You are the patient judge
In your ticking throne you sit and smile
As yesterday lives us behind we cry
For a reincarnation of a new sun to come
In the morning of our life u tick, tick, and tick
for the afternoon makes u laugh
you laugh and laugh and laugh
as the day lives a wrinkling mark on us.

In the theatre of war
Men were hugging chaos like a sister
In the battle front
with death posing like Goliath
With a red-wined eyes
War came like torrents of rain
In sporadical shooting- boiling bullets
Targeting the high ranked majors
As their ark enemies
In the wonted wickedness of the war
Many men died
If war was a curse
Then many nations of the world
Are under her spell

beaten hard under a harsh sun
losing all sap in the burning urn
left behind are white crystals
adding taste from pan to pan

good deeds no matter how small
though unseen still stand out

If the fruit
Is gonna be picked
From the tree

At least
Let it be eaten

We think

We prefer warm
Welcoming lips

To falling
Upon cool
Dark soil

But while one lasts
For a moment

The juice of a gesture
One merry meal

The burial
Bears fruit to last
A lifetime

Sometimes it’s just
What we need:

A cold shoulder

Sometimes, sometimes...
in the coolness of late night
I glimpse that place of ancient rhymes,
a place to most folks out of sight.

And there before astonished eyes
I see old masters writing verse
which throughout centuries survives
spare of words but never terse.

These old ones write in the old style
with a flow of near perfection
with tales that make folks cry or smile
or pause and give them deep reflection.

Like Moscow, Istanbul and Rome
my town is built on seven hills.
At the top of the tallest of them all,
my home stands on the thin stilts.

I wake up every morning
to the clinking glass and wind
wheezing under the floor.
I open my windows.

Sunbeams
bounce from the roof tops
and play with the weather vanes.
They run through the grapes
from the neighboring slopes.
They run in my veins.

My life is on the anvil
where my shoes had been
while waiting for the craft
from the cobbler of life

I know not from whose hide
these shoes were made for me
they walked me to my destiny
which the cobbler had in mind

Behold a great woman
The jewel, the joy
And the hope of the entire black race
Born with endless beauty of all time
Immense with multiple of untapped resources
You lead in the entire black soil called Africa
But never know your brother envy you a lot
Even your distance friends
Likewise your foes
Who disgust your outspoken strength and dominance at large?
They've set a goal against you
Waiting for this presume circumstance
You continue to surface -foster other people with your resources