"kampala" poems
In days dead and burried in time,
In a very far away enchanted clime,
In the mighty kingdom of Nineva
Where there fairly shone forever,
There once was a strange lonely wood
That ever in fairest robes of green stood
By the edge of a fair shoreline of pearl,
Whose mystery none may tell nor unfurl.
For akin to the most effulgent yonder star
That forevermore scintillates from afar
In a splendiferous novelty golden cluster,
So thrice scintillated the gem's luster.
And 'tis for this that as we all truly know,
All mortals, I say, all mortals of long ago
Gravitated from corners of distant lands
On the quest for riches by those strands.
Once, sweltering was the noontide
When upon a violent lonely rolling tide
A bunch of desperate pirates were seen
Nearing that wood of emerald sheen.
In a while, they'd gathered all they could,
Leaving not a single gem in the wood.
Alas! A wind murmured upon the skies
In faint whispers: "Woods have eyes"
So muttered all birds - all birds of the air,
All creatures in caverns desolate yet fair,
All leaves upon strange shadowy trees,
And all - all creatures of wild lonely seas.
But, despite the looming dark omen,
Swifter than plummeting drops of rain,
So hastily dashed every single pirate
Blindingly minding not about their fate.
They raised their silvery sails to take sail
But hark! All this - all this was to no avail;
For upon the skies no wind was seen
To render them across so wide a sea.
In a jiffy, louder than birds of the skies
All gems whispered, "Woods have eyes."
From that moment on, all lost their sight,
Doomed never to behold the sun's light.
And now, upon those murky restless seas
They dost weep but no plea can please,
For they were doomed to rove evermore
In search of their long forgotten shore.
©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros, Kampala, Uganda. 29th.July.2018.
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 4:03 AM UTC
*There was an Oak tree in Kampala,
Whose leaves were always blossomed in color;
and its life was dumped to the dogs
When they cut it down for timber and logs
That ornamental Oak tree in Kampala.*
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 9:36 AM UTC
Melancholy is the man who cannot sort the wheat from spam
and drowns in undiluted dross,
while others toss the waste away that keeps them from a fruitful day.
Fill my in tray with this harvest ,let me reap what I sow and not what others would throw at me,
and knock on wood
that what is sent is all good,
no deletions to e-mails,no begging letters or sad tales,no hawkers to sell me the things that they tell me I need,
let my line feed be clear
as I sit here and wait for the logic gate to crush me as the messages push past me,
I want to be free of those details of the plight of **** backed whales and the starving in China
or the food that's on offer in the shopping mall diner,the cruising of liners over sharp salted seas and how to say please in Kampala,Uganda.
Pander to the worst of them and let sleeping men lie,but the spam stacks on up and I don't wonder why,it just does and it will until I disengage from this wonder of the age and go back to
the abacus
where beads are all I need
no spam
no feed
no green screen to lead me on
just me.
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 4:41 AM UTC
Ye men so coward of poor Uganda,
Why dost thou comfortably rest in bed
As though crimes extant all propaganda,
And overlook the rising toll of dead?
Ah, night is nigh, rise now or nevermore,
For deep in dungeons lies thy dear child
Who should have lifted thy hope from the floor
That bliss as merry birds spark in the wild,
As such would bloom again upon thy land
That now lies in a sepulchre of sorrow,
As of a pirate prostrate by the strand
With faded hope to sight a new rainbow.
O rise up now and fight for thy freedom,
Before the land sinketh in lasting doom.
©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros,
Kampala, Uganda, 20th.August.2018.
#Shakespearean sonnet
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 3:01 AM UTC
Fair rose, now that thou art picked in the prime
Of thy breathtaking splendour to go bloom
By strands of pearl of very far a clime,
Upon roads of life I deserve no room
But as the wind bids adieu unto hills,
The lonely woods, the indignant still cloud,
The silent vales, the gently rolling rills,
As such, I must vade to another world;
But hark! Fair star, though snowy angels fair
In countless numbers bedeck heaven's shore,
Eternal flames of brightest love so rare
By my soul shalt blaze for thee evermore.
So, until then when we shall meet again,
My love for thee as fresh as summer rain.
© Kikodinho Edward Alexandros. 13th.July.2018.
#Shakespearean sonnet
#decasyllabic
#iambic pentameter
Jul 13, 2018
Jul 13, 2018 at 2:51 PM UTC
If I leave for Africa and take the bus
to the edge, if I step on an animal mine
and write inside the bellies of snakes—
with an alphabet that’s ruined thousands
of years of evolution—dirty letters
to Mr. Rogers who rubs his pockets for candy
then bends pink-mouthed girls like matchsticks.
If I crawl through Kampala and find our bones
lined up like crayons, uncovering themselves
over years and hundreds of years, sifting upwards.
If there are questions behind those
question marks, more soggy appetites whetted,
more curvy rib bones bumping in a soup pot.
If I run into a man who holds an empty bag
up to his ear and takes it at its word,
if this truant god—your cup and handle,
held like a pistol, love like a nail hole—afraid
to be the villain or stay longer
than an atlas, more afraid to hold than jump, chokes
the bag that won’t shut up, snuffed on camera.
Nearer my god to thee. He will take care,
will last out the cave. Hands sewn like armor,
fingernail mosaics and a propeller under each arm
to carry the faces that fell
away, curious as ever, hiding in museum cases
not in the glass but of it, not taking up spaces.
Feb 20, 2012
Feb 20, 2012 at 8:20 PM UTC
'Twas eventide of a dead summer's day
Whilst prostrate by shores of loneliness
When a violent tide of love swept his way
And drew him into a sea of pure ecstacy.
Effulgent stars all decked in flocks bright
Sprinkled their timelessly ethereal glow
Upon a vast shadowy looming veil, night,
While floods of kisses showered his brow.
Dreaming of lands beneath the rainbow,
Lands where blossoms of love never vade
But ever as fresh as dew upon the bough,
Or sweet aroma of flow'rs by a glade.
Alas! Little the swain knew how to swim
Hence dreamt never turning back ashore.
But this, all this was but a bootless dream
For as thee and me all truly dost know,
Long ago, in that sea deep his soul fell
Doomed to sight shores of bliss nevermore,
For of swimming, love she knew well
Hence decamped out of sight evermore.
©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros, Kampala, Uganda. 17th.July.2018.
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 7:25 AM UTC
Hold your breath, it’s Friday!
From the North, East and West they all meet up here
And I have no options to make this sign
In the name of the father, Son and the Holy Spirit
Saucy lines strictly seasoned for hungry insatiable eyes
I accept my fate reluctantly, poor soul but they are here
Freshly baked brown bare thighs exhibited invitingly
Chocolate and light skins served chilled but with pepper
And this is Kampala, on this Friday, just hold your breath
Weapons of Mass destruction paraded on hefty chests
Smeared with scented oils suspended in visible bright colour bras
I hear them whispering faint nothings littering this city with their beauty
Hot painted lips on ever glowing pretty faces
Hold your breath brother, if you have any left!
For we can run but we can’t escape, this is Kampala on Friday
Saturday they all migrate to the lake scores of Entebbe
Parading leisurely their derriere ever bikini clad
But we still meet with them for our Sunday services
At Calvary, Watoto, All Saints etc. with hands raised to the Almighty God
And I humbly watch, perhaps lazily, perhaps keenly, God have mercy
Perfect curves in ever tight pieces of clothes, nails vanished, legs waxed
Hair held back in all variety of styles, God invented Hair!
All kinds of heavenly perfumes from the most expensive brands
High heels, shining, bright and neatly designed, they really hate gravity
Contours past the River Nile, artist’s hand find it to paint
Any one would think there is a scarcity of underwear in Kampala
But we love it still, the bliss, the warmth, and the glamour of Kampala
So my good brother, Hold your breath this is Friday
©Ronald K Ssekajja 2014
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 9:52 AM UTC
There was a Young Lady who tweezed
The hair from her nose as she sneezed;
She then plucked her eyebrows from lowbrows to highbrows,
That plucky Young Lady who tweezed.
There was an Old Person of Cairo,
Whose conquests were carved into hiero-
glyphics on stones where a pharaoh's wrapped bones
Are preserved in a chamber in Cairo.
There was an Old Man of Kampala,
Who prayed in the morning to Allah,
And in the bright light of the day, and at night,
That observant Old Man of Kampala.
There was an Old Man of Burundi,
Who prayed to the Salvator Mundi
Who met him upstairs and who answered his prayers
And who sainted that Man of Burundi.
There was a Young Person of Turkey,
Whose motives were muddy and murky;
He lived in the dark in the shade of a park,
That shadowy Person of Turkey.
There was an Old Man of Manilla,
Whose favoritest bean was vanilla;
He added the bean to all his cuisine,
That gastric Old Man of Manilla.
There was an Old Man of Beijing,
Who'd study all day the I Ching;
He balanced his qi with white rice and green tea,
That mystical Man of Beijing.
There was an Old Lady of Donegal,
A sister named Mary McGonegal;
She ruled with a ruler every pre-to-high-schooler,
That punishing Lady of Donegal.
There was a New Baby, whose nose
Was loving the smell of a rose
When it noticed the riper brown smell of a diaper,
Which offended that New Baby's nose.
There was an Old Man of Hong Kong,
Whose nose had a luminous ****
It lighted his way by night and by day,
That lucky Old Man of Hong Kong.
Mar 9, 2025
Mar 9, 2025 at 10:39 PM UTC
I remember that film,
'Mississippi Masala'
Uganda
Kampala,
watching was a
difficulty that
catapulted me
out of my comfort zone
but I suppose one had to be there
to feel the real pain.
Mar 31, 2017
Mar 31, 2017 at 1:54 PM UTC