You can’t let the life slip off a pregnant woman

Because she’s carries two spirits

You can’t let the life slip off a pregnant woman

She’s not longer just a single entity

You can’t let the life slip off a pregnant woman

She’s the soil that bolsters the root of another life

You can’t let the life slip off a pregnant woman

She’s the source of heat and hearth

for the future to spring and let be thus

You can’t let the life slip off a pregnant woman

She’s the garden and the guardian

A voice that molds new eden from old hell

what's this scheme?

I'm strung like jerky over barbed wire.

others scale to the top of the hill

while I'm here falling back into the fire

I'm hindered by a swift current of doubts

that I, myself imbibe until I stand motionless

unlifted by the wheeling circle of the mirage

I wilt in the haze of my fears

seeing all opportunities approach and recede

until a white vapor dissolves every hope

so that my future is bleaker and bleaker

I know not of my soul even though I feel my body

That’s never about the rain

Wind or dusty storms

You see, since money became king

And servants do services

high up in a house of glass

Build with gold dug by African infants

Earth was not born of bones

Thought and thrones

Earth is a stone, the sole abode

for anything born to it

So, laws and rules that apply to me

Yet not to you, are not of nature

But just of spite, a malignant brain

It’s never about the rain

Hail or El Niño, it’s the brain

The corporate monster with deep pockets

taking from the Congo and the Amazon

Until Amazon morphed from trees to trillions

We now have such names as trillionaires

Whilst the real Amazonians drown

Or burn, let’s burn them!

Says the executive after the Valdez spilled

They’ll never deign an apology

or descent from their lofty seats

to look at the sea and hear wailing seals

Otters clawing their eyes out

Stung by the the sludge,

Never again to breathe

Yet, they will another DeepWater Horizon

Greed has a color and a home

deeper than the oceans floor

It built empires and destroyed its offsprings

It’s never about the rain

Thunder or bolts of lightning

It’s lightening. Cropping of Vanessa Nakate

What does a Ugandan girl

know about climate change?

It’s never about the surface

It’s about the nadirs, so long in shadows

We see it them now, revealed by time

so bare a caricature, we must all desist

feeding it the fear, a blood stream

it needs for it to exist

over the smooth caramel - rich

drip, drip, the sap of the elm gross

human bodies can't move

bound by mold, sweet sautéed rosemary

clung for ages on grinning ceilings

sorry, my dear, this here

compels your psyche into a disorder

up in here is no entrance to a home

no one is here but the smell

so crude and so sere,

isn't it ironic to look for comfort in a shrine

bedecked with garlands and brier

before rodents cleaned all the bones

there was a faint scent of sage

now, it's all but the tang of old age

age, not of flesh and brittle bones

but that of blazes died down to inferior ashes

to most, home is a passage of time

the rest are walls, monuments not good to us

How will I go home?

If it be a perfect day

I’ll lay down and let eternal slumber devour my breath

I’ll kiss the palms of those around me

and tell them I’m on the verge of eternity

even as my breath begins to climb the turret beyond return

I'll proceed right through diaphanous circles

let sadness not fester in these lines

the earth sanctions death everywhere

roots to roots, my hair too must intertwine with spines of grass

forever is not a mystery in our imagination

the sky is a window to the deliverance

Enceladus shoots wildest to what the eye perceives as voids

she fears no unrest in what was sanctioned

so, she let’s go of her geysers as the sun awakes

with them are her newborn sucklings

eager-eyed, together perhaps a day old

yet their faces are endowed with a magnificent wisdom

knowing that in this cosmic drift, nothing really expires

the fall of one is the rise of another

every breath exhaled fills lurid skies with even more beautiful things

Yesterday, we came home hand in hand

from the start, ours was the best

a marvelous tale to never go stale

I begged you to remember this moment as the best

In the morning I opened windows

to let the sunlight in,

never thinking I’d also let you go

now I only close my eyes and yearn

for the return of a part of me I let go

She chose November

And allowed leaves rolling back like a kaleidoscopic canvas to touch her face

She chose November

for solace from thriving grievances and displeasing conjectures,

disappointments so grave they mar the mirror

She chose November

to learn the concept of love

and quit the billows of cigarette that never nourished the soul

but that by degrees burned her lungs beyond midnight

She chose November

to perch at the cradle of the piano

and let the veins of her fingers play melodies of remembrance

there was a time she cried night and day

but this November

she bathes differently in the urn of her misery

growth expands with numbing blue days

but like a form of prayer, she has made it her own

I'd punish the evildoer

if he wasn't human behavior

thrills, spoils, and spectacles

fed by rage, are human behavior

so is love, poetry, and believing in the eternal

an integral aspect of human behavior

why then punish someone that has been made whole?

flawed from birth, will he rest in delightful death?

he's a lier and he's a lover

and tries to get-by or breakaway from all shadowy folds

his future evaporates with the fog

his love dies amid his own sad smile

by now, I cannot punish

one raised like the rest and worthy of life, just like the rest

I was that girl

who elders dispatched

far and vast to send a word

I was that girl

whose peers brushed aside

I was that girl

to whom picks and shovels were shoved

a little shell whose lips were sealed

I was that girl

who wasn't in the princely refrain

and my motley apparel,

somewhat outlanding earings

enduced curious gazes

I was that girl

ogred to the brink

by those who should've protected me

so, she'd have poured her grief in the urn

wept and wept over fallen autumn leaves

her beauty still surpassed that of flowers

her anguish swirled with a peevish wind as one

in the field where she stands are ghosts

neither courage nor virtue could spruce her clean

beneath that beautiful skin is a cold tremor

how should she crawl back to the membrane?

and into the walls bedecked with fine mirrors

when she's withering away in a dry season