GAINING MY MIND

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GAINING MY MIND

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I Know

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Don’t you talk to me Like I do not know, I know That the best of poems were never written in ink That the purest of thoughts lies deep I know True smiles comes from the eyes and That happiness do not fly on wings of wish That men are desperate and some evil Don’t you dare talk to me Like I do not know That the heavens is endless and defies science, that The stars therein are not only ornaments, each and all its name and wonders as assigned I know That God made us and then we made our personal demons, everyman his own That chance and time happens and men and women mere witnesses and chroniclers That our destination is of utmost essence just as well as the path Dare you school me! I know, poetry is my cure and my disease That I can create a beauty and a beautiful thing in and from this world of nothingness That as a poet and not a common man Sitting on that rung comes with its woes Enough to mar or make I have always known To listen caref...
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Out of the Woods came a Score of Four-Year-Olds

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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...
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The Bent Backs of our Fathers

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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.
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