Six Times

She gorged us with food, until we fell
It gave us time, to confront her strength
Broke free of chains and stifled hopes
It is only six times, that our whistle blew

Christmas comes early, on a rainy day
Hidden in a crown, royal on scratched remains
of forgotten pains, to a stranger that gave up
When it was those six times, our whistle blew

Gifts are suspect when a heart is grieving
Full leather package, pampered in cravings
Lazy comforts, perched on motorbikes
Waited on six times, until our whistle blew

Excuses are confessions, of a guarded heart
Blowing away smoke, from a heavy past
Brings back the travellers, to the receiving arms
For those six times, that our whistle blew

* * *
Shanzu, Mombasa
Mara Sita
Jan 2020

Tortured lips

The tortured lips of a lesser son
Mistaken dreams from a furious girl
Drenched in hopes and feathered pillows
Hungry whims and a wasted bill

Hope screams to women whose bail gets paid
Mincing parables to a forgotten tribe
It's true you'll fall for a man that's crass
Steadfast comforts that abortionists confirm

That life without that woman will never bring much
To the tilted ovaries in a blind man's arm
We live to remember that once we were bald
In stolen comforts that widows give back

To the tortured lips of a legio Maria son

* * *

Times Square, New York
11th December 2019

The tired eyes

The tired eyes of a retired priest
The missing beats from a forgotten drum

The faded jeans in a widow's lap
Old carrots and frozen mangoes

Fallen angels in dark alleys
Mixed noises in a broken pipe

No choices when fate hits back
Abandoned harem in aluminum beds

Sunken lips in a broken glass
Fortunes tell when it's a wrap

Then you will know that life brings back
Forgotten jingles
That wake you up
To the tired eyes of a retired priest.

* * *

Bujumbura, Burundi
30/09/19

Honey from the Nile

She gave me honey from the Nile,
naive purple heart, never saw white rain flowing freely,
to beguile.

She taught me not to look straight into the sun,
a morning glimpse is enough bliss, made me want to call home,
to deny.

I got bit by a bug from the Nile,
kept me coming back, as a merchant of hope bringing fruits,
for July.

She asked me not to perch on her eyes,
sedated not blind, I blushed in excitement then she saw the tears in,
my smile.

I wish I never drunk from the Nile,
now am shackled, tall grass remembers the scars that heal from the back of those,
who lie.

Juba heat will make you think of the Nile,
out or in, Juba isolates tall and dark aggressors who come to feed off,
then reply.

I shouldn't have taken honey from the Nile,
I now leave with a heavy promise, to bring back tired memoirs to the daughter of,
the Nile.

She gave me honey from the Nile.

* * *
21/12/2029
Juba South Sudan