nabii Poetry (34)

God over us
like hard rock covering land mollusks,
shielding them
from tropic sun
(like hell raging on Gomorrah)
and velvety ocean breeze
carrying salt to season coconut water.
Zebra type, like a leopard’s stubborn spots,
Shun the selfless offering
for the small of a hard back;
the product is beheld on hot concrete.

If we as March hares, fast,
hippity hop
in green pastures
his Spirit pulled from a top hat,
but when rain clouds change complexion
screening the eye of sun,
we set off along crooked burrows
to escape morning shower.
At home we are mostly wet.

Joseph in colored coat;
his reading of Pharaoh’s memory
is for his days
(the vision still stands).
Meager bulls swigging loaded cows
and Lot galloping hard
with back against Sodom.
How damaged are we
when children bear no children?

I bleed red,
red like I know how.
I was there in past lives,
but never re-incarnated.
It is this existence
that bleeds me red,
red like I know how.

I’m drowning in blue,
like deceptive sea
dressed in cobalt skies.
Down,
down
I plunge,
turning eyes
with this white lie
(my life).

Days came, unlike me,
dressed in golden sun,
like oranges prepared in California’s heat.
Never am I likened to the dark nights
that parade beautiful fireflies on Lake Victoria.
I am yellow
in regions about my umbilicus,
with green glazed eyes
that scrutinize
their possessions.

I am never black;
I am white swelling in blue seas.
I should be African,
Proud,
with untamed rain bow spirit,
but I am never black.
I am white rising
in blue ocean,
a disappearing act.

It must be sea-sickness.
Her stomach is stir up;
it growls louder, and louder.
She coughs up high surges and spits on humanity.
Yes, the great one is sad;
bluer she gets,
as the days go by.

Civilization sucks ….
oil from straws passing through the belly of the deep;
crude is the conscience of this beast.
Darkness seeps on the ocean floor,
suffocating the coral reefs.
Ears were numb to the billows roar
until the black blob washed ashore.

Wise guys devise white lies
Of how much poison she is forced to drink.
Refinement reeks loudly,
so stink,
as foul as a politician,
and the great one whisper hushed the land:
“Down with social progress.”

“I have forgiven mother”

She tarries with hope
that the good woman will pray her clemency for her own sins,
but that hour is expired;
Gee grew a strong wit
"Mother is no longer my burden"
Jesus came from hard conscience to corroborate her lies
The WORD written in black and white:
“Us twain is now one; for this reason I depart from her”
Three moons less than time in the safety of the womb is slight

In the past mother was necessity,
but she grew weary of the pace;
her birth city received her
The old Jewish woman was left
with stage three pressure ulcers
while the twain bender in Atlantic City
Their backsides were not masked by mother’s conformity
My mother's now defiant fingers work dutifully in another excrement,
goat stool in her callaloo garden

Before the recession, money was tossed in all directions;
I took hold of a few green ones.
She lived to outdo her alliance,
but high seat killed Miss. Thomas’ cat
Mother watched her outshone the Jones
The recession was never her downfall;
immorality got the better of her.
Jesus was overlooked
“put the WORD to work,
compensate the guardian of your youth”

She had to let a nation know how well off she was
Her enemies know her silver spoon was achieved
Her splurges buried ethics, and smiles were wide as graves
She let me know in scripts:
“A new being I am now; My shine is unlike years ago”
Vanity is not here in show, but her heart remains the same
Like the Jewish elder, mother is spurned
with bruising on her heart.

The grass, just about dry,
is canary, clothed in evening sun,
now sinking beyond the colorful portrait,
canvassed on nature’s abundant spread;
a brilliant form, painted by fall’s seasoned fingers.

The cool breeze funnels through valleys
carved into towering crags,
and gently commands the trees to stir,
while prompting nebulous wits to think of wintry smiles.
A lonely guinea hen begins a boisterous chatter,
moon-stricken;
a crack at preserving a cogent mind.

Water lilies, daubs of pink and white,
settle buoyantly amid roaming rain clouds.
Bog plants,caressed by the sun’s slight light,
move among toadstools in animal droppings
Waterfowl soar across the blue in a unique motif
to slice the resisting wind, and ride the up-lift.
Young goats ramp on the giant shaft of a fallen oak tree,
and Lulu’s cow has a calf, a girl calf.

The bovine, English-bred, is a burden to its mother.
Round and apathetic; it lurches like a drunk.
Her back is a toilet for egrets and sand-pipers.
She impedes the progress of the herd,
and the bellowing is far too concentrated around the stream,
where, on tranquil days, sad reflections trickle away.
If anyone should inquire why life here is such a drag
Your best reply should be:
Lulu’s cow has a calf, a girl calf.

Some call it an aphrodisiac.
They say it gives a man a strong back.

Like a good woman, turtle soup makes no sense;
Can something so delicate be so intense?

Like a woman, the flesh has several delightful flavors.
Remember, each mouthwatering sensation should be savored.

When you taste her, bask freely in the sapidity,
Acquire the feel for this pure tortoise delicacy.

Don’t rush, familiarize your taste buds.
There is no such thing as a first sight love.

Recognize, there is a mystique behind that hard shell.
Did someone say turtle soup? That does not ring a bell.

She lies breathless on the kitchen table,
as I prepare to perform my passion.
first, I marinated her breasts
in a fusion of lime juice and coconut oil,
then massage them gently with tamarind cream.
Her soft flesh felt like silly putty in my hands.
She was on heat in a minute or so.
One half hour works,
now she is stir up and moist
Her thighs were beautifully browned.
I varnished them with a feather dipped in honey.
I taste her,
She melts inside my mouth.
I dampened the flame.
The wine is on ice,
the table is spread.
I can’t wait for her to come!
Twas the first time
I’ve cooked for my love.

Climb high on Blue Mountain,
hug the dark rain clouds;
they too will burst into tears
that water concrete jungles
and wash traces of negro blood
from asphalt

Climb high on Blue Mountain
and bawl your green eyes red
Your womb is ancient, futile,
never to shed another,
another to choose this calamity

Climb high on Blue Mountain,
close to the heavens
but far away from creator
Where he is there’s jubilation
Cry tears red like Pharaoh’s plague,
and when you alight
retreat down your crooked way

What is it that jungle wished for, pounds of flesh?
Climb high on Blue Mountain
and look out
You cried you green eyes shut
but there are no changes;
you were void of vision
and concrete must be fed
with blood and tears
Climb high on Blue Mountain
and look at your creation

Desert sand sips on western blood.
Life dwindled on a dust storm.
The Mid-East is drunk;
smashed on the substance of juvenile lives.
Baghdad staggers and stomachs churn;
a harsh place with no feeling for western existence.
Solemn voices, from Muslim mosques –
unintentionally, moan nature’s loss.
Today, youth is sacrifice.

Heroes they called us,
and heroes we are,
but heroes to whom?
Flesh for the worms in our tombs.
Kabul is necessary;
let freedom hold a persistent sway,
but why must I die in Baghdad this day?

God, let me die a sweet death;
let my thoughts pursue pleasant memories until the end.
Let me go thinking of love, laughter and allies.
Let not Baghdad steal my breath
In this cruel city I will not die.

For days we mount white stallion,
going westward,
far from the black stone path
The beast pants,
but carry on
with fire in its eyes
New shoots down-trodden in the channel

I taste the straps on forerunners
deep beyond their dermis,
way pass the dark transgression
we obtained,
yet we hold this sin so dear;
a real peril to the end

I felt wind urging hoofs,
and heard the soil of a mother
calling from soles;
support for imperials
Mattocks pulled new soil
to conceal the cries

If philosophy changes,
there’ll be songs I’ll never sing,
but for now I’ll walk streets eastward,
and survey scuffles
while watching my reflections
on dark footprints

In hope the hoofs are hushed
I’ll lay me down
on fertile bed,
whence I will seep along common path
unto all taste buds
The earth will carry me,
as thick as blood

So few are they whose legion is peace.
Did Columbus chase stillness
beyond tumultuous seas?
Sails and oars were manned by dissidents,
genocide is patent.

Prayers and spreads with huge birds
were answered with reservations,
provisions like prisons,
and birthrights lifted.

So few are they whose legion is peace.
Devoid of wings, souls fly
to escape the flaming towers.
Barren of truth, tongues lie
to secure legends of power,
and destroy past ally.

It is for youth to pursue truth
before wicked moons glide by.
Leap with faith like ten Moses,
your Sabbath day is nigh.
Race is diversion,
kissing cheeks of cliché.

Is the spoil more than the sacrifice?
The new buds quietly fade;
their radiance slowly dies,
and the few whose throng is not peace
hold their heads so high,
while mothers blame the God
who watched their children’s suicide.

When she was but a tot,
A chubby little bundle of dread and joy,
I’d asked God to watch over her,
and her angel came and sat down with mine;
I knew he was there,
I could feel him.

Now with pomposity and flaunting,
her angel is vanished,
and mine seems to leave at thirteen.
She’s here but my baby is gone,
and I asked heaven to bring her back.
I’d do anything to be with my angel again.

Flesh is for the worms,
but a cultured mind creates delightful recollections, perpetual.
Today, the whole world nurtures my child,
and the house has more volume; it echoes our voices.
If she doesn’t listen to God’s voice through mine
She’ll be a feast for all of society.