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)

Everyman to everyone

Swaying to bells that lead to slumberland
After tiring hikes, runs, everything but grand

I have been everyman to everyone
To the young, old or none
Whether it was as little as a grain of sand
Or perhaps as eventful as a grandstand

Touring the countryside in full glare
On late summer days, less debonair
With the River Meuse in a feet’s distance
And tongues easier to decipher for instance
In crowded alleyways,
Beside small and wide waterways

I have been everyman to everyone
To the poor, rich or none
Whether it was as priceless as gratitude
Or perhaps as faraway as the latitude

© Prince Kenny, JR

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.

This is the End

Another year is almost defunct
Right before our very own ears.
Passing by, with its hellos and goodbyes
Its joys and pains
Almost gone with the wind,
Swift and fervid
And inconsiderate sometimes.

It’s somewhat like every other year
Efficiency sputters and legitimacy creaks
New friendships blossom
While others last, less than a fortnight

This is the end of the highs and lows:
the triumphs and the losses
our reunions and partings
births and deaths

It’s that time of the year again,
Characterized by excessive elegance,
“Lardy-dardy” as some call it,
Family roundtables and bean-feasts
To usher in another beckoning year.
But not far from sight,
another year is almost gone

©Prince Kenny JR. 2018

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

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

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

Tomorrow

when you are not pretty to turn heads around
or not confident enough to word your thoughts
not smart enough to attend Uxbridge or Harvard
cos of where you were born or raised
yet you still dream of the impossible to be better days
maybe in frank vocabulary, somewhat successful
and even to extend a helping hand
maybe you wont be erased  from history
just as men’s misfortunes are forgotten
in the excitement of new enterprises

when you love to dream big 
and yet you see no light
cos all is but bleak around you
amid flashes of tomorrow
that offer no tap of glee
and suicide somehow is but a haunt
then allow the beauty of nature
to give cheer to every face
and a spring to every step
while birds tweet here and there
and our dreams, a puff of air
and later, with the smell of myrrh

Like the beautiful sunrise and its sunset
perhaps, as the feel of rain or the whiteness of snow 
as the seasons change, and new moons, are bestowed
then, there is hope for a zenith of fame
As the boldness of love aged-couples recap
paints a winsome picture to come
similar to the unconditional love of a mother
then, everything is worth a try
even for the days unknown
and the accents yet unheard

©Flojoe Nsiah Sarbeng