GEORGE THE TIRED POET

  (Ode to Esther. 9th, October) In the golden hues of this month's love, A special day dawns, decorated with grace. Happy birthday, October Bae, This is a tribute to love on this joyous day. Like autumn leaves that sway softly, Your spirit shines so radiant. Pookie my heart ignites, With love and warmth. May your journey be blessed with happiness, A life adorned with bright moments. On this special day, I celebrate you, Esther, you are so vibrant and true. Happy birthday, dear Esther,  With unfurled love, You are gift to cherish, The sweetest in the world. © George William Ochago.  @George The Tired Poet.  2023. #poeticsundays  #HappyBirthdayOctoberBae.

(My Verses Of Liberation) Grief beneath, a burden so bulky, Brooding wounds that cuts so heavily, Tears that flow like an endless river, A pain that seems to last for generations. My heart that was once whole and pure, Now shattered and broken, unsure, Of how to bear this weight of sorrow, Of how to face the coming elections. Memories that once brought joy, Now haunt and torment like a cruel ploy, Reminding me of what's lost and gone, Leaving my soul so alone. Yet even in the depths of pain, A ray of hope remains, That shines amidst the night, Guiding us in a new daylight. For in the midst of grief and woe, Our God of comfort and love will show, A Route to healing and restoration, A way to peace and liberation. So let us not give up our faith, But trust in Him, who conquered death, For He will lift us up and carry, Through every sorrow, every worry. And though the grief may never fully cease, We'll find strength in His hand of peace, And know that even in the darkes

(My Verses Of Liberation) Livity is I spirituality Hona an respect tuh Jah Loyalty fi I  an I inna all aspects wah mi preach. Livity di word I preach Nuh cum fi free. Wi need fi practice unity Charity an Spiritual Prosperity. I am sorry, For my Caribbean accent, But how do you feel, When you are shooting at peaceful protesters? How do you feel when when you arrest writers? Those were the questions, I was asking the Ugandan militants, What they forgot is the Pen lives for eternity. That's why I preach livity. © George William Ochago.  @George The Tired Poet.  2023.

(My Love Diaries) Yesterday, My Mom came in my Room,  She sat on my bad. I was busy busy writing down my poem, I, was busy writing what concerns everyone, I was writing about 'The Mourning'. She said, "Son, I know I have failed you several times, I know, I didn't have time for you, I know I didn't give you a heart of a mother to call home And you, you found Peace in your pens and papers.  But I am not here for that, I am here to Educate you on Sex and Marriage. I am here to tell you, When you marry, Marry a woman you love and she loves you back the same way. She should have good behaviour. That kind of woman who will have time for her kids". I stopped my mom, I said, "Mom, If, only  If I marry, I would burst in the room, Strip naked and have sex with my wife Just like in the movies. I would take her on a Missionary journey  Giving our children a perfect inception.  I would have sex with her twice every morning, I would"... "Son!"

📷 Meya Ukasha Shot it. (Ode to Brave Poets) My name is Ochago,  I am a Ugandan Poet, I am a tall poet. I am not a slam poet, I am a brave poet. I don't write short poems or whole poems, I write brave poems. I am a poet, I don't write love poems or sad poems. I am not a mad poet. But I write late night poems. I is not a political poet, I write poems that speak my mind. Poems that make me feel I mind, Because every poet doesn't mind, About what is on ground.  I write poems for tall Poets, Who write short poems, I write for short Poets  Who write short poems Because they fear their own poems.  I am not an aggressive Poet, Though I am a brutally Honest Poet, I am not a scared poet, I am a worried poet- Worried about people who can't write a brave poem. I am just a poet, Too tired watching people suffer from the pains They can't run away from. The pain inflicted by the people in governance. That's why I is a Tired Poet. © George William Ochago.  @George

  📷 istock Photos. (Why Men Cry) I cried for love, For the women who broke my heart Because I failed to keep them happy.  I cried for my mother, For giving me birth, I cried for my aunt,  For showing me life, A life you live when you lose a loved one. Aunt Rest In Eternal Freedom.  I cried for Poets, Poets who can't write about change. I cried for Slam poets, Poets who write poems to create change. I cried for other poets, Poets who write poems that choke them. I cried for my Future Wife, Because she will birth me children,  Children who will suffer paying debts they didn't eat their money. I cried for my unborn children,  Because their mother  Will birth them without a warning of how hard Uganda is. I cried for Ugandans, Ugandans in Uganda and Those in Abu Dhabi,  China, Russia and South Africa.  I cried for Ugandans, Ugandans in debt, Ugandans who are living but dead, Dead because they can't afford a meal. I cried for students,  Students who are studying over

📷 Meya Ukasha (Why Men Cry) To be a man, Kila mtu anadhani hauumi, When they see you cry, They think it is a lie- Because you are a man. You must not show that you are hurt, Because Wanaume hawajui maumivu ni nini,  They have never known how labour pain is- For that is what real pain is. To be a man, You are an abuser when you beat a woman, When she beats you- she's emancipating. She's defending herself from the 'beasts' men are. Woman can seduce you and it is normal,  When you seduce a woman, You are a rapist- A man with no dignity. In fact you are just a shameless brat with no brains.  To be a man, You cry or you don't cry, You are still a liar, you lie. You lie even when you are about to die, To die from the pain you can't comply. To be a man, You have to feel shame for what happened to you,  You have to be a criminal when you are a victim, You will be charged for victimizing a woman who made you victim. That's why I am here talking to men, W

📷 Cool Simon Photography.  Model : George The Tired Poet  (My Liberation Verses). Rest In Peace Papa, I am sorry I messed up,  But I have come here  To tell you a story. Yesterday, a whiteman came my way. He said he was from Norway. He asked me dozens of Stupid Questions, Because he found me sad, He said, "Why is every Ugandan wearing a long face?". I told him, "there is nothing to smile about. Come and take a walk with me". Stupid as he was, he came and I took him everywhere.  I took him to the streets, showed him the 'street kids' As the world calls them. I asked him, "Is there any thing to smile about?". He said, No. I took him to the hospital, Showed him every unit, I again asked him, "Is there any thing to smile about?" He said, "No". I took him around the roads, And asked him, "Is there anything to smile about?" The fool said No. Daddy,  I am sorry.  I took him home. I showed him Mom and my little si

📷 Annie Spratt (Why Men Cry) Where did truth Melt to, Where did true love go, Where did compassion migrate  to, Where did real feelings get asylum from. I remember the those days when we had true love. Mother would sit us together, Make us sing Church hymns, Practice drama and poetry.  The days, long before, I had fooled my thoughts. I neglected what Mama said to me. She spoke in poetry. Mama said, "My son, true love can't be found unless you are bound". The consonants in her verses told it right- And I was wrong. Who Melted the truth? Who told them, not to love one alone. Because I see many big men cry. Mama said, truth lived in the 80's . Now, my brothers crying,  Others are dying- For truth has been Melt.  Where did truth Melt to, Where did true love go, Where did compassion migrate  to, Where did real feelings get asylum from. © George William Ochago.  @George The Tired Poet.  2023. #poeticsundays.

📷 George Shots. Model: George The Tired Poet. (Love Diaries) Yesterday, I sat close to my mother's sick bed, She was breathing like a dying horse. Her groans would make you throw away your heart, She would make you think she's dying already. Yesterday, as I sat close to my mother's sick bed, I felt death around my veins, Then I heard her whisper, "My son, are you there?". Yesterday, as I sat close to my mother's sick bed, She whispered to me, She said, I need true and pure love. Mama said, I shouldn't play with people's daughters, It is not right. She said, I should fall for when I am ready. For my heart is so delicate to be hurt. Yesterday, as I sat close to my mother's sick bed, Mama said, I shouldn't rush,   Because I will crush. She said, bruises in the heart can't heal, Once patched- it will never. Mama said, Mummy's boy like me need a true and a faithful woman.  Yesterday, I sat close to my mother's sick bed, She

📷 Prisma a la Vista ( Rhapsody Of Love) You always spoke ill of me, The ‘title’ was always about breaking up, You spoke of it in ‘syntax’, And that made me understand the ‘subject’. You hissed creating strange ‘onomatopoeia’, The ‘repetition’ of your hisses, Created ‘a symbol’ of hatred And you used the right ‘diction’ to hurt me. You made me realize that hatred was the ‘subject matter’, Your statements created ‘rhythm’ and ‘rhyme’ Around my medulla oblongata And I didn't notice any ‘irony’. You made me love your ‘style’ Because you were too ‘audible’, It forced me to fetch negative ‘feelings’ And ‘mood’ because of your language. You became ‘rhetorical’ Because you knew everything. You made a fool of me And took my everything. You made me wish worse for you- Because you always created ‘stanzas’ of tears Down my cheeks whenever I grieved, I always failed to service my thoughts. Your rhythmic voice of ‘criticism’- Always blaming me, Made me think I am an ‘opportunist’- A

📷 Carol Beckwith & Angela Fisher. Once upon a time in Africa, There lived her children in peace, They conducted everything at ease. Their children inter-married with ease. Once upon a time in Africa, There came a white explorer, Discovering her and her children. He even named and renamed her property after his Kings. Once upon a time in Africa, There came a white missionary, He preached about heaven- making Africa desert her shrines. He even denied Africa polygamy and her practices. Once upon a time in Africa,  There came a white governor, He called African houses colonies. He even called her children subjects. Once upon a time in Africa, There came a white trade man, He bought and sold everything he pleased. He even sold African children for gold and other metal. If it wasn't because of the explorer, The missionary wouldn't have come to deceive Africa to love her neighbour as herself- For Africa left her children go into slavery in fear of hurting her neighbou

📷 Sibusiso Dhlongolo  (My Love Diaries) Dear Future Wife, let's escape from them, From the judgments and expectations that condemn. Let's break free from society's confining wall, And build a world where our love stands tall. In this realm of freedom, we'll find solace and peace, Where our love flourishes and never ready to cease. No longer bound by societal norms and rules, We will create our own path, where love reigns as fuel. Let's run away to a place of pure bliss, Where our hearts are free to dance and kiss. In a sanctuary of love, we'll find our retreat, And in each other's arms, we'll find love complete. Together, my love, we'll face any storm, With unwavering support, keeping each other warm. No matter the challenges that come our way, Our love will guide us, come what may. We'll explore uncharted territories holding each one's hand, Discovering new wonders across the land. In this adventure, our souls will combine, Crea