GIVE MY LOVE TO ROSE

One day I died, and I was only 65. My spirit, it awoke from its slumber, right on the other side. And It began to run. 

It was a simple afternoon, vivid, Summer of '95. Felt my blood run cold in slow motion; I grew teary-eyed, I could have cried. Hearts don't play dice; not when it's turned stingy with each breath it's heaving. Final breath, the signature of my life. Pupils dilated: watching faded memories of my years give room for new life; lives waiting patiently on the line, for the sound of the next crashing light.  My spirit, alive. My body, deceased. It must have crashed and burned with a star. I woke up running like a tornado the speed of light! No white light, and no crashing sound on my own side. In life, you see, I was moved by nothing and ran too, from nothing.  Still, now, I run not in fear. All around me, this is what I see: an empty sky with flowers and shadows hanging off the walls. I must run! Pushing, slicing through the wind; I'll paint pictures of this ghastly view as I run. Primrose and moon flowers, many; in the darkest shadows, these cast an aching bloom. Roses. White roses. Of such, I find none. Her name was always in tact with a Rose prefixed and attached. I knew her star, and she knew mine. It's an empty sky; I think I've died and left Rose behind. I run to catch time. We talked a few of these times. The sailor she dreamed of throughout her life-on many starry nights-she hoped I'd be him on the other side. He found her by gazing from the waters to the starry night sky. She found him in her dreams at night time.  

Summer of '95: I'm reborn. 

I chose prison time for this next life. Urgently doing my time, dying to feel alive. My next appointed time with destiny creeps in, Winter of 2025. I am that sailor: chasing after time, navigating strong winds, and aligned with the sky. She waits to be my winter rose. I wait also to be hers if she'll love me urgently.  I have waited urgently to die for her behind bars, in the hopes she'll live through her long life. My Rose is now reborn. Winter, prefixed and attached to her name; she's mine.

SCENERY IN MY ARTERIES

charity begins at home. once, surely, it was home; it was the place we all called home. 
slowly our hearts began to know what evil the eyes saw not, and ears never heard. small eyes.. mature with the unveiling of filthy, little loud secrets. home, they say, is where the heart is, and that explains the scenery in my arteries. 
a heart filled with dusty roads and wild horses, broken glasses and thorn roses. home is where the heart is, alright. 
Charity, holds the hunger of the world in her belly. a honeycomb home she built for when her honey comes home, she's lost that to the streets now, you see... but that's quite alright too. afternoon in the park, a few bees and a butterfly guard the trash. Charity's lost in the thrill of stashing leftovers for lunch. she's way passed the mark; needy is their remark, omitted and convicted as needy, and not the needless. 
native and beastly are these cold streets, with torn sheets and coin slits between the wrist. Charity, for a penny, is no loner on the corner of these streets.  every passerby is a neighbor she firmly greets. 
her home is not for sale. Charity's home is not for sale. not by the fireplace nor curb kissed streets on cold winter's eve. 
she's lost her sanity, imprisoned with her dignity. crowds of banners in these same streets screaming for zero taxes on her bail prices! charity's insanity, corruption's brutality.. it's a new world order of hatred in reciprocity. 
charity begins at home. she sits now in the streets, corner of broadway and the elitist street. it's a library where she's come to stay. many neighbors need not pay for worlds she authored in that library space, if they'll only look in her face. 

NIGERIAN GOVAHMENT

so, our govahment people are lost in a trance. abi they think corruption is an elixir? myopia..they take her to bed each night! this article, i'd describe as idealistic extremism, but there's much truth in it, of course. the implications of such a bill will be so greatly intricate with sometimes unpredictable results; as these people forget they will not be orchestrating activities of the Nigerian government in the after life. such a bill in the most extreme of hands, will generate an outcome-indeed-as the article portrays: a NIGERIAN "BRAIN" DRAIN..considering Nigerians have been designed by circumstance to be an EXPRESSIVE PEOPLE! this govahment people are determined to lose Nigeria to a tragedy! a black intent! that we may one day wake up to conditions of an 18th century nation, fiddling about-blind-in 21st century times! abeg... me sef know sai nor be by talk! but we are seeing now sha that talk is taking on black market prices! this kain patch-patch govahment wei we dey! they refuse to demonstrate an understanding of the people, but the people have mastered them! this same united chaos they wish to avoid, will find a catalyst in such a bill! little forecast, plenty nonsense!


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CATTLE CONSCIENCE

Once, there was a herd of cattle grazing on a farmland, they knew not its owner, nor their own gentle nomad. What was surely apparent was how the field popped with green and golden brown. This would have been a sure feast for man, in constant fear of unknown winds. Yet feed for the animal, always aware that basics are intrinsic and satisfaction-not greed, guaranteed. Much had been consumed for digestive pursuits: A lot of regurgitating to be done, with no fear that the fields may burn or the day worn. Each fed and each lay to rest with sun come-down.

"A time for everything", Solomon would remark, centuries down as these affairs of nature spoke to his fears, "Freedom".

Unfamiliar as it was, this field; out of routine, as it was, this moment, the large herd heard no mysteries in the wind. they knew not appetite for deduction; to deduce what influences may cause such ecstasy: neither the how, nor why, or the when, entertained their attention. It was a Creator's invention and so it would be. Freedom.  

Their attention, steady, as they gazed ahead and grazed. nothing to lose and nothing pursued. They lay with acres and watched before them, the sun, routinely exit for stars to blaze. It was the first they had ever seen, but they had strict vision or what may be called attention to Existence.

Contentment was the message they relayed- come little or surplus, they made hay with the sun rays.. and the sun shined each day.

Freedom as it were, held a taste for them. A taste all too familiar but always new. Green as it was on the other side, every side left them satisfied. A strict diet to the soul, this is what it was. Earth owed them nothing but gave them much. A fine Existence. 

It was Day 5, and the Cattle were created from the land. Mother Nature as it were, knew not pollution, but pollen; and the Creator, Time: from start to new beginnings. A capturing of a time when definite instruction led all man and creature: that all Creation must serve other Creation. Like everywhere the cow gazed it could graze off Earth's plentiful fields and natural lakes. This was Day 5 and not even 7's perfection. Manna was never an addition to the Plan, it was the Plan; Existence as natural as few fish for the mouths of a multitude. But man must always fall to his knees, undignified by fear. Man-made disharmony since time and time aplenty for more. Freedom is neither strictly a state of mind, nor a state of affairs... Freedom is the understanding of a Guarantee. 

no one said life will be hard. none said easy. u make it what it will be. i say life's but a camouflage. u sought the tree & found its seed

if you know not, say you know not. if you ask for, many shall come forth. we live in a disciplined universe. ask & ye receive.

DJANGO'S TATTOO

before riding wings, i touched dreams of you. before ever seeing the vast wings of legends who guard sky's gates, it was always you..an image of you.

it was like a tattoo: green and sunshine new. more actually, like a mirage: once there & never there, all at once; this was a pale of rain behind the gates of hell. only a drop or two for uncountables left in hell to brew.

innumerable indeed, you'll find, were the drops, but un-quenchable was the thirst that pain itself knew. oh yes, it grew; the pain grew..as i held an image only of you. an image not even of you, but a simple tattoo.

just as the uncountable having remembered thirst, know now of hunger and how it grows from the belly to the chest, it's become a holy pandemonium. a drop of water for once, in a burning desert and ambitions are reborn. hell's fury hath no hearth like ambition reborn inside my chest. one drop in a burning desert holds an ocean view for me, it's truth.

a silhouette of you traced into skin on my back...a silhouette i can view only as light hits a mirror. what then must i do, but ride wings unto wings, from sky to greater skies. i must flee earth for the sun. beneath its unshaken love for our world, and its scorching fury this is what i'll do: i'll put forth my back and watch as the silhouette of you is transposed and transmitted; reflected and returned back onto the grounds of that one planet earth.  

as the sun sets, it will feature your face for the world to get an open view. i know i have found you, for the world wants you too. and not only you, but the source of the view: not the sun but the tattoo.

as i cried to be reborn, i found an ocean within my many tears. hell hath no fury like lovers lost. you must have known i'll always find you.