Her Connection

Today she saw a bird,

black-feathered, orange-beak it was

and next to it sat another

together on a fence.

She’d never had a best friend

So the pen became her therapist

as well as her mentor

She made the mint pages of a book,

her biggest patrons.

Her favourite blouse leaves a trail

of ox-blood and maroon.

She dazzled in her recent look

with a recycled version of her former drag.

Her shade is a tinted mural

of interrupted dreams she’ll dream again

but her favourite pants is a pair

of unresolved feeling she’s too scared to detach from.

On her face, you’ll notice a dent

the dissembled puzzle pieces of her past lovers.

The pages of her soul are dog-eared and ripped.

The beauty of her heart was lost in transition.

That’s why she likes to smoke tobacco

and watch the fumes dance off her skin.

She said I have to chose

between a burning city and a secluded mine

it’s not at all easy for me

because my soul burns like embers

and the earth eludes me

maybe I’ll walk to a reef

to let off steam and level my thoughts.

So She laid under the stars

made out familiar faces from the sky.

Her limbs grew warm

like a volcano was erupting inside her.

Her breath waned

like the universe was buried inside her.

She heard a wolf howl

As if it too was craving a real connection.

Then everything went still.

The waves stopped crashing.

The insects stopped mid-flight.

The seconds stopped ticking

At midnight, she was still.

Like a rose waiting to be plucked

until the ground swallowed her whole

and burped up her ashes.

… A rare tenuous connection

God’s beautiful misfit

She carved her crown from a lion’s teeth

her hope was misplaced like Wendy in Neverland

Her rugged jeans never made it past her ankle

yet she shoots yellow roses out of a golden pistol

out of her muse, existed two pygmy monkeys

dangling from her ear lobes like fallen stars

not the only one she had, but the weirdest of all

She’d never get weary of those dangling pygmies

her laugh would caress the eardrum of listeners

it’d nourish the heart of believers in life

every breath she took drove her further into nolstagia

her name was like the snow, acquiesce and beautiful

she and her band of misfits

loitered the streets in search of quaint resort

like a dysfunctional family, a thorn on society’s heel

Stifling out insecurities, draped in magical colours

a pencil to her hand was like a samurai with a katana

every particle turned in one note and vibrated in synchrony

I know she’ll paint the dimension of her soul one day

for now she’s resorted to drawing a mirage of dreams

She said she couldn’t stand people,

their colour ran so bland and grey

I know she loves the flower hidden within

the little neon sign that reads, I’m a misfit too.

A poem for my beautiful misfit.

I love to

I love to

echo with my wading breath

like fireflies in a foggy night

it never stirs me wrong

I love to

immerse into the sensations of my body

My chest rise and falls

My hands are open to nurturing

I love to

strike my heels on dust

let my muscles grow fatigue

true strength is found within

I love to

dissect ideas and stories

to instigate unimaginable scenarios

when caressing the keys yields art

I love to

press my eyelids against each other

Only then will life reveal itself

then the world melts into something wondrous

I love to

notice the synergy of vibrating energies

It is neither created nor destroyed

it merely changes state like matter

I love to

invite love into my heart

give more than receive

Abundance is a choice after all

I love to

relish on the future

simplicity is in life and it’s questions

why worry about  the unknown?

I love to

connect with my one  true father

The keeper of my  peace

Wisdom pours through him

I love to

make fun of my spongy bunny

I look at him him and suddenly

life becomes  a lot less serious

There are too many things l love

like soaking in a bath with amazing scents,

or talking with my love

These blessings are copious and innumerable.

I’d love it if you decide to share this post to your social media circle. Love and Peace. Idara.

Unseen

You hear my voice

only through the Psithurism of these pages

My name is but an echo

that resonates in your vital heart once at mid day.

Grief is a lonely space

that wreathes me with an all too familiar scent

This realm of solitude

bathes my skin with the milk of despair

listen to my voice

even though it sounds more or less like poisonous venom

perhaps someday you’ll find me

(I imagine someday soon) In the land of angels

If I am rebuked by the ebbing waves,

or singed by the orange orb

You may leave a white rose

next to my non-existent love for the unseen

Vortex

Cigarette lingers

delivering a smoky kiss

to her thorax

Like the winter’s sun

mystery shadows on alpine

innocence will fade.

He’d sit next to her

Like the gypsy’s rendition,

she’d become younger.

His voice is her salt

caramel mixed with charm

hopeful till the end

She is an Iglo

His heart now her vortex

lonely nights no more

He took her hand in his

He sang an age long lullaby

longer than she’d care for.

Flickers of belle âme

First movie her eyes allowed her see

a ballet of sorts

In another time

They could be perfect strangers

Perhaps another millennium.

Watch.Wait, and See

Oh dear, can you smell that? Yes it smells of shell and burnt clay…

but there is something else lingering here. It’s intense and fast approaching.

Today has been an irregular one in that I rarely change a post abruptly, in fact I slept at 3 am, because I was editing the post I was supposed to publish.

But someone, somewhere needs to realise that they have not been forgotten sooner than later.

Change is in the air

I am especially excited today. Saturdays are my hair days which is usually boring and tortuous. Albeit today has been the most joyous hair day I ever had. why?

I smell the showers of change sweeping us into 2019, good change.

But wait, there’s more…. that change doesn’t start in 2019, It’s already here. Can you believe it?

But how can change occur without perseverance? how can one reap the subtle exotic juicy fruit of the changing wind that 2019 is down pouring on us?

Stay Consistent

Let this word be inscribed on your forehead and heart. Whatever you are working through in your family, relationships, work place, just as you consistently breath, use each expiration to bring into fruition the blessings awaiting you.

Before 2019 ends, allow yourself to come face to face with the facet of your life that is hidden, and you may even be motivated despite temptations to start the process of abstracting shame with acts of love and kindness. Still we must be consistent with those acts of kindness in order to reap success and blessings.

Don’t Quit !

What are you doing different, or continuing, to impact yourself and the life of others around you?

Do you feel like no one is noticing, or no one is listening?

Don’t quit! Let God’s promises cradle you and your beautiful gifts and return back all you have given with interest.

He has already done it. just remember that the glory is not yours to hoard.

Persevere beautiful people. Watch, wait and see God bless you!

The Inn-keeper

Fellow Bloggers and beloved readers, I want to wish you all a merry Christmas and briefly thank you for what an awesome year this turned out to be.

While the story that I am inspired to post is not your traditional magical Christmas story, I hope you’ll enjoy it still. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll explain why.

For now, merry Christmas and a big Thank you to you all


She worked from dusk to dawn, Monday to Sunday, January to December.

She was the host of the best Inn in Calbury. From the moment she could a hold a broom, she was destined a care-taker to be. The whole town, young and old, sick and healthy, rich and poor found shelter in the inn .

Her rooms were neat and cozy. From basement to attic. It had beautiful ornaments and an aura of love. The best room there was Garrett, man could discover the entire city; night lights, river and Calbury’s castle.

Guests came from far and wide, willing to pay millions to lodge in garrett, yet the Inn-keeper never gave out the room. The key stayed around her neck, like a precious stone, or something far valuable

The inn-keeper would visit the room, twice in a year, On New year and Christmas day.

The inn-keeper was once a vibrant woman, her son was her companion and peace. She spent every waking minute with him, and he loved the inn as much as she. Garrett was his favourite room too. He’d stay there whenever it had no occupant.

Then one day, a grave tragedy occurred. He’d seen the giant Christmas tree light up in the city square on Christmas eve but wanted to watch the fireworks too, not confined behind the room’s window, so he climbed out the window and sat on the roof. When the fire works was over, 2 hours past midnight, the boy hurried down from the roof to wish all a merry Christmas, but his foot slipped on icy snow and down he fell, 6 meters hitting the hard cobble-stone below.

The devastated Inn-keeper trod the heavy snowfall, the clinic was closed, she had to visit the Doctor’s home.

“Leave me alone, it’s a holiday! if he’s meant to, he’ll wake up soon”

Then she took him to the priest so he could pray for her sleeping son.

New year’s day was the day the doctor told her there was no way to save the boy. So she took him to the garrett room, swaddled him tight and lit some candles as he slept.

No day was ever the same for the Inn-keeper without her son. She toiled day and night, January to December to cater to other’s need and readily love them. Except for those few hours on Christmas and New year’s day, she never took a break, not even for lunch.

Yes, no price could be placed where her precious boy laid in rest, even till this very day.

Pure love and Poetry

Love.

Love sweet as a honeypot

Love that entices and wounds me in it’s grip

Pure love that oxidises, only getting darker, gentler, more poetic

as it vibrates in a frequency above all energies

Resonating like minds together, I mean twin souls

like twin souls I’m designed to resonate with you

Feel what you feel

Ache where you ache.

If you would let me,

let me feed you this poetry,

Poetic love as seasons change

Swaddle you in my arm long after the summer solstice is gone,

gone like the plague of jealousy

replaced by pure love and poetry.

Let me vibe with you across planets and dimensions

Inebriate on the language that rolls off your chest

and roll on your chest, like everyday is the last time.

I’ll taste your tongue like whipped cream

and smell your warm cheek as it it were waffles.

Love like the largest north star could not encompass

The magnitude of two exploding meteors showers.

If love had a sound, it would be jazzy blues

with a hint of funk as four saxophones breath out in one voice

and an undertone of bass, soothing enough to melt diamond hearts,

your colour and my palette, compatible.

Gliding on wings, till infinity and beyond

I would lose myself inside of you again and again,

till you find me.

you reach your arm around my waist, so boldly

Your souvenirs are the scratches I leave on your back

as you eat the fruit of longing, the peach of intellect

Sip from the dark berry, supple and juicy,

till your thoughts slow grind with mine, meditation.

Let me meditate in you for a while longer

on an bed of clouds in a warm mood, Chiado vibes

until pure love and poetry intervenes, yielding climax

and you’re heaving coz you’re out of breath, me too.

Then we can lie in a glisten of sweat, unashamed

because pure love and poetry is healing in motion.

Him

He craves your thoughts, it’s true

on this most rufous Tuesday 

brooding  comets thus align

roughed anecdotes by tantalised masses

Hide yourself from incongruous judgement

this guise to rob your inner peace

shhh even the walls have ears

arm yourself with electric artillery

The silence of a falling  caribou

barely visible from the milky way

alchemized  in a broken solace

in lieu of all the haughty overture

His tongue betwixt with perpetual grievance

embroidered with disenchantment, nae ephemeral sadness

Hovers in the abyss of his mind

the inferno of dark fantasies awaits

He strolls in the endless corridor of subconscious manipulation

 shadow chasing the sons of man and demi gods

polishing up a chopping block 

such a wasteful shame, whose next?

Buoying in a runnel of sanctimonious skulls

Fear ornated with sugar and spice

equivalence of a cherished deception

the centrifugal force could not hold water

The king of sorrow, I’ve heard him called

whispering hubris lies to quaint vain ears

friend or fiend what does it matter

already bitten the fruit of death, you have.