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

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

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)

Number 6

so like every autumn, the leaves fall
on streets, narrow, big and small
everyone in a hurry and no crawl
jackets on, hand gloves worn and early nightfall

this is a season for the young, the old and for all
who relish it or anyone who’s against a squall
which brings its gusts and above all
a violent puff that could cause a brawl

so like every autumn, the branches stand dull
on alleyways, bordered by many a wall
of households, short and tall
so maybe autumn is really for every one after all

Wherever You Meet The Citizens of The World

Wherever you meet the citizens of the world
Tell them that I am moonstruck,
not by their words but by the grit of their fists

Tell them that I am a wanderer, just like them,
trying to find solace in my words,
and a roof to shed a tear

Tell them that I am taken aback,
by my own cravings and the astuteness of my forgone virtues

Tell them that I write, not for reverence
or to instigate wars of the heart
or to rebuild deserted friendships

Tell them that I am no dreamboat,
preying on virgin souls or
on blameless personas

Tell them that I am eternally indebted,
neither to the corpocracy of our world,
nor to the improbity of the souls I encounter

Those have lost their lustre or militancy
but rather to the sincerity of their minds
and to the humbleness of their guise

©Prince Kenny JR

These Are Known Grounds

Like you said
Some moments are short-lived
And others, last for eternity

This is, to the past sunshine of yesterdays
To the shadows crossed path with
To the hands shook
To the faces met
To the pleasantries shared
And to new moons of today

Like it is said
Some memories are prone to posterity
And others, fade with the wind

This is, to the tree shades that witnessed first kisses
To the friends who offered a helping hand
To the jokes cracked
To the umbrellas opened in rains
To the guidance given during anarchy
And to new faces of tomorrow

An ode to Kofi Annan

Just like Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela
You belong to the pantheon of the all time greats
Birthed from our noble continent
One from Asanteman
To the Big Apple, amongst others.

Not often do gems like you come forth
Probably, just a few times in a century
Your aura alone was debonair
Lightening up faces wherever you went
Prima facie, that’s how your legacy will always be.

So from Gisagara in Rwanda,
Kisumu in Kenya,
Mutare in Zimbabwe,
Tadjoura in Djibouti,
Isiro in the democratic republic of Congo
To your abode of Kumasi, Ghana.
This one is for you Busumuru

And just like you said
“if one is going to err, one should err,
on the side of liberty and freedom”
And that’s what we hope will be our guide.
Fare thee well!

(c) Prince Kenny, JR.

*Busumuru – Busumuru is one of the swords attached to the Golden Stool of Asante and used only by the Asantehene (King of the Ashantis). The Asantehene conferred the title Busumuru on Mr Kofi Annan, former UN Secretary-General to signify his might as the head of the world body and also his contribution to international peace and understanding. Ghanaian born Kofi Annan is the first black man to head the United Nations Organization (UN).

The Path Not Taken

Now the gates are open
To those who seek solace behind walls
And to those who confide in foreign gods
Call them gritty recluses or forgetive believers
Who coin mysterious deities

Now the berms are marked
To those who are purse-proud
And to those who walk in familiar grounds
Call them pococurantes or attention seekers
Who prey on virgin souls

Now the paths are open
To those who work sub rosa
And to those who speak evil of towering heights
Call them degenerates or nefarious dreamers
‘Cos they sleep, perchance to dream

The Last Quarter

In auras like these, words are futile
like a judge’s broken 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.

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