Command

through this great divide paddle
slowly
surely
swim through asinine reviews
hold your breath
through walls of conjecture
break
be heard
Command

Up.

Harsh lights glare

Like an angry multitude

the distance helps

diffuse their anger

against

the shy stars.

Cold blasts dig deep

into my supple skin

and you hold my hand

serving me the cuisine of your

warmth

Up Up Up

on the balcony

where the city noise

fades

with each word you speak

your chest reverberating

through the small of my back

as you serve me

the cuisine of your warmth

Up Up Up

as the world passes below

a drunk conductor getting the fares all wrong

an old PA system blasting out tasteless songs

officers matching in a single file

though no one is crying war or foul

for now your arms are a welcome prison

Up Up Up.

as I meet your incarcerating gaze

harsh lights glaring.

Jungle Sounds by Susan Kiguli

In seasons when
The grass trembles with thirst
And trees crackle
Under the ruthless furnace;
Farmers rejoice at a lone feathery cloud
A false promise of rain:
Thus we stand in arid deserts
Clinging desperately to fallacies
Refusing to believe...
Justice is not here with us.

Justice,
At the festivities of your adversaries
Your absence cuts through our unaneasthetised flesh
Keen as a surgeon's knife.
Searing pain numbs our hearts
Leaving them limp lumps.
Your absence is a warrior's sword
A silver dagger in a foe's hand
Cutting down the sons and daughters of the land.

In your continued dearth
We are cowardly hyenas,
Running away from jungle sounds
Soiling our legs
Seized by desperate madness.
You, mirage of our lives
We pant after your shadow
Like thirsty desert Tuaregs
Our shrunken tongues
Cannot even croak your name.

Let the seasons go on holiday
Let there be a sun-moon battle
Forcing curfew on night and day
We rather the earth stood on tip-toe
Than smell the aroma of justice
Wafting to us always from afar

If The End Was The Beginning

In tandem with fading innocence

The years swing by

A tooth falls out  here,a tooth is lost there

Living becomes a simmering Death

My back welcoming it

An inch lower every year

Till sticks which used to burn in the hearth

Of my glory days

Turn into crutches faithfully supporting

My frame

I feign forgetfulness

But my mind is fooled not

Would my ebon shimmer

My hips sway with every step?

Would these young men

Who rush to give me way

Pray to have their way?

If the end was the beginning

how young would I be?