Bellow your heartiest with laughter
Don’t wait for a time after
Make all the merry you can
Dare not ration the fun
This is a season of laughter!
What reason have you to worry,
when more easily you can make merry?
Overcome your fears
With a parody of cheers
Smile through the tears
Despite the mocking leers
This is a season of laughter
We will cry a time after
Worry not about the cold days
We ’ll warm them with our smiles
Think not the dark nights
For even then morning still comes
So as the sun tickles the sky ,
With tender rays still lazy,
Try giggle with the birds
As nature ushers a new day .
The Face Behind The Poet.
Friday 26 August 2011
Thursday 25 August 2011
GHETTO: HELL (LIFE IN THE GHETTO)
By Kinyunye K. K.
I’ve been to the bowels of hell,
a life hard to recall, harder to tell.
I’ve been chewed and swallowed
into a belly unhallowed.
In its stomach I wallowed,
searching for an escape;
a chance to reshape
my life, worthless and wasted,
its end deliberately hastened.
I’ve been to hell;
after I fell
from my glorious innocence-
a victim of circumstance,
baited chances,
Trojan horses,
devil after me
his angel to be.
I’ve been to the abysses of hell,
where I lost my soul.
I’m meat and bone, no essence;
it’s not life I live
but a sentence I serve,
condemned, for sins seen,
long before I’d my own.
I suffer another’s punishment
just ‘cause I’m of similar descent.
I’ve been to the musicals of hell,
which wouldn’t fair well
in the world of the pious,
would be condemned with prayers,
‘cause they ring with insults
ultimately causing tumults.
Its residents, self-centred imps,
try to inflict emotional limps:
to see a tear fall, to break a heart,
with an abuse that’ll hurt.
After all, what do they care,
yet pain they know not to share?
I’ve been to the streets of hell,
vividly recall their smell,
which twitched nostrils,
putrid as only hell ever is.
Its sights stung the eyes,
as chests heaved with sighs,
trying to take off their load
whilst the mind contemplated,
if perhaps there was a road,
that led out of this mere existence
to a life of comfort and abundance.
I’ve been to the bowels of hell,
a life hard to recall, harder to tell.
I’ve been chewed and swallowed
into a belly unhallowed.
In its stomach I wallowed,
searching for an escape;
a chance to reshape
my life, worthless and wasted,
its end deliberately hastened.
I’ve been to hell;
after I fell
from my glorious innocence-
a victim of circumstance,
baited chances,
Trojan horses,
devil after me
his angel to be.
I’ve been to the abysses of hell,
where I lost my soul.
I’m meat and bone, no essence;
it’s not life I live
but a sentence I serve,
condemned, for sins seen,
long before I’d my own.
I suffer another’s punishment
just ‘cause I’m of similar descent.
I’ve been to the musicals of hell,
which wouldn’t fair well
in the world of the pious,
would be condemned with prayers,
‘cause they ring with insults
ultimately causing tumults.
Its residents, self-centred imps,
try to inflict emotional limps:
to see a tear fall, to break a heart,
with an abuse that’ll hurt.
After all, what do they care,
yet pain they know not to share?
I’ve been to the streets of hell,
vividly recall their smell,
which twitched nostrils,
putrid as only hell ever is.
Its sights stung the eyes,
as chests heaved with sighs,
trying to take off their load
whilst the mind contemplated,
if perhaps there was a road,
that led out of this mere existence
to a life of comfort and abundance.
GHETTO: HELL (LIFE IN THE GHETTO)
By Kinyunye K. K.
I’ve been to the bowels of hell,
a life hard to recall, harder to tell.
I’ve been chewed and swallowed
into a belly unhallowed.
In its stomach I wallowed,
searching for an escape;
a chance to reshape
my life, worthless and wasted,
its end deliberately hastened.
I’ve been to hell;
after I fell
from my glorious innocence-
a victim of circumstance,
baited chances,
Trojan horses,
devil after me
his angel to be.
I’ve been to the abysses of hell,
where I lost my soul.
I’m meat and bone, no essence;
it’s not life I live
but a sentence I serve,
condemned, for sins seen,
long before I’d my own.
I suffer another’s punishment
just ‘cause I’m of similar descent.
I’ve been to the musicals of hell,
which wouldn’t fair well
in the world of the pious,
would be condemned with prayers,
‘cause they ring with insults
ultimately causing tumults.
Its residents, self-centred imps,
try to inflict emotional limps:
to see a tear fall, to break a heart,
with an abuse that’ll hurt.
After all, what do they care,
yet pain they know not to share?
I’ve been to the streets of hell,
vividly recall their smell,
which twitched nostrils,
putrid as only hell ever is.
Its sights stung the eyes,
as chests heaved with sighs,
trying to take off their load
whilst the mind contemplated,
if perhaps there was a road,
that led out of this mere existence
to a life of comfort and abundance.
I’ve been to the bowels of hell,
a life hard to recall, harder to tell.
I’ve been chewed and swallowed
into a belly unhallowed.
In its stomach I wallowed,
searching for an escape;
a chance to reshape
my life, worthless and wasted,
its end deliberately hastened.
I’ve been to hell;
after I fell
from my glorious innocence-
a victim of circumstance,
baited chances,
Trojan horses,
devil after me
his angel to be.
I’ve been to the abysses of hell,
where I lost my soul.
I’m meat and bone, no essence;
it’s not life I live
but a sentence I serve,
condemned, for sins seen,
long before I’d my own.
I suffer another’s punishment
just ‘cause I’m of similar descent.
I’ve been to the musicals of hell,
which wouldn’t fair well
in the world of the pious,
would be condemned with prayers,
‘cause they ring with insults
ultimately causing tumults.
Its residents, self-centred imps,
try to inflict emotional limps:
to see a tear fall, to break a heart,
with an abuse that’ll hurt.
After all, what do they care,
yet pain they know not to share?
I’ve been to the streets of hell,
vividly recall their smell,
which twitched nostrils,
putrid as only hell ever is.
Its sights stung the eyes,
as chests heaved with sighs,
trying to take off their load
whilst the mind contemplated,
if perhaps there was a road,
that led out of this mere existence
to a life of comfort and abundance.
Friday 5 August 2011
Kinyunye: I LIVE TO DIE
Kinyunye: I LIVE TO DIE: "Kelvin K. K. I worked to the top now I let me fall back to the ground with a loud thud to make a mark on earth that mine remembrance b..."
I LIVE TO DIE
Kelvin K. K.
I worked to the top
now I let me fall back to the ground
with a loud thud
to make a mark on earth
that mine remembrance
be not at mercy of frail memories
or destructible hard and soft copies
rather it be on mother earth’s face
to be seen as long as she lives.
So in my shuttle slumber
as I head back whence I came
know I didn’t crave the loneliness
at the pinnacle of success
mine was a preparation for a dive
to add flavor to the swim
as I breaststroke in my own tears.
tears of a heart too joyous
of a soul too sorrowful
of a body much pleasured and intolerably pained
tears for the right and wrong reasons
tears I must have shed
to clean mine eyes
so tomorrow could be clearer
and my spirit could be washed
of all the dirt
that could shame my maker of me.
I worked to the top
now I let me fall back to the ground
with a loud thud
to make a mark on earth
that mine remembrance
be not at mercy of frail memories
or destructible hard and soft copies
rather it be on mother earth’s face
to be seen as long as she lives.
So in my shuttle slumber
as I head back whence I came
know I didn’t crave the loneliness
at the pinnacle of success
mine was a preparation for a dive
to add flavor to the swim
as I breaststroke in my own tears.
tears of a heart too joyous
of a soul too sorrowful
of a body much pleasured and intolerably pained
tears for the right and wrong reasons
tears I must have shed
to clean mine eyes
so tomorrow could be clearer
and my spirit could be washed
of all the dirt
that could shame my maker of me.
THE PERFECT MAN
By Kelvin K. K.
The perfect man is of three legs,
all of similar extents.
Two to pursue his pecuniary exploits,
the other to steady his shaky ego
whenever it is fluttered, by the slight breeze
of a woman’s disinterest;
or when it trips over itself.
‘Tis this that fills all voids
the man believes he lords.
The perfect man is of three eyes-
two to perceive all things ethical,
the third for the less moral.
It satisfies his voyeuristic desires-
staring at a curvaceous chest
as the other two engage the face,
gives some bottoms a deserved eye escort
but not losing site of the pavement.
The perfect man is of three arms:
two to hold atop the dinner table,
to gesticulate in engaging chatter,
as the other messes with skirts and zippers
under the cover of table clothes
evidence of base primal instincts
checked only by our fears.
The perfect man is no hypocrite
He has no pretense of interest
All his interest is genuine
As he can keep track of all
Happening in his vicinity
Simultaneously seeing left and right
But the perfect man is of no conscience
He knows not the agony
Of self-inflicted reproach
He knows not good nor bad
Rather sweet and bitter
Always taking the sweet
Whether it kills or cures.
The perfect man is of revered status:
what each man would want to be,
but all are afraid to become.
The perfect man is of three legs,
all of similar extents.
Two to pursue his pecuniary exploits,
the other to steady his shaky ego
whenever it is fluttered, by the slight breeze
of a woman’s disinterest;
or when it trips over itself.
‘Tis this that fills all voids
the man believes he lords.
The perfect man is of three eyes-
two to perceive all things ethical,
the third for the less moral.
It satisfies his voyeuristic desires-
staring at a curvaceous chest
as the other two engage the face,
gives some bottoms a deserved eye escort
but not losing site of the pavement.
The perfect man is of three arms:
two to hold atop the dinner table,
to gesticulate in engaging chatter,
as the other messes with skirts and zippers
under the cover of table clothes
evidence of base primal instincts
checked only by our fears.
The perfect man is no hypocrite
He has no pretense of interest
All his interest is genuine
As he can keep track of all
Happening in his vicinity
Simultaneously seeing left and right
But the perfect man is of no conscience
He knows not the agony
Of self-inflicted reproach
He knows not good nor bad
Rather sweet and bitter
Always taking the sweet
Whether it kills or cures.
The perfect man is of revered status:
what each man would want to be,
but all are afraid to become.
Thursday 4 August 2011
HIDE YOUR TEARS
By Kelvin K. K.
A tender untended loner trickles
Down a fragile innocent face
Reminiscent of pain recently felt
By a soul so soft it was shattered
And its agony was forth sent,
Liquid in form not to choke
A heart already stuffed with emotion.
But the cruelty of nature
Soon robs the tear of its aesthetics
Causing a stream with no oceans;
Sobs and mourns with no melody
As the inner reserves let loose
The tormenting demons within
Tears are bitter child
They sting to sore red
The eyes of those who shed them
Crying corrupts your voice
To incomprehensible din
When it’s your turn to cry
Shed not the first tear child
If you do, expect a second
And a third, fourth .…
A tender untended loner trickles
Down a fragile innocent face
Reminiscent of pain recently felt
By a soul so soft it was shattered
And its agony was forth sent,
Liquid in form not to choke
A heart already stuffed with emotion.
But the cruelty of nature
Soon robs the tear of its aesthetics
Causing a stream with no oceans;
Sobs and mourns with no melody
As the inner reserves let loose
The tormenting demons within
Tears are bitter child
They sting to sore red
The eyes of those who shed them
Crying corrupts your voice
To incomprehensible din
When it’s your turn to cry
Shed not the first tear child
If you do, expect a second
And a third, fourth .…
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