THE LONG MARCH
Who else but the State’s housemaid
Keeping watch on the master’sdinner,
Could bet the lot for the long march
Across our gray horizon?
The insipid mistress of the Junglekingdom
Lessconfident of her own integrity Among the masses of this
ruined horizon
Scooped the last talent of our coffer
To buy her name with sweets and honey.
What the masses ate, they now pay triple
Out of peasantry farms on rough earth ridges,
While the Jungle lady continues to feast
With those that lent her th’ auxiliary hand
To brainwash the masses with sweetened food.
Now, she knows not how to repay them
And goes embarking on our state structures
Splitting and wantonly tearing them apart
As though dicing on the crucifixion garments.
Were we wrought to be the measure of pain
Against the statesmen’s whims and caprices?
Yet the jungle monarch, her master, agrees
That we dwell here in absolute peace
And
daily fattened in springtide honey milk
Cos we stay just calm detesting all violence.
But woe betides! Let not tomorrow question
Why
time should weave a sudden reversal
For hither reigns an imminent Daffour
Through this long march of uncertainties.
POLICY MAKERS
Giants of the Jungle State House;
Apes and cats! Invertebrates!
Hark!
There’s
great deal in being a king
So as to drink the State House wit
And be drunk with classic wisdom.
Sheer absurdity!
Liquor of wit tends to ruin our stance
When we constitute in the Jungle House
Manned with inconsistent scribes
Of the policy making round table:
Spring was rigour and moralisation,
Summer sang in democratization,
Winter rose in good governance
Riding Autumn with great
ambition;
Songs of our Jungle State House
Sung in lips of deceit and falsity.
THE FLOWER NEXTDOOR
We weaved the web
Like
spiders borne in co-habitation,
The strands were tender and delicate
And the net indeed was Cupid’s bed.
Blood of the tongue was our pact
And liquids of sacred nerves our bond;
We weaved as two but one in depth
Yes, I weaved my web on the flower nextdoor.
Courtship was yet a star full moon
When
the weed and season did concord;
They bloomed and smiled with the spring
But I wore and groaned in tundra chills
Cos
the flower next door bore a seed,
A seed of wild thorns on the web –
A web for months we took to construct
She could deconstruct but in an hour –
My flower next door!
HANNAH’S FARM
This vale of posterity
Wherein I long to sow my seed
Upon its sublime virgin earth
There to bear another Samuel;
Monarch of the First Order
With a divine anointed spirit.
Alas!
Barb-thorns engulf the vale
And choking fangs beneath the beds,
But like a the Messianic Sower,
I’ll sow upon a deluxe ridge
Wherein lay the strength to sprout
And bear upon a tundra field
A fruit not yet for ages known.
OUR NEED
Who do we need?
A Godly man or a Democrat?
The Pope who opposes war
Or the Chairman who fights to rid terrorism?
The Pope who condemns violence
Or
the Chairman striking the tyrant?
The Pope who outlaws vengeance
Or the Chairman ravaging assassins?
The Pope who curses hot-tempered liberators
Or the Chairman liberating the unfree?
The Pope who advocates for tenderness
Or the Chairman subduing the dictator?
These are the two feet of our great mass,
We need them both for stability.
THE UNDERDOG [To Kofi Annan]
Only the underdog Squashing
lice between his lips
Beneath this jigger-infested shanty
Knows the pain in this gray landscape
Housed by pointed edges and wild thorns.
You are told in your New
York scraper
That we sleep here on beds of roses
And feed of omelets for routine meals
Mother white of the Commonwealth Office
Is told of the same lie of our affluence. They
like eye servants on a timing watch
Clean the streets and lanes for welcome
And display free milk on bare avenues
Like in the days of the Jewish manna
So to win your consent for Good Governance.
The million dollar question yet unanswered:
How often do we wax with milk affluence
When gaped mouths gulp the cans and contents?
You go satisfied to convey at New York lodge,
Yet only the underdog feels th’ acute pain.
