Suchomski

Maybe you’re the quintessence
of all our dreams
the perfect picture we’ve been
told about
a breath of fresh air
with a genuine heart and a
pure conscience

As the tides change,
maybe you could guide us to
be stalwart
And vary from our old ways,
of which we’re not proud to manifest

Maybe you are all that we have,
with your resilience, your grit and your kindheartedness
As we are somewhat still in pursuit of more

As months blur into years,
maybe you could once again
just breathe new life into us, Suchomski

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For Her Never To Be Born Son

A precarious early autumn afternoon
not too hot and not too cold
if it were to be water,
it’d be called ‘lauw water’
maybe in our sister language

we sing no odes for children
and never dirges for unborn babies
this wasn’t the druthers of Ms. L
as you are the eponym of her
recent talks
but again, we sing no odes for children
and never dirges for unborn babies

so scale the heights wherever you are
Ms. L is aching now and so are we all
maybe you just came to embody
the brevity of human life
but we sing no odes for children
and never dirges for unborn babies
So keep clambering up wherever
you are

(c) Prince Kenny Jr

Goodnight 

The tides are evolving
like the susurrating winds of change
so if you can live up with yourself,
why run?
Darkness has set in
the lights are now faded memory
what baffles us, is the sound of the night
similar to a hiss of a snake,
not so lucid as a meow
The adjacent neighbours are also asleep
they are in wonderland, perhaps in dreamland
do they even dream?
they already bade farewell to the night
maybe, just maybe they are in unison with the night
maybe, just maybe they can’t let go,
let go of each other
so this is not their final goodnight
and this is also not my final
goodnight

Cold Feet

Let me caress you henceforth
so I may fill you up with warmth,
whenever you have cold feet
don’t allow your heart to skip a beat
Cos some are in dire need of cold feet,
to make their hot summers complete
so some even go to feel the waters of Crete
So call on me as and when you have them
As I will stand firm
I don’t want to seem to rhyme
but you’re worth more than a dime
But just whisper my name always
as you take aim
cos it’s only for you that I came

Promenade des Anglais 

Don’t tell me that this is an ode for the dead
Don’t tell me that this poem
is a hate-speech
Don’t call him a Muslim
Don’t tell us he acted in the name of religion
Don’t ever tell me that the muslims in the world have been marginalised
Don’t tell us what he did was in the name of Islam
Don’t tell me he was human
Don’t tell me he had a conscience
Don’t tell me you can find ways to explain this barbarity
Don’t tell me the “French” are to be blamed for this
Don’t tell me that Muslims in France are disenfranchised or have been segregated
Don’t tell us that: we won’t believe you
Don’t tell me that this perpetrator
stood for a cause
Don’t ever tell us that he went out to avenge something or some acts
Don’t tell me he had blood running through his veins
Don’t tell me he was once referred to as a son
Don’t tell me his name
Don’t tell me where he comes from
Don’t tell me anything about his
character
Don’t tell me which neighbourhood
he grew up in
Don’t tell me anything about his family
Don’t tell me that his children
looked up to him and ever called
him “Dad
Don’t tell me that someone is to be blamed for his actions
Don’t tell me that France is a segregated or homophobic country
Don’t tell me that Muslims of France have no say
Don’t ever blame his actions on Islamic teachings
Don’t tell me that his family
is responsible for this
Don’t tell me that every muslim is a terrorist, a timed bomb whichcould explode any moment from now
Don’t ever tell me someone’s
inactions caused these horrible scenes
Don’t tell me you’re not moved
Don’t tell me you’re not weeping for the dead
Don’t tell me your heart is not aching
Don’t ever tell me this is not a sad reality
Don’t tell me that Muslim should be victimised from today
Don’t tell me that any Arab looking person should be stopped by police and interrogated
Don’t tell me that it’s a fight between Islam and the rest
Don’t tell us that France stands alone
Don’t tell us that Nice stands alone in this fight
Don’t tell me that Promenade des Anglais will forever be the same

Not in anyone’s name
This is just not right

Park Spoor Noord

Time and time again has it been told
Colossal words will be redundant
to clarify the fact of the matter
Who are we to judge?
You, men of today,
who trod namby-pamby
you natter around like week-old chicks
and tessellate in smaller circles,
to dine away your burdened souls
You are ebbing away,
not into the annals of history,
but as disappearing meteorites

So who are you to judge?
You, women of today, who thrive
on inoccent anthers,
to invoke a ripple of approval
from the present
you tessellate unlike your men
in bigger circles
to dine away your troubled hearts
You are all saying your final goodbyes to spring,
maybe actually to Park Spoor Noord

Cheer up, dear brother!

you tasted the unknown waters
and touched the distant seas – afar
along the inconsiderate tides
with the sacrosanct skies, staring beneath,
unto your scalp
cheer up, dear brother
as winter blurs into spring
– with minuscule day sunlight
every now and then
and the longer nights bringing forth
shorter sleeps
Autumn is still in sights
the bamboo orchids lie dormant
along greying greens
cheer up, now and tomorrow
the seasons are passing through,
the moments come and go – for good
so cheer up, my dear brother !

FORTNIGHT (A birthday poem)

A couple of words, candid and true
It’s a year on, placid as the ages accrue
So no expressions of flattery today
And be that as it may
it’s a year on, all but not astray
it’s barely a fortnight
that Other and Jackie crossed path
So I’ll just allow you to a have an early bath
Cos it’s a year on, one more time
“Happy Birthday” is all what I’ll mime