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

WUHAN

From the plague of Justinian,
the Antonine plague of the early days,
to the SARS in recent memory.
No one is ever born ready,
at least not when the daggers thrust,
in no ceremonial contexts
but in combat confrontations.

Unlike the apocalypse,
this banged in unannounced,
lethal amongst its likes,
more menacing, more dreadful
and more condemning.
Bringing mankind onto its knees,
shedding tears for the departed,
not for any apparent bad deeds,
or for them being fainthearted.

A learning curve for humanity,
as the days grow old and the toll rises.
Hopefully lessons are being drawn,
for the unknown epidemics of tomorrow,
proving once again,
the brevity of life.

© 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)

Untitled

It’s been a while now
Closing in on a decade
On foreign waters
Surrounded by alien tongues,
Ancient road signs,
On streets walked by Napoleon,
That have witnessed The Siege,
Amongst many a battle

In faraway lands,
You don’t just become a symposiarch,
At least not overnight
And more so, not so fast in these autonomous parts
Filled with cobblestone roads,
In its inner-cities
And in its suburbs, with patchy bricks

Like some friends say
It’s here that the boys became men
And the maidens into full grown women
So, this part will always hold a sacrosanct place
In the labyrinth of life
And as a witness,
To the rise and fall of gallant men and mettlesome women
Or in a single contemporary vocabulary, fascinating-prodigies.

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

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

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.