Poems by Nancy Ndeke

Poems by Nancy Ndeke
Even the most schooled of the lot,
Intellectuals may miss the turn,
Even the most meticulous of them,
Not a baby in speechless giggles,
Or an elder waiting for leave,
For in that place where light lives,
A guarantee does reside,
Of best intentions and saintly take of right,
Dispelling wants for what they are,
Insatiable stack of goals of vapor value,
One succeeding the next leaving us hollow,
Needs on the other hand has a satiate spell,
Like food and a roof over the head,
Taking breath and exhaling it,
It’s the rhythm of life rich,
To hoard none more than sufficient,
The world spins control-less,
With the charlatans of champion mongers,
Deprivation then knows arrival,
Impoverishing most but for few.
A dark side indeed resides in each of us,
And only each may reach that internal switch,
The lessons of all graves marked and unmarked,
Tell of the folly of ways of flesh.
To the last grain and spill of soup,
Academics and research of trains and transformations,
From tadpoles to Lucy’s ancestral four legged walks,
To penance to gods with more needs than man,
To policy, ideology and boundaries littered with bloody paths,
Simple left with the caveman and knowledge of quantum gentlemen,
Inheritors of quirky scheme’s we manufacture burdens to overload,
Then have the nerve to throw stones at emerging cultures,
That centers on ‘ whorism’ and masochistic bravadoes,
Again and again entertainment seeks euphoria,
Again and again we thud down the muddy fates we create,
For as children of order and love besides the pain of hunting it,
We have sunk daily into the miasma of worms,
Blindly enveloped into smoky empirical shenanigans,
Too wise by half and too holy by a quarter,
We are clearing ourselves and forwarding hope to a pit.
That we know and opt for silence,
Is the more tragic of being thinking beings.
Is stuff of heroes and men of kindly gestures,
Reaching beyond endurance, often losing own breath,
Another lot does compare,
Of spirit and light to teach,
But one in an arena of own,
Cheered on by jittery leeches,
Hangs on a disinfected cow like a foolish bug,
Drawing ire and gawky laughter from stupefied bystanders,
The end beckons with a full cup of tears,
Amidst plots in dark pots of avengers,
Stretching the limit has it’s limits too,
It takes raw wisdom born of history,
To aside step and watch the moves of a story,
Beyond there, jest is a fanatical juice served to a dying horse,
Tumble will do the thumps up and dribble down the gaping mouth.
Theatrics of a clown long lost on new moves,
A classical gist of tales for many centuries to come,
On how not to stretch for selfish gains.
©Nancy Ndeke

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