Notnice Poet

19/11/2025

Moonlight in
My Village.🌙❤️

Beneath the sky so w i d e and deep,
where stars like cattle softly sleep,
I see her walk by river’s side,
her beauty calm, her steps in pride.

Her voice, the song the evening keeps,
it stirs the dust, it wakes the deeps;
the drums fall silent, hearts arise,
to hear her laughter kiss the skies.

O daughter of the shining plain,
your love runs through my heart like rain;
your smile — the dawn my soul has sought,
your eyes — the peace my fathers taught.

I bring no gold, no foreign tune,
but milk and faith beneath the moon;
my hands are rough, my words are few,
but every breath still calls for you.

When morning fires begin to glow,
I’ll watch your shadow come and go;
and whisper low, where spirits dwell,

> “My love is yours, and all is well.”

---

Lit. Notnice Poet.🥀

19/11/2025

When You Spoke
My Name🥰

When you spoke my name so slow,
The moon forgot its silver glow.
The stars leaned close, they seemed to hear,
The music soft within my ear. 🌙

Your smile — it blooms, my sweetest art,
A garden grown inside my heart.
Your eyes, two worlds of tender flame,
They burn my soul yet heal the same. 💫

Each touch, a poem — soft and true,
Each word, a dream that points to you.
The wind repeats what hearts confess,
That love was born from your caress. 🌹

If fate should fade or time should fall,
I’d still remember it all in all.
For love like ours defies all pain —
It blooms in loss, it thrives in rain. ❤️

---

Lit. Notnice Poet.

18/11/2025

“Sons of the Plains”

We are the sons of the WIDE horizon,
where the sun wakes upon the cattle horns,
and the wind carries the song of warriors
through grasslands older than memory.

Our spears once danced with thunder,
our hearts stood unbroken in the storm.
We feared no hunger, no wound, no war —
for courage is the milk we drink.

The firelight speaks our stories,
names whispered like sacred drums:
Ajuoi, Deng, Bol, Maker —
each name a river f l o w i n g through time.

We walk with pride, not pride of gold,
but pride of people and purpose.
Our wealth breathes — it moos, it grazes,
our cattle are our crowns.

The land remembers our footsteps,
our songs echo in the bones of the earth.
We are Dinka — tall as hope,
STRONG as the faith of our fathers.

And when the night grows DEEP and QUIET,
we raise our hands to the stars and say:

> “May our children never bow to fear,
may our courage never fade with the moon.”

---
All rights reserved!

✍️Lit. Angok Ajuoi Angok.

(From the Streaming Library of Mighty Dinka Literature)

— a praise to the sons of the plains, the keepers of cattle, and the warriors of tradition.

17/11/2025

“Rise, Mighty Soul”

When storms arrive and skies turn gray,
Don’t bow your head or run away.
For deep inside, a fire burns bright,
Guiding your spirit through darkest night.

The world may push, the world may test,
But iron hearts don’t ever rest.
Each scar you earn becomes your crown,
Each fall you take builds strength renowned.

Stand proud, young dreamer, lift your eyes,
Beyond the pain, your future lies.
Great trees once danced in winds so strong,
Yet rooted deep, they stood lifelong.

So rise, my brother, rise again,
Through trials, loss, and hidden pain.
Your destiny’s flame shall never fall—
For God and courage conquer all.

By Lit. Notnice🥀

24/10/2025

07/10/2025

In✍️This✍️Magazine.✍️

He's out,
so she stout.
now she's out,
she think, “suppose he snout.”

So long it makes sense;
that makes cents.
From where I belong,
to where I long to be.

She wasn't happy.
unruly! how be?
Strange and hubby!
A line of latitude for hobby!

Picking on my pride for a dinner,
So was my D in her.
She fell in love with an electrician &
everyone was shocked.

On me, she's Crushing.
Cannot C, only rushing.
And now my heart's tickling @ all her gazing as in she's my article in this magazine.
✍️
✍️
🌻Notnice✍️poeT🥀
🥀All rights✍️reserveD.🌻
🌻Mon, oct, 6✍️202V.🥀

21/09/2025

“There is no man that hath power over the spirit to retain the spirit; neither hath he power in the day of death: and there is no discharge in that war; neither shall wickedness deliver those that are given to it.”

Ecclesiastes: 8 : 8 ...✍️ 🙏

18/09/2025

As long it make sense,
that makes cent.
GM🤝🥰

10/09/2025

Gd🥀🛌❣️Nt👋

08/09/2025

“‘A’ apart from part becomes ‘a part.’
And if you're asked,
‘what might it be a part of!’
Explain why
all together is written separately,
and separately written altogether?
You must be c a r e f u l oya!
Story of: apart means separate from a part.”

08/09/2025

WE'RE SO BUSY PERFORMING
WHAT WE'RE NOT,
WE FORGET HOW TO BE.

Alcoholism is not romantic.
But it became a trope
for inspiration for many writers.
Sadly, it takes more than it g i v e s -

If you need to be drunk to write good poetry, you’re not a poet you’re an alcoholic.
There is nothing like the justification
of an alcoholic.
When you live to drink,
the whole world’s a bottle.

Buying a thing that later sells you out,
you must do more than to have been born.
When the bush is on fire the chameleon must abandon the walking style of his ancestors.

I think many poets when in a complete state of consciousness saw the reality and rawness of life beyond the perception of the majority. Their creativity did not come from booze or drugs, but rather an awakened mind.
Their indulgence was a temporary escape from their over awareness. Nowadays,
most minds are conditioned to think in a certain way, therefore, creativity suffers.

Stephen King wrote ‘Cujo’
while deep in the hold of alcoholism..doesn't even remember writing a lot of it.
Honestly, I don't think the bottle has as much influence over the writing than does the troubled soul.

“Here lies Hampshire grenadier,
Who caught his death
Drinking small cold beer”
- an epitaph on a tombstone

Jack Kerouac choking to death
on his own blood due to a hemorrhaging esophagus brought about by acute alcoholism. How romantic!

If you have lived with an alcoholic who has slowly drunk themselves to death you will know that there is nothing poetic about it.
✍️
✍️
NotNice🥀
Mon, Sept, 08, 2025.