A DREAMER’S MIND

I see a mountain
In the distance
A mysterious mind
Over matter
The birds that circle its heights
Like higher thoughts
That hover above a dreamer’s mind
Seeking to make contact
For oft the thoughts we think
And think are ours
Are borrowed
Upon a lazy afternoon, somewhere
In Creation.

A child sits somewhere unseen
Locked in an old body
Each time it smiles
Rainbows and rainbows of new thoughts
Surge out, unite, swing forth, to go seek out
Like-minded wonderers dreaming lazily
Upon a quiet moment, somewhere
In Creation
Blindly receiving the seeds of new thoughts
And thinking the thoughts they think
Are theirs alone
As if the mind of a dreamer
Were not a fertile garden too.

– che chidi chukwumerije.

HARD TO GRASP

ONCE UPON a time, a man woke up and gazed upon a thought hanging in the air above his bed.

And the longer he looked at it, the more it confused him. And when he looked away, he forgot it.

Through the day it disturbed him, a memory he was trying to remember, but could not remember what he was trying to remember. But this he remembered: I am not who I think I am.

So this thought – I am not who I think I am – stayed with him for many hours, each as long as a decade, as he tried to fathom its meaning. Verily, it became his very name. His very aim.

Many hearts. In which one lies the answer? So he broke them open and left them behind, ravaged, the sought unfound.

He is written about in the books of men. His character has been copied and reproduced in stories down the ages – the raging, ravaging beast that consumes hearts and upturns nations. In truth he is a tireless seeker, and always giving. In shrouded truth. Love and peace cloaked in battle and tears. Shredding hearts to pieces with merciless thirst. How many times has he altered history, chasing the mirror? Thus has his troublesome picture been painted before him repeatedly. Thus too does he see himself, hours later.

But all I want is to find the key. Burning Flame, you are not who you THINK you are. This thought nags in him. Remember.

I am a warrior. No.

I am a lover. No.

You are a bridge. Just be.

Just be.

There! There it is again, the morning-thought, hanging once more in the sky above his mind. Hard to grasp:

Just be.

– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.

THOUGHTS OF FREEDOM

Bottling up the thoughts
Will not get rid of them
Yet speaking them all too soon
Is folly…

In the depth of silence
Assuming silence to be a lake
There is a cave
Wherein it glows like
Happiness

Bury your thoughts quietly within this
Cave of silent happiness

And no matter how rough a storm it be
That rocks the lake…
When all is calm again
Your thoughts
Will emerge matured and multiplied
And urge you
Urge you to set them free…

– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.

IMAGINATION

image

They were not decorations on our wall
We were shadows on theirs
Flickering like candle thoughts
Gathering, falling and dispersing
Like broods of clouds
When we stand across the divide
Looking at each other, it’s hard to tell
Who is real
And who is the figment of whose imagination.

Writer, did you write your book
Or did your book write you?
Artist, did you paint that look
In the eye of the portrait watching you
Or are you just a thought in its mind?
If you look, sometimes you will find
That the musician is the instrument
And the song is the conductor of his movement.

And when an architect erects a building
He is only doing so to house therein his restless feelings.

– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.

I SAW LONELINESS

I saw loneliness tonight – she
Was sitting in the corner, in her fifties
Smoking a cigarette and watching
Laughter dancing on the young dancefloor.
For a while, her husband sat next to her
And she smiled and joked with him and
His friends. When they left to get a drink
She sat quietly in her thoughts and
As her eyes roved quietly over the
Dancefloor, our eyes met. And then I saw
Loneliness.

– CHE CHIDI CHUKWUMERIJE.