The Last Quarter

In auras like these, words are futile
like a broken judge’s gavel
you appeared in broad day light
and announced your presence,
unlike the others, resolutely and aptly

In her eyes, you define borders
and stretch out a hand
Good and healthy
Good but short
Good but short-lived

In times like these, pictures are shallow
like the goddess who tub-thumps
you withered like a mirage
and there, you went away,
swift and seemingly unnoticed

In his mind, you are almost sacred
and care like no other
Matchless and true
Good but short
Good but short-lived

There I am again,
back to my old self,
a dreamer,
now, a balladmonger.

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Santiago de Compostela

You are no timeserver, as is often the case
for you millennials.
There’s no way to induce sleep as you chatter in hedges
Iike a flock of Dark-eyed juncos.

Your drive is unrivalled and your zest, matchless.
For you millennials,
you are all citizens of the world
and are locals of Moncloa, Arguelles and Rosales.
You lead the pilgrims to the Way of St. James.

You seek recluse in the midst of abundance
and forget the tongues of your fathers.
To you millennials, keep on with your paseo !
As you get to know the rhythms of yesterday.
As is often the case, your walls are still made of fire.

© Prince Kenny, JR

Oyasumi

She sees in you a bossdom
like the likes seen in a princedom
In her mind, you are fiddle-footed
and prey in blameless grounds

The aura around you is clear-cut
not like the ones preached in Psalms
In her thoughts, you wander every now and then
and your voice, an earworm in her dreams

She knows of the brevity of life
and how swift it goes, sometimes abruptly or well-lived
In her eyes, you remain silver-tongued
and your shadow, always that of a gentle giant

© Prince Kenny, JR.

Sea Men

Every year, January is like this
It comes, not so tender-like
With its own waves
and its night breezes

January is the coastguard
onlooking as the ramblings of the sea set its tow
In the path of the sea-men
who begin another year, hopeful

As our rickety boats are buried with the dead year
January is just like a jannock person
who knows no filter
Maybe, it’s our seasonal cri de cœur

Every year, January is like this
Remorseless and vicious
As we, sea-men,
continue to hope for jammy months ahead

Chica

The days are too young to tell a tale
The nights are too insecure to sing
The stars are too bright to shoot
The waters are too cold to boil
But whenever you sleep,
Sleep like there’s no yesterday
Sleep like there’s no today
Sleep like there’s no tomorrow
Cos your heart is safely guarded
In a very good abode
And hopefully,
the days will have tales to tell,
the nights, songs to sing
the waters, excess to boil
And the stars, meteorites to shoot

(c) Prince Kenny JR.

Park and Ride

There are awful autumn days
and there are funny and rebarbative autumn Tuesday mornings
with its never-ending rains.
I’m long done with King Leopold’s Ghost
and at the crossroads between Lille and Wechelderzande
with the minutes closing on in the nearest half hour,
comes a noble man
who saves the day,
not in an apple-polish manner,
just an unusual goodhearted and so considerate man,
whose thoughts are noble and blameless.

Little Princ(ess)

She’s outgrown her ideas
Of whom she had to be
Maybe you’re torn between
The past and the present;
today and tomorrow

So let’s unwind not without wine
And hold unto our spine
like the winds of summer
Abrupt, a comeuppance
For hoping for the sun
So let’s begin the fun

Eyes,
Sealed off by local tapas
And familiar breweries
Taking stock of her pallid self,
On a Friday evening,
Caressing her thoughts to take
the weekend by the horn.

On Being Us

we are quite far from our middlescence
lurking on, pushing on
and stravaging sometimes

let them call us lotus-eaters
and poke fun at our demeanour
let them stare and label us bumbleshoot,
hampering their manna-rains

dudgeon, that’s what they feel
cos we muckrake them,
and they think we love throwing shade,
and that we take pleasure in the spotlight,
penning what the constituents feel

let them rant and continue to
call us age-old lotus-eaters.
we won’t mock their potbellies
and their shabbiness
cos that’s what they seek to trigger

we are still quite far from our middlescence
pressing on, carrying on
and still stravaging sometimes

the beau idéal, that’s not what
we seek to become
but let’s man up,
by pushing on what’s truly right

Inferno

Maybe she will be remembered
as the girl from East-Flanders
Courteous and well kept among others
You’ll forever be remembered
as the girl torn between the past
and the present
Maybe I’ll only be remembered
as the chap you held hands with
Or maybe I’ll always come to mind
whenever you see Omar Sy
Not because we’re brothers

She will always be remembered
as the girl with sunken eyes
or perhaps hollowed cheeks
I know, I’m sometimes bad
when it comes to choice of words
I know I won’t be remembered
as the boy who births awkward silences
You promised me,
so I pray you keep your word

She’ll be remembered
as the girl with the entire world at her humble feet and a golden heart
And anytime you think about Venice,
I hope I won’t be too distant a memory
Your heart has fought battles,
won, drew and even lost some
Let’s pray the latter is soon forgotten
But how do you forget
the sound of a bird that sings to
you every morning?
How do you mend a wounded soul?
So, you will be remembered
just like how you left,
in your toggery, with a hurried hug and a forced smile
Swift, and there you went

I will always remember you
as the girl who, while eating tacos kept asking why I aligned
the Coca-Cola bottle and the glass every now and then
Maybe precision was the word
you were looking for
Or maybe both of us were searching for
So anytime I think of precision,
you’ll be next in thought
Inferno

Not For His Words

Don’t fall for his words, poems,
poetry or whatever
Please, please don’t fall for his poems,
they are just unsaid words,
unfinished sentences and sometimes deserted
thoughts
Maybe some day, maybe some day,
maybe some day, maybe some day
he’ll muster all the courage in this world
and pour out his heart to you
Maybe one day, maybe just one day,
he’ll turn the coin on its head
Maybe some day, maybe some day,
maybe sooner rather than later,
maybe sooner rather than later,
he’ll refuse to beat about the bush
Maybe sooner rather than later,
he’ll hit the nail right on its head
Maybe some day,
you’ll finally hear the sound of his gavel
So please, please don’t fall his words, poems,
poetry or whatever
They are just words yet unsaid,
words that lie asunder,
words with no assigned meanings
He is good with words and subtle at heart
So maybe he is just searching for the right words
So don’t fall for his words