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Poetry

Sings Like a Crested Crane

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Poetry

Beautiful she- mysterious she!

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Beautiful she- mysterious she;

Poem-Beautiful-she-mysterious-she

the beautiful she; that I adore,with lovely skin, nails and hair,

I love her smile and her addiction;

but I’m yet to learn more about her!

Every moment that passes, I’m astounded;

I’m left caught by self thinking and asking;

could she be mine for real or I’m just among them;

but that time will tell; I can only let time be my witness.

She cries and you cry but only from the inside of your heart,

her tears you rush to wipe

letting none fall on the earth;

cause just one raises a storm among the dust.

So we struggle to keep up the joyful appearance

as the princess and queen to be should not be seen hurting;

her smile must be sustained and her peace must be prolonged;

but most of all her heart full of happiness.

Simple as she is she says that she loves me;

words I find hard to confess; cause they behold great aura,

such aura with a mystery pending divine assistance,

that one may need to consult the gods so as to decifer.

Beautiful she- mysterious she;

it’s my cupid letter and I’m running out of ink;

words I may not say will be said in and by  love;

sorry if I fail to say them-it’s because I feel numb each time I perceive.

Beautiful she- mysterious she- beneficiary of my love,

I confess that I am numb with love;

so if I fail to profess my love,  please condemn me not;

as I’m only taking precautions; lest this love take me astray;

Beautiful she- mysterious she;

I shall stand like a man of valour and confess

that you are a beauty among many;

and that I admit.

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Poetry

Delighted Waitress

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 2015-04-18 19.09.44Delighted waitress, Keen to please, She’s not a dream but real, and ready to serve I behold and observe her from but a distance.

She walks in and works And walks out when done working She stands and waits on the diners Serving them delicacies and wines Some French and Swiss

She serves wine never tasted by her Wine only known by name to her One wonders whether she would ever taste such Sweet wine, dry wine all alike Some south African, carribean, Ugandan- all alike.

She holds the glasses atop on her tray Having wiped them too clean enough to glitter Behold, I saw the reflection of the chef on one Ready to serve that sweet or dry wine; Could this bottle be from the prairies or it’s Russian?

She is neat and keen to please She listens out well to her clients Customers set to dine and feast at her master’s estate She takes orders and seeks not to meadour She listens well cut to the teeth, is she Italian?

The tip or the tip; That is the delight for her day She serves all day well counting points Weighing and waiting well on how much she is to earn So she serves them with a smile, Could she be Ugandan?                                                                                                                             I guess so For she is happy, warm and welcoming.

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Poetry

Bellows of dust

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Photo credit: The East African

Photo credit: The East African

So we walk the town

And streets of Kampala

Innocent and hopeful

But strong

Hoping that the rain will grace the morning

But calmly like the sweetness of the morning dew.

I pull out my one and only pair of black shoes left

To grace the diplomatic look I have

Of tie on long sleeve and trouser

And brown envelopes to carry around town

Did I mention that I’m a job hawker

Walking from street to street in search for job!?

So we walk and walk the whole of town

And grace the streets of Kampala

Innocent and Hopeful

But strong

Hoping that the rain will grace the morning

But calmly like the sweetness of the morning dew

Our shoes wear out in desperation

As they search and persist to find our diplomatic destiny

The soles bow to one side as they breath in and out

In the heat and cold of day

But at the overhead sunshine, they issue bellows of dust

As there is no more morning dew to tame the dust.

So we walk and walk as the sun grills us in unison

We sweat salt as and breath in the days dust

As our shoes exchange dust as well for oxygen

A dusty long sleeve with tie and trouser we attain

But we keep hoping not forgetting

That our hopeful shoes are issuing bellows of dust.

Strong and hopeful we remain amidst the bellows of dust

Hoping that one day we will get a breakthrough.

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