Seasons come and seasons go. None is first and none is last, for they come and go in their mild and in their harsh, as a loose fitting circle, which is reflective of the daily striving continuous spiral spin that rotates round and round. The timeless survey of natural logic doesn’t give it stature, even if it identifies a form for it, because no single day start a season or indeed end one, no matter how melodramatic it turns out to be. Season build gradually into what it must be.

On different occasions, with one glorious dawn or a hideous evening; with a frightening spectacle shrouding the day, one season melts into a void that cocoons into a state of anticipation and sense. One season would caterpillar about in lethargic walking days, then it timely folds in the secrecy of yet another. Suddenly it flies out in beautiful open splendor, with its refreshing breath of colour and life. In between is a mingled confusion of silent insolent void that is none but yet both.

Monarch butterfly
Life feels like it is indeed a continuous spade of senses and seasons


Cold, harsh and hard winter.
As skins feel and muster,
The senses repel this monster.

Water, green and breed spring.
As tongues taste and sing,
The senses eat everything.

Warm, lazy but busy summer.
As eyes see and shimmer,
The senses ponder in wonder.

Windy, dry and dead autumn.
As ears hear and minds fathom,
The senses prepare the burial drum.

the poet in the poet - Copy
The Poet in the Poem

Who’s That Little Mouse?

Lovely piece

Satori Circle | Art & Culture

BlogImage - SatoriCircleDotCom - November 28 2015b“Who’s That Little Mouse?”  |  Anthony Satori

(Me up at does)

— a poem by E. E. Cummings

“Me up at does

out of the floor

quietly Stare

a poisoned mouse

still who alive

is asking What

have i done that

You wouldn’t have”

Although quite poignant, I’ve always appreciated this poem by E. E. Cummings.  I think it is a fine example of his remarkable economy of language, his touching sense of empathy, and his unmistakable signature style: a seemingly mixed-up, punctuation-free stagger of words which, upon closer inspection, actually turns out to be a carefully constructed poetic flow of thoughts and ideas.  Like a lot of great art, Cummings’ poetry isn’t spoon-fed to the viewer.  It requires effort and attention.  But, in the end, it is always worth the journey.

Quite fortunately, the little mouse in the image above was destined for a more happy fate than the mouse…

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Today Valetta – Malta, Ridicule is strengthening its state of being.

Very Well SAID…. Sir

HD Prose

Today, a summit – between EU and African Union member states, to curb African migration to Europe is a bad joke perfectly formulated – but barely audible for people dying to hear something funny.

Because Europe’s migration problem is not Africa but he Middle East, it is a joke. This Valetta gathering is a perfect case of railroading European public opinion; a public willing to welcome today, but wants a clear answer for the long term – an answer they know that their leaders do not have. While unwelcoming committees will become stronger, in the street and the ballot box, welcoming committees will disband to vote against that very which they supported.

Europe’s welcoming committee is not that of humanitarian spine, but of moral obligation. Given the uncertain state of affairs, here in Europe and everywhere else, no country can claim the ability to manage millions of unbudgeted complex needs…

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Stories are teachers, they are molded to have an impact on young lives. They register morals that impart on character and norms. If they give off a trace of the forbidden in fair light, then culture and its future may suffer for it.

As the young grow, their paws seek everything. Their teeth playfully bite the soft or the hard with innocence and very little comprehension. They attempt to caress fire until it burns them.

Everything is attractive to their naïve and simple curiosity.
Don’t you wish you could be young again?








You are only young once,
Blossomed to take your chance;
To scent the world’s spring
With the fruit kinds you bring.


Impressive piece

Richtig Haus

We are making the wampum, my son
Like our grandfathers did
History woven through connection
Of minds and fabrics
And fabrics of minds
The world of the people
In an offering of peace

We are making the future, my son
Like our grandchildren will do
Offering our blood
Our land for our rights
Slowly and brutally stripped
We make the wampum to fight
Desperate to save the blood
That our stories might be told
Through the repugnant white noise
That has infected our home

A thousand generations pass
of a people from out of the ground
We are the winds it seems
We are the threads
In our voices we hold the past
like our grandfathers did
so much tradition, my son!
So much blood
In this white noise
We will struggle to breathe
To live as we have endeavoured not
To die as we have endeavoured not

But the…

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Nigeria is a Fever


“Through eventful years the sticks ever pile,
Hopes with the trunk that vomits emptiness.”

The recent loudly revisited agitation for a Biafran state from Nigeria calls for another look at my poem “Fever” and excerpts from my Fever Series (Books I-V), where I told a somewhat fictional historical tale of the Nigerian state. I am currently rewriting the series and almost done.

the poet in the poet - Copy
The poem
The Poet in the Poem


Through eventful years the sticks ever pile,
Hopes with the trunk that vomits emptiness.
The mighty broom swept so long a mile,
Still dirt abounds as its proud fruitfulness.
Mourning tears leave this feeling of numbness.

Eras of evolution has not changed the egg,
The needs of man same and ever will be so.
Maybe a broom will kill lizards on a clay keg
And not break it too like the stick did before.
In this concoction only soluble particles’ temperatures soar.

Promise of the lands are all pointing,
Yet the future is hot food in the mouth.
Bodies buried and alive, had and are, waited and waiting,
For the joy in swallowing and satisfaction they sought.
Over hard filled years waiters without appetite rot.

The dogs in this story are the traitorous pigs,
Their patriotism is fake like sweeping grains with a rake.
Locusts that plunder the field leaving tiny dry twigs,
Their determined whispers stir reasoning ideally fake;
These dishonourable gentle heads that ache.

The locusts ate the grains, the rake wasted the rest.
The broom was left so little in its fold.
In this farm, pigs serve dogs for it’s their best.
The egg will likely shatter in hands that shouldn’t hold.
They chest indifferently the agony of the rest in the cold

Excerpts from Fever Series Books I
“Through eventful years the sticks of time ever pile, just like the people, what they represent and what represents them. The people have become a loose fitting collection that isn’t a strapped up and bonded broom, just like their land that is rich and rife with such inspirational promise.

“Nigerians are willing to be bonded up as one unit but they couldn’t possibly give an ear to the assumed wisdom in the words and experiences of their past. The people have since learnt the hard way that the sweets they have are actually sour and the sour taste is soon made bitter by their refusal to swallow their constant rejection of dependence on any sort of bonding.

“Though Nigerians are reflectively one and their historical past the same, the people can only remonstrate together over trivial issues, reminiscent of their ancestors and their quaint past that they endlessly repeat in their infantile present.”

fever 1

Fever: The Origins of Fever (Book I)

Fever: Rising Temperature of Fever (Book II)

Fever: The Appetite of Fever (Book III)

Fever: Gentle Aching Fever (Book IV)

Fever: The Coldness of Fever (Book V)


Cool Poem….


Adrienne Rich, poet, writes of her polarities
in a poem called Integrity.
“Anger and tenderness: my selves.
And now I can believe they breathe in me
as angels, not polarities.”

My polarities will not talk,
they’re like a stubborn Congress
at odds, arms folded, looking outward
with staunch backs.
My polarities are anima and animus,
male and female, Independent Spirit
and Romantic.
The Independent One fights for freedom,
suspicious of men, untrusting, protective.
Her adversary, the Romantic,
bows before her lover in
sweetness and benediction: his goddess,
his whore.

Oh, these two give me fits with their
contrariness, the one sabotages the other
in spite and desperation.
And I, the tired referee, who just wants
peace and a man whom I can love without
all their drama.
Adrienne is lucky. Where are my angels?

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