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

Caulk these broken bows, please
whether salt or fresh water,
it has weight, presence
and if allowed to pour in
it will sink me

Trying not to think too much
won’t work
as the only perpetual motion found
in this empirical life
is in our anxious minds
so as life jackets go
it’s a no no

To ask for a shipwright is unfair
but to have you there,
tar brush in hand
is enough

When clouds are overhead
It doesn't bother me,
I lay my weary head
Right on my lover's knee,
With her fingers in my hair
To soothe away dull care.
I go walking in the sunlight of dreams
In the sunlight
Radiant sunlight
In the ultra-white
I'm alright
Sunlight of my dreams.

When lady luck won't smile
I send her on her way
The weather may be vile.
All the livelong day.
But if wintry winds do blow
And summer doesn't show
I go walking in the sunlight of my dreams
In the sunlight
Happy sunlight
In the living right
Watertight
Sunlight of my dreams.

Where skies are darkest blue
And trouble's far behind
Young love is ever true
And hearts are always kind.
Everyone has time to spend
And pleasures never end.
I go walking in the sunlight of my dreams
In the sunlight
Laughing sunlight
In the dynamite
Golden bright
*Sunlight of my dreams.

In my New Day I arose from my
screen-tent-mole-hole-flimsy-bomb-shelter-for-my-soul
and walked down to the banks of the Missinabi River
at the Mattice Landing
with dog’s leash in one hand and my right hand
leading lady’s in the other hearing and feeling tall grasses
swishing against my pant legs
and the crunch of course sand under my feet that once trod fields of green tall grasses swishing against my pant legs in the meadows and rocky woods of
my childhood and youth where I spent summers working

at my Aunt and Uncle's farm in
Canada's Northern Ontario region, and in the woods and along the banks
of the Lackawanna River just over the **** behind
the house of my childhood and youth in the Anthracite coal
country of the American Northeast which is light years away from the land of my birth where I now live in this Northern Ontario port in the middle of a deep
                                     cold sea of countless
                                     converging
                                     never-ending
rivers
lakes
trees
swamps
bogs
muskeg
and mountains of snow
where snow white and black flies freely fly.

I am always trying to go deeper into the trees and bush
burning deep inside my heart of hearts to follow the Moses
that is in all of us.

This eternal Voice in pebbles crunching
under foot and tall grasses swishing and canoe parting
waters that flow deep in my mind and spirit--once only
winding past burning villages where humans **** and pillage
--but now also following a more
pastoral             idyllic             and super-natural course.

A vagabond never quite understands the working-class
woman and man living their small dream with their offspring and slice of land.

I thought they were all ostrich with head in sand.

But I now see that we can't all afford to brood as I often do over the daily news.

They must rise early the next morning alarm clocks not set on snooze.                                            

work ethic
family hearth and home
days of scent
of freshly mown grass  
barbeques                                          
campf­ires  
coffee brewing  
children playing  
TV and music blaring
dishes rattling
in sink or
swim in the lake

Loosen the watertight mind drum and just dive into the
crunch of pebbles under foot treading fields of green tall
grasses swishing against pant legs...

Not only wishing
but going deeper into the trees and bush burning
speaking to our primeval consciousness.

This eternal Voice in pebbles crunching and tall grasses
swishing.
The whooshing sound of wading in a stream streams
through my soul as I savour the body taste of wet gritty sand
between my fingers and toes crouched down wet-crotch deep waiting long enough for minnows to tickle fingers and toes as mosquito’s pin-prickle skin.

Watching creatures much smaller than I gliding
even walking on calm still water which we humans can only dream of doing in our motorized sleep.

I think I now understand:

To not be constantly mourning the plight of man isn't being ostrich with head in sand.
I must keep gunning-off the haunted deeps alluring stare.

I must taste life
    Smell and feel life
        Enjoy life outside of my troubled mind

against the backdrop of the latest holy war
and the imploding creations of our kind.

Trekking the fields studying
the grass and
sleeping in hedgerows waking
in the night to test your
knowledge of the constellations
and Orion tracks from south to west
and this pleases you although the
night chills can challenge the blanket of
recycled magazines and news rags
and old clothes daringly taken from
the Salvation Army’s recycling skip
and foxes run and stouts scamper
and geese call and ducks quack
and cows bay and horses neigh
and moles
are new friends
and you go through a Ted Hughes moment
you stare at trees and see the myriad
of life forms in the bark
with Hughsian drama you imagine
stalking rain horses
although only truly find
staring sheep
and the sky is cast with ***** cumulus
the track is covered in broken stone
and smashed bottles
cans and plastic packets poke out of bushes
old refrigerators scar the edgeland
watertight but
dangerous places to sleep
as you skirt the town a refugee
before your time
perhaps timeless
in the everlasting now of
rural vagrancy king of
the farm track and
the dog walker trails of
muddy puddles and scrappy corn
burnt out tree
rusted household appliances
random pieces of clothing
a focus point for camp fire drinking
gather up the splintered kindling
rip up the news on already damaged paper
laugh with a deep throated abandon at
the chaos in the world charted there
and watch the stars feeling captured by
the night
but still very much
alive

Itching, itching
in unending irritation,
eyes puffy and leaking,
spilling salt
over molten cheeks -
bed-bound and awfully weak.

I cannot stand it;  
I am a shell, broken
my pieces are very light
and punctured - not watertight -
I let in a virus,
vicious, with the waves
I languish; only
a withered cord tying me
to life.

For in a few weepy blinks
I might die.

It comes to me as no surprise
this disease -
please, it speaks no lies,
it eats my brain
just like some blind child
that’s starved and so senselessly wild.

No memory, no hesitation,
this is me - alive,
afloat with those ****** bubbles,
those parasites
that gloat and bruise my concentration -
wreak hell upon my mind.

So see me, here,
flattened,
by the potion of alienation
I am pie-eyed, senseless;
a study for your contemplation.

I was born as a chaste Hindu
And hated its watertight caste system
The rigid ritualistic custom
I became a cosmopolitan Christian

The Christianity always discussed forgiveness
I did not have that much greatness
I was fed up with its teachings of kindness
I converted my self into a Muslim

I grew a long beard and traveled in a costly car
And believed in the inspiring holy war
The police put me into a huge prison
The best place for my enlightened vision

Which God would save me from this cell?
I did not know if I would go to heaven or hell
The only thing I could do was to yell
Into a bottomless pit did I eventually fell?

may we have some nicer weather please?
At least some sunnier days than these!
It's been so cold and unbelievably wet,
it's horrid enough to get upset.
It's a bit like April but in reverse,
instead of better it's getting worse.
Can't make any plans to go outside
for a short walk or bicycle ride.
Whenever I get ready to leave the house,
heaven looks like I'm in for a douse.
Sometimes I go out in spite
and realize I'm not watertight.
Then I get drenched to the bone,
it even destroys my mobile phone.
Worse yet after it's been warm,
the sky rips open a nasty thunderstorm.
That's the part when danger lurks
with thunder lightning and the works.
Because holding up an umbrella
can sometimes torch a poor fella.
But wait, before I get into hail,
earthly tempests like heavy gale,
tornados, hurricanes and the likes.
It's definitely not worth it, yikes!
Instead of giving myself a permanent frown,
I put the kettle on and try piping down.

stand like that, babe,
don't undress, tonight
stand, looking at the moon,
stand, turning your **** to me.
oh as I imagine the
moist gingerholes that lie
behind those cheeks.
oh the borderline:
mezzanine - that's polite
for everything fine
on the bottom floor, isn't it?
what's the word for it -
paroxysm? stand that way:
no sight like hindesight,
as they say, flashlight,
watertight, those plugpoles

I used to think that thunder was
The sound of the Hammer, Thor,
He’d beat it up on the clouds above
Each time he was waging war,
He’d quell his foes with a lightning strike
Or drown them all in his rain,
Whenever he came along at night
His purpose was always pain.

For we lived down in the valley where
The tendency was to flood,
Whenever the river was swollen with
A squirt of his enemy’s blood,
We’d have to climb up to higher ground
And sit there, soaked to the skin,
With lightning flashing around our heads
We’d need to pay for our sins.

‘Pay for our sins,’ my father said
In a voice that rumbled and roared,
He’d pull a hood up over his head
And speak to the god called Thor,
Then Thor replied with a mighty blast
To drown out my father’s cries,
As if he answered him there at last,
‘All that you speak are lies!’

While mother sat in a silent weep
As often she’d done before,
‘Why did you have to build our house
Way down on the valley floor?
We would have been safer, further up
And still walk down to the stream,
To carry a bucket of water up,
But all that you do is dream!’

That was his sin, my mother said,
He didn’t know black from white,
He never looked far enough ahead
He didn’t know wrong from right,
Dreaming up schemes that failed, it seems
Like a prophet, living in dread,
That one black night at the river’s height
We’d all be drowned in our bed.

‘Not that his bed means much to him,’
My mother would often moan,
‘Not since that gypsy girl, that Kym
Stayed in the valley alone,
He spends his time in her caravan
Drinking her gypsy tea,
And letting her hold and read his hand,
He never did that with me!’

And so it was on a cold, black night
He’d gone to her caravan,
‘Just to check that she’ll be all right,’
He said, just playing the man,
The thunder crashed on the mountain top
While we prayed, and gave up thanks,
To the mighty Thor beating at our door
That the river not break its banks.

Lightning flashed though the vale of trees
Where she’d parked her gypsy van,
And then my mother was on her knees
As we heard a mighty bang,
For lightning struck at the heart of sin
And it set the van ablaze,
While both the sinners were trapped within
And paid for their sinful ways.

We buried him on the valley floor
For my mother said, ‘It’s right.
He doesn’t deserve a headstone
Nor a grave that’s watertight.’
Whenever the god of thunder calls
And the river overflows,
I think of my father down below
And I wonder if he knows.

David Lewis Paget

Afire, alight, the hunting stone
The flame burns down deep through the bone
But none may see the tragedy
Of all the hunts gone fruitless.
I don't know how, it's good for I
To try to fret over the sky
For hope and fate are growth and hate
And now I'm driven clueless.

I saw the light of promise die
Those without eyes fall and cry
But this cold night was watertight
My torch still shone the brighter.
I danced around, with light and sound
And without aim an arrow's found
But now the smoke has ceased to choke
I became more the fighter.

The empty space of battlefields
No more is mine to watch and yield
I left the war, but not before
I had my fill of riches.
My comrades fell, alone and cold
I had to leave them, I was told
Their ghosts may chase me through disgrace
Each one left many stitches.

A brief melee, but now it's passed
The future calls, it calls at last.

A husband -> a wronged wife

"My dear take a chair
Your affair is unfair
I can't stand
A suffocating air
This way you and I
Could no longer continue
A loving pair
Soon to my parents
I must repair!
How come for love of a ****
A marital vow
You thwart? "

This way since
You decided me desert
For what I did spurred
By transient lust
Chagrin my soul has hit.
As usual in deep slumber
When I extend my hand
To ascertain whether
You have slept sound
And stir you up
So as we sleep entwined
Yet get awake to a tragedy stark
That I but draw a blank
My heart indeed
Incessantly bleed
From the loss it incurred
Your obeisance and love divested.

If you can't find it in your heart
My folly to forget
Forgive me my dear
For without you near
My life turns insufferably sour.

A wronged wife—>A husband

After your body you befouled
And proved a down to earth cad,
After your spirits perfidy you debased
Impudently you demand
As before I should you hold
An esteemed husband.
Indeed this I will not!
For rancor laden my heart
Bleed incessant
It mustn't!
Away to my parents I fled
For you failed to abscond
After what you did.
'Once bitten twice shy'
Forgive you how could I?

A husband—>A wronged wife

Your forgiveness but
Nothing depurate
The blot
In your eyes
Down me brought.
I hope
Forgiveness is the least
Your impeccable heart
Me could grant.
Even the ocean of tears
I wept
Whitewash me still not
My dear there is a second
Man goes wild
And commits a deed
He condemns absurd,
My perfidy to nothing but
To this folly could be imputed.

Man is prone to err
So you should consider
What matters is his bid
Improprieties away to clear.
So my dear
Give me a chance second
To prove, you loving husband.
Your forgiveness will be a credit
That surely you catapult
To ensconce
In the apex of my heart.
A forgiving personality
Is a virtuous quality
Besides your heart
Me 'love' that taught
Which is also on me soft
Won't follow a policy
Watertight and
Once for all me smite

A wronged wife—>A husband

Raving ans volleying
Boisterousness nay, nay!
You stultify
Must not I.

My mind is bedeviled
Since you I missed.
On your misdemeanor
Brood I shall no more
To night
Come to the cathedral
We first met
As a jump-start
Together out
We have to spend the night.
The night's Zephyr wet
Will wipe away
Our disagreement!

Just sitting there last night by the fire watching the sunset over the trees
Another pleasant evening,  a cool breeze, peaceful.  Or was it?
A few dark clouds overhead,  they'll come to nothing
But then....Patter patter patter down came the rain
So what, I've experienced worse
So into my shelter snug and warm, a little rain will cause no harm
But then came the wind, not just any wind but a tearing screaming gale blasting the rain with the force of a bullet.  Tearing at the skin, numbing the flesh
My firepit now a pool of ***** grey sludge,  cooking kit scattered far and wide
OK, drop the sides so I'm watertight,  one last warming scotch then I'm in for the night
Close my ears to that wild banshee screaming out there in the dark
0545am
The wind has lessened but still the rain is pouring down,  a muddy swamp where was once hard ground
The gentle stream where I keep my beers cold now a raging torrent of ***** brown water
(I never lost my beers though)
I have a routine I rarely miss, a hot mug of tea after taking a ****
And I won't be beaten by a small summer storm
So into a dry bag where I keep some stuff,  a few bits of wood and tumble dryer fluff
Between the roots of a tree a fire soon takes hold, on goes a *** and soon steam arose
On goes a pan with some bacon and beans

And then, out came the sun

To be caught in a storm like that isn't much fun but it's all part of the wild camping game

It was only fifty quid to join.
Looking For An Affair.
So is the girl next door.
What I could do with the girl next door.
Joined immediately.
Met big Mary the wrestler.
Lost that fight.
Moved onto Jill who told me it was such a thrill.
Told me her life story twice.
Rechecked website just to make sure I didn't get affair mixed up with affliction.
Third time lucky, met Jasmine, her husband didn’t understand her, fantastic I thought, now we’re talking.
Three hours later we were still talking.
So double rechecked website just to see if I was due a counselling fee, complained no end to them.
Was promised immediate action, they would hook me up with sultry Sandra.
So anyway it was a real shock when I met the wife, who I certainly would’ve demanded an explanation, if a watertight alibi was at the ready.
The no wonder I need a woman cos you’re never around just didn’t seem appropriate at the time, and for once she was lost for words.
So anyway, we decided she would join another website.
I would take up counselling full time.

Do you want to lose your self in the labyrinth of life
The door has been open day and night

You can be red or you can be blue
and you can decide everything that you do

The world you saw wasn’t really here
your black magic made it appear

Undo that dream, the one you don’t like
this world is not watertight

Though it seems like a circle going nowhere
in the end you will travel from here to there

Leave your car and your cases behind
they won’t fit into your new mind

Bring your umbrella and your chapeau
the one that looks like a rainbow

Bon voyage your journey now must start
as you descend down to your heart

I am taking sweet sips of you
Stalking your infinite breath
Always leading me back to those eyes
watertight and obvious
You were the one who saw thru it

My superman but
I am the heroine
You’ve bled from the
marrow into the split lip

I am nothing without these fists
You drove into me
as if you were stone and
I sunk into you like rain

Arranging for a ******
in ****** land-
to buy peace.

Human voices were
forbidden.

You look absolutely
cozy in fragrant mode,
sitting eyes wide open, under
the jasmine shrub.

Raising the conscience
money for no guilt.

Now sit beside me and
listen to the pinnacle crumbling.

Naked as a moon, I don't need
clouds to cover my scars.
A watertight, flawless promise
with destiny was made of-

Incontrovertible friendship.

Reptile skin, thick and watertight.
Nothing penetrates.
But you are warm.
Weak and porous.
and everything sinks in like
gasoline penetrating wood.

The truck was crushed and dented
Almost beyond recognition
When the county boys reached the scene
(Though, as one of the deputies remarked,
Having seen the vehicle tottering around town
For virtually all his born days
Still ain’t much worse than when it started)
Apparently having slid off the Stamford Road
Then down the embankment
Where it had made an unhappy embrace
Of a utility pole near the old Ulster and Delaware tracks,
A rather unhappy ending to what had been
An arguably equally unhappy existence,
Though old Doc Benner had surmised
The junkman had probably been dead
Before the truck had made the shoulder,
Or so he had said at the graveside service
(He being one of the three or four in attendance
Feeling that one who’d been a common thread
In the existence of so many for so long
Should not go without some commemoration
In this already frayed-at-the-edged little town)
And he remarked that the old man had once told him,
When the doc noted the old saw
That one man’s trash was another’s treasure,
The main diff’rnce ‘tween trash and treasure
Is just a matter of expectation,
And it would have been most poetic if,
After the reverend’s perfunctory hand-off to the Almighty,
The clouds had broken and a thin shaft of light
Had fallen upon the junkman’s stone,
Or perhaps a gentle rain commenced
To heal the disturbed sod,
But the skies remained a slate-gray truculence
As the sexton’s ancient pickup tottered away,
The ropes and shovels tossed higgledy-piggledy
Under an ancient and somewhat watertight old tarpaulin.

Now I'm A Man of Words...
But Am... NO EXPERT... !!!!!

On The Matters of The World...
... Or How They Work....

I Just Use Verse...
To Show What I've Learned...
From What I've Observed...

About How People Move...
And What They Will Choose...
To Believe As Being TRUE...

So Poetically My Expertise...
Has Many Themes...
And MANY Seams... !!!!

And A CLEAR BELIEF...
In Freedom of Speech... !!!

But That DOESN'T Mean...
That I Know EVERYTHING... !!!
UNLIKE... " EXPERTS "...
Who Act Like JERKS... !!!

When Making CLAIMS...
That CLEARLY DISPLAY...
A NEED To Be HEARD...
As If... " THEIR WORDS "...
Are Those ALL SEEING...
Like... Oracle Beings... !?!

Or Maybe Like GODS..... !!!

Well In My Opinion...
Their Claims Are Quite WRONG... !!!

To CLAIM To Be GODS...
Is Somewhat HEADSTRONG... !!!!!
And Are Thoughts That Belong...
In A World of... DUD Songs... !!!!!

But That's Just MY VIEW...
While Most EXPERTS Choose...
To Dismiss........................ The Clues......
That Views Should Be Used.....
When They Have CLEAR PROOF... !!!

That Is... WATERTIGHT... !!!!!!

NOT Because of Lines...
From Book Writers' Minds...
Or ANYONE Else...
Whose Opinions SELL... !!!
Because They Are Based...
On Bias That REIGNS...
Like... Slavery Days... !!!!!!

Brains Placed In Chains...
Have NO God ****** Place...
In Government Frames...
Or Artistic Planes... !!!!

I'm Finding These Days...
That TOO MANY Now Think...
That They KNOW EVERYTHING... ?!?

From The System To Women...
To Subjects Now RIDDEN...
With... DODGY Opinions... !!!!!

From Those of Sexism...
To Subjects FORBIDDEN... !!!

Like Who Was The VILLAIN...
Who STARTED RACISM... !?!?!

These EXPERTS KEEP MISSING... !!!
While Dummies KEEP HITTING... !!!!!!!!
With Bullets Now KILLING...
Like Flows Some Be KICKING... !!!

I Guess I'm Like Eastwood...
That's Right... UNFORGIVEN... !!!!!

Because My Life's Rhythm...
Is.... EXPERTLY Driven...
AWAY From Now Thinking...

That I Can CLAIM Wisdom...
When I DO NOT Listen...
Like Experts Whose Vision...
Can Get Somewhat BlurRred'... !!!

When Like JOHN They HURT... !!!

When Knowledge They Credit...
As Having STRONG MERIT...
Is Given DEMERITS...
Because It's NOT Splendid... !!!

Like Seeing JOHN MERRICK... !!!!!

Infected.... Contested...
And FAR From..... Impressive... !!!!

It Seems Most Are Guessing... ?
When It Comes To Life's Lessons... !!!

Some Experts Be MESSING...
With Things NOT Connected...

To MORE Than Perspectives...
of... "Hidden Collectives"...

What's Hidden Is Below....
What These EXPERTS...
... CLAIM To KNOW... !!!!!!!!

And CLEARLY Is ABOVE...
The Talk They LOVE TO RUN... !!!

That PROVES That...
They Are Dumb... !!!
And Buying Into STUFF...
That They Should CLEARLY Dump...
And Join The Likes of Mr. TRUMP.... !!!

Mister... KNOW IT ALLS'... !!!!!

Who Go On Tours To Argue To A Fault...
EVERY Last Word of The Tour Guides Talk... ?!?

I've Seen Experts TRY...
To Tell Off Tour Guides... ?!?
Whose Job's To Provide...
REAL Knowledge To Minds...

That's ACTUALLY FACTUAL... !!!
So... NOT Contrived... !!!!

Just Like These Rhymes...
That I've Taken The Time...
To Sit Down and Transcribe... !!!

That May NOT Be Right...
As Well As... NOT Wise... ?!?

Which These Days Is Why..........
I Choose To DENY...

Claiming That Words...
I Put Into Verse...
Can Ever Be Called...
Those of... An...

..... " EXPERT ".....

destination unknown
for this Earthling
stardate: February 26th, 2022

At sea since time immemorial
I relish being alone
upon oceanic expanse
yours truly doth bemoan
me gal Sal (one among
numerous female confidantes),
no matter, she easily
mistaken as a crone
magical powers keep
her manning far aloft drone
as surveillance hovers above me
(to intercept encrypted

communication maintained
courtesy bluetooth earphone)
the two of us sol survivors
I feel like a foreigner since
global thermonuclear war
bombed webbed wide world
into pulverized power
vaguely similar landscape
to age of Fred Flintstone
and Barney Rubble
recurring memories redolent
of yesteryear, whereby I groan
though simple living

such as me and the missus
did Potschke coaxing homegrown
organic fruits and vegetables,
though, I attest we did
get violently angry with each other
and unwittingly cross interzone
where brickbats exchanged,
especially after she discovered
an illicit extramarital affair
between myself and Joan
since kindergarten her I known.

Weather beaten cap'n,
and watertight bewitched craft
time tested since maiden voyage
(circumnavigating the globe
back in the day of my youth),
I ranked tough as a pitbull,
when severely pitted
against raw elements
of swiftly tailored,
harried stylish nature
against leathery faced

reptilian skin, hard drinking
(actually as corked
poetic convenience - vermouth
arbitrary bottle of choice
if for no other reason,
than to rhyme
with the above line),
and tobacco spitting, while
colorfully swearing as an uncouth
Furies (of Agamemnon)
fighting (tooth

and nail) Pirate,
where rickets, scurvy,
and thrice unconscious,
currently ample proof
could not forsooth
bring me to Davy Jones's locker,
cuz I never wanna
get relegated to an underwater
whale schooled booth,
this raconteur can nonchalantly,
glibly, and blithely attest,

with braggadocio, despite
no warm welcome will
ever greet mine tinnitus
pained ears, I can plainly
imagine acrimonious retort
upon me behest
his far more'n lifetime
bobbing (like a sponge)
square pants float
buoyed atop crest longing e'en for
(carping, caviling, hen pecking,
or shrewish) wife.

After years of limited access
To the voting booth,
We are now--once again--
Facing an ugly truth:

While laws making it easy to vote
Should be watertight,
Many Americans do not feel
That voting is a right.

There were the 13th, 14th, and 15th
Amendments. That is true.
But lawmakers STILL found ways to make
Voting hard to do.

Fifty-six years ago
We Americans saw
The Voting Rights Act being
Signed into law.

One would think that that would be
The end of the battle, but no:
Now lawmakers all around
The country are saying, "Whoa!

"We can't make it easy to vote.
NO WAY nohow!
People might vote for the other person,
And that we can't allow."

We must pass the necessary
Laws for voter protections.
If not, we'll have to say good-bye
To free and fair elections.

-by Bob B (8-7-21)

Held in a concrete roach shell.

Smiling, I had hated charming shaving.

Little, bitty shavings.

Shredded.

And held an inch above my head
when I never knew a knowing rapture.

It'll hold.
It held watertight.
And it'll capture when I'm right.

Somewhere off the coast of Maine they caught a lobster that was blue and the odds of that happening were lower than me finding love that’s true.
When will be my time?
When will I get found?
Do I wanna get found?
Ask myself this very important question.

Got a list of things to improve to make myself beautiful, I do have some things I’ve left to do to make myself visible
to men.
Men with rigid fishing nets on wooden watertight ships, others sticking out their heads, but I’m still elusive
to them.
Catch me if you dare, can’t promise I won’t slip away.

I’m not feeling beautiful and I’m real hard to catch.
I’m feeling exceptional, but not necessarily rare.
I’m not feeling lovable, I got a list of things I’d change.
Don’t you get accustomed to me, you won’t see him again.
Unless…

Unless you come to the shallow estuary I’m in right now, place me in your palm and lift me out of the water like the most fragile thing.
Do me the honor of being your boyfriend.
I can make wonders happen if you let me make you happy.
I have good intentions but also bad encounters in my past.
If you do me the honor of being my boyfriend I can bring new meaning to blue.
Make it no longer a color of sadness but pride of my rarity.
I have magic in my name, water in my blue eyes.
Get me to love me and love me, boy, show me how.

Don’t just say I’m beautiful, but make me believe it.
Don’t make me beautiful, make me a believer.
I’ve been feeling blue and there’s nothing rare about it.
Make me feel exceptional, a blue lobster.
Don’t pour sea foam into my eyes and maybe you’ll catch me.
Don’t gaslight me, elucidate me instead.
I’ve been hiding in deep blue waters where no one could find me.
But deep down I dreamed of the surface.

Make me believe
Teach me about pride
Do me the honor of being yours
Catch me if you can
Give me reasons to stay
Teach me about love and I’ll do you the honor of being yours
and I’ll finally feel proud to be blue.
Love me and get me to love me.

When the mind speaks

Poetry immensely personal I hide behind
storytelling not talking about my feelings
but the sensibility of others.
What happens have nothing to do with me the onlooker
the observer, like an architect surveying a building
and finding the house wrongly designed.
I don’t mind if the building has doors and windows
and are watertight I gladly move in, love is
another country as passion is an ember of an ancient fire.
You say I’m a liar who tells the truth using the passage
of time as my mentor.
“once upon a time there was cobbler…” there is not
a cobbler but someone else timeless as history
written by those who weren’t there.
My writing mundane I like a forest if they are not
so big I can’t find my way out
Sometimes it happens and breathes of death comes
into my mind upsetting the delicate balance
between life and no life.
I’m not an intellectual reading a book as a pensum
to an exam, there will be no trail of titles
when I have gone.
I like flowers, but dislike flowery poems I find them
artificial, as Gertrude Stein said,”
A rose is a rose.”
But of course, a rose signifies much more.
While not waiting Godot, I will write some more lies
as long as I can.