How do you redress a murder?

We bury the man

And bid him farewell

And Rest In Peace. 

We shake our head

At the injustice of it all

We call on heaven to witness

On the sun shining still to witness

And the earth that inherits the remains

To witness

We bid him farewell

With his dreams undone

With his next plans undone

We tell those crying

To bear the loss

That the loss is lost

The loss of his booming voice

The loss of his infectious humor

Let them bear the present

And then we go  away

And the sun comes out 

And the sun goes down on his witnessing rounds

The earth brings out new shoots 

And heaven still covers the murderer and the grave

He cannot call from beyond

To tell his wife

What lunch he wants for the day

He cannot take the stone out

Of the boys shoe

He cannot trade anymore

And heaven wets the earth and the grave

We may remember at his anniversary

Or name a building or two

Or make a procession or two

We may pay a sum

Or burn a house

We may even jail some 

and execute another

But the dead are dead

That which is done cannot be undone

He shakes his head sadly

as he retreats into the shadows

and asks no one in particular

How do you redress a murder?

Happiness is a moments job

You can hear the two little fairies on your shoulder

One with his cape and timbre

Skipping the ropes in rhythm with your pulse

Pointing out the laughter before you miss them

Picking up the stones after they hit you.

You ask him what is so funny

And he points to everything

And says the sun is shining

And laughs again.

In a moment 

You laugh with him,

And he laughs even more

His skipping adding zest to your step

And now your smile adds to his and makes a shield 

That catches the stones before they hit you. 

His magic wand draws sparkles in the air

Burning off the putrefaction before you breathe.

He waves the wands around and about

Cindering the mud before they stick to your jacket,

Patching the holes before they fray. 

You want to dance to his impish tune

Even though you can’t hear the beat.

When you ask him for his fee

He looks at you in wonder,

Happiness, he says, is a moments job. 

If I sat down by the crack

If I sat down

By the crack in the wall,

Where the ants scurry out from,

If I put my ears low enough in their path

Would I hear what they say?

If I strain hard enough

Would I hear them complain of the price of the crumbs 

Or the scarcity of sugary treats?

Would they be quarreling about which faction has more members

Or whose castle rises highest?

Will I discover

Why they are so earnest in their scurry

Or anything else they do?

May be I should shrink to their size

And walk among them like a European explorer, 

With a hat and boots made to size.

If I match their scurry in earnest

And drag my share of the bread crump,

If I lead them to my kitchen,

Underneath the cabinets where I keep my syrup 

If I get them to hurry up

Would they have time to check my color

Or the shape of my head?

Would they see my disguise or would they climb into the syrup

If I now march with them, 

Laden with bread and syrup

With urgency and direction 

Will they now lead me to the nest?

Will they?

Will they make me king or a sacrifice?

If I become their king

And sit on their throne

Would I remember the route back to the cabinet 

Under the kitchen

Would I remember the magic words to inflate my head

Inflate my head back into the cap I left on the door handle. 

Would they know that I came or that I left?

Would they?

If they tie me up on their altar

Would I feel like the messiah atoning for their sins

Would I sneeze and burst their nest with my head returning to size?

If I sat down beside the crack in the wall

Watching the ants pass by

Would they know what I am thinking?

Morning comes early now

Morning comes early now

Without tip toes or slow swings of the brush 

that clears the cobwebs ensnaring the brain

Morning now comes with a sudden rush

Of a bright day streaming in

Startling our spirit neighbors just about to settle for a feast.

The caution to open an eye 

And spy the dove stretching in the dew

Is lost in the shock of time and schedules set by machines and monsters

Morning comes early now without warning

Before the cockerel has cleared his throat to announce the day

Before the love has drained her languidity. 

The start is not waiting for the end to begin

The flywheel is now rolling the spinner.

Morning comes too early now. 

Time just aged

Time just sat there

By the sidewalk watching

As the paint peeled from the wall

And the weariness weighed on the souls. 

Time just sat there

Looking through the window

Taking in the parade of colors fading in succession

Voices losing their timbre 

Growls cracking into whimpers. 

Time stood with a pipe in hand

Seeing the leaves fall, dry and turn to ashes

Beneath the heavy footsteps that soon lightened to the whisper of ghosts

Time stood there

And watched them come and go

Dance and die

Leave their marks or mark their leave

Time didn’t pass, he just aged. 

1 pandemic

10 tested

100 dead

1000 hospitalized

10000 symptomatic

100000 asymptomatic  

10000 discharged

1 index case

100 contacts

1000 contacts traced

10000 quarantined

100000 in isolation

10000 released

1000 under further observation

100 ventilators

1000 ICU beds

10000 masks

100000 PPE

10000 dead nurses

1000 dead doctors

14 day lock down

30 day restriction

60 day shelter in place

90 day emergency

120 day we don’t know when

1000 steps in place

10 mile run in place

50 smiles

1000 twitter posts

10000 hours instagram live

100000 netflix binge

10000 nollywood stares

10 air quality index

30 percent seismic quiet

50 percent turbidity clarity

1 pandemic

The end should wait

The earth won’t end yet

While there are stories to be told

And crowds to hear them

And marvel at the beauty of the words

And the complexity of their logic 

Well laid out like the serpent swallowing her tail.

How will the earth end

When karma has not visited

Nor revenge served cold

And the oppressed had their turn at the whip and the golden chariots?

The time will come,

But not now.

The prophet’s new gown is still in storage

The palliatives promised are still promised

Dollars are still precious 

And the vaults still host peelings from other backs. 

Yes

The end will come

But not yet.