iAmDiipo

Don't get carried away with her beauty, life is awesomely crafted to weary us all out. ~Diipo How we die slow, by slowly but surely hoping  That that which we hope for shall surely come to be While we truly are only living and dieing slowly And as the days go by; we hope on one hand And on the other, life is busy secretly but surely Wearying our bodies towards a sure death.

Proud warriors in ancestral savannahs...is this your back that is bent.  ~David Diop Sweat shed on ancestral savannahs Blood from our grandfathers' labours The bent backs of our fathers The pains of the proud warriors And the songs of our grandmothers Have all gone to ciphers We are history’s refrain, a  tragic chorus of cycles This is not a disease, yet Our backs are bent like those before us This time from the toils we choose Our ancestral warriors in awe Watch us writhe in new pains Only this time not on the plains But in the cold gloomy northern winters Where we forget the songs  of our grandmothers  Who will save us now that we have gone too far Beyond the reach of our mother's voice and The long warm fingers of the sun.

The Old Elephant cries He stomps around in pain His screams raised whirlwinds The ruckus was heard across the land As he trampled on the innocent shrubs                              of the Savanna The Old Elephant is weak Yet he's an elephant, not a sheep He bellows once again, this time louder His children have gone far, scattered wide  And away, b eyond the setting sun Yet they heard the Old Elephant rumble In fear, the little ones tremble The grasses shudder, the trees grumble Again, the  Old Elephant growls His children groan—they pray he rumbles forever

  A friend asked me "how do you get to have the time to sit down and write poetry?" Having taken a minute to ponder I think I now know why it took me so long to respond, the question was not correct, it was the wrong question. The right question should have been "how do you not have the time for poetry?" How do you not have the time  To see the pattering of the afternoon clouds Or the silent shadows of the evening winds How do you not hear the chorale of the ants in the grass As they march on the way to their dark-sweet homes The setting sun urging them, yet  They have not forgotten to take a moment  To smell the flowers along the way   But men do not have the time For patterings or evenings, we are busy  Getting rich or dying trying, tho' surely dying Beclouded by the jillion shades of our fleeting bliss And the ready-made gloom of not getting The world truly is too much with us, yes. We forget that nature is ours. ...

It was a sunless winter noon I sat on a stump by the woods' gate Hoping the sun will shine through the dreary clouds, Then, out of the woods, came a score of four-year-olds Little boys and girls, in leather boots At first, I had my eyes fixed on the sky Still waiting for a glimmer But then the brightness of twenty pairs of shiny eyes Were about to light up my ennui  One of them, a gentleman, winked His boots were shinning and black He almost does not belong in the crowd His coat was fancy and neat As the others were soiled and wrinkled He was followed by a girl who looked guilty In muddy boots, coat and obliqued eyes—a recipe for a future politician Next were a couple, a boy and a girl who held hands And chatted endlessly without a care  Dirty as charged and looking like soon-to-be famous YouTubers They walked past me in no hurry or pattern I took a long ponderous look at each and all And can tell you that among them were the future priests  And sinners, poets and scienti...

There is a Bermuda in my room I would normally have kept this under the rader But my stuff kept missing First it was the left leg of my favourite socks Then my earpiece and then my red scarf The triangle kept taking my belongings like a huge hungry monster I've kept mum all along  Hoping one day it might get filled and I might get to see those things I once owned and loved But it seems that's not to be And I am resigned to my fate  Such that sometimes I pray  That I may not fall into the darkness of this triangle  Where the odds of my socks  My orange rain pants   My yellow saphire wristlet  And my green comb All went without trace And I still would have kept it under the wraps But now I've started losing my mind Pieces of it are falling in a hurry, into that same Bermuda Tried as I might, they wouldn't come back to me Last night, I forgot the name I gave my dog.