Death Is Calling —
Three poems from Mooch Simon on political decay, persistent depression and dead dreams.
Death is calling
and yet you summoned me
to clean your earthly dirts.
I am already ahead of you,
one foot in hell and another on earth.
I recall going to war of survival
with my kinsmen,
friends, strangers and enemies
trying to make life___
But we got smacked in our faces and got scattered.
I could not remember who ran where.
So, I spent decades waiting,
waiting and waiting
for them to come back
but when the world went cold,
moon disappeared
and the sun gone,
I realized they were all dead.
You ended them just like you did to their fathers
and those before them.
I am not scared,
and I am not moved
when you say you are going to kill me
because I started dying a long time ago.
Every birthday increases my speed to the grave.
No one will rot alive
So, when I am gone today I will leave the door wide open for you to pass through.
When the time that birthed your strength,
your magic and your power dies,
the faces of the people you are forcing us to forget will come to see you,
and when they do,
you will be crowned in fears.
Every mark of terror, agony and pain you inflicted on them will come roaring like thunder and hunting you like a hungry lion.
They will watch you bleed and
leave your lifeless body to the divine.
You held my ancestors,
pushed them down the mountains,
hanged them on the trees
and now your map is drawn to me
and probably the unborn too
who will emerge many moons, many seasons,
many leagues and many years from now.
Before I die,
I will continue to speak in the old tongues of the earth and the new.
I will blend in the old ways and the new
I will shout to the ears of the living
and scream to the ears of the dead
and if they don’t hear me,
I will speak in the tongue of soil.
I will continue to expose you to lightning
I will expose your lifestyle and your hideouts.
So, Mr. Depression,
If you see me die, it is not your work, it is death calling.
One More Rain
I need one more rain
to run bare-chested,
pushing my car tyre throughout
the neighborhood on these muddy roads.
I want to dance to the canorous music of the falling drops from capacious clouds.
I just want to sit
with my laps paraded
on the soft soil
as I bedraggle my belesprits.
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I need one more sleep,
a sleep that will reborn
my caterwaul on which keenly
I looked at life with prognostications.
Oh the dream!
How could I forget those intricated dreams?
I want to sleep like a mother
who has dethroned the labour pain during birth.
I just want one more sleep__
to sleep like a man who has
lent his_awake to Jesus who was buried.
For he, Jesus, needed to be awake
to preach the gospel, baptism, and repentance
to the dead people
for three days.
I want to listen one more time
to the dulcet from the bird
as they cat-walk in the smile of the cool air.
I will switch off loquacious radio
which voices so loud, effusive politicians.
I am eager to listen to
soothed stories whispered
by the winds_ oh those untold stories.
The stories of insects,
that of flowers_I really want to know
why humans love flowers,
and that of water fall too.
I need to know what agreement
water falls had with the mother earth.
I need to listen to those stories_those untold stories.
I want to seat on top of Mountain Imatong
as I gaze at the dying sun_seen from her
yellowish eye from empyreal blue sky.
I need to see how her day come to ash.
Beside her death,
I need to hear from her own mouth_
why she burnt our neighbor’s crops at the epoch of planting?
How she felt being
the undertaker of our
neighbor’s_daughter’s dream
of going to school after the harvest.
I want one more night to jazz with the ancestors.
A night on an esoteric bed with a woman,
one more night with a calabash of wine,
One more meal,
one night to wander in the old paths of
“Tong, Mach-Deng, and Akuak”
my home villages,
and one last night at the kraal_listening
to the mooing cows as my days go back to the soil.
THEIR DREAMS
On
grey day,
you stood up
and spoke with
heavenly wisdom
igniting the restoration
of lost hope, and mending
the broken hearts. The
hearts of those life is trying to erase.
You twisted
them to
embrace their
dreams.
Dreams they have
crossed seas and
oceans to nostos
and with wishes
to testify it.
But they huffed fugaciously after they woke up.
You spoke to them
in the old tongue
of truth and they
had reasons to live
among slighted
impurities of life,
one more time.
That podium was pleased for you to have
stood on it. You made it believed too.
But you were noetically never attached to
either your sweet tongue or your words.
Your kakistocracy burnt their dreams to cold ashes without fire.
The
dream of
being educated,
being secured,
and being great.
Wielded lies,
told about their future and their imagination had it figured out but not their eyes.
All along you had their hope
glued to emptiness.
With their women dying
while giving birth in the maternal hospitals.
They never step their feet in their lands.
The whole village dies in the wait of your promised services,
and now you have come to ask them for votes.
What votes?
What votes?
What votes, mister?
