Ndaba has contributed to the following anthologies: Its Time, Poems For Haiti- a South African anthology, Snippets ,Voices For Peace and Black Communion. Heedited  Free Fall (2017). The recipient of a Starry Night ART School scholarship in 2015, Sibanda is the author of Love O’clock, The Dead Must Be Sobbing,Of the Saliva  and the Tongue, Cutting-edge Cache: Unsympathetic Untruth and Football of Fools. His work is featured in The New Shoots Anthology,The Van Gogh Anthology edited by Catfish McDaris and Dr. Marc Pietrzykowski, Eternal Snow, A Worldwide Anthology of One Hundred Poetic Intersections with Himalayan Poet Yuyutsu RD Sharma scheduled for publication in Spring/Summer 2017 by Nirala Press and Seeing Beyond the Surface Volume II. Sibanda has contributed to more than thirty published books.
Please see the microsite here:amazon.

The heart and blood
of untainted beauty
 
Nature`s adrenalin   
for low blood pressure
 
The sight is the rate that
sings songs of wonder
 
Exciting fear`s prompted
into the heart and spine
 
Welcome welcome
to the zone of adventure
 
Venture into a bungee jump
and experience a real life
 
Make a majestic fall into the Falls,
grace the adventure capital of Africa
 
For there`s victory for the adrenalin
in the exquisiteness of the Victoria Falls!
 ​

it was a rather frosty  Wednesday morning
ten-ish ,her moves had a sluggish touch to them
 
vacuuming, humming, tidying up the living room
the least thing  she expected  was  a serpent
 
 there it was
long, lazy, gliding on the floor, at the wall`s edge
 
“sekaNe, a snake, under the sofa!” she yelled
 he lept up
 
and made several nervous attempts at slicing up
the risky reptile but it kept on slithering  away
 
when the intruder was finally chopped apart
with a block from a disused wooden room divider
 
and ferried lifeless  in a yellow plastic bag and dumped
in a grassy and bushy area of the suburb, echoes started
 
they bare happiness and smiles when you buy those things
but I know deep inside them their hearts are bleeding spite
 
how does a snake enter a closed room and hide under a sofa
on a tiled and cold floor, and when did it enter?—“aunt” doubted
 
one theorist guessed  the intruder could  have entered the room
earlier during the day or during the evening when the door was open  
 
that neighbor who called herself a real realist and the wife`s real aunt 
(by the way, everyone is everybody `relative in  the high-density suburbs!) 
 
was not convinced by the theorist `s assumptions surrounding the snake saga
how does a snake enter a room without anybody seeing it, is this a snake really?
 
the theorist said he was not an expert in the affairs and behaviors of  snakes
but he knew that a snake could sense and follow  the presence of rodents
 
the man of the house expressed his doubts saying he was shocked
the next day to discover that the bag was no longer at the dumpsite!
 
that was not a mere snake, forget about  open or closed doors,
the owner of that snaky  trinket must have fetched it, “aunt” said
 

​

JD DeHart is a writer and teacher.  He has a poetry collection, The Truth About Snails, available from RedDashboard and blogs about books at readingandlitresources.blogspot.com.

​The wooly mammoth’s real name
was Andrew.  He once aspired to
be a pro wrestler – a perfect fit,
his glaring eyes beneath a pocket
of fur, the tusks at either side of his
mouth, threatening silently.  Images
of red spandex flash in his dreams.
 
But then the Human Starfish tried
a new trick with one of his tentacles,
and the Mammoth was down for the count,
broken leg and all.  Just like that, an
immense being toppled over,
now living on the sustenance of daytime
television and boxes of candy.
 
Mother is always upstairs making him
a microwave dinner.  There’s something
powerful about her he can’t put his finger
on.  He spends his days in the basement
(the stairs are now much too rickety to
support his weight to go much of anywhere
else, anyway).  Dad is who the hell knows
where these days.  Resting in ice, maybe.
 
It is a wild life of breakfast
at noon.  Every now and then, fear in her
voice, mother will ask:  Randall, are you
going out today?
 
After correcting her about his name,
Mammoth insists that, no he will be
riding the couch again today.  Mother
likes it this way, breathing a sigh
of contented relief.
 
Extinction is staved off yet another
listless while, and the channel surfing
fends off the call of battle.

​I was flattened to a pancake
by all the worries of life –
 
I slide right by, lay low,
live the life from a narrow view
indeed.
 
Turning sideways, you mostly
miss me.  It’s okay.
 
Not a bad kind of life, really.
No one notices me, but then
that’s a lot of stories, isn’t it?
 
I used to be in control, a full plump
form until a witch cast a spell.
That old so-and-so story.
 
She was either a witch or an ex-guitarist
from an angry girl band.
 
Either way, the spell worked and now
I slide by, unnoticed, unscathed,
a slender witness to the fatted world.

​ 
See the writer now
in the otherwise placid
evening, a spark now and then,
 
Seizing on another verb,
attempting to shape it to a line
just so,
 
the elastic sound of a
fitting phrase.
 
 

​the ghosts don't pass you
                                 by
without saying your name
in their shapeshifting secret
           secreting whisper
of a ghost passing you by
so subtle you don't see it
there you are in the places
you have been before
& you sense it
the ghosts of you before &
the other people &
what hangs on the wall
it was only seven years ago
             two, five, couple of
                   months &
look already what you left
                    behind
you left back a ghost & now
they meet & now they ask

what is your name?
 
###
 

We are teenagers & as such, I must
take her side against intruders,
such as her Mom’s boyfriends,
unacceptable: all of them.
this one moved in & I’m over
there, waiting for my best friend,
hating him for her,

loyalty: it makes this friendship.

he’s at the stovetop & sprinkles fake
orange cheese, delicately, onto pasta
& this makes me angry/sad,
like: could you ask more of life.
can’t watch this anymore, so look
at the fishtank he brought with him,
a source of contempt for my friend,

yet: it is perhaps rather glorious.
sweet little peas of fish in commune,
bright-blue rocks & matchy mermaids,
all there bubbling in relaxed simplicity,

lost: inside of this forgetting to hate.


the swirl, the swarm, the harmony,
a magical nothingness of beings &
behold this gift of the intruder, who

moments: before, was unacceptable.

​decorative transference &
        the glimpse into
        other worlds,

where your feet don’t
        wobble, the light
        is radiant & the stars
        shock-spark in hellos.

you are a bargain in the midst
        of cobbling together
        sense & you raise me
        to the price of a bet
        instead of the fold.

you gamble & my breath says okay.
we sit by rivers, we walk shortcuts.
we ride in cars, we share food.
simple ways to remind the mind
where the last stop got off where
it dropped off what happened
where friends came in handled it
where the head went where it


 

David Subacchi lives in Wales (UK) where he was born of Italian roots. He studied at the University of Liverpool and has 4 published collections of his English Language poetry and one in the Welsh Language. He also writes in Italian.
You can find out more about David at
https://www.writeoutloud.net/profiles/davidsubacchi
or simply by searching on line for DAVID SUBACCHI.

The feeling of fear
And humiliation,
Cold paving stones,
Tightly packed
Belongings.
 
The slight tickle
Of warm air
From shop
Doorways,
Ankles stiffening.
 
Back aching,
Wind rising,
Blowing trash
Across the square,
The averted eyes
 
And discarded
Cigarette butts,
The unexpected
Five pound note,
The ritual
 
Chant
Of a beggar;
Only yesterday
There was
 A tomorrow.
 

This is your memorial,
From stone and bronze,
Even from cushion covers
Your stern gaze
Confronting staff
And curious visitors.
 
Within fireplace
Dominated rooms,
Miniature busts
Encased in glass
Emphasise your status;
You are everywhere.
 
Even in the library
A woodcutter's axe
Always on display,
Reminds us
Of the power
You once wielded.

​They compose quickly each outline image
Applying logic to their selection,
Likewise with the colour distribution,
Not bad for those of such an early age;
Yet too eager to decorate the page
Their artwork never reaches completion,
Before being thrust forward for attention
So as all other painters to upstage;
This aggressive strategy commonplace
In the free for all world in which we live,
Where speed beats quality to win the race
And babes are raised to be competitive;
Thus do eager young artists only trace
Vague impressions of the inconclusive.
 

​Thinking the picture crowded
 You painted yourself out
 Leaving three sisters
 Huddled around the pillar
 That replaced your image
 A plain stone pillar
 Matching their expressions.
 
 Years later a disinterested
 Descendant, roughly folded
 Your careful work
 Placing it carelessly
 On top of a cupboard
 Creating damaging marks
 Bisecting pillar and siblings.
 
 At the National Portrait Gallery
 Fading paint is now starting
 To reveal your hidden form
 Emerging ghost like
 From the dreary pillar
 A brother resuming
 His rightful position.
 

​Flesh burns near flame
When taken too close,
Yet I approach again
Offering my writer’s hand;
Am I insane
To behave like this?


Words smoulder
Written in anger,
Now I am older
They ignite
Much easier
Blackening fingers.


Images are trashed,
Incinerated,
I see the ash
And move nearer
The oven’s flash,
Not intimidated.


For there’s a thin line
That separates
Art from design,
Love from sentiment,
Coarse from fine,
So very dangerously.

Renee’ Drummond-Brown, is an accomplished poetess with experience in creative writing. She is a graduate of Geneva College of Western Pennsylvania. Renee’ is still in pursuit of excellence towards her mark for higher education. She is working on her sixth book and has numerous works published globally which can be seen in cubm.org/news, KWEE Magazine, Leaves of Ink, Raven Cage Poetry and Prose Ezine, Realistic Poetry International, Scarlet Leaf Publishing House, SickLit Magazine, The Metro Gazette Publishing Company, Inc., Tuck, and Whispers Magazine just to name a few. Civil Rights Activist, Ms. Rutha Mae Harris, Original Freedom Singer of the Civil Rights Movement, was responsible for having Drummond-Brown’s very first poem published in the Metro Gazette Publishing Company, Inc., in Albany, GA. Renee’ also has poetry published in several anthologies and honorable mentions to her credit in various writing outlets. Renee’ won and/or placed in several poetry contests globally and her books are eligible for nomination for a Black Book award in Southampton County Virginia. She was Poet of the Month 2017, Winner in the Our Poetry Archives and prestigious Potpourri Poets/Artists Writing Community in the past year. She has even graced the cover of KWEE Magazine in the month of May, 2016. Her love for creative writing is undoubtedly displayed through her very unique style and her work solidifies her as a force to be reckoned with in the literary world of poetry. Renee’ is inspired by non-other than Dr. Maya Angelou, because of her, Renee’ posits “Still I write, I write, and I’ll write!”
 

His mansion has
oak stairs. A southern
flare. The ghost of my past also
resides here.
 
The sounds of torture echoes like
plantation shutters swinging em’
to N’ fro.
As I polish his silverware. The floors
crack. The walls
speak; who lives here? Certainly
not me!
 
THAT dirt driveway houses
my DNA. The open door is locked. I enter
from the back to cook
his menus plus
add me some fat-back. My minds
on that auction block. Those slave ships. Moses
parting THAT Red Sea for me. Gotta’ get back
to work; cause, I don’t wanna’ swing. No!
Not on this day.  No! Not me. All
my clean windows see
“THAT”
infamous SHOW tree. Reminding us
O’
that swings plea. To make sure
you hang-em’ on high for
Massa’s sake and the picture-perfect imagery. I’m jus’
a passer by; til’ my turn to swing. Until then,
I’ll jus’ keep on telling; while keeping it clean.
 
 
Dedicated to: Self Preservation is the law of the land
 
A B.A.D. poem
​

I saw 1000 blackbirds take mid-flight. Roaming
to N’ fro. But.
Could not decipher which
were the ravens and which
the crows?
 
ONE
in particular stood out to me; cause He
was peculiar as peculiarity could be…And in His beak
was “THAT” pilfered olive leaf
 
I thought…hmm,
alas
there You are! And wondered IF’
Noah knew; what ev’r happened
to You on that reigning night? Here You come again; in 2018
reincarnated into
Renee’s Poems with Wings are forever Words in Flight!
 
Dedicated To: Bye; Bye Blackbird. Take yOUR flight!
A RocDeeRay and B.A.D. Poem
​

​Tired is as tired does. She floats on
carless streams; who knows no love. She floats on river-banks
giving her all to the poor. She floats on oceanic “blues” 
of a dark history’s past 
“SEEshores” + “SEEshells” - white beaches = black quicksand. She’s
not built to last. Duracell, ALKALINE and Energizer 
keeps her going and going and going. CHARGE-she’s gone! 


 
Can’t you “sea?” The saltwater pressures her blood 
greater than the strength of them waterfalling hearts. She boils! 
She boils!! She boils!!! And can’t hide!
But why? 
Ain’t no pearls clamed inside. Can’t you “sea?” 
Her lake’s shallow and parliament knee deep. They can’t 
swim like she 
and never did they learn. Can’t you “sea?” 
Her army, her navy, her coastguard are the few, were the proud, 
but in no way can withstand alone without THE marine!
 
 
Walking by faith 
gets momma utterly exhausted for which she terminates 
the struggle for them quote-un-quote 
un-grates. 
Forevermore, can she no longer float on 
sureSEEs and/or SEEshores; whichever!
 
 
BUT
when them momma’s give up; WATCH IT NOW
EVERYONE DROWNS
and i mean everyone; FOR “SHORE!” 
“Their” life jackets will forever work 
no-more.


 
Sending out an’ SOS
can’t help the raging of an angry battered sea.
Nothin’ like a shipwreck
that gets tossed
AND 
turns.
 
Dedicated to: The heart of the ocean!
 
A B.A.D. RocDeeRay poem
 

Thank you, God, that my vessel
floats in the midnight hour
to its own tunes of non-rhythmic an’
rhymeless rhymes; seasoned
in Ecclesiastical spirit-filled times. Bothering
no-one as their
storm clouds DO rise as their
strong winds…they DO blow. Jilted by all O’ them.
Sinking fast. Drowning in their sickening
sea of sinS forsaken by not so wannabe kin. Folk that is. But B.A.D. said
look to the hills from which my ONLY help can come. Walk on
the water anyhow away from them to Him. Set your eyes NOT
off of Him as they drown in their
own
designated for you sins. Step ov’r
them. Look to the hills from which your help comes and skip
onto the straight an’ narrow path unto Him. And only
in Him, will I cast these cares.
Alone.
For He cares for me.
Feel me?
 
 
 

B.A.D., I nev’r learned
to swim, but I sense the rhythm of the strokes.
 
 
 
Dedicated to: I sense the rhythm of the strokes; but nev’r learned to swim.
 
 
A RocDeeRay poem
​

​You raised 2 wonderful boys. Played with them
and
their Fao Schwarz expensive toys. Taught em’
to crawl, walk, talk and think. Taught em’
to ride a bike, walk trails and go on
long, loong, looong hikes. Walked em’
to school when missing their bus. Ev’n pulled out
that very first tooth and such; took em’
for weekly ‘costly’ haircuts.
 
Worship and prayer time
was ALWAYS in demand between you
and them. YOU helped em’
with homework; solely responsible for their A’s! Even
coached their soccer, basketball, baseball and AAU teams! Drove em’
to their first dance and then taught em’
to drive, before, buying em’
BOTH cars.
GO YOU…
FATHER DEAREST, ‘YOU’ ARE DEFINITELY ‘THE’ SUPERSTAR
OF SUPERSTARS!
 
You taught em’ to dress. 2 piece,
black double breasted suits; worn down their chest. Sharp
as a tack. Two 6ft. 2 men all dressed
in black. You taught em’ to explore,
travel the world and YOU
even went on their individual college tours. You taught em’
to cover up and how NOT to get a girl pregnant!
Whew! Now I’m impressed!!
THAT
IS BOTH
RESPONSIBLE and PO-WER-FUL yet!!!
GO YOU!!!!
 
You ev’n said grace before they ate. You made
boyz’ to men as such;
great job
STEP-DAD OF THE YEAR!
BUT.
 I GOTTA’ HUNCH
YOUR BIOLOGICAL “NATURAL” SONS
GOT NONE OF “THAT” TIME NOR YOUR LOVE!
What ‘YOU’ think; what’s up?
 
Dedicated To: Go YOU! Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap!
 
A RocDeeRay and B.A.D. Poem
 

Dear John,
I hope
this poem
finds you
in the best of health.
I love you
BUT…
I found
someone else.
 
He’s actually
your best friend
and
my babies’
dad.
I promise you though,
he
did-not
destroy
what you and I
once had.
 
I just grew tired
of you
being away
so
very long.
One thing led
to another;
felt so right
an’ yet
so wrong.
We tried to tell you
before
you left
for war.
But then
like the Temptations
we both thought
another
mind war;
hmm~~~
what is it good for?
 
So,
as stated before,
I love you,
BUT…
I found someone else~~~
that I
just
absolutely
adore.
 
 
Dear Jody,
Oh,
no one
must’ve
told you,
an’ you still
don’t know?
I married
your
best friend
LONG; LONG
LOOOOONG
before
I left home.
 
She gets
‘YOUR’
allotments,
medical coverage,
social security
and
my pension too.
We’re on an island
(military base)
‘laughin’
our butts off;
bout
how
WE BOTH
PLAYED YOU!
 
Hey Jody,
How’s them projects;
I left you in?
All them mixed babies?
The welfare checks
and my drug dealing
best friend?
 
Sorry sister girl,
you got played in the end.
See you,
when we come home
with
our
son,
daughter,
dog
and
Mercedes Benz.
Love John,
Your ex-lover and best friend.
 
 
Dedicated to: Oorah~~~Semper Fidelis~~~You ‘gotta’ pay to play ‘wit’ a few good men!!!


 
A B.A.D. Poem
 
 

Momma told her not to do IT.
IT was done; she did not LISTEN
LISTEN to her, for what, and why, she too did it, AFTER-ALL?
AFTER-ALL, she had her at 16.
16, she, herself, should’ve been pristine CLEAN.
CLEAN as bleach on a summers CLOTHESLINE.
CLOTHESLINES, yeah, not soils hung out to DRY.
DRY stains. Tide can’t even get these out, nor CAN;
CAN a praise and/or SHOUT!
SHOUT it out!!! Should’ve been playin wit dolls, jacks and balls til 9:00.
NINE months to GO.
GO to jail…do not pass go til 18
EIGHTEEN-year BIDS.
BIDS her FAREWELL.
FAREWELL Momma says, “I told you so.”
 
Dedicated to: Recurrences
 
A RocDeeRay Poem


​

​ “Woe to the bloody city! it is all full of lies and
robbery; the prey departeth not; The noise of a whip, and
the noise of the rattling of the wheels, and
of the pransing horses, and
of the jumping chariots. The horseman lifteth up both the bright sword and
the glittering spear: and
there is a multitude of slain, and
a great number of carcases; and
there is none end of their corpses; they stumble upon their corpses:”
Nahum 3:1-3 (KJV).
Never forget negro’s them ol’ carts prancing before the ol’ horse and
bridling to draw up the head and
dropping down the chin and
disparaged in pure resentment about THE marching and
still IZ culturally expected, devine and
a jockstay prancing coffins through dem’ filthy woods and
back dirt-roads in prehistoric times and
one can’t beat a dead horse when they’re already down and
yes they can; IZ’ lied and
its sortta like an extinct animal being pranced upon and
sortta like a mammal lost in space-aged time and
a show horse gallivanting~~ 2 the tune of the processions and
fiddlers playin’ on the roof and
juggling coffins like a circus clown and
might I may add; one of the best of the best noble acts in town and
mares on elm street and
charging stallions who can’t compete with steeds and
no flags for him only them downy white sheets and
black nags marching alongside me crying after him and
equestrians gallivanting like an ugly black beauty whose deep inna sleep and
also laying in state as for waiting a prey, and
for a white sheet is a deep ditch; and
THAT strange fruit is a narrow pit and
increaseth the transgressors amongst colored men and
colored women AND
do you know how many black bodies them trojans carted off in the woods?
I do AND
 
 Dedicated to: Ashes to ashes; dust to dust; one of the greatest shows in town!
A B.A.D. poem
 

Mary Merlo resides in the midwestern state of Michigan where she enjoys all four seasons.  A retired Human Resource Manager in the automotive industry, she finally has found time to pursue love of writing.  She writes poetry, memoir and children’s picture books.  Her work has been published in Water Music – Poetry Society of Michigan, Looking Back Magazine and will appear in the Spring 2018 edition of Peninsula Poets.  She’s received awards from Detroit Working Writers for children’s stories and is pursuing publication.  She enjoys time with family, especially grandchildren, a great source of inspiration for storytelling.  She believes skills developed to write poetry provide an excellent basis for expanding creative interests in other literary genres.  

​Awake in darkness, I hear mockingbirds
trill an endless mimic of blackbirds, orioles,
shrikes and jays from a perch high in the yard.   
Nighttime not ended, morning not yet begun –
that hour before daybreak. 
 
Stars suspended in a speckled sky outside
my window beckon me to wish.  Half awake,
my inhibitions vanish, fantasies flourish. 
Like an electrical impulse, a flash of clarity
surges to strike the core of my being, whispers
untold truths of the heart.  I know my secrets.
 
Dawn approaches with a chorus of morning
songbirds.  Like a curtain drawn, revelations dim
and dreams fade.  First light coaxes consciousness,
awakens reality’s edge.  Sunrise proclaims a new day,
but old shadows return, creep back to usual places.
 
 
 

Cowering, I scream -- 
but no sound comes out.  
I seek escape as elephants  
storm my deck with weight
enough to collapse
weather-beaten boards. 
They push against glass,
grunt and growl, but the door
wall doesn’t shatter. 
Feet stumble, I crawl upstairs
where none can reach me,
hide under the bed
so I won’t fall off the floor. 
 
They rear up, raise trunks 
and trumpet.  White teeth
flash in place of ivory tusks.  
Invisible barriers crash,
enable entry inside
my head where repressed
emotions struggle
to be freed.  Tenuous sanity
fails to suppress tangles
of anger, grief and fear. 
They burst forth to flow
into tentacled rivers of rage
and trap me.  
 
I drown in black tears pouring
down dark mirrors of my mind.
 

Books tossed on counter, table cluttered,
letters not opened, bills unpaid.  Hungry
kids home from school, french fries
sizzle, dogs snooze nearby.  Grease
ignites, sparks fly, curtains shrivel,
cedar shingles engulfed, house immersed
in flames.  Help!  Call 911. 
Upstairs, downstairs, find the boys quick. 
Smoke billows, sirens wail, red trucks
scream.  Black hose unravels, water gushes,
yellow jackets aim, big boots scurry
to barricade street.  Glass shatters,
wood burns, fire flies like the 4th of July. 
Helicopter whop-whops overhead,
cameras roll.  Heat rises, roof scorches, 
then sags, crowd gasps.  Fierce blaze dies
down, smolders, ignites again, consumes
remains.  Hot-hued colors glow beneath
a moonless sky abandoned by stars. 
Hours later, fireman digs deep in his coat
pocket, removes a squeaking hamster,
hands it to a child. 
 

​Shrieks of kee-kee-kee arise.  black-feathered helmet turns,   keen eyes spot quarry,
bullet-shaped body plummets.  
 
Black squirrel scampers,
brown squirrel pauses,
a moment too long,
as hook-shaped talons snatch. 
 
Food-chain creatures chatter, disturb
stillness of woods.  Black squirrel
flattens against tree, tail drawn tightly
round body like a cloak to protect.  
 
Pointed wings spread, soar to a perch, 
razor-sharp beak tears, rips dinner
into silence.  Red-stained plume ceases
its twitch, hangs like victory token.  
 
The bird of prey will not finish eating
nor be distracted for hours.  
 

​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.
Eagle,
The black eagle cut the air into pieces,
With his muscular strength,
And slapped the Earth's face,
Red waters run down her face.
Eagle,
The black eagle scrolled his bloodshot eyes,
Down spying the walking chicken,
Peeled his sharpened fingernails,
And swooped down at a blind chick.
Eagle,
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.
Eagle,
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.
Eagle,
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.
Eagle,
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,
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.

​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.
Go ahead--
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;
We came,
And got barren land,
That flows scarlet blood,
Rivers of darkness,
Apartheid flags raised;
We came,
Land titles demanded,
Liberty of slavery,
Important problem
In the pearl of Cannan;
We came,
Across the Red Sea,
Capitalistic masks,
On the bloody throne,
We hear silent missiles;
We came,
On the calls of weaverbirds,
On Cathedral windows,
Preaching the life of our death,
In this sick land;
We came,
Dancing heretical hymns,
They sung to liberate
The land from their own chains,
Sitting in the heart of the realm;
We came,
And buried hospitality,
In every man for himself,
But God for us all,
Embracing new faith of greed,
Repatriation and brain drain;
We came,
From our motherland,
In their masterial ships;
Now waiting for freedom
On Africa's mouth, my father's land.

​She was my warrior queen,
Princess of my past world.
Naive was her royal reign.
Armed with an eye on the world.
Walking through tepid grassland
Of spears, toil, buried breath and aged gossip -
Dismantling a garrison of
Tuareg foot marching fighters.
Her temper was ancient goose,
In a flash of lightning.
Tending love with great value,
Anguish called her, home.
Within a heart that vibrated in it's casement.
I recognise her from the past,
From the foot of creation.
527 years gone and counting,
In a countryside Egypt.
But I died in her hands, Itabosuwa.
My blood dribbled and stirred,
From her immaculate white frock,
Leaving a cesspool of anguish,
In her widowing youthful heart.
My love for her was a road,
With an abrupt dead end.
This underage princess from antiquity,
Now relive her past glory, differently.
All forgotten in a macabre,
In a modern breathless tale of love.
She takes her place,
Beside my merchant self:
A modern Nigerian,
Not knowing the story of our ancient love.

​When a man die, 
Let him become a star,
Lest, he roams in his void.
His Sapphire soul, 
Let it brew ageless fire,
Brightly cliffed and shinning, 
On the roof of the sky.
Let him burn scythes,
And high volume of larvae,
In his twilight zone.
Though he ceases to live, 
Yet, let him exist,
Illuminating the universe, 
With agility and gait.

​I surrender to earth;
I surrender to the sky -
Vocal shotguns in hands,
Shot up in defiant submission.

I surrender to the seas;
I surrender to the firmaments;
I surrender to life;
I surrender to death;
I surrender to the world under.

I surrender to my innate yearning,
Bathing in the fragments of my passion.
I weave my days into accolades,
Waiting on a speechless thunderstorm.

I surrender to bliss;
I surrender to pain;
I surrender to my distorted infancy:
Evoking a childhood, I never had.

​If your nation is a sinking boat,
Do not dismiss her as a failure,
Packing your bags and baggages,
Ditching her for another's glory.
Be within her fold, and plan for a rescue,
Take upon yourself, duties of chivalry.
Nurture her for a better berthing,
In nation building.
Be her life jacket.
Else, you become a nonentity,
In another man's land.

​This is how the earth cries.
Grisly heaving supine breath.
Scolding humanity with catalogue of disasters.
Vomiting roots in gilded squabbles.
Jamming alloys in pensive mood.
Stunting roses on senile soils.
Throttling avidly with a thrusting air.
Erupting volcanoes on frenetic days.
Handing dust to haywire winds.
Earth, humming in a witling quake.
Hurricanes sweeping with devious hands.
Coughing water against hyacinth times.
This is how the earth cries.

​A pitiful dress drifted over a street the color of iron mascara
Petunia pink as candy ripping when reaching a boot
Into which a ruffle dissolved and cried underfoot.
And mosquitoes swarmed the Honey Vanilla body spray left on cotton.
 
Booking fast, a woman trying to leave the hood where a mob
Had taken her for wearing something immodest.
There are men who dream women as body parts
Part of themselves or their tents where tickets are hoarded
 
In subdivisions for thighs, breasts, vaginas and legs. That the breast
Under petunia cotton is a threat to your control is not my problem.
Why has the armour of pink unleashed your G-d direction to hurt
Me instead of love me as a complete and holy magnolia?
 
Officious ones raping milky orbs indifferent and unholy
You fail to see I am Woman, I am Dance. I am Free. Lust’s
Clench is channeled by some men into love and family
A dash of desire for long life. For G-d.
My breasts and my legs are beautifully created by G-d’s
 
Promise to let me love. Again, you’re off
Your Mount and black orchid serpents won’t get me--
On this street the size of breasts walk if they want to, go
Pray something holy, fly like a new-fangled Othello—in the South
Bronx the freedom is in every woman.
 

​the weeds inflate near the buggy tree
the lying biddies & the bark pace near dead grass
it’s not the green or striped bark of maple, akin to eye-music
flames that curl and Molotov the forest as the moon eyes
the sound of biddies lying, it’s plain mouse bark like a cricket-
eyed biddy finding her way near me to stare down her prey
 
with little cricket beads of sweat popping her face, she rushes
down the hall to where I live and in a space between door and wall
inserts a sharp slice of bark, a mound of ants and a note—with tongs
I remove the gift and throw it in the dumpster where she meets me
without speaking I apply more juicy lilac lipstick and sneer.
I could take you down—you—I won’t bother.
sweat hurries down her face—tough front wings are leathery,
she chirps something as she rubs her wings together, the bark
back over there has turned a scorching red

​While my lover
my husband my friend
took two buses at night
with no good connections
to visit me as I lay unconscious
my arm not an arm
hit and run over by a meth head
an angel in a yellow sundress & very stylish bob
said:
“Come back to earth.”
I know I said:
“No. I like the clouds.”
 
When I told him this
the next day he said:
“You were in and out—you never
said one word.”

​right near recherché ribaldry of the biddies,
buttercups and pansies wave and wink
at me, the object of the biddies’ lies and envy.
 
I’ve long ago surrendered to the notion that ugly green
women have ruined me & continue to spew lies. I long ago
learned to walk tall, laugh & wear a South Bronx
face like a bodega gangbanger infested & infected with gunflash.
 
what I didn’t know back when is what I know now—women
in cheap carnival have no entrée if a mother had been
a mother and salted me away, saved and secured and
surrounded me when it mattered. There, by the pansies, a lame,
ulcerated cricket-faced liar, whispers to red-head-to-toe-- seriously,
who wears red shoes with a red skirt?—splinted up like a wan anemic
dahlia. They need a fuse, sending them dropkicked and bursting
with dripping red confetti. 
 
I don’t anger anymore. I learned by hit and miss. I learned only stars
are envied, even stars never given their chance to be
stars.  Better to keep them guessing, heads
erupting. Red and Splinted are without
talent and, plain. The women are blue now. They wanted
a sad mad response. I am toxiferous. The biddies’ bodies
are corrupting, falling, they hate the sound of toxiferous as
they hate the punishment everlastingly given.

​Men soil Women when they veil them and asphyxiate them up to their eyelashes--
so the brave woman threw off her hijab, unafraid of the lash,
liberty-hipped & alive & pretty birds walked her to the center of the world.
Her chains her cage her coop her submission lost molecules when the air
moaned in rapture & the Woman swayed her feminine wiles over
the broken limb of Iran, bark scraping her milk-thighs until--
she reaches the Persian Gulf bedded to the littoral Gulf
of Oman, thighs dancing willows, birthing clean new women.

 I was wedded to angle

    Tie that binds is screeching halt.

    Post hoc felt, birr is big yawn.

    Way remains buttoned whether

    I be yardbird or uncaged.

    Higgledy - piggledy togs

    Poorly lit under fixed boil.


    When statue rings unawares

    Jaded lamps not supporting

    Slight delay adds confusion

    Steadily bridled feelings

    Fabric walling off from world

    While on odyssey of art

    Stomach worries in between.


    Wavering in arraying

    Eye-catching habiliments.

    Mere summons to swell scut work.

    Worried sick while on venture

    Lest whatsit be forgotten

    Likewise sense,leavings been jailed?

    Nonstop unseen calls on line.


    Vast skylights in stormy days

    Ground moving towards castle

    On access bunches get spliced.

    Hope of fare is far offff matter.

    Stained implements greet sans shame.

    To boot they don’t stop asking

    Hi, celeb what you nibble.

​Time was, there lived a saint.

And was wont to deliver himself of practical preachings.

Direct was his attachment with God.

Oneness of inwardness and outwardness was the nub of his teachings.




Prompted by many for the selection of disciple.

But failed to renovate their littleness of mind.

They vied with one another for rung.

But his head didn't nod for any find.




Several tame animals were under his canopy.

One night he was in deep wakeless sleep.

They were tied nearby his hut.

A marauder came there to peep.




Among them, featurely tall horse robbed his heart.

He untied the rope again and again.

But it tied to a piece of wood contrarily.

His gruelling efforts went in vain.




Stormily ,grubbed up the stump with saw-toothed sword.

But many pieces popped up unasked.

Ropes swelled in number than before.

But didn't flinch till circumstances lasted.




Gruff marauder when set out on journey

Hadn't learnt how to return with empty hands.

Always remained consistent in terrible situation.

Always preferred death on defeatable lands.




Myriad fiascoes but to avoid aspersion,

To maintain the dignity of erstwhile record

Clashed with invisible angelic power from

Midnight to daylight with effulgent sword.




As everything seen with third eye.

But being omniscient didn't pay any attention.

After the wee hours, Saint came outside.

But surly marauder didn't blench in tension.




Though already wise to reality, but asked

Who he was and for what purpose came.

Daringly described himself as a robber.

And told he came with substantial aim.




By giving the graphic details of his malintent.

Adhibited, during the night session he did his best.

But failed to fulfill his mission as yet.

Never spent so much time on any other test.




Self sameness imprisoned the holy person famously.

Serious pleats changed into immense pleasure.

Hugging him tightly, gifted his preferent horse.

And said, preach the sermons of spiritual treasure.

​Having read mystical books


A soldier began to cudgel brain.


Who he was and from where he came


To him, he wanted someone to explain.



His curiosity chose that path


Day by day fervour augmented


But worldly soul got no impetus.


His purpose was, soul be oriented.



With operose efforts


One night soul got jerk


It rode up to higher zones


From that day, it became his regular work.



He became commingled with spiritualism


As small rivulet with vast lake


As a soldier forgot his duty


Sitting with closed legs made others bake.



A complaint was made as regards his idleness


That he always shirked the job


By fellows with sarcasms he was belittled


Officer came for inspection as told by mob



First off ,took a notice where he was appointed


After that he visited his dwelling place.


Eyes remained stunned to whom he was to blame.


On both places found same wight's trace.




Officer admitted his mistake


And spoke,'we demand nothing from you


We are honored till you are with us,


I judged what they told  isn't  true'.



'I remained in service


When the matter was unknown to you


But now I couldn't stay'


Because the riddle didn't remain perdue.



Boss became angry with statement


'Your name would never be erased from record.


But then I am set if I be in your gazette.


When scanned, documents were sans name and code.

​Deservedly they weep for the first.

Because the lag is reverse.

Deep down cossets her child.

As a stopgap who else is so mild?



She is a candle of home.

For offspring, like a sky-dome.

Unbrokenly veneers his idiocy.

But the latter unearths everything with obstinacy.



The former nabs kid’s sadness.

What’s more, wells over with gladness.

Stony soul badgers a verdant soul.

A betrayal of trust on the whole.



Heartily glad in his delight

Unduly glum when he be out of sight.

But the last-mentioned, destitute of philia,

A wight of excessive jealousy and mania.



The erstwhile slaps on wrist for his mistake.

She does so only for his sake.

The second gives a slap on back for wrong way.

Rugged test to return until hair turn grey.

​Shri guru Gobind Singh sahib’s great devotee bhai Joga singh


Words echoed into ears as guru’s summon out of a clear sky


Leaving in between the holy bond, devotee of one-sided wing


Sealed ears for rearward voices, ran away breaking every tie


Would-wife with gapy mouth but then the portrait of guru in eye.


On shank’s pony long route to be travelled


As was up to Anandpur Sahib but dark in Hoshiarpur for sigh.


Mind beset with new thoughts became unsaddeled.


I was to be beside bride, clinamen(bias) went towards prostitute’s scaffold.







When feet mounted up stairs, a guard balked his way


'Nix, nix wait and sit aside still you can’t, you can’t.


Being novice so up front, why and wherefore couldn’t say.


Calmly waiting for turn, again rode up, but then you can’t plant’


The whole night went in acquiring grant.


Heart again became heavy for guru as cock crowed.


Steps rushed so swiftly, thoughts changed that were slant.


Then at any cost shank’s mare couldn’t be slowed.


Aim was to arrive before shininess , like a river feet flowed.








Too soon before noon bhai Joga singh cracked a nut.


And surprised to a man, as when he set out and reached.


‘Nocent night fettered my feet, spent whole night sans hut’.


‘Where is guru! where is guru’, devotee preached.


Yet in chamber maybe in untroubled sleep, as all teached.


Having approached saw the saggy head on royal vehicle.


‘O! my Lord yet in sleep, wake up now’ he beseeched.


Whenas to sleep, my Joga! spent whole night in stopping you on pinnacle.


With teary eyes fell to great saint’s feet for that miracle.

​Who is lily-white?


Where  is  noncent accounted for?


No picnic to judge.



Shark is framed, saddeled


But recommended by all.


When unrivaled pricks.