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)

Southbank

Maybe in essence, you are all that there is to find
As the nubilous weather closes in on a hot summer day
A couple of blocks from Embankment,
under the bridges known to your inhabitants,
your youth, art fanatics and Wagamama enthusiasts
Here, blinkered minds are not welcome
And in this borough,
love, passion, freedom et al intertwine
And taco-lovers dance to tunes from elsewhere,
as far as from my motherland
And to the cycling lad penning down a number
just received from a girl, en route to Waterloo tube station,
an endearing bravura it was.
Maybe River Stage should just be a way of life
A happy gathering for everyone.
Elephant and Castle,
that’s where we finally part

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.

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.

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.

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

Gone Forever

She misses the days of old
although she weaves her ways
towards her salient dreams
or perhaps, her pallid self.

so now that he has turned into a foe
and who knows as she sways
maybe she’d cease to gleam
and find solace in a darker shelf.

so all is but unclear
that she truly misses the days of old
now that he has turned into a big foe.

NO, SORRY, I, LOVE, YOU.

All the long lost words have been found,
on the rocks scattered along the Mont Blanc
which abutts the towns of Courmayeur,
Saint-Gervais-les-Bains and Chamonix
On its cradle lies metonym of passion,
tenderness and glee

And from its peak shall these words take flight,
in head-over-heels fashion
to deprecate any pledge to ossify
the extolling, deemed aright

Cos my thoughts have been on long a journey
And now that these long lost words have been found
They will always be the sceptre of fondness
that had to be revealed ages ago
cos ‘No, sorry, I, love, you.’

REMNANTS OF HAIYAN

It’s a stub of a lighted cigarette that’s most likely to set a house ablaze
And whenever a door is set ajar,
it’s the mother who wakes up in the midst of the night to shut it
Then, what happens when rain outruns boundaries,
Do we run outside vehemently to chase the rains out?
Maybe we would someday
Although I’m young in years,
I’m already a man of the world
To know the bland and disingenuous remnants of haiyan
May we regale our dithers with inimitable wits
So as fresh as a rose-bud,
shall we mend the broken ties between Cebu,
Tondo, Maysapan and Mai
And what do we say to the Ati woman in Tacloban, who sits at the bend, where reporters and aid-workers sojourn
Let us not falter and collapse as injured ants
Even if the churches have fallen;
it’s us who make the church
So when time’s winged chariots surround,
it’s our resilience that shall be afforded praise