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Poetry


Click to read: Poet's Reflection: The Philosophical Refugee
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An Orphan On Your Roof

There’s a giant, red knife in your hand
But your heart has become even sharper
There’s a dark cloud gathered over your house
And your eyes are filled with vengeful darkness
Listen to me my angry brother!
At the edge of the precipice we stand
Will your red knife, vengeful eye save us?
Raise not your red knife, my brother
There’s a homeless, orphan above your hut
Tiny, hungry, hopeless and out of school
Ask her why she’s cold and alone!
Your dad knows what happened to her mother
Your uncle knows what happened to her father
Your brother knows what happened to her sister
Your cousin knows what happened to her little brother
Listen to me my angry brother
Raise not your red, knife my brother
That tiny little girl over your roof…
Look into her eyes…do you see vengeance?
Big, white forgiving eyes in forgiving awe
She’s all alone but hates no one…
She’s hungry, thirsty and cold but remains quiet
Listen to me my angry brother
She’d be the first to go by your red knife
Look at her tiny frame, my brother
Search your frame for the slightest humanity
Pinch yourself to know that I’m right
Is she your pawn or didn’t u know she’s there?
Listen to me my brother
You’re red-eyed, angry…
But do you know you can as well smile…?
Fake it my brother and see her smile
That skeleton can smile, my angry brother…
Put your red knife down and see…
To just see the orphan on your roof

Copyright 2016 Kuirthiy

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 For all the ones in love

Mrs. and Mr. Love, the anonymous!
You've always whistled, passed by and
I laughed, happy at the songs you both
Sang at Christmas as you put up
Neon lights and the Christmas tree.
I've always shelved my curious concerns.

You've always dressed in that velvet
Top barely reaching your belly, tight jeans
That I guess demanded your time and
Calories. Mr. Love always loved that.

You've always watched her bare belly
Button, infatuated by that pink ribbon
That always governed her wild hair.
Her boss at McDonalds always
Wondered about the feel of her hair.
What a schmuck!

Your neighbours have always cautioned
Me against the songs that eased
The tough out of my summer school.
I guess they were right...only for that
Stupid pink ribbon...and...and that
Velvet top.

The concerns I shelved behind the songs
Have gone bad as the cabinet onto which
I'd condemned them stinks with the
Mockery of your neighbours.

Young Sarah laughed at me last night
As I unconsciously sang one of your


Wedding songs. She was sitting on her
Grandpa’s house threshold. She always loved
That old, green Ford truck I drive to the farm.
But now young Sarah smiles, but shakes her
Head.

Mrs. Jones, with her white coffee cup, orange
Gum and brown teeth, told me young Sarah
Now sees Santa’s belief written all over me.
I still believe in Santa I guess.
She's just ten, you know...

Mrs. love, I guess Shaggy was right.
You must be god, the care, your quiddity (loveliness)
Kept me going. But are you real? Do you even exist?
Perhaps anti-your-existence fellows are right?
Stupid me believes in Santa! Should I
Even doubt your existence?

Mr. love, I guess Carlin was right.
No women gods can create a universe
As unprincipled as this tired and miserable
One. You must be a man to create
Such a darn universe.

So, now, Mrs. and Mr. love, even
If I still believe in Santa, I've drunk
That colorless enlightenment liquid
Called scepticism. Now I say:
Love the apparition come…
The invisible, touchless force.

From "Exegesis of Despotism" (2012, 2015)

Click to buy on Exegesis of Despotism on Amazon


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Death of Intellect

When wonders end
Will we be sane?
When tragedy strikes
Opportunism spikes
I have reasons to be awed and teary-eyed
We’ve self-stupefied eating our French fries
Men have scaled off their good essence
Vengeance has become good pretense
The wisdom of yesteryears is crucified
‘I don’t care!’ has birthed a load satisfied
Hidden imbecility is hiding no more
Ancestral goodness now of useless mores
Self-sacrifice has become a Facebook dare
Young, educated warriors fooled to stare
Tragedies celebrated in reptiles’ orbs
Allegiance dreads the dirty switch
Tomorrow concerns are left for the witch
Who cares about it anyway?
Death of intellect all the way
Interest has transcended integrity
Jealousy has become the celebrity
Ask me why I shouldn’t weep
Jonglei has become the fools’ arena
Unity is obliterated as if the panacea
Upper Nile is a jittery leverage
Tell me where intellect lives in average?
Who cares about intellect when death floats?
Who cares about integrity when interest stops?
The wise have become the don’t-care fools
The tragic result of years spent in school
Will it only be an imbecility hangover?
What a quick and sad turnover
Death of the mother and child is tragic
Death of grandma and grandpa makes us sick
And death of intellect is a disaster in the making
Death of intellect is ready to destroy…
South Sudan; the tragedy; the fools play toy!

From "Twilight Murders" (2016)

Click to buy  Twilight Murders on Amazon

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