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NANCY NDEKE
Nacionalidad:
Kenya
E-mail:
nandeke63@gmail.com
Pertenece a la Directiva
Biografia

NANCY NDEKE

NATIONAL SECRETARY

Is a widely published poet of international acclaim. Her writings and poetry are featured in several collections, anthologies and publications around the globe including the American magazine WILD FIRE, SAVE AFRICA ANTHOLOGY, WORLD FEDERATION OF POETS IN MEXOCI CITY. SHE IS A RESIDENT CONTRIBUTOR OF THE BRAVE VOICES POETRY JOURNAL .Ndeke is an international poet with her own books and collections under her creative belt.

NANCY NDEKE

NANCY NDEKE – Secretaria Nacional es un poeta ampliamente publicado de aclamación internacional. Sus escritos y poesía se presentan en varias colecciones, antologías y publicaciones en todo el mundo, incluyendo la revista americana WILD FIRE, SAVE AFRICA ANTHOLOGY, Federación Mundial de poetas en la ciudad de MEXOCI. ES UNA COLABORADORA RESIDENTE DE LA REVISTA DE POESÍA BRAVE VOICES. Ndeke es un poeta internacional con sus propios libros y colecciones bajo su cinturón creativo.

 

THE END IN THE BEGINNING


A mouth kiss of a month,
One more illusion,
To enable beliefs and practices,
We fool ourselves,
And call pranks and cerebration of spring rains,
Farmers on bent backs,
Fondling the earth with a mating dance,
Hope and mist rise in spirals,
Season greetings of assumed newness,
While really,
Time stands still and watches man March from March,
To an assumed name and assumed territory,
All so virtual but Powerful enough in our minds,
March with your puns and pains intended or accidental,
Your case is closed by April green and festivals of lambs and hope,
A land resurrecting and being born again in the spirit of light and truth,
Sombre music to welcome the opening of graves to greet eternity in flesh,
Ordinary men are raised to claim a portion of heavens legacy through belief,
Good bye March with your merciless visitation of fires and cyclones that weeps the lands,. Welcome the rains of re-birth and renewal,
And in it,
Let's count hope for all lifers,
In the spirit of the season.
Walking the road of life,
For the moments that we can.
Happy new month folks.

 

SPEED OF COLR ON FEATHERED HANDS


Brushing tauntingly,
The dewy dreams roused from the slumber of a million pasts,
Speed of color on feathered breath,
Baking raisins on the patched lips of a doves mate,
From shadows to hues to full blown pregnancy of lights,
Where except for the sailing ship of home bound sparrow,
The heart of an historian bears much luggage by way of details,
Of what's coming back as all things must do,. To draw attention at the folly of living by social wisdom's of cultural strut quests,
Speedily down the colorless river of emotional imbalances,
Wishing at eventide that,
Tine wasn't allowed such an extravagant hand,. In enslaving the free with fetters of do's and don'ts,
All geared to stonewall and barricade the spirit true,
From the warmth of colors free and gallant In flower,
As rusted trust and busted lust triumph over beauty of truth and love.

 

TIME


Stood still while men raced,
The still sun and the tall son,
Staring contest of who will blink first,
The mind of a man is a complete universe,
The universe is more than a man,
Man,
Who imitates God and thinks he knows HIS mind,
Yet his own is garden weed grown waist high,
Only knowing a little of very little,
Except tittles and colors of superior race,
He has gifted himself to the brim and overflowing with ego,
To show off he wages war,
To be feared he kills the kids,
To be respected he mows the elders,
To be avoided he rapes the land,
To be honored he rewards murderers,
That's he,
Who denounces deity and appoints himself,
That's he,
Who prays at noon and preys on the weak at night,
That's he,
Whose life he has understood not,
Refusing to acknowledge the footsteps from the graves of his forbearers,
He is you in your silence,
He is you in your assumed piety,
He is you in your aloof attitude,
Loving yourself separateness,
In class structure and caste belongingness,
Yet,
In that private room,
Is the stench not as foul?
In the locked room,
Is procreation more pronounced?
In your last breath,
Is your eminent leave not with a pang of guilty?
Come on man!
Be man enough in unknowing fellow men,
Non is higher than other except in kindly Acts.

 

 

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