Daughter of the Unknown

Nirvana, Nirvana, Daughter of the Unknown Elders

I know this poem is too early for your ears

But believe me it has taken all these years

For me to know that beyond these walls of forever, eternity lives

Time is empty; clocks are statues, constant motion

Still as the two L’s at the end of the word, hands chained by space, nihility

I now know and acknowledge that you are there

Playing house with your yellow unicorn friends and mermaids of the sky

Painting stars in the galaxy with your radiant crayons

Blissfully circling the planets in your amplified smiles,

Wedding them, giving them rings, driving them crazy

Creating orbits, you’ve crowned the sun the pivotal point of the planets,

The sun is your heart, illuminating my everyday existence

You are there, building new universes with mud pots,

I think about you all the time and visualize

A time yet to emerge between our spaces

I see those joy rides of cloudy roller-coasters

Over the sepia rainbows in the chilli winter nights

The speeding splinter kites,

Colouring the horizon with white doves of hope and peace

Nirvana, Daughter of the Unknown Elders

I worship your existence in advance

It might have taken me a long time

To know what light is and to make fireworks of my fears

Place them in my hands and run through the dark city streets

Fuelled by instincts and two litters of adrenalin

To speak these words to the sleeping day,

This day; I know that I’m growing,

Every second of it I’m different from the previous one

For you My Spirit-Child I’m evolving

Yes, I used to wake up to a reality of hit and runs

Sharing lullaby hymns with crickets of forbidden voices  

I awoke to a reality pillared by myths, ornamented by illusions

The earth would move beneath my feet

Dreams walk out of my head

My heartbeats hidden in caves of strange mountains

I was empty! Nothing could touch me

Not in the invincible context, I was a rock,

Numb as the second day of the year.

I walked inside every minute to its frontiers

I felt myself breaking, gasping for the living air

That was never there, I have done all mystic things

Surrendered my hunger to leftovers of the dead, I ate them

And when the thirst emerged I killed it, crocodiles tears down my throat

I was a rock, Yes I know rocks don’t die, they create stones

I know you’re My child,

Hear me Nirvana, hear me Daughter of the Unknown Elders

I’m here, and I know, spirits don’t grow they just open up

I’m opening all my pores, I am waiting

  

Meditating on the image of your soft hands

Those little toes, with tiny nails that look like smiles

Your curled hair reaching down your ears, your sideburns

Your tasteful scent after every bath

I can see that poetic mouth with no teeth,

The truth will pass unfiltered,

Those snare heartbeats

I can’t wait for your flattering giggles and smooth smiles

O Daughter of the Universe,

I call you Nirvana now,

You are a place of complete bliss and delight and peace

But please, don’t be confined to only that

You have all the liberty to name yourself.

I know you’re ready to come to me

Please be a little patient My Child

Daddy is still in the quest of an equally passionate

And a bit more loving and divine lady,

To help Daddy pull you from eternity to this dimension

Believe me My Child, I Thikalog of Tecres Yociets; will one day father you

Now help me My Child, I’m looking for that Elysian woman to mother you :) 

AGAPE

Behind the door is a broom

The broom sweeps clean the room

But everyone in the house is asleep

There’s a flock of sheep,

A thousand sheep with not even two having the same colour

Who can separate light from day if it isn’t the moon?

They sleep and assume it is still night

Knowing not that the sun and the moon can alter man’s perception of time

Eclipse, the celestial spheres in unison, where’s everyone?

There’s a moving picture of the great grandfather on the grungy wall

The wall’s ears are visible, so no one speaks in the house

There’s a mouse, residing in the toe of the wall,

Many painful nails cured by a collection of grandfather’s jackets hanging on them

The nails think those are bandages

The advantage is; what you don’t know will not kill you

Befriend your fears and the fright might just heal you

Go through. There’s a perpetual passage that leads to the mother’s room

She left a decade ago, she is still on her way there, and her death is near

The neighbours are already celebrating

The neighbours are already dead; it’s been a year now

Their heaven is just above this house

When asked; they said they’re in the basement of heaven

There’s a metal bucket with purple water on the table

Next to it is the current flowing cable, shocks are still there, dancing as a mini-lightning

The brother wanted to make more electricity for the village before he died

He wanted to enlighten his people; his hair seems like quills now and very smoky

They lied; electricity is not made out of water

Alchemy and magic books are still on the rocking chair

But the infant is not there, no tracks of his knees on the floor

If the rest of the family did not walk, children would fly

Jesus Christ! He took off with his crayons, there’s a rainbow in the sky

But some colours are too intense than others, might just be his favourite ones

Am I the infant? There’s a name I keep writing in the sky

I haven’t learned the basics of seeing, wait...this is not the sky

It is the inside of my eyelids, I know no beauty

I don’t know my mother.

I can smell the peace in your eyes

I can taste the lightness of your heart

I’ve heard the triumphant songs of your smile

I knew then that I wanted you to be mine

What an honour to coexist with you,

Sharing the same planet with is enough

How intimate can we be? hell! we share the same president

I’m just an infant in this Love thing

I’m sorry I cannot write anything amazing

You’re too much of a dream so it really had to be fiction

O agape the love that consumes!

Please know that I love you

The Poet Has Died!

 With no warning to the silent air,

 the bell forces its grieving voice to the serene space

A big noise sounding like nothing but doom on drums of ears is heard

The sound is absurd,

carrying final breaths of a man

 on his death bed, the resonance is bad

The atmosphere grows tense,

 the empty space is sad,

only the yet to be felt pain is glad

“It’s not often that they take pleasure in such delicacies. Now to thee my unborn: learn to relish your suffering, all experiences are experiences and thus, they deserve to serve their purpose, don’t be selfish as yet”

The pain speaks to more pain to be born

 when they all get to hear the news.

They all know this;

the once shinny and whimsical with magical songs bell,

now corroded by the careless hands of time,

 rings only when this tangible reality has run out of room for a radical dreamer,

a soldier of invisible boots

with musical laces humming the bitterness of truth heard only when the now bedevilled messiahs dance in their sleep, the bell rings only when angels take off their halos to ornament with luminous kindness the path of a deity that penetrated more heaven secrets than them. The bell announces the retirement of a lucent soul from the ever misinterpreted flash.

The Poet has died.

Carrying their hills at the back of their heads, they chase ether to the temple

All unite at the foot of the entrance; their heads swallowed by their chests, knees kiss the soil

Metallic foil hiding their cynical but gloomy faces, bodies are caldrons; blood is left to boil, veins coil no movement, “admiration for the elysian is expressed in stillness, be still and know I am God”

Candles on their hands though burning upside-down, they have flames speaking ineffable glories of shame soon to befall their children “The Poet has died, who’s has the map? Our young ones will need direction...And what about their hunger for perfection? Their origins? Oh the hurricane of entangled perceptions! What do we know about our inception”

Lamentations of the last days released before their time. All apparelled in benighted cloaks for the light has been drawn back to the stars to complete the equinox, tighten the constellations and circle Orion’s waste, paste posters of human desires on the walls of the sky and complete the universal catalogue, “The law of attraction will at least work for a few days”

The Poet has died.

The coffin: A fortress of stories told in blood and smiles, wooden soliloquies of a wise tree still wondering in complex memories “If it wasn’t for the death of those birds on my braches I would have been a chair in the king’s palace right now, oh their blood on my name”. The golden handles made out of some metal that worth’s less than a blank paper “They will have to hold themselves from falling apart and release me”. A silky lace whispering the expensive taste of creation when it comes to fabrics “O how fierce is oblivion to manifest over you my friend, you will soon worth nothing once the soil is your blanket” the tree named in blood laughs with sadness.

Some trees are buried like people, coffins are dead. Place his corpse in the dead coffin,

The Poet has died.

The Poet has died

Books unfinished,

Poems stuck in the mind map stage,

Characters half done, split personalities,

Dreams spinning on the pottery machine

String theory in laces, children tripping over them

Analogues repealing, parallelograms skew

Paint splits on the floor,

Flowers and rainbows aborted,

The canvas is upside down

Pens are looted by invisible beings walking around the esoteric abode

Lead still burning, gold pending,

Alchemy on hold

I will not die!

I’ve lost all memory of my life

All I recall is the first poem I wrote

The best cloud I created and rode

The moving words I spoke and showed the road

I let them walk away from me,

I took my reality and invented dreams for you

I cannot sketch any faces anymore,

My hand resorted to writing codes

I cannot match aces anymore

My hand’s devoted to shuffling skies and playing poker with god

Chairs move when I sit, I stay grounded so you can rise

Look at me from above so you can label me deep

Hell I will not die now, I’m a poet and I know it!

I will not wait for death to remind me, and so shouldn’t you

I’m here now and you should hear how

Deep is my love for this art

My heart fails constantly to love these fly women      

Of the earth who cannot even jump a banana skin even if they see it,

I’ve killed so many brain cells for this poetry thing

I’ve gone mad, crazy, nuts, gone into being weird, out to be foolish and now I’m insane

No poet will ever die!

Their bodies can perish,

Eyes pop sight out in the fire

Ears scream in flames, I will not die

For my words will forever remain!   

Introverts are people

They would all sit, huddled by the soft arms of night and mesmerized by the invisible voices enchanting the horizon with hope and soft altos

They all listened to that harmonic choir of stars, singing the winter night blue with grace

Singing with high pitches of glitter, serenading the serene silent night,

Spark there and another one there. The stars would sing light to elucidate the shy sky.

They all savoured the rough notes, the unbalanced tones, phones that would jump out of corroded cords to put the day to sleep, set the moon alight and set the mood to write. But they did not understand.

It is at night they would deploy their tongues and separate their lips from the everlasting explicit intimacy of muscles that took plays the whole day.

It is at night they’d speak, seek depth in heights of time when the day tweaks and dies into noon.

Odd moments when evens go oblique,

Counting ions backwards,

Speed of darkness chase light

Feathers lifting heavy hearts of hardworking men with minds that have suddenly gone weak, every week they would pray for salvation after a night of hectic orgy with their dreams, sodomizing reality “because life is fucked up” they say. “Women have mastered the art of control, stirring the Milky Way with brooms and sweeping us off our feet, now we’ve lost direction. They have grown porcupine quills beneath their armpits, they’re hard to please, it is hard to make them laugh, so don’t even think about happiness, they have killed everything in village, now they’re going for trees, put money in a monkey’s hand and they will marry monkeys!” All the men believed

It was later discovered that women also felt the same about these “heavy breathing and sweaty palms men, they can’t even chew right, they speak with food in their mouths, drinking from containers. They are monkeys!” The women would complain. The same shame glowed in their eyes

When they all united, males and females, north and south, cold and hot, hearts and minds, they all learned to express, let each other know what they feel on the spot, with immediate effect, speak what they felt and sort their differences out then and there.

And when they all learned to speak, the listeners all died.

No one felt the need to hear the next.

The world is flooded with mouths, and looted of its ears

I cannot speak... please just try to feel me... 

Hoist The Sails!

Hoist! Hoist the sails!

Landmarks over the ocean’s heart

We’re approaching the oasis, Hoist the sails!

This is the part where we lend masks

Hide! Hide your hearts; toss them in the watery mazes

We’re approaching the oasis.

Hoist the sails!

From our zones of comfort we depart

This is where the sea ghost grazes

Embraces the end of the southern air

And relishes the start of the northern breeze

Hoist! Here skies freeze and clouds are devised

With ease, please hide your face

Replace your heart with vacant space,

To let your spirit float freely over this sacred whirlpool

Pull the ropes towards the floor

Push your robes outwards your flaws

Let the ocean see and drown them

Hoist the Sails we’re approaching the oasis

Find a place to hide

Send the anchor below to the forgotten sands

Root this ship, this was once a tree

A wise tree with dreams, Hoist the sails and cease

Seize the moment and dive in, but not in this divine sea

Find a place to hide please,

The captain speaks;

Forget what think you are,

You’re one with the stars

The sky is a reflection of the earth

The stars multiply with the rate of birth

Everyday children are born and at night new stars are borne

They’re not that far, through your eyes in the ocean and see

You will see horses, lions and shells, octopuses and Krishna

You also are there,

Hoist the sails

We’re approaching the oasis

Let us reconnect the constellations

Converse with the universe because we’re all stars

Hoist the sails; forget what you think you are

I’m the captain; and you’re the Star!

Simply the way you are.

The best place to hide is inside you.

"PEACE"

Clouds shift. A fluorescent void pierces the horizon

Cosmos undressed. A door frame of flames, stars adrift

Invisible force uplifts ozone and the hidden layers

A lucent fabric of the sky-less space reveals heaven secrets;

What seems like the sun appears

Others believed, but others said it’s a myth

A divine scam, He will not return, death is nothing else

But the absence of presence, he also was human, now absent

Blooming from the cold soil; a thick smoke of astonishment

Awe-inspiring sudden developments, nourishment of surprises

The earth shakes, empty space quakes

All dressed in white; who are they?

Armed with mysterious weapons on their hands

What are they?

Others holding active lightning;

Storms that eradicated the first earth

Others with tornadoes in their pockets

Hurricane Catharina and her single breasted sisters

The tall ones had many world wars

Clinched in their gigantic fists

Their little girls had hunger and drought

Sawn as ornaments to their short skirts

Short however equivalent to two centuries in this dimension

Their four eyed and three headed children

Playing touch with chronic diseases

An elderly female with reflections of a full decade eclipse in her one eye

If she blinks, the sun will go crescent for ten years

Her arms swinging, oblivion glittering in her hands;

A basket full of used hearts and a fluid of lethal thoughts

And other mass destruction herbs

Others had nightmares tattooed on their eyeballs  

Dreams handing on their necks, glowing as sunset

It is believed that if those dreams touch your head

You will never find your way back to this reality

They are the seeds of madness!

Ferociously walking towards me; they march

With a meticulous order, parallel universes are skew

The first row: Over two hundred years experienced wizards

The second: Retired angels, now knotted their halos around their tongues 

Afraid that they might reveal heaven’s weaknesses to us

They are followed by gods that were never spoken of

And whose stories were never published in all the mythologies

They levitated before women with barren stomachs

But with the possibility of begetting dinosaurs with human ears, if they try

Many indescribable and too awful for words, beings followed  

With details not even time can withstand to hear

Enveloped in fear, I asked “All dressed in white, who are you?”

“Are you here to destroy earth? Are you here to kill my mother and my unborn daughter?”

“Please Sir; tell them to take me instead”

My hopelessness and fear are not a good team

So ridiculously, I asked one of them

“Please sir!”

With eyes the size of the moon, he looked at me

I tried decoding symbols of mercy in his eyes, but none

A colossal voice that echoed in the walls of a hundred years from now

And in the past, escaped his mouth;

In a rough accent sounding like a fusion of the devil and language

“Kid you’re not special, and so is matter.

You terrestrials think you’re special don’t you?”

The voice drawn back to his metallic lungs

Silence and all birds are dead

“Sir are you here to destroy or help us?”

“Look kid, what’s your name?”

“Kagiso” said with inferiority and fear

“What’s that?”

“Kagiso; it is to say Peace...Sir”

“Precisely!” He exclaimed

“You see kid, oh Peace. This world needs you...”

Before he could even continue

I jumped into his mouth and said;

“I’m a boy. A wretch! I have nothing! The smart kids don’t know me”

“You’re a Poet, Peace, are you not?”

“...well, yes Sir I am”

“Precisely!”

“But Sir...”

“Peace gather your brothers and sisters

Go clean up the mess, see what you are and BE!”

“Sir, my brother is only 16 and my sister is just too little”

“No Peace, those are the same products from the same factory as you.

I mean the Poets, tell them to do their job, you guys need to work.

Listen, water is liquid! And it never hesitates or doubts that!

All things end and that’s a fact. Sugar never denies to be sweets,

The sun is up the sky every single day, no night is without stars, never mind the overcast

If you’re a dancer you must dance! If you’re singer you have no other purpose now sing!

If you’re an actor go ahead and act! Play, play everyone even yourself just play!

Teachers should teach! Preachers should preach!

Writers have no other mission on this earth but just that! Go ahead and write!

Write yourself into a new world and back to this one!

Write! Till all the wrongs of this reality get write! Go on and write!

Poets please recite! That’s your only purpose in this life,

Abandon your tongues, weave dreams, speak magic, please recite!

Recite till language dies, recite till your voice breaks and pick up the pieces to create existence anew!

Please recite! Recite to the wind! Recite to the dishes! Recite to your imperfect reflection on the mirror till it cracks, opens crevices on your glass skin and recite your soul to the atmosphere

Recite! Write! Recite to your mother. Poet please recites to your deaf uncle; don’t stop till his numb foot starts tapping! His ears should turn red and start making sense of your passion, recite!

See what you are and be, Go and be, Peace.”

“THE WORLD NEEDS POETRY NOW MORE THAN EVER...PEACE!”

THE FURNISHED ROAD

From deep sleep at the tip of the Universe’s hip where gods keep their feet fluorescent and leap in the marvel Dreams of their creation, sounds creep and reap sleep out my ear, I listen, they speak: “wake up, there is no night in time, light just moves in space, walk with us, as always we shall follow the light and watch over their sleeping thoughts, alter certain paradigms and do touch-ups there and there to influence their decisions in advance, enlighten them” they are the manufacturers of dreams. Amidst the crucifying shock shattering every wall of my ego, one of them whispered what seemed to have been like a wind propelling friction with still flames within the sun to help blow heat to this earth, the voice said: to nomads; time does not matter, only space does. Now let us displace, evacuate this place, we’ve got dreams to chase…Walk with us…

When others sent their spirits to walk forth and open path for their bodies to follow, others had their heads beneath their knees in the quest of fortune, they left no stone unturned, attention to detail I thought, I later however learned that; they left no stone unturned for they failed to move rocks. We all walked through the gallery of dreams, a road that seemed to have been constructed just when our feet touched the ground and destroyed once the same feet move from the ground to the next step. The road was like a world of its own, a vertical world, where all are queued for same experiences and thus no one can be different from the next, only time makes them feel better because they went first or even bitter because the weren’t first, followed steps of the ones before therefore made them the worst of all that could have happened and somehow faded, maybe because it was not meant to last. We walked through the passages of collective imaginations of the sleeping minds; some images had colours unfamiliar to human eyes, lines of dots no map reader can plot, special effects no filters can distort, pass comprehension to concepts beyond mortal thought, I thought, these are the worlds transcended to by spirits of philosophers and mystics we have left far in history, why did we think we had left them when they form part of what we think and believe?

The road was furnished with too many stories of what is to happen and strange to the eye was the sudden emergence of ideas on pages written in a language I could not understand, but I could tell they were a rough draft of what the architects of the Universe were guided by, before the times explosives were planted in gigantic non-practical books and the big bang theory materialized.  I saw, not just the tress but generations of humans still serving their ten thousand years of solitude as stems that form a sacred forest where Dreams are sawn, and reality scenes are born. I saw not just holy ghosts of the past but mysterious beings who eat their heads off, so they could taste their thoughts, knowing not that; mind resides not in the head but all around, they went ahead and buried their hopes of basking in the elysian ambience of paradise with ghostly desires so they played dead, Dreams played binoculars casting midget spells on the distance so they could cut short their journey and catch their destination off-guard.

And then it hit me, there is no death in Dreams, Dreams rather scarifies themselves to limbo for us to wake up and live, up the road when I gazed were the 12 apostles rejoicing as children who had just discovered the reverse reaction of oceans to clouds, the apostles were rapidly tuning rocks into bread, water into wine, they drank and unwind, back at it again, with cruelty they turned all the world’s bread into rocks, the famished apocalypse, starvation took the place of reality, with the abuse of faith and prayer magic came to be, and suddenly it occurred to me; Faith is the bridge between me and the divine, there is no way I can access Nirvana if there is no link between my soul and hers. The furnished road ceased not with its miracles, the elders lead me into a garden of souls where our sorrows are used to nurture the soil and our tears irrigate their roots, we suffer to better the lives of those to be born from are waists, the message I deciphered from what I saw.

"The Spirits have created a world of illusions for you. What you see is merely a physical manifestation of your thoughts, past thoughts; those few that went unobsereved are mothers to déjà vu, and those of you who Dream with open minds: manufacture your realities in advance. Yes; do not sleep and Dream, Dream your way to a beautiful sleep."

entranced in a vortex dance of enchantment they all recited, I knew then that; it is not always about the destination but more about the experience through the journey. Moreover; not every experience has a lesson, sometimes it is just about the experience itself.