ugandabeinsanfrancisco

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,...