in the end

there is no grand end.
no, the birds would not cease
their songs; neither
would the wind delay its travel. we
have no grand end,
dust to dust, flesh to rot,
such is the end
of all men, women too,
with nothing grand about the end.

when flesh finds its rot
and the end has come and gone,
a new life becomes
or death returns
a relentless tormentor,
a choice* all yours.
there’s nothing grand about the end,
it is that life after that sparkles
with grandness that has no end.

*The Holy Bible John 3:16


ilé là wá nlọ,
ilé, ilé

but do you not wonder,
n’íbo n’ilé wà?”
as all men sing the tune,

ilé là wá nlọ,
  ilé, ilé”,

with suitcases that bear gold coins
and a sofa, a suit and a garage
of metal beings that hum,

ilé là wá nlọ,
  ilé, ilé”,

on the trek to that small country
(the strongest of them!) whose anthem
(and all who live there still sing),

ilé là wá nlọ,
ilé, ilé,

makes you wonder,
n’íbo n’ilé wà?”,
only you must not still the song,

ilé là wá nlọ,
ilé, ilé

A Pantoum of Heaven

Many tales tell, that
dead men bear no guilt,
with the poise of a full moon lazing on a dreamy lake;
but if heaven is a place for angels,

dead men wear their guilt
as skies bear up weary clouds.
Perhaps heaven is a place for damned men,
dead men ransomed from their end in graves.

Knowing skies tear up our doubts
and we will perhaps find that heaven is no place for men,
dead or alive, men all the same,
all bear guilt.

Maybe heaven is not a place,
but a way, a heart full of love.
All those who know their guilt
plead that heaven be a place for them.

we run

for Dylan
and then for Kanyin

we run on roads that travel
thro’ hearts cheering with fervour.

we run on ways more scarlet
than the colours of Bandiera ta’ Malta.

we run on days drizzly cold,
days that linger through English Summers.

we run with feet untamed
we run with mates unnamed.

we run,

really, we only run on the good ol’ runes
that the stars live upon.

the charm in names

Maybe the charm in names
is that they are given you
by folks who’ve known you
less than one luscious dance
of the earth around the sky god.

The charm in names
is that they never leave
you, loyal friends
in dread or days of
smiles and tingly pleasure.

The charm in names must be
that they define you: never
have I met a blonde Ginger or
quiet Talky Terry. Names settle on you
like the morning dew on my glass pane.

Names. The charm in names, is the charming
whisper from a lover. He speaks her name;
it so deliciously rolls off his tongue,
slowly, sweetly, like dusk lazily sways
off the day to reveal the sun at last.

I’ll never know the charm in names
‘cause I’ve never had a second go by
without mine. It calls out to me always,
softly, violently, sometimes lost
in between without a charm.