The Great Auction

There is a great auction that runs day and night. Where bidders are a ruthless lot thick of hide, a shameless cover for an almost sooting conscience. For this floor is not the realm of patience.

Bang bang the hammer goes and every second a victim falls. To every soul the auctioneer calls. Some to buy and many to sell. For a few pennies a story will tell and for a little change the mighty fall.

Cling cling the bell taps foul to tally up a balance sheet of souls. Clunk clunk goes the carrion fowls. Theirs is a harvest from all directions four. In their wake empty shells crawl and howl.

Clunk clunk the crutches go marching on to that great auction floor. The shrills and cries soon will go when  those few quarters melt with the sunrise glow. In that great chariot see them go.

Bang bang, cling cling, chunk  chunk, ching ching those pennies fall.
A dime here, some pence there and some cents there Before long that hideous hammer falls - "sold!"

On that great train one more soul hauled.
"What good is it if a man gains the whole world, yet forfeit his soul"
From times of old the same story told

Bang bang, clunk clunk, ching ching with eyes red and sore. That great auction floor yearning for more.

Photo cred: https://www.westpac.co.nz

By Simbarashe McNorris Hakata

The Makings of Her

Serenity- it's the assurance my mind has,
the endurance of her companionship and faithfulness. The providence of heaven,
a safe haven for my heart and conscience.
The potency of how her mind speaks to mine.
Knowing truly that she is mine.
Beauty so divine, together grafted to the Vine.
She brings with her sanity and serenity

Madness- it's the uncertainty my mind has,
the craziness of her company and character.
The fulness of joy and  blessing,
sadness she lifts from a burdened soul.
The cogency of how her roar echoes with mine. Congenial souls whipping up a storm.
Strength divine, siamese branches of the Vine.
Fine granules of madness.

Love- it's the undeniable beating of my heart,
the yearning for her faithful friendship.
A burning gift of heaven,
the fiery learning of my heart and soul.
The cadency of her heart beating with mine.
With God to intertwine.
Hues of beauty divine, forever co-heirs in the Vine.
A cord of three in Love.

These are the makings of her,
Today the beginnings of her
serenity, madness and love.u

[Photo cred: unknown please dm for credit]

By Simbarashe McNorris Hakata

Enmity: The Cry Of A Nation

photo cred: Derek Atkinson 22

Vile creatures who are not even accountable to their own conscience. Put a mirror in front of them to reflect and mend their ways and they descend into narcissism , dazzled and enchanted by their own fangs and the only reflection they make is on the strength of their own poison, their backs turned away from reason.

A viperous brood without any semblance of a moral compass, sucking the life out of my nation while they frantically dance in an orgy with the devil. Crowded on my beloved country's jugular vein like leeches. How can we speak of reforms when corruption is their very nature and has encrusted around their cold hearts forming the reptilian scales that cover them.

For them to thrive the nation has to bleed even those just trying to survive. And for those that survive dark untold horrors lodge in their minds. Such broken spirits who can revive? These vile creatures have cast a shadow over a once beautiful princess and a mother. What language will appeal to such brute beasts who shun the light for theirs is the darkness.

(She is dying, my nation is dying!) Look how those hyenas laugh behind their high walls of wealth and power, the very gains of robbing my people of their future and hope.
(Maybe she is dead because I feel no pulse) Everything has become so lifeless...And decay reigns in the streets where her children lie.
(God will she ever live?) surely these dry bones can live again by your will.

The cries of her children go before the LORD as they cry in their anger and frustrations, constantly and fiercely consuming them. Resort not to the native language of these vipers, the language of blood. For they eagerly yearn for that retort to finally have an excuse to make my Nation their natural habitat and justify their sickening and shameless ways.

Vile creatures depart! depart I say! and let my nation live again in the fullness of her beauty for even as you strangle her, her beauty refuses to die, the hope and light of my people.
Surely these dry bones WILL LIVE AGAIN...

by Simbarashe McNorris Hakata

The pursuit of a woman's thighs. . .

Photo cred: Ideas for summer legs https://www.pinterest.com

The pursuit of a woman's thighs has too many a time multiplied the ways in which a man can die from a bullet in the head, the anguish of disease right down to the slow and painful death by poverty.

photo cred: www.wikipedia.com/Helen of troy miniseries

Fewer wars would have been fought in the past, fewer graves dug but each day a new pair is born and in days to come to ensnare the brute that lacks wisdom.

One pair suffices for each man yet the ways of the world are ridiculous and yet full of tears if not blood. Between love and lust even surgeons have often failed to cut the two asunder.

The warmth they bring is like the warmth of strong liquor, robbing a man of sound judgement and when sober brings the full reality of actions done in the pursuit of a woman's thighs.

Photo cred: Ideas worth sharing https://www.pinterest.com

They said do not drink and drive but more dangerous was the pair exposed to the driver who when his mouth had drooled and laid his hands on it, got intoxicated that he lost the wheel of his very on life in the pursuit of a woman's thighs.

Here is wisdom for the young lad and the grey haired whose eye lingers as they seductively walk past him. If you would know greatness, keep a pair for yourself alone like Solomon said let it be that well that satisfies you alone. For it is not a pair you should seek but a heart in which God delights to dwell in.

And so it goes in the pursuit of a woman's thighs keeping the grave diggers quite busy indeed yet the same can be said of the pursuit of a man's wallet for there lies many graves indeed as well.

A penny for my thoughts and a copper for my advice if at all you see it's worth. 

by Simbarashe McNorris Hakata