Kabedoopong Piddo Ddibe'st is a young published Ugandan poet, born in Kitgum (Northern Uganda), an Acholi by tribe.
The Black Eagle
The black eagle kicked Heaven's face,
And the earth caught wild fire,
Gliding down tearing up the hissing winds,
With his armoured open palms.
The black eagle cut the air into pieces,
With his muscular strength,
And slapped the Earth's face,
Red waters run down her face.
The black eagle scrolled his bloodshot eyes,
Down spying the walking chicken,
Peeled his sharpened fingernails,
And swooped down at a blind chick.
The black eagle deafened his sharp ears,
As the mother-hen clucked angrily,
Pacing up and down the chimney breast,
Like a woman whose house is engulfed in flames.
The black eagle beat his open palms back,
Sliding through the winds like lightning,
Flapping, clapping, with the chick in his giant palms,
Sharpening the pencil of his concave iron-lips.
The black eagle tore the innocent chick,
Apart, part by part, the chick's shut eyes
Opened wider than the Gates of Hell,
Murmuring, dying in the palms of death.
The black eagle is the bird of the king,
From the roof of the skies, white fire filled,
To the bottom of the earth, black fire filled,
Bird of the king is the king of all birds.
Queen Is Red
Queen is red,
She is a purified gold,
Refined by my sweet words of mouth,
Sprung out through the gapped teeth of Ruping,
She is a dog of fear,
Hyenas go about her,
Impotent to afford her,
My Miss Mirror is beautiful.
Queen is red,
Her lips are wide shut,
Spitting me commands,
Wanting to eat me up
Like a double-mouthed leech,
She wants something light;
With a jingling nose ring,
Scarlet lip-sticks, bloodshot eyes,
A beautifully bleached skinsuit.
Queen is red,
She is now full woman
Who cooks better than your mother;
She sits like men,
Waiting for food like nestlings,
O my queen bee in my beehive,
A scorpion sting on Christmas night,
My red queen is sweet.
Queen is red,
Her arms on my sore shoulders,
Conquering the center of gravity,
Roaring like a lion,
As I cower into my soft wounded shell,
There is no one sweeter than my queen;
She is my husband.
A Crown Of Thorns
Much rage, less strength;
Pushed in the nose of turkey,
Wearing red ribbon on the head,
Like David before Goliath,
Fettered in the house of exile,
Son of miscarried justice,
Guarded by ambassadors of the sun,
In a dialogue with blind death,
Extending days of the night,
Melting wax in the buttocks
Of the oldest eagle in the land.
Petals of blood on grains of wheat,
Leaking down the crown of thorns,
I wear to redeem the crying days,
From the hands of darkness;
Writhing like a woman whose house
Is engulfed in cracking flames:
Only those who hear the music dance;
Those without ears say the dancers are insane;
Much rage, less strength.
I am Stalin's chicken,
Plucked clean like a woman's chin,
With metallic fingers,
Quacking in silent pain,
Naked in the falling rain,
I am a mere chicken,
With untimely deathday.
He plucked me clean,
All my tattered feathers,
Cut with metallic fingers,
He threw me down,
Down on his rubber feet,
And walked away in my eyes;
With metallic laughters,
Rippling like troubled waters,
Risen to life by a dead stone.
I walk and still walk forever,
Behind him, following him,
For my plucked feathers,
Tattered in his iron-hands,
Shivering in cold with helpless flight,
Following him for my feathers,
Gone are my beauty and might,
My fear is my life is next,
My meat smells a flesh of death.
Soccer is a cool game:
Cheating is highly allowed;
Rename it as a sacred game,
Maim the opposing teams,
Bribe the whistling referee,
Urinate on the linemen
With flying yellow envelopes.
Physician the rolling ball,
Twist the heads of the players,
Kidnap their leaders,
They are under your fingers,
Teargas the spectators who riot,
Dress like a faceless scarecrow.
Go ahead --
Reset the fixed goalposts,
Beyond your rival's reach,
Party on their gate fare daily,
For you have won the game again,
You are the referee of referees,
The Alpha and Omega,
All you need is be final as usual.
The land that flowed honey,
Now climatic change,
Unfed cows milked,
Smart Casino players;
And got barren land,
That flows scarlet blood,
Rivers of darkness,
Apartheid flags raised;
Land titles demanded,
Liberty of slavery,
In the pearl of Cannan;
Across the Red Sea,
On the bloody throne,
We hear silent missiles;
On the calls of weaverbirds,
On Cathedral windows,
Preaching the life of our death,
In this sick land;
Dancing heretical hymns,
They sung to liberate
The land from their own chains,
Sitting in the heart of the realm;
And buried hospitality,
In every man for himself,
But God for us all,
Embracing new faith of greed,
Repatriation and brain drain;
From our motherland,
In their masterial ships;
Now waiting for freedom
On Africa's mouth, my father's land.