MY FAVORITE SCAR AND THE FISH PRAYER

I am an embodiment of rivers,
praying with clenched fingers near a tributary cathedral.
I hurl my shirt into the air and watch it
dance to a floating rhythm of playful drums in my veins,
on the the river bank floor,
atop a kindred of aquatic weeds and white sand,
prancing on the limbs of the wind.
With only a piece of shots to keep the privates private,
I take off,outrun the wind and pierce the skin of the stream with a splash of frisson.
In the pliable flesh of water,i sniff boundless freedom and snorkel my voyage to ecstasy.
Intermittently,
I bury my face beneath the plane of water and sport my lungs- the sweet folly of childhood tells me i am a fish.
I sip the cuddling warmth of the currents through the window of my gasping outside,
gliding into coma
With my back against the weightless carriage of aqua.
Near bye,i hear a school of fingerlings say the fish prayer through the ear of telepathy.

They prayed: O thou creator of aquatopia please nourish us with our daily phytoplanktons and lead us not into the guts of ravenous
flesh snackers.
Grace us to brave more aqua days in the rank of predators and not preys.
Give us discernment and rid us of greed ,
that we eat not the hooks of death,
wearing juicy atires of chubby worms.
That we be not pulled into asphyxiation
where they embalm bodies with spices and diminish them to sources of protein.[I’ve never seen fishes talk, but many things happen in ecstacy].

The waves tilt me ashore and i gaze into the fiery orange pupils of the sun,
tasting the wind through the taste buds of my nostrils and
downing a copious gulp of crisp liquid oxygen into the stomach of my lungs.
A sharp pain scissored it’s bony appendages into the tip of my pinky,
rudely punctuating my intimacy with nature.
It felt like the milk teeth of a baby in hawkish protest of it’s mother’s skin
It was a juvenile crab trying to defend himself.
I carefully disengage him and discharge him in peace.
Its now almost two decades ago
But i have embalmed that souvenir in a morgue of memories,
that innocent sweet scar on my left pinky.
For it’s an escapism where I relive my celestial romance with mother nature.

By Azoronyeahu uchenna gentle

The limits; culprits of global warming

baked by the waters of coruscation
Bleeding from the sun,
I long for comfort to undue my thirst.
Bathed by my sweat ,I long for water to cuddle my grimy skin.
No man was built for pain.
We can only manage so much.

O thou Citizens of earth “who sabotaged our airy fortress?
Who impaired the stratosphere?”
It was you!..Yes you!
It was the grey fart from your jalopy,
It was the dark clouds from your monopoly.
It was the genocide of trees.
The throat of my skin cannot drink this fire anylonger,
I have seen the limits.

FOR AN UMPTEENTH TIME

I tire of this sin sash
that belts my saintly waist
and this slippery wrestle with guilt
that never wills,
my soul to spare.

As upon time my pangs
always recoil,
Prodigal,yet sincere,
my sly romance with grace.

But I want out!
O how I gasp for purity of the soul!,
true freedom whose windows and doors
are thrown ajar on the infinite hinges of mercy.

To taste the newness and peacefulness
of the gust of righteousness
Pouring from God’s throne
Through the nail pierced hands of Jesus,
And tender eyes dripping
with tears of love for an umpteenth time,
for a steady sinner like me.

THE BALLOT NOT THE BULLET

 

Enough with these Civic chameleons
cresting dispositions through the valley of republic grins and grimaces,
The ballot ,not the bullet!

For too long our immaculate votes have all but antidoted bureaucratic poisons festering in the heart of my green white skinned mother.
The bullet please,not the bullet!

How long shall continue with on president,one pistol?
One commissioner one Cutlass?
One governor,one gun?
One barrister,one bazooka?
One director,one dagger?
One speaker ,one spear?
The ballot please,not the bullet!

Yesterday my brother had a national migraine suffered by civic cacophony.
Today we are grappling with partisan monopoly.

How long shall we continue with this sarcastic equation;money+godfather+thugs= political victory?
Let’s go back to the ballot please, there’s no respite in the bullet.

Borrowed Bodies; retribution

         

The limp feet of darkness drags on,
drops of blood trailing his escape through the bush path covered in dry leaves and humus.
The Moon is decked in a tuxedo of grey sky,
the only compass navigating the pitch night.

It was about 1:00am Sunday,
the day the streets of Kigali will never forget.
He was 13 years old,
But he’d seen too much carnage in one night than his soul could brave.

With hand over his mouth,he tries to drink his pain,
For the soul buccaneers should trace his moans.
He carries a bullet in the womb of his left ankle,
His feet getting heavier with each limp.

He quickly finds a pile of cadavers to mix himself near the village stream,
For what is dead need not be killed.
A few more steps,
And the men are there.

They casually scan the flies infested corpses with the eyes of their tourches
“he’s not here” retorted kabala the gafar.
They make a beeline for the neighbouring hamlet through the apian way, swearing, spitting.

Twenty years later,a new dawn looks upon Kigali,
The nation picks its pieces and mourns it’s  fallen.
Upon a justice revival,
lord kabala and his men will dance to the rythms of the law.

In the Rwandan supreme Court
a young barrister walks to kabala in the witness box,
“Do you remember me?”.. he asked,his tone bleeding with subtle retribution.
Wearing a cosmetic smile,
he leans a bit closer,with  fingers locked,
Savouring the bemusement etched on the face of kabala’s silence.

“Am sure not” ,he quenches the parched throat of the silence with his hypophora,
giving bearing to kabala’s frantic hysteria.
“I am Alfred,the lone survivor of your raid on kabinga village”..,he continued.
Kabala sank into his feet, gaping
“I know,I know ,let’s just say,I borrowed Bodies”..Alfred cuts in.

TOBACCO PERFUME

Over the bedlam of a motor park dropped a pale sky heavy
With waters high,

Grimacing in disgust at the
Perfume of tobacco.

Who is rather scrimmage-happy
With the air-tight cartage of astute hawkers
And rarely naïve travelers  carping thin
the patience of poker faced transporters.

My mother scuttles away from
A wet portion in the pot hole-happy earth,

Grimacing in disgust and beating off a concrete
Dingy grey puff of tobacco;
Her face lined up with loose  folds of grimy flesh
And the paleness that symptoms oxygen fasting.

Per time idleness chivvys me into leering at these mobile chimneys;
Carrying lips worn black and hard,
With sooth standing out over a puckered face attired in grim
And virtual eyes dangling in microscopic facial sockets.

The tobacco air  seems to butress the undiluted pangs of my forlorn soul, hemmed in by our low income
That can’t afford travel luxury.

Alas! We are manged  like sardine inside the  excuse for  a bus when mother waves bon voyage,
with a paleness
Advocating my tolerance through the road.

BRUTE BEASTS OF THE SAHARA

O how my vena cava weeps blood
for my mother,wailing for her children.
Her satire retrospects to the days of the pyramids;
At her widowhood of royalty in Pharaoh,she was betroth
to strange suitors.

Fetters-tamed,she was circus(ed) for foreign maidens.
her  royal garments ,the centre of scramble for many cosmic scavengers.

Merchant ships from distant shores traded her children in chains,
O history tells of many voyages of no return!

But her ransom from the marine flotillas eloped with a more
beautiful poison-brute beasts of the sahara,
To whom was bequeathed the left over of her wounded posterity.

O messiahs we had thought them,
But these beasts forced my sisters and ravaged my land with dictatorship.
They littered Kimbala with dead mens’ skulls and irrigated the parched throat of the soil of Kampala 
With the blood of our hope-our young men!

O how my tears coagulate 
With blood and rage!

Brute beasts you are!..
You stuff your protruding bellies with the wages of widows
And yank breast  milk from my unweaned siblings to conscript into republic rebellion-
An army of cripples!
Yet you tax the unborn generation to arm-chair your republic profligacy!

Abetted by your large appetite for civic sceptre,
You invented refugees in Sierra-Leone.

O you did worse than the marine flotillas!
You dwarfed our civilization.
You left us deficit for an inheritance- employment.
And you still sell us out to those merchant ships!..O try and deny it!

Abel’s blood cries against you!
When will you stop hoarding public seats like family enterprise?
When will you end this blood rai(eig)n?

THE PUPPET’S TRUTH

        

I am weary of this truth!
They say it’s an empirical truth,but    away with it!
Can the dance steps of a puppet, deify the rythm of his  master’s strings?
You be the judge.

I am weary of this truth!
A truth that wears a mask,
Wastes away behind the walls of isolation and washes away sanity with a sanitizer.
What is truth,if not the truth of the puppet’s master?
You be the judge.

I am weary of this truth!
A truth that sways with the clout of science and the mouths of men of rank.
Have you ever seen a brave puppet escaping martyrdom?
19th October 1986 should be the judge.

I will invent my own truth.
I will draw from celestial wells
and sieve the truth of science.
When i churn these in the pots of sober rogations,I will find my way.
For my life cannot hang in the balance of the puppet’s truth.

Why should i become a puppet without strings,a chipped fool?
Why should i become the prophesy of scripture,imprinted with the number of a man?
Why must i die by instalments,from the waters of coruscation of the quintuple generation science?
If I die,the puppet will say I died from a flu,that’s the puppet’s truth!

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