The broken heart sleeps?-Cabral Opiyo

he walks a lazy walk,a walk orchestrated by fate
                         stops,
       he stops..
his eye and brain function totally in dysfunction
             he sits and ponders
but his braincells seem to be locked in their cells that day
    he dismisses his hazy state of mind with a defiant sneer
                                        he even grins

Till later that day while laying on his bed  facing the ceiling
     the first hot tear on his cheeks opens the floodgates
 A scandal,a scandal akin the water gate scandal
no pun intended.
     his massive chest heaves,his lungs are on fire,he trembles
Anger.pain,resentment?
only he knows

For sure it was sheila,he by then knows her like his QWERTY keypad
       but the arms around her,those were surely not his
He was a hundred meters away for pits sake,marvel comics aside
The lips on her lips were sure as sugar is about to be scarce,not his

         
              He looks at the side table,at the box,the box holding the engagement ring
He was going to pop the question when the spectacle unfolded
    sheila was  or had been the epitome of his very existence,
      his everything,his reason for living
was there a purpose in life after all?
The answer:
          the swaying rope just above his bed an hour later
The stillness of the room as birds chirped outside his window


  HE GENTLY SNORES UNDER THE ROPE ABOVE HIS BED WHICH HOLDS THE NET...

Leave Elegance to the Tailor(Rambles)
I’m not out here to tell the truth, that’s for sure; I could care less for truth and its implications, since truth, like an arrogant coward, never travels alone. I tell you, you leave it in a dark, moderately cold place, and you’ll never be bothered again. Other than that, you asked for it, go complain to someone else. Hit the road back.
I am out here to catch a breath of fresh air, have a glass of bourbon and a cigar.(read milk and a stub of weed) That is for picture sake, though – I actually prefer Gitanes sans filter – but I can live with bourbon; I don’t drink enough to die with bourbon. It’s nice out here, with truth buried deeply in the front yard of my cortex, and since I have diminishing eyesight capabilities, I don’t even need to see details of the night spread around me. On top of that, I don’t need to cry, or laugh, I just came out for a … whatever it was, in the still of the night.
What about YOUR eyesight: can you see me out there, that baby penguin slipping and sliding while trying to keep up with the rookery of wise penguins, her pen and paper wet and useless; can you spot a sucker when you see one? The freaking penguin in question is seventeen years old, believe or not, and the only fact I have to add to her defense is that she is still slipping and sliding; since, as we know it, getting up is much harder than falling down (an excellent movie, by the way).
To quote from Twain, when I was younger, I could remember anything, whether it had happened or not. Myself, I vividly remember things that were never to be. As if they are not only more present and easier to touch and taste, but as if they are the only past experience of mine. Scary. And I just came out for a cigarette. If I had planned to have dinner here, it would’ve ended up with suicide, or something of that nature, for dessert. At least I asked for it, I wasn’t minding my own business… or the problem is that I was. It’s hard with problems, you never know
ahead where they lie; they aren’t the tigers of India, so you watch carefully approaching that waterhole.
Tigers of India – I could laugh in their face, that’s how afraid I am. But I stop laughing every time I look in the mirror (unless it’s The Mirror of the Sea, by Conrad). And the funny thing is that I’m not afraid of looking in that freaking mirror; I could care less and then some. No. For some reason, I just stop laughing, simple as it sounds. But then again, why was I laughing before glancing at that mirror – maybe it’s where the real question lies, forget the tigers.
A friend of mine once said:’If you are out to describe the truth, leave elegance to the tailor.’ His name is, I think I can remember it, Albert Einstein. And he knew a thing or two about elegance.

~Aisha's Acrostic Art~

~Aisha's Acrostic Art~

Aisha's aura is adorable and admirable;
Intriguing & interesting, she inscribes the indelible,
she shares her ships... they don't shamble;
Her heart's a hall...of hopes so habitable,
An alluring angel...with arts so amiable.

Simple & spirited, yet sassy, sound & stable,
An apostle of alegory, appealing...agreeable.
Lively & lovely, living to be laudable.
Illustrous, she's imparts & implants the incredible,
Mark her make, she's a model of a marble.
(c) Adeleke 2011

the infinite contradiction.

all that I was, am, shall be, I am not you. I am non-corporeal, what you think is me is a sad delusion. I have never known what it is to be mortal yet what you see has died. I am not within this shell it is merely a puppet that on occasion accommodates my hand. It is not me, it refuses me often so that when I start to truly see the puppet shakes like a beast and forces me out. What kind of creature is ruled by fear? Only a creature, a man knows no fear for his soul is eternal and only his body knows what it is to fear. when I feel fear I know that what I fear is a mortal concern or a lie that my soul will do naught but reject. Be holy not pure, know all things accept all yet hang on nothing for eternity will not stop its flow. Stop my flow and I am not dead yet for that moment I am unconscious and that moment I have wasted indeed. Believe not dogma and your growth is unrestrained. Yet believe all and you are but a fool. Learn to feel each thing for what it is and accept it for that. Do not put a square peg in a round hole. No one thing is the answer to all. Each thing is its own answer and your soul is the key to your understanding of it. To learn what it is to be human is to learn the art of being a corpse while fearing the fate that you have already achieved. To be a person is to be a soul and know what is to be known in that moment through yourself not your prison.

You are not a shell,you are the infinite contradiction.

SPOKEN WORD ARTISTS

To all the spoken word artists out there:go forth and speak . . .

I want to feel the depth of your mindscope
get lost in a dream instigated by the extent of your speech.
lose me in a realm and make it hard for reality to pull me.
i am interested in ua mind train
put forth in words not so plain.
it's not a must for it to  be like yester's sage
drums and african artire
have no qualms.

U do not flounder yet u speak of worlds yonder
of things that bring me consternation and much fear
yet u are fammiliar
orating with vigour
a fevour . . .

i hear u speak of love
u fluent with  the going ons of my heart
a beat it halts at ua tremolous voice as u subscribe me tothe love making that u are describing.

u put me in a maze
with ua metaphors
similies
the way you pull those dimmunitives
onomatopea
assonance
and allegory when you strive to tell ua story
in words not so many
vivid description notwithstanding.

when am deranged
in a battle with myself
ua words provides a welcome emisery
and tho a become a refugee of ma own war . . . .am freed by your words


spoken word artist go forth and speak . ..

LETS BREAK UP

Let me take a shot at hurlin my response with utter remorse 2 deal with the rhetoric of. . . . . Ou dying love.
After our fall 4rm epiphany it took me a while 2 load u werent having an optical illusion,
I wonder wat happened 2 the energy of our fussion,
the extremity of our fissure contests with the promise of our past,
Illustrating the bleakness of our future.
We are now at the peak of our nadir,
I laugh at the paradox of our 4rmer zennith.
Frankly baby am tired of planting a kiss on the air right next 2 ur cheek,
u used cold as an epiteth,u r right I used u lyk a doorstep.
Its a lot worse,I got in2 emotional lethargy swimming in the murky waters of selfpity.
I dnt have the tym or the energy 2 fake love 4 an hour or so,baby let go.
Am nothingness I myt infect u,
offend u
put my tongue in ua mouth n kill u.
I myt give you the kiss of death

(STILL)UNTITLED

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UNTITLED.

by Aisha Salim on Monday, August 1, 2011 at 12:35pm

Life is for those unborn,yet to live
for they can be who they want to be, as long as me and u leave this place in one piece
for thesekids,their lives yet real but can be made to be,
by those who were born and bred to make em.
those who have a story to tell of days they were born and bed on water and bred and they still managed putting us to shame
for acting all lame when it comes to self sacrifice and doing God's bid.
life those to come is for them rudimentary if yet to us elementary.
I dream of their walking,with no chains on their feet,their hands free unlike we who are prisoners of our beliefs
societys expectation of us
which leave us,bound gagged and mauled.
defeated.
unready to be changed by those proggresssive few,with their views.
in essence we are suffering from ATTENTION PROVISION DISORDER!!!
we do not see the fallacy of our acts,
pursuit of democracy,
armed to the teeth with the inept excuse that 'we need to be free!!'
from what?our lives?
tsk!tsk!we have been hypnotised to kill
unready we are to embrace our fellow human beings,
of whwtever race and social standing
WHO ARE WE???
who are we to judge how goood enough our neighbours be??
as long as they arent ET,why cant we just leave in peace??
I for one am tired of screams piercing the blisssfulness of my 2 hour sleep
after 4 of counting sheep
before that 18 of working nonstop trying to make ends meet.
cause i am unfortunate enough to live in a third world country,
living hand to mouth,enduring this semi substandard third degree life.
in constant fear of terrrorists
arsonists
gang rapists
but worse my own kids!!!
Yes this life is not for me,
u,we
we are not worth it or rather it we. . . ..
call me a pessimist
but of the mind,
at heart i am an optimist.
word am not a pacifist so i stilll insist
this life is for those to be born iin the next century . . . . . .

THE POEM OF THE CONSCIENCE

This poem is very disturbing,but it was 2 be written.I hope u find undestanding in the words unwritten.In my head am disturbed,in my heart am disturbed.

I am the reason u r alive.mtumwa,mtume wa kukuweka hai.

I was given the skies so that they can be blue 4 u
INGRATITUDE OF PROPORTIONAL MAGNITUDE.
I am the disease that is the cure 2 ua malady,RESPECT young lady.
I control u with bliss,utumwa wako umeniweka hai,natumai, tafsiri:weka wazi
I am the pawn that controls the bishop in ua chess game,I am that winning streak dat wudnt come thro,nakuzindua,baada ya kukuchimba hai.
I am the voice in ua head rydn ua thots lyk a carousel,keeping ua mind on track,and ua intellect susceptible 2 attack
attack damn it attack!
Attack. . . .
I tease ua dreams with effervescent truth,I am the booth
that feeds u,I live off u,am parasitic,I live off ua pain.
Ive singlehandedly made u pragmatic,and endowed u with an anger so darn magmatic mek u all negative,maisha yako nimeweka mbioni, wengi nimekuweka miongini.
I am the little niche uv cut uaself,nitakusuma ukingoni . . . Baby this z cliche but am ua conscience. . . .

OF POETS AND PEOPLE,BUT MORE OF POETS.

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OF POETS AND PEOPLE.

by Aisha Salim on Monday, August 1, 2011 at 1:13pm

I understand that words are the daughters of heaven and things are the son of earth.
my unregulated thought might be wanting,but Id rather be,
satisfied with probabilities and possibilites.
have never been comfortable with reality,am good at ingenuity and of course a tact for choice.
yes my talking is a reversed breakthrough of brainwashing tactics
hypnotics.
that is because I AM A POET.
i find formal logic a lot barren borring an empty,
experience has evidence enough plenty showing
a vast proportion of truth rises from the seeemingly irrelevant,
there am a little hesitant. .. . .
my learned friends argue that we poets:
have artificial methods of thinking
more adapted to catch and entangle the mind
than to instruct and inform the understanding.
my standing: scientists think in terms of combinations,
incubations,
illuminations and verifications,
well so what??we poets think in terms of DIVINE INTERRUPTIONS OF INSPIRATION.
llogists are a classical epictory of weapons against the unkown
i.e we poets reknown.
They are just jealous that we invented love,
opera and
sovereignity
before they even did gravity.
face it,
experience canot be compared to discovery,nor can the flight of bird to that of wind.
we all see,dont we?but when you see a sparrow I see a bird,
when you see an oak I see a tree.
that is the difference between you and me:U  register what is on the front of your eyes,I express what is on the back of my mind.
on the basis i could be baseless,
tasteless,but taste this u are chained to logic,
guarded
tragic.oh well,freedom is a tough old bird protect it lest you be LOst,constantly we poets let our freedom protect us lest we be lost.


call it delusions of grandiosity.T R U T H

AFRO DIZIA

Black is not the colour of m skin
Its the cloak that shrouds me.
My fortress for which I pay fealty to the most Almighty.
Black ain' just melanin,Its a way of living'
the booth that is feeding me
keeping fdrom tripping.
Black proves my views,
unites my unity,
paying my bills
Black is me.
Black ain' cliche its all that and it!!!
btingin on the heat:
black is the gold in SA tha they came nat to exactly steal,
the oil in Nigeria siphoned to places in the next hemisphere
slavery.

But black is victory,
the stories of old and struggle for liberty,
non-dependency
our fallen heroes of glory
blood in exchange for soveriegnity . . .. . .

forgive me if a sound cocky,
why shud I not be??
coz black so cool they even doing their hair in afro kinky!
dig it??
Black ain weak its sleeek,
black is a Vip club and I got membership,
a def. shoo-in.

black is thecolour of Gods nation,
hiding in the suns rays and in the hearts of we . . .
black roxx .
either that or am suffering from a case of  AFRO DIZZIA

I AM MY MOTHERS CHILD

I am my mama's child,
human, suffering 4rm the human condition.
and as much as I try to abide by rules that guide 2wardz morality,spiritual feasibility,a lot of notions in my mind collide:teachings never taught,lessons left 2 b impacted by other than self.
I sometyms stumble and fall,take the wrong road,tie the wrong knot on the threads of humanity provided.
Am an impoverished being,trails and tribulations traumatise me,break instead of make.
Nw am on the path of self destruction
a dark beacon guides me onward 2 my anihilation,
self afflicted pain,
Self perpetuated disdain,my hopes mislain.
At the fork of roads
the junction of odds
on the highway of lyf
path of guilt in strife.
I have taken a lifelong haitus in . . .hotel Des Koos,
I offer no excuze other than. . .
I am my mother's child.

THE ASTROPHYSICS LOVE POEM

You bring out the moon maiden in me
the swirling diaphanous ice-glittering gauziness in me,
the vapor locked vacuity,

 the astronaut's air-gauge reading zero in me
the ethereality, purity, a synchronous inconstancy in me
the shining sphere of healing quartz, fortune-teller's globe of glass,
gibbous green-cheese Gibson girl in me.
Meet me at the dew point and I'll jump
into your gravitational well like Ophelia in the river, I'll shine
with reflected light and a suicide's glamor. Captive satellite,
willing slave in Newton's chains, I won't
even wobble you on your axis. I'll wane uncomplaining
and wax asymptotic. If any stars or starlets should dare
to look on you, I'll stand in front of them--
that's called occultation. I'll be a cult of one.
You bring out the silver-sickle cat's-claw midnight magic in me
the star-sequined indigo-rayon high priestess robe in me
the rhinestone-tiara champagne-blonde pageant princess in me
the true-blue spoon-June New-Age new-moon moon maiden in me.
Be my strong-armed Apollo, my hot-rocket Armstrong,
walk all over me.

MY KEY THAT IS OPTIMISM

By false reflection, the eyes flicker,
Still as the day ends, my hopes ticker,
By bestial acts, jibes, scoffs and taunts,
With new charisma my ardour flaunts.
I own my world, I am my own master!
For certain, one day the world will be my oyster,
Derailment I’ll greet with a wink
Capture lost moments in ink
Facing toughest ordeals, my heart says shalom
At failures – and wait till the seedling is sown,
Even in sorer; like shores scratched by silent sand,
I’ll wait till I get a sapling in my hand,
Though fears, blot my notions with clauses,
I will pitch my defense, and wait for a round of applause,
I will make it different; fetter the locks of criticism,
For mine is a tiara of happiness; my key is optimism.