRITTERS AND ARTISTS MUST ASPIRE BEYOND A NOBEL PRIZE 104
WHAT ARE CULTURAL RIGHTS OF AFRICAN ENGLISH SPEAKERS? 109
WHY IMPRISONMENT OF WRITERS CONTRIBUTED MOST TO AFRICAN LITERATURE 113
DORIS LESSING: A FEMINIST, POET, NOVELIST, WHITE-AFRICANIST AND NOBELITE UN-TIMELY PASSES ON 121
Amilcar Cabral: Beacon of revolutionary literature and social democracy 127
How the State of Israel is brutally dealing with African refugees 131
Historical glimpses of language dilemma in Afro-Arabic literature 146
THIS YEAR 2013; IS THE YEAR OF GREAT DEATHS 153
AFRICAN LITERATURE WITHOUT POETRY IS LIKE LOVE WITHOUT VAGINAL *** 156



















PROLOGOMENA
BARRACK OBAMA READS MOBY ****
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
American president is reading Moby ****
Ja-kogello is reading Moby ****
Ja-siaya is reading Moby ****
Ja-merica is reading Moby ****
Jadello is reading Moby ****
Ja-buonji is reading Moby ****
His lovely Oeuvre of Melville Herman
And what are you reading?

Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because untimely death took his father
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because untimely death took his mother
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because untimely death to his brother
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because untimely death took the grannies
His lovely Oeuvre of Melville Herman  
And what are you reading?

Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Baba Michelle is reading Moby ****
Baba Sasha is reading Moby ****
Baba Malia is reading Moby ****
Baba nya-dhin is reading Moby ****
Sarah’s sire is reading Moby ****
Ja-sharia is reading Moby ****
The ****** is reading Moby ****
His lovely Oeuvre of Melville Herman
And what are you reading?

Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because here ekes audacity of hope
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because here ekes dreams of fathers
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because here ekes yes we can
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because here ekes American dream
His lovely Oeuvre of Melville Herman
And what are you readings?

Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because American president is like whale hunting
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because Obama is a money making animal
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because hunting Osama is whale riding
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because hunting Gaddaffi is whale riding
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because coming to Kenya is whale riding
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because Guantanamo prison is a bay of whales
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because Snowden is a Russian whale
Because launching drones is whale riding
His lovely Oeuvre of Melville Herman
And what are you reading, Moby ****?














CHAPTER ONE
TABAN MAKITIYONG RENEKET LO LIYONG AND PREFECTURE OF AFRICAN LITERATURE

I am writing this article from Kenya on this day of 23 September 2013 when the Al shabab, an Arabo-Islamic arm of the global terrorist group the Al gaeda have lynched siege on the shopping mall in Nairobi known as the West Gate where an average of forty people have been killed and a hundreds are held hostage. The media is full of horrendous and terrifying images. They have made me to hate this day. I hate terrorism, I hate American foreign policy on Arabs, I hate philosophy behind formation of the state of Israel and I equally hate religious fundamentalism. Also on this date, all the media and public talks in Kenya are full of intellectual and literary tearing of one Kenyan by another plus a retort in the equal measure as a result of the ripples in the African literature pool whose epicenter is the Professor Taban Lo Liyong .He is an epicenter because he had initially decried literary mediocrity among the African scholars and University professors, Wherein under the same juncture he also quipped that Kenya’s doyen of literature Ngugi wa Thiong’o never deserved a Nobel prize. Liyong’s stand has provoked intellectual reasons and offalities to fly like fireworks in the East African literary atmosphere among which the most glittering is Chris Wanjala’s contrasting position that; who made Liyong the prefect and ombudsman of African literature? This calls for answers. Both good answers and controversial responses. Digging deeper into the flesh of literature as often displayed by Lo Liyong.
Liyong is not a fresher in the realm of literary witticism. He is a seasoned hand .Especially when contributions of Liyong to east African literary journal during his student days in the fifties of the last century during which he declared east Africa a literary desert. In addition to his fantastic titles; Another ****** Dead and The Un-even Rips of Frantz Fanon, Professor Taban Lo Liyong also humorously called Amos Tutuola the son of Zinjathropus, what a farcical literary joke? I also want to appreciate this Liyong’s artfulness of language in this capacity and identify him in a literary sense as Taban Matiyong Lo   Liyong the son of Eshu. He is an ideological and literature descended of the great West African Eshu. Eshu the god of trouble which was dramatized by Obutunde Ijimere in the imprisonment of Obadala and also recounted by Achebe in the classical essays; Morning Yet of Creation Day. I call him Eshu because of his intellectual and literary ability to trigger the East and West Africans into active altercation of literary, cultural and political exchanges every other time he visits these regions. Whether in Lagos, Accra or Nairobi.
Now, in relation to Ngugi and intellectual quality of Kenyan University literature professors was Liyong right or wrong?  Does Liyong’s stand-point on Ngugi’s incompetence for Nobel recognition and mediocrity in literary scholarship among Kenyan Universities hold water. Are Liyong’s accusations of East Africa in these perspectives factually watertight and devoid of a fallacy of self-aggrandizement to African literary prefecture as Professor Chris Wanjala laments. Active literary involvement by anyone would obviously uncover that ;It is not Liyong Alone who has this intellectual bent towards East Africa, any literary common sense can easily ask a question that; Does Ngugi’s literary work really deserve or merit for Nobel recognition or not ? The answers are both yes and no. There are very many of those in Kenya who will readily cow from the debate to say yes. Like especially the community of alumni of the University of Nairobi who were Ngugi’s students in the department of English in which Ngugi was a Faculty during the mid of the last century. Also the general Kenyan masses who have been conditioned by warped political culture which always and obviously confine the Kenyan poor into a cocoonery of chauvinistic thought that Ngugi should or must win because he is one of us or Obama must win because he is one of us or Kemboi must win because he is the son of the Kenyan soil. These must also be the emotional tid-bits upon which the Kenyan Media has been based to be catapulted into Publicity feat that Ngugi will win the Nobel Prize without reporting to the same Kenyan populace the actual truths about other likely winners in the quarters from the overseas. I am in that Kenyan school thought comprising of those who genuinely argue that Ngugi’s literary work does not befit, nor merit, nor deserve recognition of Nobel Prize for literature. This position is eked on global status of the Nobel Prize in relation to Ngugi’s Kikuyu literary and writing philosophy. It is a universal truth that any and all prizes are awarded on the basis of Particular efforts displayed with peculiarity. Nobel Prize for literature is similarly awarded in recognition of unique literary effort displayed by the winner. It is not an exception when it comes to the question of formidability in a particular effort. However, the most basic literary virtue to be displayed as an overture of the writer is conversion of theory into practice. This was called by Karl Marx, Hegel, Antonio Gramsci and Paulo Freire, especially in Freire’s  pedagogy of the oppressed as praxis.History of literature and politics in their respective homogenous and comparative capacities has it that ;There has been eminent level of praxis by previous Nobelites.Right away from Rabitranathe Tagore to Wole Soyinka, From Dorriss Lessing to Wangari Mathai.Similar to JM Coatze ,Gao Tziaping,Alexander Vasleyvitch Solzhenystisn and Baraka Obama.This ideological stand of praxis is the one that made Alfred Nobel himself to to stick to his gun of intellectual  values and deny Leo Tolstoy the prize in 1907 because there was no clear connection between rudimentary Tolstoy in the nihilism and Feasible Tolstoy in the possible manner  of the times .In a similar stretch Ngugi wa Thiongo’s literary works and his ideological choices are full of ideological theory but devoid of ideological praxis. Evidence for justification in relation to this position is found back in the 70’s and 80’s of the last century, When Ngugi was an active communist theoretician of Kenya. His stature as a Kenyan communist ideologue could only get a parallel in the likes of Leon Trotsky and Gramsci. This ideological stature was displayed in Ngugi’s adoration of the North Korean communism under the auspice of the Korean leader Kim Yun Sung. This is so bare when you read Ngugi’s writers in politics, a communist pamphlet he published with the African red family. By that time this pamphlet was treated equally as Mao tse Tung’s collected works by the Kenya government which means that they were both illegal publications and if in any case you were found with them you would obviously serve nine months in prison. And of course when the late Brigadier Augustine Odongo was found with them he was jailed for nine months at Kodhiak maximum prison in Kisumu ,Kenya .O.K, the story of Odongo is preserved for another day. But remember that, this was Ngugi only at his rudimentary stage. But when Ngugi got an opportunity to get an ideological asylum, he did not go to Russia, nor East Germany, Nor Tanzania, nor China but instead he went to the USA , a country whose ideological civilization is in sharp contradiction with communism; a religion which Ngugi proffessess.In relation to this choices of Ngugi one can easily share with me these reflections; is one intellectually  honest if he argues that he is a socialist revolutionary when his or her employer is an American institution like the university of California in Irvine ?
Ngugi was not the only endangered communist ideologue of the time. There were also several others. Both in Kenya and without Kenya. They were the likes of; Raila Odinga, George Moset Anyona, ***** Mutunga and very many others from Kenya. But in Africa some to be mentioned were Walter Rodney, Yoweri Museven,Isa Shivji,Jacob Tzuma ,Robert Mugabe and others. The difference between Ngugi and all of these socialist contemporaries of him is that; Ngugi went to America and began accumulating private property just like any other capitalist. But these others remained in Africa both in freedom and detention to ensure that powers of political darkness which had bedeviled Africa during the last century must go. And indeed the powers somehow went. Raila has  been in Kenya most of the times,Anyona died in Kenya while in the struggle for second liberation of Kenyan people from the devilish fangs of Moi’s dark reign of terror and tyrany.Walter Rodney worked in Tanzania at Dare salaam University where he wrote his land mark book; How Europe underdeveloped Africa. Later on he went back to his country of birth in Africa, Guyana where he was assassinated while in the revolutionary struggle for political good of the Guyanese people. Yoweri Museven practically implemented socialism by fighting politics of sham and nonsense out of Uganda of which as per today Uganda is somehow admirable. Isa Shivji has ever remained in Dare salaam University, inspite of poverty. He is now the chair of Mwalimu Julius Nyerere school of Pan African studies. Jacob Tsuma and Robert Mugabe they are current presidents of South Africa and Zimbabwe respectively. The gist of this reference to African socialist revolutionaries as contemporaries to Ngugi wa Thiong’o is that a socialist revolutionary must and should not run away from the oppressor in to a zone of comfort. But instead must remain and relentlessly fight, just like in the words of Fidel Castro; fight and die in the battle field as long as it is a struggle against the enemy of the revolution. This view by Castro is pertinent as it’s a Revolutionary praxis which actually is redolent of practice of an ideology that has to be held for ever above ideological cosmentics.Ngugi scores badly on this. So if the Nobel academy looks at Ngugi in terms of defending human rights then it must be reminded that Ngugi have no marks on the same because he only ran away from the practical struggle. Anyway, Politics and ideology has its own fate. But let us now come back to literature. Ngugi and his books. As at  this time of writing this essay  Ngugi has published the following works; Weep not Child, The River Between, A Grain of Wheat, Black Hermit, Petals of Blood, Devils on the Cross,Matigari,Homecoming,Decolonizing the Mind, Writers in Politics, Ngugi Detained, Pen Points and Gun Points, Wizard of the Crow,Globalectics,Remeembering Africa, Dreams in Times of War and I Will Marry When I Want as well as the Trial of Dedan Kimathi which he wrote along with Micere Githae Mugo.Out of this list the only works with literary depth that call for intellectualized attention are ;A Grain of wheat, Wizard of the crow and Globalectics. The Grain of wheat is simply a post colonial reflection of Kenyan politics. Its themes, plot, lessons and entire synechedoche is also found in Wole Soyinka’s Season of Anomie as well as Achebe’s Anthills of the savannah. My argument dove-tails with those of Liyong’s stand that rewarding Ngugi’s Grain of wheat and forgetting Achebe’s Anthills of the Savannah and A man of the people would be a literary ceremony devoid of literary justice. Wizard of the Crow is indeed a magnum opus. I am ready to call it Ngugi’s oeuv

I don't pretend to 
Know anything 
I have no knowlege of 
So i speak the truth 
When I say 
That you scared me today 
Do I know you anymore? 

It has been so long 
Since I tasted color 
And dreamt 
In daytime 

I need you  
But I don't want to keep you 
I hope youre reading
***** you 
I need you 
But don't want you to stay 

I am so lonely 
Don't you dare look at me
***** YOU
So don't you dare come back to me

My breath catches inside as you glance my way
My cheeks sore from smiling at our playful banter
My heart skips beats when you look deep into my eyes, as if you're searching for who I am inside
And to think--this is only the beginning
*jm

JM:
There's a new beginning
On the rise,
People making jokes.
Please don't be offended
But their style is a hoax!
Boredom rings in my ears,
When I'm forced by their sides.
I think I've even lost
a few brain cells,
Listening to their stories and lies.

SS:
I've lost a few brain cells
I'm not the only one!
These folks are into heavy drugs
Do ******* for their fun!
They are very sad
That is just a fact.
Don't seem to have two
Brain cells
To spark on impact!
I don't want them 'round.
I really don't... would you?
It's like a wierd combo
Of a circus and a zoo!

JM:
It's true, it's certainly a sight,
They think they're all so tough
But they need cages at night
By morning, you'd think
They'd had enough!
Strobe lights and lava lamps,
I don't know how these people see!
Like a bunch of crazed animals,
Or wild teenagers on Molly!
I can't help but want
Them nowhere near
Most of them surely stink!
What they'll do next i fear
They simply just don't think!

SS:
That's because of drugs.
Can't be right when
You're on them.
I really want to help you
I want to be a friend.
Try a little more.
Be conscious of your health.
If you don't do it for me
Do it for yourself!
It doesn't make you happy!
Those are just plain lies!
If you want some help
I'll be happy to oblige!
But if you're going to use
I don't want you around
I don't want to see you
Going six feet underground!
You're not hurting ME,
You're hurting someone else.
While you're busy killing
Brain cells
You're killing YOURSELF.

Just Melz
SoulSurvivor
October 2, 2014

Lying still
Aroused by your unexpected
Unwanted scent
Go away
You aren't here anymore
You don't belong
To the strength
Belief
And love
That has pulled me through
This isn't yours
It never was
*jm

The gleam in my sister in laws eyes
A mother to be
Is probably the most beautiful thing
That I have ever seen
The excitement in her voice escapes with a tender love, and
Nothing can contain her happiness
Of bringing new life into this world
With the man she fell in love with seven years ago
Such great examples
Are my brother and his bride
They encourage many others to do their best
And to never lose hope of finding the someone that they are for each other
Lovers and best friends
*jm

As slowly as the waters waves grasp for land,
Is my heart yearning to return again.
As quickly as the rush of wind sets waves in motion,
Is my mind set back on letting go.
*jm

Had to use self ****
Rule had to ******* **** to use
Ten word poems ******* rule

Swollen tongue,
And cuts all over.
If only she'd have known
That the epilepsy would take hold.
Dry throat
And an aching head.
She's been taking her meds just like they said.
Body worn down
As she's trying to stop her racing mind.
"Just sleep it off,
Maybe that was the last one this time."
Lacking understanding
Of why the drugs won't work.
Questioning everything
From when it happened to why it happened to her.
"Control the stress,
They'll become less consistent."
Maybe that would work
If she didn't feel like her faith was missing.
*jm

My Life is a Scratched CD (OR Blue Collar Lament- The Little Napper Remix)
Lines taken from poems by JM Romig (Ursa Somniculosa/CD Skipping Down Route 11) and Ryan Kinney (Blue Collar Lament)

It's long drive on this highway
The window creeks
- its jagged way down
I breathe in the new air for the first time in months
the CD starts skip-skip words
Hopping over - lines
Reminding me
Of finite fuel
repeat-
finite time
With work looming just hours away
repeat-
Death, just decades away

I spend most of my week
in the back of the factory
where I sell my free time
on repeat
in a semi-conscience trance
watching multi-million dollar machines work

repeat

in the back of the factory
where I sell my free time
is a constellation of dirt, chipped paint
and cobwebs
forming the shape
of a bear
lounging in a hammock

skip

They are more alive than I am.
Monday at 3 PM I click off my brain,
switch on automatic,
repeat
automatic
skip
- the countdown:-T-minus 40 hours.
Each minute that ticks by
in the dull monotony slowly steals my sanity,
bit by bit

Each minute closer to Friday
slower and slower,
until on Friday they seem to tick
backwards--

skip

I have coworkers
who insist that it's a monkey,
trapped in a net

Each day blurs into the other
making them indistinguishable.
Repeat-
My finite time
Monday,
the entirety of the previous week
on repeat-
T-minus 40 hours.

skip

they are wrong.
It's clearly a bear

In the back of the factory
where I sell my free time
repeat-
Death - just decades away.
The dictator they put in charge of the asylum
barks out commands on cue,
just to remind everyone that they own you.

skip

The desperation for dollars
are the shackles that keep me here.

I often welcome sleepwalking:
I think of Emerson
On repeat-
Skip-
I think I feel like his transparent eyeball
repeat-
His eyeball-
I begin to understand
I begin to feel like I'm one with everything
skip-
everyone is love
repeat
love
every-Everyone is me
and you
skip-skip
-the impending coma

In the few instances the machines malfunction
I curse being awakened.
At least as a zombie, I don't feel
my mind rotting
repeat

the rotting constellation of dirt,
chipped paint and cobwebs:
Ursa Somniculosa
No matter where I am on the floor,
I can see him hanging there in his hammock

on the weekends I love life.
I shed the identity the uniform has forced upon me
and my true self emerges--
repeat
my finite fuel

In the back of the factory
where I sell my free time
repeat
the desperation for dollars
I truly only live two days a week
repeat
my finite time
I'm dying the other five

skip-skip

I think of Ursa Somniculosa -
In the back of the factory
where I sell my free time
enjoying his perpetual vacation
maybe sipping on a nice tall beer
soaking up the sun -

NOT being a trapped monkey
like all of us down here
on repeat

Hi Syria,

How are you feeling today?
I've heard so much about you
How strong you are
Enduring six years of illness
And counting
Of how high spirited you've remained
Watching children play in the
Midst of turmoil;
Indiscriminate shelling
Heard of the many chemical baths
You've been subjected to
Assad believing you have
Cancerous cells
Needing to be exterminated
Not realizing HE is
The cancer and you;
You the victim
How I wish I could help you heal
From your trauma

Yet I heard an injection
Was given you today
With the hope
The chemical baths can end
Because it is killing you
Slowly rotting
Destroying your body
Taking away your beauty
The side effect of corruption
How beautiful you once were
How long will it take you to heal?
I wish for peace of mind
And a healthy future for you
Syria

From JM 4/7/17

Talk about epidemic
Talk about homeless
Talk about problems
Talk about cops man
Talk about hope?
Talk about injustice
Talk about nothing
Talk about love
Talk about like
Talk about kindness
Talk about something
Talk about you
Talk about me
Talk about goodnight
Talk about

People are scared
People want to fight
Unite under a name
Why can't we fight
**** the police
And **** JM

Talk about

Protest nothing
Protest
Protest police
Protest
Protest equality
Protest
Protest sleeping in
Protest

I'm no writer.
No artist,
No scientist,
No mathematician.
I'm not a genius.
No Galileo,
No Einstein,
No Freud.
I am who I am.
Weird,
Self-conscious,
Caring.
I may not be rich,
Or own an expensive car,
Or buy expensive clothing,
Or live in a glorious home filled with expensive belongings.
I am happy where I am,
With what I have,
With who is with me,
With my life.
I've learned that the most important things
Are not materials,
Not who owns how much of what,
Not how much smarter he is than she.
I believe the most important things
Are what we love,
Who we love,
And the love we have for ourselves.
And I believe
That believing all of this
Is what makes life important.

*jm

Syria
Crying
Agonizing
Relentless
Torture
Your body torn
Shredded
Cancer
Consuming
And the cause?
Uncaring Viruses
Corrupting
Your teachings
Subjecting you to
Insurmountable
Pain
Misery
I'm so sorry

JM 3/30/17

Oh, how I'll miss their smiles, and
Their pattering feet as they'd come to greet me the minute I'd walk through the door.

Their love so pure, and
Their hearts so full.
Their innocent,
But naturally smart-alecky comebacks to statements like,
"It's time to come inside,"
"We should wait patiently in line,"
"It's time to take a nap,"
"Let's give him a turn first, and yours will come next,"
will always put a smile on my face.

The love for them, and
The joy they'd bring to my heart
From innocent
And naturally earnest words to me like,
"Your earrings are pretty today,"
"When it's naptime, you're going to hold my hand until I fall asleep,"
"You should sit by me for snack time,"
"I love you, Miss Julia."

Though I'll never see these children again,
I hope, through the years, they'll remember me
The way I will them.
I will cherish each one of them, and
Every memory they've given me
Until the end of time.
*jm

I'm not pro War
Pro Trump
Pro Assad
I choose no sides
All men
Past, present and future
Have evil within
Power is destructive
I don't have a
Hidden agenda
I'm not looking to deceive
Convince or argue a point
I am pro freedom
Pro expression
Pro peace
Pro humanity
Pro life
In the end
We are all
One of a Kind

JM 4/13/17

I'm pulled in by your silence
Captivated by your mystery
Your charming physique
Your mind unknown
Your character not always shown
Your quiet smile wraps me in warmth
Your deep brown eyes show that there's more
More to you than meets the eye
*jm

There's a hole in my chest where my heart used to be.
Nothing left but pain from the memories.
Never even knew
Always lied to
Never hearing you confess
Always finding out the rest
Never knowing what was best
Always saying, "Let it rest."
Never making new memories
Always hating because now we're enemies.
*jm

Aleppo
City besieged
So many fallen
Beneath your feet
Joy and Laughter
Replaced by
Horrors unseen

I see the pain
In your eye
Senseless fighting
Bombs falling from the sky
Screaming, Yelling
Children crying
Blood on your streets

The world on its knees
Hoping for peace
Your beauty forsaken
Loved ones taken
A path of destruction
Complete devastation
Will you ever be
Aleppo again?

JM 10/3/16

Monsters are never born they are created--jm.

Stand up for what is right.
Never let someone tell you that you shouldn't follow your dreams,
Just do it.
If your gay embrace it.
If your different embrace it.
This is life make the best out of it,
For we only get one life to live.

The doors open.

Engines roar and wind howls
The smell of exhaust fills the space
Here stand, weighted down, with clenched bowels
The line moves forward at a dizzying pace
I make eye contact with JM and hand him my line
I pivot and jump and for a moment I'm flying
All I see is blue sky, my feet feet point at the horizon

One thousand, two thousand, three thous.....ahhh!

The chute opens with a thundering snap
Check the risers, check the canopy, watch the plane fly away
Look down at the world, spread out below like a map
Taste the air, feel the wind, get control of my sway
Undo the ties holding the weapon case on my side
Give a whoop!  
No, be quiet  
Professional pride

Look at how the sun reflects off the stream below me in the woods and turns it into a molten golden serpent.

Right now, if someone saw my eyes tear up I'd blame it on the wind
Oh, how long until I can do this again?

If you deduce he's nonregular-hot french guy,
Strike One!
If you're in crave to bliss,and he promised.
And you mistrust?
Strike Two!!
If you have reservations that he's modest- brainyass
and suspects that
he only knew making "longest Ohhh" to women,
You're definitely OUT!!!!!!!!

He's a host.
A divine and responsible one,
He worship womankind.
May I rant an Irish gal,
with strange bed trip?

Anyway,
He's John Michel.
If I'm his girl,
I'd love to call him JM.

I miss the days
When I would wake from nightmares
Run to your room and have you there
Protecting me from the monsters in my dreams
I miss the days
When I would mock your actions
As we'd watch the Tigers play
Finally venturing to a live game
I miss the days
When you'd lose it and yell
As you'd coach me
Teaching me to never give up
I miss the days
When a simple hug
Could take the pain away
From young, careless boys that lied
At least I knew I had one strong one always by my side
Those were the days.
*jm