Poems by Nancy Ndeke

COWARD OF THE CITY

His front is his back,
His yes is his no,
Thinkers and plotters he pays,
Killers and ‘stealers’ he pays,
His backbone is jelly,
His heart is moss,
And his mind is a graveyard.
Dressed in apparent wellness,
He knows to punish the weak,
And assault the strong.
His god is green, often gold,
His love is like snow on naked feet.
Owing royalty to none but self,
A train of dismembered hope,
Trails his shadow,
A man truly unrepentant,
Unrecognizable as human,
Neither a beast,
His ways totally devoted to self.
He is the ultimate wild fire,
Dead to pity or empathy.

THIS GAME IS NOT NEW

Of sowing discord via bought royalty,
In bed, foe dishes endearments,
Fancy tokens of sugar coated revenge,
An old script of splintering scheme’s,
Cracks encouraged and mistrust awarded,
Retirement means going home, and chickens know the drill,
Of wreck and havoc,
Of a pied piper calling shots,
Wasps and red ants spewing balderdash mayhem upon it’s own,
Watch the cracks elongate
exposing the core to carrion birds and jackals,
Once a lady of elevated kindness and beauty of soul,
Now, a rotting plank of pitiable wood,
There is nothing civil about civil war,
Notoriety and dictatorships are a caravan of death and humongous suffering.
Look yourself in the eye and perhaps?
Light may guide this leaking ship to a safe shore.