Nadine was naïve when she came to me,
So innocent, fresh and sublime,
I found that I had to pinch myself
When she told me she was mine.
She was barely out of her teens back then
While I was over the hill,
She hadn’t a toe in the water then,
But I had been through the mill.

Her gentle face was a study in grace
And her eyes had sparkled blue,
Her hair like a field of waving corn
And her lips had glistened dew,
Her ******* were fresh, pushed under her dress
And her hips a promised world,
I’d watch her sway as she’d drift my way
This seductive, sensuous girl.

I’d lie on the bed after making love
And I’d watch her rise and move,
She’d pose for me in her poetry
Like a picture, hung in the Louvre.
She was never ashamed of her body then
Though she lent it just to me,
The rest of the world was missing out,
It was pure idolatry.

I’d take her walking to see the sites
Where culture lurked in the gloom,
And art then captured her simple heart
As we’d go from room to room,
Rubens, Goya and Cabanel,
Titian, Goya, Courbet,
She said, ‘I want to be seen like that,
Preserved in a youthful way.’

We met the sculptor, Matthias Krohn
At a gallery in Berlin,
His mouth fell open to see Nadine
With her pale and perfect skin.
‘You have a goddess, my friend,’ he said,
‘I must capture her in stone!’
I said, ‘Can I come along and watch?’
‘I must work with her alone.’

I’d drop Nadine at his studio
Each day, and she’d stay ‘til four,
I’d ask her how it was going, and
She’d shrug, wouldn’t tell me more.
‘The sculpture’s facing away from me
I won’t see it ‘til it’s done.’
I could tell by the downcast look of her
That it wasn’t really fun.

‘It’s cold, it gets very cold in there,’
She said, when a month had gone
And that was the first time that I knew
She was posed, no clothing on.
‘I thought he would drape your figure there,
In something filmy, like lawn,
‘I told him I wanted the world to see me
Naked as I was born.’

The months went on, there was something wrong
The sparkle had gone from her eye,
The hair that had been like waving corn
Was now just brittle and dry,
Her lips were pursed in a moody line,
No longer glistened with dew,
I said, ‘Am I doing something wrong…’
‘It’s nothing to do with you!’

I went on the final day with her,
Matthias ushered us in,
‘You’ve come for my greatest masterpiece,’
But all I could see was sin.
The eyes were cynical, looking down,
The lips were curled in contempt,
The ******* were pert like a blatant flirt
Who basked in her element.

I took one look at the parted legs
And reached for my girl, Nadine,
The tears were streaming along her cheeks,
‘You’ve made me appear unclean!’
Matthias shrugged as she rushed on out,
‘It’s true to the girl I saw.’
‘Your evil eyes must have told you lies,
You’ve turned Nadine to a *****!’

She never came back to our home again,
She wandered the streets in shame,
I tried to find her, to track her down
But I heard she was on the game.
I saw her last, get into a car,
Her lips were curled in contempt,
Her hair was brittle, like faded straw
But she looked in her element!

David Lewis Paget

Hail in peace wherever you abode now, dear Nadine Gordimer
You white daughter of Africa, the pen-mistress of July’s people,
You are the lover of July, your holy months of literature
That similarly gave a ****** grave marriage to Maziz Kunene
The African saint of orature; And Okot P’ Bitek, the lion of Gulu,
July have wedded you to the sombre grave in the Jo’burg,
As its apparatchik, the menacing jaws of death feel humdinger!
O! Dear little daughter, cursed are the jaws of death
They have kept on wooing and wooing you relentlessly
They have yearned for your betrothal with mad jealous,
For your iconic position in white African literature,
In which you stand with soldierly embrace a Nobelite,
They have now taken you to their inner chamber nuptials in death,
Before anything; let them now pay dowry to your bothers;
J M Coetzee, Alex La Guma and Dennis Brutus,
For there’s is a competent herds boy, a black shepherd;
Ezekia Mphalele, his living soul will keep the cows
Off down Corner B of the troubled African Image.
Say hello for those you are with in the current realm,
Say hello to foremen and fore daughters of Africa
Those that chose to visit the realm of ancestor precociously;
Say hello to them; Angelo Maya and Doris Lessing,
Let their caged birds and blooming grass sing uproariously,
Marriama Ba and Margaret Ogola, African girls,
They had a long letter and the source of the river from black dialectics,
O! Dear old baby Nadine Gordimer, stand firm in face to face with nothing
Other than the present time you’re in; the Africa’s realm of living dead
To sing the ballads of anti-apartheid both in heaven and on earth,
The only true testament of your footprints on the global sands of times
That Nadine Gordimer, July’s white-African daughter is deadly alive!

papano ba mapaparating ang nararamdaman?
kaya ko bang sasabihin saiyo ng harapan?
kung meron lang sana akong lakas ng loob
sa tamang hinala ng maling kutob

bakit sayo lang nagkaganito
sa bituwing tunay na may ganda
bakit sayo, tuluyang nagbago
may paghanga, meron ding pangamba

sinta, di ko sinasadya
may kusa itong paghanga
tadhana ang nagbadya
kaya wala akong magagawa

kung sana kaya kong umilag
kung sana di ako nalalaglag
kung sana kaya kung pumalag
kung sana ang puso di takot mabasag

paano ka ba makikilala
kung di ko kayang lumapit
saan ba to mapupunta
hangarin kailan ba makakamit
marahil masaya na sana ako na aking madinig
matamis na sagot ng malambing **** tinig

ano bang gagawin, di makalapit at di makalalayo
papano kakausapin,kung di masambit ang nais ng puso
sana bigyan ng tapang, ipadama ang pagsuyo
dahil itong naaramdaman di ko kayang isuko

hawakan mo aking mga kamay
dito sa gitna ng yakap humimlay
wag nang malumbay,pangako ko habang buhay
sayo lang iaalay ang pagibig kong tunay

hayaan nating mga mata'y makiusap
sa mga titig **** nakikihiram ng kislap
bakit dito, kung saan ako nakatinag
larawan mo ang bukod tanging lumiliwanag

tulad ka ng rosas sa pula ng labi
tulad ka ng anghel sadyang nakakabighani
sa mahabang buhok, kutis **** malambot, at tamis ng yong ngiti
wala kang katulad, anyong namumukudtangi

nilalang na tulad mo BIYAYA kang mamahalin
sa hamak na tulad ko SUMPA kitang iibigin
oh Nadine, meron pa akong dapat na hiling
kung dinig na ng diyos ang aking panalangin
oh Nadine, bulaklak ka sa hardin
wag mo sanang hayaan ako'y hanggan tingin
na sana'y pakinggan ang aking hinaing
pagkat di ko kayang mabuhay ng wala ka sa akin

Given the apparent magical surrealism that the months of April is the month of fate for and death of writers, artists, dramatis, philosophers and poets, a phenomenon which readily gets support from the cases of untimely and early April deaths of; Max Weber, Miguel de Cervantes, William Shakespeare, Francis Imbuga, and Chinua Achebe  then  Wisdom of the moment behooves me to adjure away the fateful month by  allowing  me to mourn Gabriel José de la Concordia García Márquez by expressing my feelings of grieve through the following dirge of elegy;
You lived alone in the solitude
Of pure hundred years in Colombia
Roaming in Amacondo with a Spanish tongue
Carrying the bones of your grandmother in a sisal sag
On your poverty written Colombian back,
Gadabouting to make love in times of cholera,
On none other than your bitter-sweet memories
Of your melancholic ***** the daughter of Castro,
Your cowardice made you to fear your momentous life
In this glorious and poetic time of April 2014,
Only to succumb to untimely black death
That similarly dimunitized your cultural ancestor;
Miguel de Cervantes, a quixotic Spaniard,
You were to write to the colonel for your life,
Before eating the cockerel you had ear-marked
For Olympic cockfight, the hope of the oppressed,
Come back from death, you dear Marquez
To tell me more stories fanaticism to surrealism,
From Tarzanic Africa the fabulous land
An avatar of evil gods that are impish propre
Only Vitian Naipaul and Salman Rushdie are not enough,
For both of them are so naïve to tell the African stories,
I will miss you a lot the rest of my life, my dear Garbo,
But I will ever carry your living soul, my dear Garcia,
Soul of your literature and poetry in a Maasai kioondo
On my broad African shoulders during my journey of art,
When coming to America to look for your culture
That gave you versatile tongue and quill of a pen,
Both I will take as your memento and crystallize them
Into my future thespic umbrella of orature and literature.

Gabriel Garcia Marquez, an eminent Latin American and most widely acclaimed authors, died untimely at his home in Mexico City on Thursday, 17th April 2014. The 1982 literature Nobel laureate, whose reputation drew comparisons to Mark Twain of adventures of Huckleberry Finny and Charles Dickens of hard Times, was 87 of age. Already a luminous legend in his well used lifetime, Latin American writer, Gabriel Garcia Marquez was perceived as not only one of the most consequential writers of the 20th and 21ist centuries, but also the sterling performing Spanish-language author since the world’s experience of Miguel de Cervantes, the Spanish Jail bird and Author of Don Quixote who lived in the 17th century.
Like very many other writers from the politically and economically poor parts of the world, in the likes of J M Coatze, Wole Soyinka, Nadine Gordimer, Doris May Lessing, Octavio Paz, Pablo Neruda, V S Naipaul, and Rabidranathe Tagore, Marguez won the literature Nobel prize in addition to the previous countless awards for his magically fabulous novels, gripping short stories, farcical screenplays, incisive journalistic contributions and spellbinding essays. But due to postmodern global thespic civilization the Nobel Prize is recognized as most important of his prizes in the sense that, he received in 1982, as the first Colombian author to achieve such literary eminence. The eminence of his work in literature communicated in Spanish are towered by none other than the Bible, especially  in its Homeric style which Moses used when writing the book of Genesis and the fictitious drama of Job.
Just like Ngugi, Achebe, Soyinka, and Ousmane Marquez is not the first born. He is the youngest of siblings. He was born on March 6, 1927 in the Colombian village of Aracataca, on the Caribbean coast. His literary bravado was displayed in his book, Love in the Times of Cholera.  In which he narrated how his parents met and got married. Marguez did not grow up with his father and mother, but instead he grew up with his grandparents. He often felt lonely as a child. Environment of aunts and grandmother did not fill the psychological void of father and mother. This social phenomenon of inadequate parenthood is also seen catapulting Richard Wright, Charlese Dickens, and Barrack Obama to literary excellency.Obama recounted the same experience in his Dreams from my father.

Poverty determines convenience or hardship of marriage. This is mirrored by Garcia Marquez in his marriage to Mercedes Barcha.  An early childhood play-mate and neighbour in 1958. In appreciation of his marriage, Marquez later wrote in his memoirs that it is women who maintain the world, whereas we men tend to plunge it into disarray with all our historic brutality. This was a connotation of his grandmother in particular who played an important role during the times of childhood. The grand mother introduced him to the beauty of orature by telling him fabulous stories about ghosts and dead relatives haunting the cellar and attic, a social experience which exactly produced Chinua Achebe, Okot P’Bitek, Mazizi Kunene, Margaret Ogola and very many other writers of the third world.
Little Gabo as his affectionate pseudonym for literature goes, was a voracious bookworm, who like his ideological master Karl Marx read King Lear of Shakespeare at the age of sixteen. He fondly devoured the works of Spanish authors, obviously Miguel de Cervantes, as well as other European heavyweights like; Edward Hemingway, Faulkner and Frantz Kafka.
Good writers usually drop out of school and at most writers who win the Nobel Prize. This formative virtue of writers is evinced in Alice Munro, Doris Lessing, Nadine Gordimer, John Steinbeck, William Shakespeare, Sembene Ousmane, Octavio Paz as well as Gabriel Garcia Marquez. After dropping out of law school, Garcia Marquez decided instead to embark on a call of his passion as a journalist. The career he perfectly did by regularly criticizing Colombian as well as ideological failures of the then foreign politics. In a nutshell he was a literary crusader against poverty. This is of course the obvious hall marker of leftist political orientation.
Garcia Marquez’s sensational breakthrough occurred in 1967 with the break-away publication of his oeuvre; One Hundred Years of Solitude which the New York Times Book Review meritoriously elevated as ‘the first piece of literature since the Book of Genesis that should be required reading for the entire human race. The position similarly taken by Salman Rushdie. Marquez often shared out that this novel carried him above emotional tantrums on its publication. He was keen on this as his manner of speech was always devoid of la di da.so humble and suave that his genius can only be appreciated not from the booming media outlets about his death, but by reading all of his works and especially his Literature Noble price acceptance speech delivered in 1982.

Ikaw na babaeng sumasayaw sa dilim,
   Ikaw na nakakapit sa patalim:

Di ba nasusugat ang porselanang palad
    Na kasing lambot ng puwit ng sanggol?

Sa matalim na kutsilyong kinakapitan
      Ano mang oras hahatulan ng lipunan?

At sa higpit ng piring mo sa mata,
     Pasasaan pa't mabubulag ka na

Ikaw na babaeng gumigiling-giling,
   Iba't ibang laway ang pinanghihilamos gabi-gabi

Ang sugatan **** puso'y walang gamot
    Ngunit ang kandungan mo'y sagot

Sa mga problema ng mga lalakeng–
      Naghahanap ng panandaliang saya.

Ikaw ba, babaeng hubad,
   Naranasan mo na ba ang lumigaya?

Kumusta na ba ang anak mo sa una **** nobyo?
     Balita ko'y di ka na niya kilala.

Hindi ba't may tatlo ka pa sa probinsiya
   Na pinagkakasiya ang padala **** barya?

Naalala mo ba ang bilin sa 'yo
     Ni Karla na siyang una **** bugaw?

"Huwag **** bigyan ng puwang sa utak mo
      Ang sasabihin ng Inay mo.

Sasampalin ka niya, di ng palad niya,
     Kun'di sakit na dama ng isang Ina.

At iyon ang pinakamasakit
    Sa lahat ng puwedeng sumakit."

Ilang ulit mo na bang tinanong ang sarili
   Kung saan ka nagkamali?

Kung ilang liko ang ginawa
     Para mapunta sa hawlang 'sing dilim ng kuweba

Na pinamamahayan ng mga paniking
     Takot sa liwanag na magpapakita ng mga galos

Na bunga ng mga gabing kinukurot ang sarili,
     Tinatanong, hinihiling na sana'y bangungot lamang

Ang buhay nila sa dilim,
    Pasasaan pa't nasanay na rin.

Ikaw na isang mabahong lihim
   Ng mga mister na may misis na bungangera

Ha'mo na't sa iyo naman sila panatag
     Sa mga suso **** malusog, pinili nilang humimbing.

Ikaw na pantasiya ng karamihan,
   Ano ba ang pakiramdam ng pinagsasalsalan

Ng mga nagbibinatang hindi pa tuli,
      Ng mga lalakeng di kaya ang presiyo mo,

O ng matandang libog na libog sa mabango **** kepyas
      Ngunit nanghihiram ng lakas at tigas sa ******?

Saan ka na ba nakapuwesto ngayon?
    Sa Malate, Morayta, Quiapo, o Aurora?

Ilan na ba ang napuntahan mo?
  Ilan pa ba ang bibiyayaan mo ng iyong alindog?

Sa Makati Ave, Pasay, o sa Parañaque?
      Ha'mo na't langit pa rin naman ang dala mo

Kahit na alam ninyo ng Diyos
    Na nakaukit na ang pangalan mo sa impyerno.

Ikaw na babaeng walang pangalan,
   Ano ba ang itatawag ko sa 'yo?

Ilan na ba ang nahiram mo sa tabloid
  O sa mga artistang iniidolo mo?

Kathryn, Julia, Nadine, Meg, Yen, Anne
    Yna, Katya, Ara, Cristine, Kristine, Maui

Daria, Pepsi, RC, Susan, Gloria, Lorna, Aida, Fe
    Vilma, Sharon, Nora, Maricel, Dina

Ikaw na babaeng 'sing nipis ng balat ng sibuyas ang saplot
   Di ka ba nilalamig sa pag-iisa mo?

Ikaw na babaeng marumi,
  Sadsad na sa lupa ang lipad, saan ka pupunta?

Wala ka nang kawala sa dilim,
     Pasasaan pa't malalagutan ka rin ng hininga
        at  magpapasalamat sa biyaya.

Ikaw na babaeng bukod tangi,
   Ginawa **** lahat pero hindi naging patas ang mundo.

Lunukin mo na lang ang mga hibla ng pagsisisi
    Ipagdadasal kong huwag nang magdilim sa hawla mo.

Ang love story natin
Ay parang kwento ng theme songs ng JaDine
Di ka fan, di mo siguro maaappreciate
Pero kinakantahan tayo ni Nadine Lustre at James Reid

Ang daming tanong nung umpisa
Ang daming pagdududa
Game na ba? Ano na? Sure na ba?
Ang hiling ko, sige na

Para ngang isang pagsusulit
Bawal magbura, one seat apart, walang kopyahan,
Right minus wrong, kung di alam 'wag hulaan,
Kumpletuhin ang patlang, bawal ang tyambahan

Para ngang isang pagsusulit
Pinag-isipang mabuti
Hanggang sa sabi mo, "Oo na.". Yes!
Oh, wala ng bawian, mamatay man, period no erase!

Matapos no'n, nagdagsaan ang mga pagsubok
Katulad din naman sa kahit kaninong relasyon
Pero dahil naniwalang sayo'y may forever
Pareho tayong hindi sumu-render

Pagkat sayo natagpuan ang ipinagkait sa akin
At sakin mo naramdaman and di mo akalain
Ipaglalaban ko
Ipaglalaban mo

Wala na tayong ****, basta bahala na
Alam lang kasi natin mahal natin ang isa't isa
At kahit pa sabihin na, tayo'y di itinadhana
Na na na na na na na na na na na bahala na

Pero katulad din ng ibang relasyon
Lumalamig, parang kapeng napaglipasan ng panahon
Tumitigas, parang pandesal na naiwan sa kahon
Tila di na alam kung san tayo paroroon

Piniling lumayo
Ngunit pilitin man ay bumabalik sayo
Di matatago kahit magpanggap
Ang iyong yakap, ikaw, ang hanap-hanap

Ikaw ang hanap-hanap
Dahil ang puso'y nangangarap
Na magsasamang muli
Na may happy ending bandang huli

Pero di pa tapos
Ang kwento natin hindi pa tapos
Sana'y hindi pa tapos
At sana'y di na matapos

Tatlong kanta pa lang naman
No Erase, Bahala Na at Hanap-hanap
Sana ay kumanta pa sila
Sana ay marami pa

At sana, kahit gaano man karami
Masayang kanta ang maiwan sa huli
Yung may forever, may happy ending
Kaya sige, mag-duet pa kayo *JaDine

Shannon, Mariah, Serena, Maria
Meridia, Midian, Sharon, Alliah
Rochelle, Camille, Rose, Halo
Trenna, Jessica, Ashley, Georgia
Marla, Olivia, Sofia, India
Daniella, Diana, Christina, Caroline
Isabella, Amelia, Amanda, Matilda
Nadine, Haley, Bailey, Francine
Eliza, Annabelle, Kathryn, Sandra
Melinda, Audrey, Aubrey, Emily
Tara, Emma, Ginny, Kathleen
Josephine, Helena, Charlotte, Laura
Chelsea, Arkady, Megan, Kelsey
Kayla, Karliah, Moana, Vivien
Kaysea, Macy, Stacy, Lorraine
Theresa, Felicia, Cecilia, Darlene
Holly, Brianna, Alexa, Ariel
Marianne, Miranda, Jennie, Coral
Korra, Daisy, Penelope, Rayne
Zoey, Cassandra, Grace, Stephanie

ii
truth is it's in my face.
Like flesh with its pinching-baby's-cheeks elusive quality
And I’ve been searching for it all my life.
Standing in a dream now with memories of Nadine,
and Kathy, and my sis,
them waiting for the instructs on the passion of boys.
Nadine said, "looook! This is how it's done!
Come here boy, close your eyes.”
But I never did. I stood looking shy
into that beauty that men vision,
the dream state of tongue-open
and a French kiss of a vision
Nadine went frost.
All frosty in gray flannel pajamas
like the stuff of grownup seeds
and grown men
like passion flowers
the midst of May,
the mist of Forget-me-nots.
I just opened wide for that.
I stood wild-in me, and smiled
smiled smiled at the wet of her.
She liked me. I was cool.
Kathy was the frightened one.
I was 10 she was 14.
Her kiss was like a hot
shower. Too wet from nervousness,
and too long.
My god, she never got it right.
Like long goodbyes,
she kissed me again and again.
I was a sad boy, all trimmed and proper
to then. I'd never kissed, touched dreams.
But the one, my mum, like truth.
I dreamed early, like a sick cow
giving birth.
Like my home
the barn was hot,
and too dry, too small
my legs cramped often.
my house was, "shh shhhh" quiet.
quiet like church-mice,
library prayers
A house of gables and suspended
In the middle by attrition, stimulation
I looked up; I was wet from sweat
a child's dream.
I was lying in a big bed. fluffy,
like hot rice-warm,
and the sweet smell of that illusive grace,
like candy, like ballroom dancing, like learning
to walk. you put him at an end and say,
"here baby, right here,
oh, right there, you can do it for mommy!"
And then, the waking. the waking in dreams
once, and once, and once, and...
Once I can't remember how long. it was before the falling
and failing and chastened chasing dreams,
chased, by who-knows
I woke, on soft rice, just before I was thinking:
loud hits, scores, long runs to second base dreams
ocean dreams of float-boats, invisible to eyes, and patience,
I'm going a long way
I woke just then on soft rice
and mum was there, not feeding other eggs,
Mum made me eggs all the time,
did I mention that?
she loved eggs and fed me cold.
it was my prayer that she feed me, even cold.
I laughed, woke laughing, and just looked up at
mum; no face, no eyes,
like canvas cover dreaming back
and a light, like the light now in my sky
centered in me with smiles.
How do I see smiles with no faces?
~ii
Kathy was like licorice.
forbidden in my house
because it stains teeth. just that.
forbidden, like child-dreams of adult love,
like the saliva taste,
better, bitter, just eat whole,
shells and all. appetite
like hers didn't come till late in life,
to be first in a kiss-line,
make wet like nobodies business
and just kiss. Nadine knew.
No people asking, no explaining,
she just smiled at Kathy, red-faced wonder,
******* sloping to an angle of me,
not pointing I was on the floor
anywhere, just firm like resolve
with a back just a little rounded in embarrassment
and Nadine laughed like hell.
and so did I.
She pointed to the door.
And I pointed with laughing eyes.
"Out boy, we're finished!"
What a wonderful dream. I can still taste it.
~ii
Kathy worked at a grocery store last time I saw.
and she smiled that big toothy smile, and said,
"Boy, you grew up!"
my god, her beauty haunts me,
her laughs and kisses
pulled me to those days.
i've never spoken these love-truths
out loud. lately grace nudges the mind of me.
Me, I just listen like this day
when beauty scars and scares me
like frightened joy
like truth flash flesh and light
like beauty coming from the sky.

last night,
i dreamt I called your mom
it was way early in the am
like 4am or I so presume,
She picked up as if i woke her from here slumber ,
(which in obvious I did);
I asked her to speak to you,
our converasation went exactly like this;
"She said he isn't home Kimmy but when I see him,
ill be sure to have him call you. In the meantime, can i take  a message?"
Than I sob and tell her, "Please tell Him that your him who I think about.
day in and day out. I really need him to know that."
as my voice increased quieter than a shout.

my soul is the shape of a bloodstain
in Nadine Maraschino feng shui garden
my right eye sits in the ruby voodoo goblet
that she keeps balanced upon her head
Nadine was a 3-toed egg laying harpy
architect of the Cauldron of Shame
but she used her brain cleverly
one hemisphere candor the other ardor
it was the mystic East ******* the mystic West
so said the gaming industry statistics
don’t believe me talk to my lawyers then
Circumstance & Circumstance
writs tarts and exonerations
they’ll tell you of the settlement
coded instruction to the next generation
Nadine's heart was big as a Halloween pumpkin
her white garments billowed all satiny
like clouds passing before the moon
we met in an emergency room
after I pulled my best pickup line
hi I'm a friend to the entire human race
and she countered with
want auntie Nadine to show you
how to be mama's big boy
a buzzard shadow passed over her face
she pulled me close and hissed
if no one wants to look foolish
why so many truth murdering fools
I weakly countered with
if thoughts are differentiated
one from the other then so are you
Nadine’s lizard tongue gave him
the secret of Perpetual ******
descending down his throat
like a black lung miner
how can you tell if it's morning noon or night
hint you'll need a sense of sequence
hers was a dangerous mission
for both covert and overt ends
the life's a ***** and then you die cynics
took us for a pack of numbskulls
well we were arrayed in a tatty splendor
consisting of zero camouflage
but there was no substitute for living large
even within the gates of Happy Valley
the slightly assisted living community
well hell we're all assisted
aren't we supposed to get smarter
as time scurries us along
and last I'd like to thank
my non-existent financial backers
for timely script development

From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon

She came from a childhood of magic
of scrap metal bubbles and a love of Christmas
a father whom was often gone but never forgotten and never unloved
a mother whom tried for her little girl but ended up lost in the bottle to wash the world away
born in the small world that was Dogdeville, 1947
but being whisked away to Madison, a bigger better place
of sound public education and endless Indian trails along the deep blue lake
She grew with independence and an inevitable book under her arm, for that was what she knew
{a latch-key-kid from age five up}
pouring her heart into the creation of stories and poems
filling her mind with the worlds of great authors
'the classics'  
a seven year old to afraid to share the depth of her written word
speaking to a class with heads down on their desks for she feared the thoughts in their eyes
her last word greeted by the great applause that brought her to love writing
love books
love English {her never ending favourite class}
She grew with words as her protection
and friends who understood her strange imagination
learning to drive in her boyfriends truck
his head between his legs in fear
leaving school a credit short when a fun night turned into a little baby
growing inside her young body
{in those days you couldn't go to high school an unmarried pregnant teen, you just couldn't}
17 at Martha Washington Home for ***** Mothers
her graduating was thanks to English {as many things in her life are}
a caring teacher who stood up for a scared young girl
we still haven't found were Nadine is {the little baby that grew inside her}
that next year she started college
a freshman in a class of thousands
University of Wisconsin Madison
hiding away in her studies
{creative writing}
over sized glasses and frilly wild hair
once again she graduated and
She was off
leaving Wisconsin in the dust
out to California {her land of dreams}
gate 6 and the shifting mass of house boats
raising three boys on 36 by 8 feet of bobbing wood {in the shape of a football}
my two uncles 'The crash and burn brothers' and my father 'baby poops a lot, batteries not included'
walking day after day to the Bait Shop Market for black coffee
and the feeling of being alive
She came to age in the craze of the 60's
continued to grow through the fight of the 70's
remembers the blue romper in high school gym when Kennedy was shot
marching with students on the streets when Martin Luther King went down
listening to Bob Dylan
'The Times They Are a-Changin' through it all
{The line it is drawn
The curse it is cast
The slow one now
Will later be fast
As the present now
Will later be past
The order is
Rapidly fadin'
And the first one now
Will later be last
For the times they are a-changin'.}
her friends shared hatred of government as Nixon came and went {she never would have voted for him. Not in a million years}
the draft of their friends
going to a land that they all knew they wouldn't return from {far away from those they loved}
She became to personally know Melba Pattilo-Beals as they worked together
editing 'Warriors Don't Cry' {the story of a young black girl going to white school}
in a society run by the music
Peter Paul & Mary
Bob Dylan
The Beatles
Janis Joplin
Jimmy Hendrix
The Rolling Stones
Crosby Stills & Nash
The Who
The BeeGees
The Grateful Dead
Rod Stewart
Joni Mitchell
Joan Baez
Country Joe and The Fish
run on the beat
the lyrics
the melody
the overwhelming need to be
different
through the 50's
60's
70's
80's
90's
The Hippie Movement
Vietnam
Kennedy
Nixon
Through raising three boys
two university degrees {UWMadion's creative writing and law}
second one while raising me
Through all of that and so much more
she was lived
seeing the world through the eyes of a writer
a child
a teen
a mother
a grandmother
an editor
a lawyer
a women
She is the reason I am living
and she gave me the love of writing
and the love of the world.

I am Amadioha the earth goddess  of Igbos,Ngai wa mugo wa gatheru
who created the nine daughters of mumbi ,and Gikuyu a man,
I am Wele of Dini ya Musambwa,creator of Elijah Masinde
I am  Katonda the creator of Kintu and Namiremeb hills at Makerere
I am eshu the god  of the  Ijimere and Achebe and Soyinka,
behold today  I stand in Egypt,where the sun comes from
where I similarly  stood billion and billion of years ago,
to create all the stars the moon and the universe
not even known to the son of man until today,
this is where i created my first born of  humanity;
dear Africa the generations of Negroes,
the beacon of my eye, i enjoy a look at you  minus blinkers,
i stand here a fresh to correct my creation mistakes
i formerly made, when creating my dearest son in Africa;
Kenneth Binyavanga wa wainaina, who hails at Nakuru hills,
he is the sweetest song to my heart, classical music of my ears
i contrite much , as i were not to create you a blended blood
from an  Omuganda  girl and  an Omugikuyu  boy,
i  was to create you a pure Muganda, like Okot P' Bitek,
or a pure Kenyan , like Francis Davis Imbuga,
i were to control your academic fortune , that you  don't start,
your maiden education  Lena Moi primary school,
an epiphany of a divorced woman,spelling curse of wifelessness,
on those that pass through the very  school , i was wrong.
had i known i could have not  sent Cleophas to work
in your fathers home , for him  to sleep in the horse shed,
cursed is the ******* memory of what he did in that quarter
as you preened  and eavesdropped outside like a hen
listening to the eagle's contralto,
why did i sent Wambui to be your nurse maid ,only to preach
the gospel according to the power of peasant ****** to you,
she tangled her buttocks before your **** eyes,senting
your young heart to sensuous extremities, Wambui ,a she devil,
Wow! Kalenjins are bad neighbour, they are dark and ugly
slow in the brain and sadistically malicious in the heart,
i  know not why i made them to abode with you within the
great valley of kenya, they throng schools and they cannot learn,
but i have now held them captive, i have made them your footstool
for ever and ever my dear son ,as you hold the scepter of power,
i goofed beyond  remedy by all ethereal to send you to Njoro boys school,
for you to meet Sigalla, that extra-masculine Sigalla , the ******* hunter,
i gave you wrong sisters, they made you put on your mothers dress
and her long hair,then you posed to the female public as an Americanness
your romantic number was fwive fwive fwive fwive , fwive at New-york,
i wonder why i did not give you enough power of languages
so that you generate a numberless fantabulousies and Goalies and so forth,
only to borrow from a young woman;Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
the  yellow sun's slapslap  slapslap slapslap slapslap slapslap   slapslapp!
Mangu Boys School to you was a blessing , had it not my fault,
of giving you a mutton headed faculty full of annentcy,
that went for the persiflagery and aesthetic phantasmagoria,
in the art and theatre prose and poetry; the Bigger Thomas Lawyer,
your only  misplaced  mentor  that gave birth to what i love in you ;
hence i am writting about this place now,this place kenya,
folly of folly is when i goofed to take a natural writter like you,
to commerce class in the land of apartheid, Nadine Gordimer's  front
that sired Brenda Fasie a top Lesbian, the song bird of my times
as you all know we the gods also jealously love,
she only charmed you with her naked ****
swinging like a pendulum on the  musical stage,
after her communique of being a top lesbian,she call it Africa,
o! no,  Africa never came from Lesbians, it comes from simple nature;
mother and father, in natural and collective  heterosexuality,
You only saw and revved in dope culture in the cubbyhole of Victory,
and hoped clubs from Dazzle to the rest , in hunt of  your boyhood,
sadly to be befallen by dark clouds  in victim-hood of optical nutrition,
abiding among the  tall, beautiful, smoking bunch of Lesbians.
My son, from  today and henceforth,  i the Africanus,
the god of African fertility,poetry and art,
humbly chose to recreate you the king of kings and queens,
of African story telling  at global status, to tell all African songs,
beyond sham fallacy that gay and Lesbian literature
are the begotten  apex of modern and Global literature
these are only white lies featuring a death bound imperialism.

It's all about the moon
the moon knows everything
about you and I and them and that!
The moon saw the holocaust
saw Caesar get stabbed
saw a miracle grow in Mary's belly
was there on your first birthday
puts France and Zimbabwe
and Brandon, Manitoba to sleep
every night
and still has time to shine
with the sun some days

-Melissa Nadine Flowers

and at the end of this session, i'm going to gorge on homemade banana cake, and a glass of milk; hmm, so that's that.

hannah hallysem, chloe vevrier, rosalia verne, dakota skye, nadine jansen, milena d., katrina jade, alison tyler, sasha foxxx, noelle easton, shay fox, kourtney kane, aletta ocean, lexi belle, aria giovanni, maritza mendez, silvia loret, laura lion, ashley graham, latex lucy, alexis texas,  dana dearmond, abella danger, karmen karma, jezebelle bond, keisha grey, karmen grey, jelena jensen, carmen croft, aneta buena, ines cudna, ewa sonnet, emma green, louisa marie, ivy nedkova, karolina pliskova, emma green, louisa marie, ivy nedkova, rooney mara, claire forlani, kelley scarlett, malina may, amirah adara, phoenix marie, foxy di., kenya lust, kiera winters, christy mack, paige delight, faith nelson, darya klishina, sand morris, alysha newman, silvia saint, adele stephens, deven davis, ewa wyrwal, tanya song, synn wagner, christina lucci, hunter leigh, lynda leigh, gemma atkinson, mulani rivera, sarah harding...
        
   all those "expectations" mingling with a *babuska...
gotta have a babuska after a list like that...
      looks nice, doesn't it?
         see how honest other people can become...
      that's as honest as you're going to get:
i'm hardly an out-of-the-closet gay / intellectual...
and this is hardly the most desireds genetical "encyclopedia"
worth reciting...
      but at least there's no closet,
and certainly no skeleton in it...
  to be honest, i'd love to see a compendium of
a woman's favourite *****,
   oh sure, i can switch off...
    i just start thinking about cow *******
and milk sacks; not that hard;
  ugh... furr... itchy... stroking a cow is like
scratching your skin after the barbers...
milking a cow: ah... another subject
of investigation...
                        why do men not bother being
breast-fed, to out-compete the babe?
seems a shame to leave a vacuum for
capitalism to not investigate, don't you think?

Once invigorating, now banal and blasé,
Their veritable magic was surely to stay.
"It's only your tolerance," is what I was told,
But idly waiting has begun to grow old.
I'd have paid more attention had I known just how soon
Her magic would wane, like a post-harvest moon.
Though indeed much was learned, elusive flashes remain
Of her psychedelic wisdom, gone like a flame
put out by the rain.

O to return to that meadow of mirth,
Traipse through dew-strewn grass, greener than turf.
Blessed with joy were those days in which I could feel,
Whence I’d discovered their uncanny appeal.
Perhaps a memento, some nostalgic reminding
Of depression unwinding, uncovering joy,
The relief of a father who hears, "It's a boy!”
The triumphant return of that happiness lost,
Only just for a minute, without thought of the cost.
I will surely be moaning once I have found
The specter of gaiety I feel lurking around
The bend beyond which I shall surely remember
The reason for which I feel wholly dismembered
Until then I will wipe away tears as they come,
Which descend from my eyes although I am numb.

Though such heavenly feelings are not meant to last.
An arcing foray like a fisherman’s cast,
It soars to its peak before gently landing,
Briefly submerged before rising and standing
Upon unplush plains of pain and sobriety,
Most fall to their knees as if praying with piety.
And though they might pray with utter sincerity,
Promise to both those alive and posterity
That if they are taken around only once more,
That never again will they knock upon His door,
Nor will they ask him a favor, blessing, or chore,
For only one taste is desired of yore.

That Feeling I chase like a ray of the sun,
Head down, charging forth, even deigning to run
But invariably, ere two months have gone passed,
Dullness descends, ending joy’s songs of the past.
It replaces contentment with grey, tepid numbness,
I remember the time I saw Mr. Tumnus
With Jake and Nadine, each now an alumnus,
Of the College of Psychs, where learned we of oneness.

The bell jar is descending, I cannot escape,
They call it depression but more aptly it’s ****.
For I feel as though life has taken its ****,
And shoved it in my ***; oh boy is it thick!
It ***** me as if I'd done wrong or owed it,
It’s a good thing I'm numb; I might have imploded
Long, long ago, perhaps upon entry,
The two weeks since using feels like a century
Strange sirens from without harass me within,
Each cell in my body writhes as withdrawal begins.

For whose mercy do I plead? Or is it a pinch,
Do I hope I might wake from a dream and unclench
My fists which I plan for our God to receive?
One in each eye and then one in between.
Mysterious indeed are the ways which He works,
Confounding enough, in fact, He causes to perk
Up the heads of the miserable wretches,
Who believe in His lies. O how one retches
At such a shamelessly scandalous, immoral regime!
If the Church is His house then His words are its beam
From which hang their ropes, creaking taught under the weight
Of pallid, limp bodies; this the inevitable fate
Of one who will do and ****, even think and say
When and how He commands, with a joyful “Hooray!”
And who would not obey and cheer at this grand fate
Promised to those Souls upon reaching His gate?
But have faith O they should, nay they must if they are
To escape life’s futilities, the looming bell jar.