ugandabeinsanfrancisco

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.

Haloed Identity When my arm stretches, let it linger as it reaches, let it touch what it craves, let it grasp what it loves. Like the croon of a male dove, the coquettish side steps of a doe, in a courtship dance, whose inevitability is a twosome. A sameness out of longing, a oneness fully consummated, a privacy uninterrupted, a closeness never intruded. I wake up to whirring noise, sometimes loud and distant, my present and past, all a blur transfigured in a poise. Inner self meets reality, as long as I expect pity, a halo over identity, a life on the sand dunes of integrity! Ashore go the pebbles, the raging sea in me stirs, like the uprising of fiery rebels, ceaseless and forever restless.