divine drumming

Sound doesn't exist to the deaf lad.
Never hears a sweet lie,
nor an ugly truth.

The world is all motion,
especially on windy days
when leaf and blossom dance their rhythm on blue.

Sound is in the brain of the beholder.
It doesn't exist out there.
Out there is just vibration.

But if you're blessed, deep down the canal of your ear
a good drum may receive something remarkable.

The forceful hand clap creates waves of energy,
invisible as angels,
they cascade through air
jostling from particle to particle.

Only waves out there
It takes a workable drum-
Shaken- so that mind can interpret those vibrations and give you that sound
(the deaf lad does not hear)

The mind makes lemonade from lemons-
an unconscious process
courtesy of a brain light years ahead;

the best microchip doesn't come close,
yet..

Scripture says in the beginning was the word.
Spoken-
science reduces it to a wave.

Brain spotting

I see them
jabbing away, swiping, stroking
lost in their phones and tablets

Giant headphones weigh down their skulls.
As they drown thoughts in Beyonce,
stacatto kicks and snares leak out and fill the carriage.

Two chaps gabble about yesterdays journey;
how a passenger who could not wait,
relieved himself in a plastic bottle.

This, and other things we do not care to hear, early in the day
the school kids run jokes
oblivious that these good times will be sorely missed.

Across,
the man with hair cropped low
chest pumped up in his uniform
stripes on his arm

I wonder,
under which pretense does he wash the blood off his hands

Does he lie down plagued with doubt?
Do ghosts cry out from his subconscious?

The watcher
watched as he watches
fingertips on his cheek bone,
prickly chin rested in his palm

The eyes are glazed,
as the mind is preoccupied with the past and frivolous thoughts.

I sit and judge them so
though I don't walk in their boots.
I see parts of me in them.
Never a dull commute.

chunky munky

Half awake,
wincing as you suckle.
Mama readily pays the price
possessed by love.

You cry and cry,
alarm ringing at regular intervals
4:14 and she is discovering that breastfeeding can be unbearable.

Less than 24 hours on planet earth,
and you've mastered magic-
turning parents to putty without so much as lifting a finger.

Look at you,
miniature bones wrapped in rolls
baby fat folding and creasing, receiving constant kisses.

Even your forehead is chubby.

Mama called you a little squidge.
The midwife called you a chunky monkey-
how could I take offense
when it sums you up so perfectly.

Grandma's beloved
sister noora
exhaled her last breath
just a few months before you drew your first.

"Aunty Noora"
mama has only good memories
hence she would pass down the name,
like family jewellery.

Truth be told,
in the beginning,
I was not so fond of it.
But,
love is give and take.

Noor is Arabic for light.
Grandma conveniently says that you lit up the room when you arrived.
Even I must admit,
you're still shining.

live your truth; come what may

The voice, clear and straight, said "live your truth; come what may"
I knew what it meant,
'though,
more often I muzzle mine,
on occassion I rock the boat,
clear my throat, and something unfiltered falls out-
potent,
poisonous as porn,
but it was not my intent to pour scorn.

"Live your truth; come what may"
and the silver cord running through hearts, vibrates and hums.
So when drowned in thought,
I might feel the resonance, and pull back to something pure.

The distant ways of the boy.
Thinking less, simply taking steps.
Shame it fades
back to my shadow.

"Live your truth; come what way"
the law of diminishing intent warns
you must strike while inspired,
the will to action wilts like old flowers.

The traitorous part of the brain
quick to bury an idea in scrutiny
scoffs at simple wisdom
"What is your truth today?"
and I had to concede my truth is as consistent as English weather,
but I smiled, at least it is not boxed in.

My heart is warmed by wisdom.
Shame it must cool and hibernate.

A creature of compulsive habits,
what is there to live for-
but the truth, underneath.

precarious

I meet him by the stream's edge,
frog by name of Soon Dead.
he fresh,
green,
soft and slime,
inclined to trust,
blunt of mind.

Greets with nod,
my violence stirs.
I coat my words to mask the urge.

I ask Soon Dead,
simply this:
"grant weary legs a humble gift;
please cross this stream,
while you drift,
may I hitch a hikers lift?"

He resists at first,
trembles,
shuffles,
grumbles he knows I bring nothing but trouble.

I bow my head,
feign offense.
My expression is coy,
I offer soon dead,
ice cool logic he cannot deny,
"think-
Why would I strike and cause both our demise?"

I see his cogs turn,
he comes round to my thinking.
I mount his back as my tic erupts,
twitching.

He enters the stream.
Ripples dance 'round our voyage.
As we glide 'cross I wonder,
my ego ponders-

Maybe I'll make it,
the other side in sight.
I can change these spots,
turn 'round my life!

But I can not deceive
my essence, I am-
slave to rage senseless,
I must bear consequences.

Soon Dead's life on a string-
His lungs and soul,
scream mighty in pain,
and make thunder take note.

A passing bird,
snapped out of it's dream,
looked down saw violent red trickle down green.
My sting buried deep-
Soon Dead's plight,
haunted the bird for the rest of it's life.

A fool betrayed,
my ambivalent mood.
You say how could I do this?

but I did not choose,
to be of this nature,
equipped with such tools.

seeded destruction
roots deep in soul
My life, my victim, bound by our roles.

I met him by the stream's edge.
The frog and I, paint the stream red.

the thin line between

Close those cupboards!
You never clean the bath.
How many times must I ask?
Have you called Waleed?
We could do with extra shelving.
Please Sort out the garden.

Undeniably my darlin,

my
wife
nags.

What's happening with your degree?
When's your next court date?
Applied for that new role yet?
don't wait till the last minute
You should holla at jamil
When last you called Ishmael,
and what about your uncle?

Snap out of your bubble!

Push:

Ive got three assignments due.
College fees this month.
On thursday it's d's birthday,
we'll send her something lovely.
Imagine living overseas?
It's in my blood to teach!

the thin line between,
My wife inspires me!

Nkrumah's remedy

He has a gut feeling
     the cracks are caused by the conditioned air
quietly circulating the office
     insidious light breeze.

Skin dried out
     sore lips turn't crisp
shrivelled as some red peppers
      long forgotten in the fridge.

providence is the prevention and cure
     found in the pocket sized container
looks like a miniature biscuit tin,
     but no biscuits.

Inside is a magic substance,
     distant cousin of the panacea.
The difference between peace of skin,
     and futile licking.

The clown applies his mask daily-
dabs and spreads humble grease,
precise as painter rolling the last coat.

Appraising finger's work,
     wipes the slight excess at the corners.
Satisfied, he pockets the medicine.

The ritual Repeats-

In his prime he cried freedom
their beloved leader.
Later,
they dug up scorned bones,
(cleansed of flesh) and placed them in a mausoleum;
now he is honorable.

Imagine, as a young man
Kwame Nkrumah was a guest of James fort prison.
Eleven proud men shared the stinking bucket in the corner-
equally defensive of their distinction.

Quickly pointing out
"we are no common criminals",
but even political prisoners (awaiting destiny)
bicker when packed like cockroaches.

Time spent was the toll to be paid,
and so they resolved to endure the morning feed:
One cup of maize porridge,
no sugar.
Watered soup on Sundays,
and skin degraded daily

In his autobiography kwame wrote..
'the nut kernel was generally used by the prisoners to oil their bodies..
..on the account of their rotten diet and the poor quality of soap, the skin became scaled and cracked'

making light work of the ritual
     he would split the kernel
between strong teeth
     precious oil was released
spit
     smear
repeat
     until each,
dry patch eased
     the ointment brought peace.

Years later,
oily kernels forgotten.
The resourceful prisoner wore linen befit of Africa's leader.
But,
good nature is poisoned by power,
judgement impaired by the drug.

Nkrumah turned tyrant,
voracious cold hearted.
Sniffing (out),
stamping (out);
descent stood no chance.
Scores of young men imprisoned-
no trial.

Lateef visited one such-
A dear cousin
squalid, boxed in.
Without kernels to extract oil,
there was no ointment to ease his suffering.

My father remembered his tears,
and so Nkrumah was no hero.