Crystal balls unfolding
Layers of goodness
Of the mercy seat
In bundle of gifts of the spirit
A heart full of joy
The kindness and goodness of God
The year is still unfolding
With rest on every side
The first day seems like the last.
Watching everyday come by.
Sharing love, standing by the moon.
Starting orange fires with a March (match).
April stood with the smoke-filled sky,
Trying to find peace when May falls
Flowing fluid with sweet tunes. June!
I can smell your thoughts even when you lie- July.
Waiting your action’s August
And blow out all candles with your soothing wind.
Never fail to bring the cakes along.
Remember, we’ll never cross paths again.
See you then at 20:18.
The letter M reminds me of Mum,
she sat in my ears asking me if I ever sought love.
Mum was the precise representation of the letter M.
Unlike some words like ‘malice’
which found the foot marching through the creeks of words.
I remember its scary soundtrack
accompanying my eyes and heart.
When I spoke to mum about love I remembered mathematics and finding X.
How some couldn’t get over the desired equations.
Some X married other letters but mine was a little too far from a result then.
Virgin Love found me in June,
I remember the words and its tune,
it looked like mother’s prayers transformed to an answer,
It looked so much like mother was God.
I stand here with few words
yet I write on the words I stand on.
I talk of the year and how it has reached today.
MMXVII looks like a number
camouflaging to become a number birthing dates, memories and love.
Stories begin where they choose to;
In the heart of their plot.
Tales are often thought untrue,
Like the lies we forgot.
Light me a candle i can water to grow.
Talk to the clock to be exceedingly slow.
This season held my hand without her knowing.
In her curves and corners, her goodbyes were advancing.
10 battles were fought, giants were trampled
11 we won without waiting to have gambled.
The gods are appearing in bright colors
This race is our promise.
The truth won’t survive if this story honors
Without a plot like this:
One road, 12 tribes,
Stories begin where they choose to,
Some are summarized from the hearts of broken lips.
Others are better written when the page finally flips.
The calabash opened with a resolution
Enthusiasm hit the sky
Loaded, I thought I could fly
But constant fear was, perhaps my retribution
A little of pain here, a little of hurt there
The future was no longer clear
I sought for a time machine
To go back and fix everything
Write every wrong that stole my right
Write away my pain and fear
Dust my blurry path.
But time has not the patience
To listen to the rhythm of my conscience
The stories are written in parts
Every other day is another trap
Embattled conscience and broken harps
Incomplete songs and shadows of what could be
Two more chords available yet
Perhaps my stories could be retold
Before the calabash closes for good