Red Ink in two parts – or freedom when it comes – or North Korea

I.

A guy was sent from East Germany to work in Siberia.

He knew his mail would be read by censors, so he told his friends,
Lets establish a code.

If the letter you get from me is written in blue ink,
it is true what I say,

if it is written in red ink,
it is false.

After a month his friends got the first letter.

It says, this letter: Everything is wonderful here,
Stores are full of good food,

Movie theaters show good films from the west,
Apartments are large and luxurious but,

The only thing you can not buy is,
Red ink.

This is how we live.

We have all the freedoms we want,
But what we are missing is red ink -

- the language to articulate our non-freedom.

II.

So then I was moved.

The pink and yellow bundle in the mothers arms,

-cut from cold, barren concrete
wind howling, lamp flickering-

Three figures pushing through the city snow,

Husband and Wife and finally mother,
Cradling newborn,
United in Seoul.

Frost on every breath,
A tight escape.

Soup will beckon around the table because,
Mother knows the pain of birth.

The raft did not fail this time and she came in a,
Yellow scarf,

Happy to learn the new ways,
Of feeding children soup.

 

♦picture – Googe image at HeadScarves – Out and About Africa and Best of U fashions

evocative short poetry – words move

Some things can’t be covered

Ad Campaign, King Khalid Foundation/Memac
Ogilvy from Philanthropy Age

You meet your match in a lover

 

Flame.

It has spread from Uterus to Pelvis,
Knee to Throat,

You meet your lover in a match.

You argue over the movies he selects,
Can not stand the way he drags his,

Builders boots,
Across the carpet.

The cancer has spread,
And you can not share the medicine,

Anymore.

Some say you meet your lover,
When you have something to learn.

They say, they appear at just the right moment,
Lovers,

But my lover is dying,
You meet your lover in a match.

 

♦picture – webstockpro.com♦

evocative short poetry – words move

Take me to your Leader

 

They talk a lot of rubbish.

They don’t clear the streets quick enough when it snows,
And get out of hand if you are not in it.

Short, fat, bald, and smoking a pipe,
Under a street lamp,

After-hours,
They lie.

I wear orange trousers and plastic,
Blue glasses,

And I think I have the answers to poor
Rubbish collection.

The Indian before me has,
Wooden beads around his neck,

And thick toes
Sticking out from open leather sandals.

The other has greasy hair,
Dark skin,
And is very hairy,
In a turban.

They may have better ideas.

Devolve yourself,
From yourself,
To lead.

None of them are women.

 

♦picture – smiling indian man at agefotostock♦

evocative short poetry – words move

A robot for the elderly

 

so much to remember…

Francis I think his name was-
-is my grandson,

But I left my glasses on the library
table and,

the lady,
Jennifer,

says I’ve been stealing books.

So my son bought me a robot to help out -
- daughter says he’s left me with an aluminium problem.

Least he did something, I said.

We didn’t talk much longer -
- bad connection.

Robot knows about my tax evasion,
Conviction but,

Doesn’t hurt me when we arm-wrestle.

Anyway, daughter is here now,
Came to take over -

- whispered something in my robots’ ear,
and now he stands quiet in the closet.

The heist is still on.

Only now they want my,
robots’ memory,

And I need him.

I’m not a thief.
I just forget sometimes.

It’s either the old people’s home,

or the
next
big
heist
but,

Robot no longer remembers,

So sometimes,
My children come to visit.

 

♦picture – German Poster for the movie Robot & Frank – at IMDB♦

evocative short poetry – words move

Could you love Frankenstein?

 

Back when valuables were,
Sealed,

In polythene bags and,
Kept at bottoms of freezers,

So that after burglars had upended the,
Drawers downstairs,

-thieves whose parents you know from down the street,
boys much nicer when they were,
young enough to enjoy,
their birthday parties with,
parents in dracula costume,
too expensive for household budgets,
but bought anyway-

You only lost what you could afford.

Alsatians die too early.

Actually,
Pets die too early.

Tea-cup terriers,
Handbag sized pals,

Great Danes that look like,
Cows,

And are good fun provided you have the acreage,

Friends all,

Chosen by sloppy licks when puppies or,
Fully grown from the Blue Cross Rescue down the road,

Pets die too early.

And would you zap your lover if you could?
Is Frankenstein a horror film?

 

picture – Corbis Images, Juan Medina for Reuters

evocative short poetry – words move

I’d like a BMW or a Yorkshire Terrier

 

I’d like a BMW,

With leather seats,
And seat-belts for my Yorkshire Terrier.

A Bugatti is impractical.

I would like a Mercedes,
-a CLS-

The CLA is a bit too small.

I’d like a Volkswagen,
With alloy wheels,

Perhaps,
Satellite Aided Transmission.

I’d like some justice with my land rent,
And slippers for my feet.

 

♦picture – Design Context♦
inspired by a conversation between long time friends – Yvonne Perfect Bowes & Simon C. Bayley

evocative short poetry – words move

So, health

 

And so, health.

And the discussion with mum’s friend,
Who has survived beyond her,

Turns to the evolution of mattresses,

Goose down,
Luxurious but bad for your back,

Foam,

Sometimes current but initially,
Uncomfortable,

Has silver hair that frames,
Her ice blue eyes perfectly,

And deep wrinkles around her mouth,
That light any room she’s in.

Ripe fruit can be determined by the smell of it.

A mango,
At the right time,

Will flood a kitchen with aromas that colour,
The entire home,

Dispersed into cupboards and,
Dispensed across living room sofas,

They can make you forget what you are doing as you,
Iron sheets,

Raising smiles in every nook and cranny…

If we live long enough,
Aliens may come with fruits,

That excite Amygdalas,
And titilate glands,

Caressing more than nasal passages,
Creating new sensations.

Out walking this morning,
Healthy and feeling good,

I remembered my sister and her fight with cancer,

And the frustration she expressed,
Not with the pain,

But with the body that would not allow her,
To spend time the way she wanted,

Time with her mother,
Her lover,
Her brother…

Out walking I was thinking,
A million dollars can change everything,

I feel now though that,
I’d be happier with health.

So.
Health.

♦picture – Eartha Kitt, Wikipedia♦

evocative short poetry – words move

On dodging bullets

 

You’re in the hands of the driver or the pilot,
And when you crash,

You hope you selected the right seat,
Left of the drunk man who at least,
Had the gall to exclaim,

“…moving too fast!…”

The film matrix changed how we view accidents.

So much so that,
In slow motion,
Survival is possible with the right moves.

In real life where you sit does not make a difference,
In a crash.

The loud drunk man to the left,
Was right.

 

♦picture – The Nation, Kenya♦

evocative short poetry – words move

United Nations Environment Program

 

My father was a man,
Fighting for butterflies,
In a world telling him,
It is not a mans job.

I have wondered why the shame,
Of a son,

Loving another,

Would be so painful.
So, he loved butterflies.

And fresians,
And chameleons,

And frogs,
And bees,

And turtles and wheat and water,

Long before the world would understand,
That dolphins cannot run the earth.

Today, he would be a cool man,
As though he already wasn’t.

 

♦picture - favelas in Rio♦

evocative short poetry – words move