CHIMERA

moon stars clouds and sun
time merged and dispersed
on the sandy thirsty plains
of sahara we trudged
against fiery trade winds
we forged

sun clouds stars and moon
in cold hunger and strife
we arrived morocco
the threshold to golden europe
as the mirage of golden fleece
played in the sands before our
cataracted eyes

dogs barked and dogged our tails
mortal voices sounded death knell
and we fell one and all
our sunken face asking
is this the way to europe?

IT CAN SPARKLE

in the boulevard of

our broken dreams

there will be an oasis

in the desert of our

forlorn hope there

will be a spring

in the place of our famished faces there

will be a fire of fabulous lightning when

every day someone cries

every day someone laughs…

when we can share with others

when a smile can sparkle our lives

there’s no shame in tears.

MY BREASTS

my breasts are small

the village say am but a girl

three moons after now

they ask why the golden pair has come

so robust

my breasts are big

the village say am spoilt

by the fondling hands of men

who stay behind at the ancient stream

does the act make breasts grow?

my breasts are known

like yam tubers in the village market

they are the topic at the village square

mama and papa say i bring home shame

in this court i can make no plea

to a harrowing ritual I submit myself

i am another lamb

in the shadowy shrine of breast-ironing.

FACE OF BEAUTY

a powdered face

with bleached and transplanted teeth

advertising themselves

a pair of lips dyed with luxurious lipstick

20-karat gold in the holes of erring ears

like gold-ring in the snout of a swine

toe-nails pedicured in scarlet

constructed mediated breasts that

shame reality as they pop out

like the head of seething anaconda

a vain and glorious caryatid sculpted

over thousands of moribund nights

a face of beauty no more than skin deep

our conscience may mock you

how many of our eyes feast on you!

and in the name of light camera action

we glorify your beauty.

I CAN TALK ABOUT IT

i can talk about it now…

dusts of broken china clouded the room

pearly pieces of earrings jangled out of their holes

and balls of beads bounced brazenly

off my violated neck

shreds of sundered dress carpeted the floor

pints of blood dotted the bedspread

as the stiletto tore through my flesh

i can talk about it now…

the filthy fingers froze feelings on my face

i looked on ceaselessly like a decapitated head

as by a cruel stroke of lightning I was put asunder

and shook like the epicenter of a sacrilegious violence

a temple desecrated

he was on top

as my world began to crash

in the fleeting ecstasy of a stranger

but i can talk about it now.

HOME, SOUR HOME

home...
the word is not

what hurts us
it is the space
we call our place
a cauldron of chaos and conflagration
inspired by the convolutions of
counter-claims charges and clashes

home...
the word is not

what kills us
it is a race
we dare not look in the face
a race of evil men
inspired to plunder and murder
it is not home that exiles us
it is our people

our blood.

I BREATHE...

the state of mind
the prison of heart

i am the gaoler
i am the warden
waiting to exhale
hesitant to excel

i am the liberator
i am the prisoner of woes
waiting for rebirth

i am the sown seed dying
growing in death
life's breath is within my grasp
i shall breathe again

i breathe
air of renewal.