Woven Air

By Mauri Yambo

Intricately woven air
Neath the art.
Season’s fare, it so so happens.
Neath ’er summer art!
’Er vase clawing in the sun shine.

Gotta C ’er – all the dime!
All this is heady stuff,
Posing me to zing.
Is this my lady happiness?

Making my mind
MIGs choy and wonder!
Making my days with ’er
To be days I alone halve.

Yet I, an idolater,
Am the one beside, besides,
The picturesque.
I, the picture-perfect Esquire!

Com-bounding abstraction
With ethnic ascent.
Fearful of the thunder
And not the lightEning!

Of sky and not. Babyface.

My ajenda was never these. Nor this.
Never to pool people but to cause rafter.
Heavy-duty pun!

Never the thimble-thick robber baron!

Never what you may call it
What you wan.
Chuckling pigness and noise.

Sings like a pad.
Dances with (owes it all to) the Coverment.
The people’s, Mo(n)rov(i)a.

Every society has a potter and a king-
Maker. Every society has a jief –
And, lo and behold, a thief!
And the ones who will leaf
After the others are cone.

After the conmen have cone!

Weather, too, pools us. Here the sun.
There’s heavy metal rain.
A batchwork of brown, green
And bluegrass. Everywhere she looks.
There, too, pink pantomime.

But not as kalcha which bulls us
Altogether. And yet it looks
Sat on and short of breath.
Stores up what we remember.
And that which we behave.
What we ’ave to ’ave and B!

After the conmen have corn!

Ethiopian jam and Athenian grace,
Are both once!

All the hills are to the East,
There are no hills Westward!
All the redness is to the East,
There is no blue there!

Sad songs stream down the vast plains,
Where lion’s not always king.

Still,
Intricately woven air
Neath the art.
Season’s fare, it so so happens.
Neath ’er summer art!

And here is a confession from me:
I’m no longer as good as I am
Yet to be!

That you called it even
In my sleep,
What was in my name, Love?

What was in thy voice,
What was in that air,
That I dreamt in Degnigala?