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Aylan


The sea spat out a dead boy;
Images of him, peaceful as can be,
Spread faster that the fires engulfing the evergreen pines of Damascus,
He, was far from home.

The sea spat out a dead boy;
The bile laced tears of his father
Poisoning Poseidon's supper
Till he retched him onto the shores of our conscience.

The sea spat out a dead boy;
Images of him
Haunt this writer's restless dreams
But he's selfish for making this about him.

The sea spat out a dead boy;
Punctuating our morbid obsession
with the scandalous lives of the idle rich,
Tickling artists and poets
Because, inspiration scavenges on tragedy.

The sea spat out a dead boy:
And politicians, men of religion
On grandiose stages,
in verbose speeches,
Said, "Never again",
Just like that other time.

The sea spat out a dead boy:
Images of him wrenching from the subconscious,
Images of another child stalked by Death himself.
What happened to that child anyway?

The sea spat out a dead boy:
His soul joining a host of children at the shores of our conscience,
Calling...

But we can't be bothered,
Till the next of image of dying children interrupts our mundane lives, again.







*****September 6, 2015*****







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That's how we are made.
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Bats at 37

When bats at 37 take to flight, At a quarter past four Or, whatever time Accra heralds the night,

When bats at 37 take to flight, For me, there's not a more beautiful sight Of creatures, imagined or real, That lay claim to these glorious skies.

When bats at 37 take to flight, With fevered screeches that punctuate the night When by sheer numbers they darken the skies And, below, people of a superstitious disposition Can not be bothered, I am reminded that, Given enough time all things cease to be strange.

When bats at 37 take to flight, Devoid of vibrant plumes unlike most things that fly, Rising like Legion and the hordes of hell, In defiance of extermination attempts, Above the Hospital in elusive figurativeness, Haphazardly, in sync, over constipated traffic There is not a doubt who owns the peppered night.

When bats at 37 take to flight;

Finding God

The inexplicable
Is proof there's a God.

This, for me,
Is where doubt began.
For if we know today
More than we did yesterday
Then, God is
a constantly contracting chamber of ignorance.

Now if it is so
And God is the Lord of gaps
Then men of religion
May be forgiven
For their unrelenting battle
Against knowledge;
The God Killer.

But if God is
the beginning of wisdom
And his people perish
For lack of knowledge
And if we know today
More than we did yesterday

Then it stands to reason
That the God to believe in
Is an ever-expanding explosion of knowledge.

I have no faith
In the God of gaps
For God must be Omniscient
And ignorance is not
This, for me, is where doubt ends.

*****April 22, 2017*****