nabii Poetry (34)

Monkeys were never us;
our entrance is more than theory.
I came standing erect and complete.
The dust was to indulge (except of the tree)
in the place provided, where the voice walked
in the cool of the day.

Leopards and lambs,
like Puppy Yellow
and the calico moving balls of yarn;
the fallen, like a snake,
wooed the woman that queried
and she went away towing her husband.

I am out of character, image,
likeness of the Divine
whose flood sculpted mountains and isles,
there, dividing men
and painted them
in new colors with freezing fingers.

Sasquatch, your blurred trace,
speaks loud of the instrument now used.
Of me Ibrahim was assured.
The pyramids are mathematics the God teaches;
their wisdom raised the boulders
(the two Gods that share the Spirit).
I mosey through a sea to be here;
this point where they are history?

Monkeys were never us. If so,
who limits the fruition? I still see them
tree-hopping.
I am Enoch walking with him,
lodging far afield the daughters of men.
I occur with an enormous bang
far superior to a hypothesis.

The stories they wrote are long gone.
Some hearts will never call to mind the rules,
while others know nothing of their existence.

Twelve, the chosen,
but few told the story of redemption;
they forfeited common lives for the sacrifice.

In the place of the devil’s seat …
some device deceptions
and think to change the principles,
as Daniel predicted.

He sits as God, the holy father,
with endowed permission
to pardon transgression
and chastise the guilty;
the son of perdition he is, her chosen.

A woman riding high on the back of a beast;
a wife, double-crossing her husband.
Solemn voices seek her guidance.
She is a mother, a mother of gods.

She makes war with the blameless,
and wore-out the people.
Her path is an illusion of peace.

A child was born of her;
he claimed himself a prophet,
making Gabriel a liar and an accomplice.

In his spirit, they destroy the people
and the rules of the book.
He took their God, and makes him demented.
He offered rewards in God’s new name saying,
“Hunt for the infidels the world over;
make war with them,
be relentless”

He uphold me in the hollow of his mighty hands,
So far above the sinking sand.
Holy angels around me stand,
Ten thousand times ten thousands.

I’m preserved in the cavity of his stalwart palms;
I’m sheltered from life’s raging storm.
On life’s angry seas my soul is calm.
His strength is mine, his will perform.

He protect me in his strong, cavernous grasp,
As I watch my troubles slowly pass.
In his care I’m free at last.
His will be done, it’s mine to ask.

Man will change
like chameleon
clothed in envy
Amid the evergreen leaves
objectives are concealed

Man will change
Like Vancouver doffing orange sun
and Gaspésie dressed in white,
pallid like them southern cotton fields;
they are honest measures of changes

Man will change
like a day donning darkness
after sunbeams are swallowed up in mystery
His shrewdness will hide former faces
He will breathe in open secrets

Man will change,
and tread like Cain
when his brother’s blood cried
from the soil
their ancestors’ sweat grew cassava and pomegranate

After thirty pieces were pocketed,
did he not translated
to one sorry for his plight more than his deeds?
Man will change
into the dragon he is fond of

Man will change
like a woman removing layers
in the closet of her chamber
after a winter’s night clothed her in warmth
Man will change everything but underwear;
his road lies under his skin

With pupils fixed on the collection plate,
Sweat streaming down a wretched face,
And lethally distended neck veins,
He appealed to the sympathy of his victims,
“God wants us all to be rich!” he cried.
“Cast your bread upon the waters!” someone implored;
Maybe an accomplice, a friend or a fool.
“Amen!” shrieked a woman, lavishly dressed,
As she stutters like an old engine and crumbles to the floor.

Is it I alone who have seen this act,
The false prophet, the woman, and the fool,
All part of a ridiculous plot?
It's just another tale from the swindler’s script.
He echoes again the fib from his lips:
“God wants us all to be rich!”
Did Jesus wear Armani suits and ties,
And sandals made from crocodiles’ hide?
The crowd applauded the exaggerated stunt,
As he frolics, shivers and growls,
Like someone who’s drunk.
Remember the slogan that says: “In God we trust?”
Preserve this notion:
The poor will always be with us.

Thrusting against the wall erect from my youthful womb
I alone must go from the tree that shelters the grave
of her umbilicus, and the place of Ma Puddy’s tomb;
the woman whose foretelling is come to pass in me.

I went down, and up the fleeting crags
garnering memoirs, yarns stilled
in passing notions; that’s what was wished-for
but I misplaced details while going downhill


I took her beautiful eyes that laugh when crying my tears,
the ones I no longer spill on satin and fine silk;
they went when bottles brought fists to my face
She was to flee, and by no means continue my days

For her it is to reach and grasp opulence,
and look at nuisance fleeting, the sudden that came
with rapture evoking youthful musing
she is called to make this climb.

She came and spread
like honeysuckle, arresting the sun
and calling birds to feast. She took my shell,
forfeiting me, and lives in novelty and wonder

I found my youth in sparkling eyes
that do thoughtful things (things done boldly).
I cuddle me in the life I filched
and lived her life a thousand times with my little girl.

He followed a dream to Havana, Cuba –
amid communism and embargo.
A beautiful country this Cuba is,
and the women are soft on the eyes.
There are whores, yes,
there are whores aplenty,
but not like the ones in Gomorrah.
I’ve been there before,
and witnessed drag-Queens offering hand jobs.
A sad place this Gomorrah is,
and miserable people are those wanna-be’s.
He owns the streets, those streets the Spaniards trod,
where women break their necks when he goes by.
Eyes, like a lion’s, measured the prospects –
zooming in on the most vulnerable.
His feet paint his story deep in concrete Havana.
The rum washed out shame and caution from his steps,
but moderation keeps thoughts in check.
Those rapt minds in Gomorrah
forced tongues to lie regarding the plights of Havana.
This is his city, his Havana;
a place where life is regulated
and the unlikely steer clear of happening

Johnny old boy was a parakeet.
His trophies, the supposed women
he hoodwinked out of underpants, was ever on his lips.
Drained ears listened, laboriously, a thousand times to the once secret
of two hearts, two hearts that alone should clutch hard these clandestine moments.
The Mrs. Green is enviously tied
to her high school sweetheart; she was a gentleman’s dream,
but not this nightmare tale, this delusion shows how limited our eyes are.
Prudence, the good Reverend’s consort
was an assumed standard, but now…

Johnny boy boasted
of dipping wick in Coralline’s kerosene oil
and caused delicate glow on Shiki Futon, dancing glow
to soft music of two waist lines, my Coralline, sweet Coralline.
With careless lips he spilled tales and planted seeds of gossips.
Johnny was, and Coralline too,
and I vision the world for Johnny’s legend, waiting for time to tell my story.

Wandering thoughts open portals for displaced memories.
Words cruised that boulevard carved in September’s wind,
and squeezed tears from dazzling eyes.

sensitivity will never know another heart’s displeasure,
unless tongue pluck them from mind’s controlling grip.
Laughter, unconsciously, taunts a troubled heart,
and grimace disguised in smile’s fine garb.

September’s wind blow cool on the Ohio Valley,
and trees shed leaves like sad eyes secreting tears, alone in a Garfield Suite.
The morn signifies my final day of torture,
then in time’s care this deep wound will heal.
Sometimes it’s hard meeting old friends.

The world knows your business child;
there's nothing anonymous ...
about alcohol.
Them drunks like to show off ...
yes, they like to show their strength.
They beat women like bongo drums.

Them gal down at the factories,
they love a man on cannabis;
a mellow man -
in a constant mellow mood,
always hungry for a good cook
and good food.


Their pencils are always sharpened,
ready to write -
in rain, sun, or sleet;
Not so with them funky drunks,
theirs are more eraser and less lead.
they'll erase even wet dreams,
their pencils are nothing but dead,
carcasses for the crows.

Write love on puffs of cannabis clouds
just like Nesta Marley did.
How bloody is Mary
after glasses of your spirit poured out?
love is forever yours Mary Jane,
my darling and consort.
A finger will never hurt thee.

How unfortified are favored mystics;
ripened men devoid of backbones,
ladies with bogus analogies of love,
others, their nuisances known.

Some put fools on pedestals,
without attention to outcome,
but things are much different
when dealing with intellectuals.
If recollection tallies,
them old folks always let us remember:
“Self-praise is no recommendation.”

We do as the good book bids us:
“Answer fools according to their follies.”
There are more charades than sound guidance.
The throng was never us to ensue,
so we reject the king’s meat.
Truth is, we are what we eat … and drink.

How warped is their integrity.
Let them cast the first stone;
I’m balanced high on clouds from cannabis,
while their brains swim in mugs of Ethanol.
The bloody republicans suffer
from lack of …
lack of everything
except delusion of grandeur,
and the rich men have a strong-hold on America’s carotid.

My sister, college professor, asked:
“Where is the people’s guardian?”
Her expression eagerly awaits reply.
While estimations differ,
time (unbowed) will render true chronicles,
but while we tarry for time’s revelation
we yielded to trepidation;
what nincompoops are in charge of the people’s care

Vanguard in death and deception,
Innocent hearts heed to his illusion.
Cry Mama Africa, cry for your children.
Angels with dark countenances are raised against them.
Rise black man, awake from your slumber,
Inactivate the medium that is deceiving you.
Understand, no! over stand the number:
Six, six, six is the number of a man.

From the west they came, with bibles and guns,
Igniting a fire, a burning desire to be like them.
Lost in the labyrinths of prayer, summoning gnomes and goblins;
In persuasion we fly with angels and jinns,
Incarcerated in spins of sins.

Dark is our external shades, but our heart is as red as blood.
Ethiopian blood stained the suit of the woman we dearly loved.
Is the black child a sacrifice to god, their god?