Poetry

The Metaphysics of my Imagination: Poems by Kabu Okai Davies

Image: Bigstock.com

The Metaphysics of my Imagination

I’ve seen the magic hand that makes the sun rise
Touched the mystery that ignites the roar within each wave at sea
And I have pierced through the glassy glare of the concave eye
And saw the gritty poetry of perseverance
As I took a peek through the corridors of paradise
I have found my country –
In the mind of my own making – To challenge providence,
Give me a new parable to tempt the hand of fate;
And the metaphysics of imagination, to help me redefine
And reconcile the enigma of my benediction as a writer,
My destiny, a magical storyteller –

Debt is not of money alone but of the psyche and the soul
For I have paid mine to the omen
In the human abyss of fear and I can glean with a smile
All that is human, all too human;
Where litigation presides over the conversations of friends,
Now foes; brothers and sisters, God and country-
I am free from the pre-emptive metaphors
Of a society where avarice is applauded
And the miracle of life becomes dispensable
In moments of tears and treason of the soul –
My new parable is too precious to share them with the world.
Because the universe is watching through the eyes of my foes –
Every moment of our failings are noted in heaven
Appealing tones to pray for each other
Before the coming of cyclones, the hurricane, the flood
Before the lava of memory explodes like a volcano
Upon the brow of history –

Every Tsunami is a metaphysical shift in the life
Of this unsuspecting earth – Pray that yours is not tragic
But a symphony of the muses of heaven –
If your flaws are not visible
Do not point your doubtful eyes at others
In the brief baptism of life, but wear your smile like a blessing
Sharing the sympathies of the misbegotten –
Our own dance in the lime light of fortune,
Is only sanctioned by the whim of the gods
The paradox of success awaits us and no star is out of place
In the sphere of the worlds autobiography
What is visible can be invisible in a blink
To make a traitor’s smirk a blessing in disguise

So I challenge myself to stand up again
From the fall of my stars altering the universe
If life is a stage, I shall revel in this moment of silence,
An intermission of sorts;
Waiting for my second act, to celebrate
My final scene of life, flying across the sky –
In the solitude of my dreaming –

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Rhapsody in Exile

You smile like a spring flower
When you need to show me your second self –
You can be ugly when the dark hour
Of debt and frustration overwhelms the poetry of your dreams.
So I leave and thrive on the memory of knowing
That you cared –
It is only when I am away that we both
Shower each other with invisible petals
Mesmerized by moments of bliss
As I walk the streets of Newark,
A city frozen in a time warp of blackness
I realize how to live in Exile
Like the memory of me in my own dreams.
There are no eulogies to the past
But imaginary secrets we invent
To create meaning on the morning of rain –
There are therefore green days, dry days
Dirty days and days that don’t dry –
The rain pours on the neon green, deep green
Dark green, khaki green and forest green landscape.
I am in the green city of the garden state…
Dreaming of ironies that make sense to only the initiated –
I am in the dirty city, deciphering omens
Expecting miracles, contemplating magic
Dispossessing myself of the past…
The hour of reconciliation comes
Shedding ourselves of visible and tangible assets
We are now free at last, to smile, in the face of heaven.

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The Sorcerers’ Prayer

The faith to believe the miracle of dreams
The knowledge to decipher metaphors of tears
The intelligence to outwit the wizards of rain
Conjurer of lightning and thunder –
Oh, how I need the insight to comprehend
The mysteries of the many seasons of life –
Learn the meaning of the rituals of burial
To overcome the burden of the past;
Then climb mountains across new horizons
Jettison the past in the valley of old shadows.
Enter the new kingdom of lights
Journey through the corridors of memory
Losing in the end, all that is of earthly
Wealth, concubines, children who belong to others…
The mansion that represents the value of our
Real Estate vanish in our sleep
And we wake up to the bitterness of
Yesterday’s obsession with the vices of greed –
If by literature we unearth the buried
Horrors of history, then by the magic of poetry
We learn how to demystify the illusion
Of freedom and the trauma of living –
I am indebted to invisible masters of our fate
Free is therefore, not free in the midnight of my
American dreams –
What is lost will be found, shadows become images
Distances are shortened and the past ceases to be the present.
I am conducting a new digital archeology,
Forensics into the analogue history of memory,
To rediscover old manuscripts of stories yet to be told –
Oh, magical hand of memory, lend me the tools of sorcery
To democratized the imagination of world
Through the invisible hand of the divine
That makes the impossible, possible.

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Requiem to Exile

The gift of storytelling, talent for self-expression
Magical means to mesmerize the world,
Is the currency of imagination to visualize the impossible –
Magnetic minds read invisible maps
With patience of a craftsman to master art.
The city of enchantment on the landscape of dreams
The designs of destiny shall work in our favor
The rituals of love making to enhance marriage
Mirages of life are real to those who live in the
Imaginative world, appearing in dreamy visions
On an enchanted night –
The wisdom to memorialize
The world and the magical wonder of answered prayers;
I have come to the end of my crossroads
Of tortured memories – I am managing to reconcile
The metaphor of my dreams, throne of mysteries –
There are new mountains ahead of me
Of the soul, where poets once trailed –
Every troubadour must seek their path
To the soul mountain of redemption
Seeking ominous relics that defy meaning
And dangerous beauty in the abyss of pain –
Newark – Brick City, has become a labyrinth of shadows
So I walk through the back roads of time
Exorcising myself of my shame, loss and the pain of betrayal –
Planting seeds for a new spring, pollinating flowers dance
In the noon day of my imagined exile from America…
And slowly, I leave the foot prints of my experience
On the sidewalks of this City, for history to see –

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© Kabu Okai-Davies
Image: Bigstock.com

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