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.

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)

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

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 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.

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