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)

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

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

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

Glimmer of Hope

Let us not use words of flattery today
for be all this as it may,
let’s not broach about impending trials,
for all that is known
was once said, heard or eavesdropped,
perhaps in no pretext of greed
or for just a glimmer of hope
to guide the few or the underdogs
who forever talk in lesser tones,
at the crossroads to self and humanity,
let’s not prune the divisions of the past
or instigate new wars, of the soul and the heart
to stir up deceit and vile acts
For it was once said that
there’s no room at all for fumbling,
when you’re living on a razor’s edge
but there’s still a glimmer of hope
in today’s rays.

AMSTERDAM

As the warm ambiance gradually descends into my being
have I been soaked into fairest realms of mankind, perhaps
To delve into a serene melancholy
have I been graced with uttermost receptions
May the seriousness within my eyes bring me back once more to your fervent embrace

As I sail through the crossroads
amid the water lilies that flower
no language border
May the test of time seek solace from your compassion
Whenever it sees men who wield below reproach
And encounter women with gritty egos
In your fairest embrace do I forever yearn to be

Re-echo This Joyful Song

Sing a song to the only hill
you find within the eyes of Paramaribo
The pride of the Indies
those few hills
that stand akimbo at night
and erect by dawn
Upon a certain shadow
that emanates a two-faced affair
Sing a song to the only field
you chance upon within the opulent suburbs of a wonderland
Monaco, perhaps
Let s’il vous-plaît precedes
the maiden stanza you cry out
Sing with a seething grit
like that of a teacher
whose students just excelled in a test
or like that of a girl
who just fell in love
where uncouth visions slumber
by the recurring stints of a known nostalgia
Whether you reside in a boulevard or an alley
one can never unite bananas with scattered leaves
sing in defiance to doubts
like the dexterity of the Mau Mau from Kenya
bringing forth the word ‘Uhuru’
Allow the decibels to manoeuvre
the heckles of tomorrow
and sound a caution
to the detractors of progress
who destroy the fibre of the society
Sing not
to the hills of Mountain Everest
the crossroads between the boys in Nepal
who believe in Buddha
and their folks in India
who believe in Hindu or both
not out of preference to religion
since a foreign mountaineer
may claim its ownership

Sing not
with a hat-in-hand approach
when your civil rights are upheld
lest alone
to converse about human dignity or rights
Throw no Molotov cocktails
to demonstrate your dissatisfaction
to bias and prejudice
just like how Malcolm X paints the pictures
yielded by segregation in post-independence America
those, have lost its militancy

Let your song
awaken the speech of the dumb
and the sight of the blind
Then, allow history or posterity or both
which is best qualified to reward the future