Daylight

In days, weeks, months or years gone by
like clockworks, run down to save time
in rainy autumn days, to reassign
perhaps new meanings to life’s own design
or maybe, this is also a sign.

Time has been run down,
with chapters turned,
while in not-so faraway lands, bloodshed battles rage on,
but this is the issue I have with the world,
déjà vu moments, same reportage,
single stories and what not,
to relay biased narratives
or voice out known propagandas.

In days, weeks, months or even years gone by,
life has gone to its wits’ end, my oh my!
like the annual change of the seasons,
but in raging wartimes, with legions
left and right, who can even state justifiable reasons,
for the loss of innocent lives, denied human rights
at night-time or in any daylight?

© Prince Kenny JR

Growing

Maybe just like the days not so long gone,

tomorrow was just a myth, a utopia overdrawn.

Like the way you’d believe in some midnight dreams,

while in some nightmares, you’d freeze.

On a long alleyway, street or porch,

where you’d sit all alone, oh Lord!

Whereas in years gone by,

maiden in boots and booths.

Maybe, you were indeed the alpha

amongst all your countryfolks, afar.

Maybe tomorrow was indeed just a myth overdrawn,

all but exciting and long, so in short,

allow your tears to flow, like the Limmat, streaming non-stop

as you sit on alien porches in busy streets

to drink off your pain, bittersweet.

Breathing Space

Gone, to the miles up north

and to see the fjords discussed in third grade.

Like the stories, down south

and to hear the folklores of the Moors,

The indigenous Maghrebine Berbers.

Along the snaky roads on starlit nights

or maybe at the banks of the Tagus River

and that might surely give Vänern and Vättern,

a run for their money.

But not to sound too funny,

those are the places to be.

Not far from Nordens Ark or Noah’s Ark,

you can call it whatever you like.

Whether it’s in the book of Genesis or in Åby Manor,

same psalms and a noble cause

in seemingly inhabited Bohus Fortress.

Trudged by night adventurers or modern-day thrill seekers

in Askum and in dead summer towns.

Old pens are rediscovered

while ancient passions rekindle.

© Prince Kenny JR. 2021

Hindsight

And all the normal days were gone,

just in an instance,

most probably gone with the wind

as we try as hard as we can to fix this

this is no doddle, no child’s play,

and no blame game.

We have all been to the ends

and all the ends really have ties,

to the known and unknown realms

as we congregate in domiciles

or maybe within our ever-changing

bubbles.

Where no place is certain,

not even for a day

let alone, a fortnight.

So, guard your spot

if you already have one

to merit your position

when the numbers drop.

Here, not only the strongest survives,

as in our hearts, strong bonds reside

to shorten the lengthy days

by offering a hand amidst this maze.

(c) Prince Kenny, JR.

LIMBO

every day tells its own story
like how the clouds gather,
as warm air rises and cools
like how the rain drops,
as puddles form on roads
or ashore when the tides go.

every morning has its own tale
like how the birds chatter,
identical yet different
like how new flowers bloom in Spring,
and leaves turn full green in summer.

limbo, what’s next?
to go on promised paths
or rebel to alien alleyways,
succumb to pressure
or brace it tête-à-tête,
or just maybe, jury-rig for a day’s use?

every month sings its own song
like how the notes pitch,
some, long like the semibreve
and others, like the sixty-fourth note.

limbo, what’s really next?
maybe, everyone else is in limbo
either personal or societal,
either known or recurring
or perhaps just all-in-one.

© Prince Kenny JR

WUHAN

From the plague of Justinian,
the Antonine plague of the early days,
to the SARS in recent memory.
No one is ever born ready,
at least not when the daggers thrust,
in no ceremonial contexts
but in combat confrontations.

Unlike the apocalypse,
this banged in unannounced,
lethal amongst its likes,
more menacing, more dreadful
and more condemning.
Bringing mankind onto its knees,
shedding tears for the departed,
not for any apparent bad deeds,
or for them being fainthearted.

A learning curve for humanity,
as the days grow old and the toll rises.
Hopefully lessons are being drawn,
for the unknown epidemics of tomorrow,
proving once again,
the brevity of life.

© Prince Kenny JR.

Love in Sprints

Amid all the tiresome sprints the world takes us through
And in between the limited vacuum we find approaches an indispensable beam of light which strikes our personality to keep us on track

In a world sprint full of pestilences and false accusations
The beam never falls short of its help while it provides a shoulder
To lay on with our consistent disarrays
In as much as the feeling engages the beholder

Anything becomes virtually possible in the world sprint
Across all languages
it’s said with passion and precision
Many call it LOVE but it beholds
LOADS OFF VIABLE ENDORSEMENTS

Amid all tribulations the masses contend with
LOVE seeks to act insanely hilarious just to bring smiles to our faces
And hope to our future
Worlds apart it may seems but this feeling acts spotaneously discrete
Just to build our fate and open our eyes to see preceeding encounters
In a world sprint where it’s no news to witness a fall and innumerable rise-ups

Endorsing all vitaes we build due to its adventure
Offering reflexes when the need be
A feel which disposes off the pros and cons of the world just to see us
materialise our intents when the moon isn’t half its circle
“Amour” is the word
Looking positive ever while it shadows all our ordeals

Love first!

(originally written in 2011)

Everyman to everyone

Swaying to bells that lead to slumberland
After tiring hikes, runs, everything but grand

I have been everyman to everyone
To the young, old or none
Whether it was as little as a grain of sand
Or perhaps as eventful as a grandstand

Touring the countryside in full glare
On late summer days, less debonair
With the River Meuse in a feet’s distance
And tongues easier to decipher for instance
In crowded alleyways,
Beside small and wide waterways

I have been everyman to everyone
To the poor, rich or none
Whether it was as priceless as gratitude
Or perhaps as faraway as the latitude

© Prince Kenny, JR

Untitled

It’s been a while now
Closing in on a decade
On foreign waters
Surrounded by alien tongues,
Ancient road signs,
On streets walked by Napoleon,
That have witnessed The Siege,
Amongst many a battle

In faraway lands,
You don’t just become a symposiarch,
At least not overnight
And more so, not so fast in these autonomous parts
Filled with cobblestone roads,
In its inner-cities
And in its suburbs, with patchy bricks

Like some friends say
It’s here that the boys became men
And the maidens into full grown women
So, this part will always hold a sacrosanct place
In the labyrinth of life
And as a witness,
To the rise and fall of gallant men and mettlesome women
Or in a single contemporary vocabulary, fascinating-prodigies.

River Corrib

From sunrise to evenfall,
On unchartered paths, breeze and swans
With its cobblestoned alleyways,
Just like the anecdotes read about medieval Gaelic Ireland
Éire Ghaelach as the instruction in the national museum reads.

These are folks, proud of their ancient history and identity,
One that starts from Kilkenny and Waterford,
through Sligo, Londonderry till contested grounds like Belfast.
Territories marred by conquest and rebellion.

Along the Middle-River,
With high-altitudes and windy airs
On late winter nights.

This is a walk along the River Corrib,
One for the books, pacy amongst its sort in the continent,
With mouths at Claddagh, Galway Bay and elsewhere.

This is the River Corrib.

© Prince Kenny JR