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Ruddapoet

Audios, Poetry

DOWNLOAD super muri quod rimas (on a wall that cracks)

Born Rudolph Adidi, an Architect/Spoken word poet. He gets personal with this upshot release using a Latin title ‘Super Muri Quod Rimas’ which means ‘on a wall that cracks’ as his guide in creating a conceptual album that is chock-full of bruised sentiments and sincerity. This continues from his previous album ‘Handwriting’ with works like ‘Limbo’ whose rewards are numerous with theatrical production by producer Greal supporting his deep content. ‘BREATHe’ innates the heartache in him to be free like a flowing river. ‘This is how you Love a Metaphor’ make a good run of highlights bringing into limelight a deep yet soul singer Fania. While you look out for that, be sure to know that The Red Cap Poet said his ‘LAST WORD (ultimas palabra)’ that describes the state of the nation (you didn’t think he wouldn’t talk about his country, do you?)

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Poetry

ORACLE (a sketchy February)

Oracle
I am not your pain
I am not your silence
break forth from where there’s stain
take off all of these hurting absence.
Clasp your hands, chant it from your mind
I, who knows will of course fix your kind.

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Poetry

SPACE (a sketchy February)

There’s a meeting ongoing with time,
It has an ounce of pain itching
in attendance along with the heart.
Sometimes it gulps misplaced priorities
like promises of metal painted gold.
Time claims to heal but for now it hurts.

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Uncategorized

LEGS (a sketchy February)

No one is going to tell you where,
not the sound calling you.
You’re always in a hurry
to take the iris to somewhere thin,
some place safe to see a sin.
I am tired of running
running from a broken mind,
running from a healing scar.
I am tired of running to find pain

Poetry

SLOW (a sketchy February)

Nobody told me about all these
the stretching of the sun
the peeling off the night,
the steadiness of a silent morning,
the cold whimpers of a sad moon
the healing of a broken heart
all of these are in the bus of slow.

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Poetry

PROFILE (a sketchy February)

Tell me again, what have you said about me?
Did you say I was the son of the sun?
I can hurt like your words,
I can even cry louder than your attention.
Today I met some of you
in a bottle, in a plate, in a mixture of juice and gin.
I can’t tell you that really defines me,
for all I did was love you out of love,
I cared like a Wednesday,
I endured you naively,
with truths that had no tribal marks.
This is who I am,
a black boy who learnt the truth only later,
who can fly
with his wings tied to his chest.
It is who I am.