ugandabeinsanfrancisco

 A face, smiling, hands, spread, feet, astride, leaves, blown by the wind, a picture, compact with words.

It is a dividend of living, it makes conversation warmer, for shared experiences, increase our bonds, yesterday, I passed by this place, then, it was a staging venue, of a street fair and marketplace, today, I ask myself, where was yesterday’s noise, it is so pristine, like a pressed robe, I recall such events, back in Africa, The other day, on Mariposa Street, I met a man who, on account of my accent, as well as diction, asked me which part, of Africa I was from, I told him, he too, told me about, several memorable journeys, to that continent, the first to Tunisia, then to Egypt, Cape Town, Victoria Falls, Queen Elizabeth National Park, The Murchison Falls, Lake Victoria, I,  had been to some, this gentleman, in his narration, revealed salient points, we both exchanged fond experiences, fond memories were made fonder, the repetition of these experiences and their recounting, revealed a common d

That part, of a longer spine, of a large back, on which, we comfortably nestle, a Walt Disney Park suspended in the air, an entertainment Eden, resplendent crimson arcades, with large arches, towering columns, steeped firmly in the ground, the tips haughtily suspended, piercing into the fluffy clouds, far down below, this loftily spun bridge, is the blue Pacific, whose waters, are forever agitated, the waves slap incessantly, the dark jagged rock mass, and the shiny boulders, smooth and continuously chiseled, from years of rubbing, by the elements and humans, stronger winds fly by in the faces, of in-bound sight-seers and traffic, majestic features are met here, belief and technical feats, a bridge hovers over the ocean, a presentation, an immaculate Pacific, a tunnel into the hillside, a lone Alcatraz in the distant, near gale-force winds,  neither the boulders, nor the hills, give in, a spectacular backdrop

This House I call Home (Tenant) This house, I call home, my sense, of completeness, I spend,  soundly nights, and, hopeful days, in this house, I call home, I want it to last, as an eligible, tenant, qualifying, deserving, in this house, I call home, a dream, comes true, a home, has to last, something, not to pass, an advantage, a big part of life, the sun, has to come out, the moon as well, a hot meal, an entertainment, a safety, security, this is what, a home means, but a tenant, hit hard by times, gets, less of this, enjoyment, or none at all, don't deny me, by excuses, assure me, accommodate me.

See the Tortoise It uses its head, looks left, right, up and down, its head, not far out, of the shell, wary, scans, the animals, made all plans, but, they ended, consulting, the shelled one, the tortoise, don't be surprised, when all they plan, is for their good, the mother tortoise, had once said, you have, a shell, about you, when they push, move inside your shell, but remain stationary, you may, turn out, to be the good thing, then move out, but first your head, look left, right, up and down, then move.

On that note Gathered in a hall, that seats thousands, we never wanted, the speaker to finish, you should have seen us, sidling in our seats, squirming, fixing our rear ends, roundly, in the seats, squaring our shoulders, puffing up our chests, slumping, craning our necks, elbowing snoring, next-chair persons, listening happily, the words, syllable-bits, we never wanted to drop, anywhere but in our ears, the speaker, referred to many things, but we feared, it would come to an end, and true, that sentence, 'on that note,' dropped off the lips, like overfed nestlings, we knew, this was the final finale, coming out, from the speaker's mouth, a sigh escaped, both relief and sadness, this was the last talk, for the speaker, gave up the last breathe.

Treasure Street When we came to the last part, a fire whose smoke, was contained and blew heaven bound, incense that filled our nostrils, was a reassurance, a constant reminder, that for generations, this liturgical procession, will forever be protected, it took place, at the expansive vestibule, whose immense gilded doors, and the vicinity, were patrolled by police, on this very night, perhaps a long weary hermit, or someone who wanted the crowd, that spilled out into the street, to mingle or commune, with his mountain bike, was bundled up, put in the police car, meanwhile our service, was now coming to its final end, we left for home, knowing we shall comeback, to repeat the same act, assured that we are protected, those disturbing the peace, bundled up by the police.

The moon at noon The moon will come out at noon, it will stand in one place, many will raise their heads, to behold the show, the sun will throw its coldness, the chill will burn holes in bones, laments will come out as laughter, tears will become icicle bands, snakes will walk on their hinds, their fangs of ivory, and furred molt, shed into heaps of ash, a lion will coo incessantly, a leopard will change its spots, their horned tails, hanging limply on their heads, worms the size of trees, with gnarled boughs, will build mounds, the size of hills, the moon will come out at noon, this she told us, but the trance wore off, the rivers still flowed.

Taita Falcon above the Zambezi A taita falcon, driven by hunger, or the scenic beauty, from its hidden perch, spreads its expansive wings, it scans the numerous landmarks, the smoking thundering waterfalls, in their fives, in their tens, whose puffs turn from snow white, to rainbow and leafy green, an awesomeness, distracts it from prey-hunting, she cannot keep this to herself, weighed down with heaviness, the herald had to be shared, down to our meeting she came, but being cantankerous and  haughty, much like an attention seeking turkey, many a fragile limbs and tails, were stepped on, in telling this intelligent story of awe, pride and vanity masked, the beautiful scenic narratives, that were it not for toe-stepping, our reactions would not be biased, negatively and ire-filled, for the tale of the waterfalls, in their fives, in their tens, thick puffs of smoke, with thunderous rebounds, is one we loved to listen to, t

Last laugh walking at a brisk pace, another wayfarer, equally purposed, bumps into me, we exchange, our sorrys, at the same brisk pace, this time on a less, traveled street, below so many storeys, where homes are, warm and cozy, a mis-hapen flower-pot, relieved of its place, perhaps by a kick or broom, almost landed on my head, what a fright it caused, then, where this street, touches another, someone, probably in the night's quiet, had felt it right, and left a dump, to whom it may concern, at a brisk pace, my foot, almost stepped, right into it, side-stepping, only to step, in vomit and urine, I recalled, an African saw, about the rats and mice, and how, they have the last laugh, for in paring off, where they nibble, at a potato,  yam, bread, we,  humans, then eat, what part, we think, is not, defiled, by them, for,  it is their way, to sit,  on the food, they nibble,  bite

Love for Animals We give them names, especially those we tame, not to say we neglect, those with fangs and mane, the ones, we cuddle and pet, the ones, we let, in our homes, and beds, these are the ones, I am referring to, pet pet-names, mutt, mastiff, canine, husky, the list, goes on, and why, if not, companionship, fellowship, play-mates, security, and, love for animals.

Star Spangled banner in spring This balmy spring, Once again a welcome moment, swans swimming in the pond, the woodpecker bang, bang, bang. An occasional clear sky, The sun a fiery globe, A puddle here and there, The snow giving up its horde. The banner on a lofty perch, Spread fully by a blowing wind, Dotted glimmering glint, Of random stars and stripes.

Modelling for an art club Life’s broad strokes; reveal forms of outlines, a web of patterns, a pastel finally charted, a spot here, a daub, profusion makes the lot. A form still and statuesque, painters’ hands recreating, Swish, swash goes a crayon, rapid brushes of an outline. In ordered rows sit the painters; much like the symphony playing the water music, The Princeton Art Society goes about their trade, The still model calmly sits through the bidding. Shrill, shrill goes the timer. It is the sixth break, ‘Oh! Wow! That is the smiling mood.’ This is how it is; if we only take the time, a painting with the right mix comes out.