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

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

 

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

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

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

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,

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

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

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

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

It’s a revolt.
A revolution.

And in the name of God, they are building
Schools,

And delivering doctors,
Door to door.

They are conveying the message that,
People care,

And no one is forgotten.

Assistance is distributed fairly but cameras,
In some areas,

Are not welcome.

Someone hoists a burning American Flag that,
Must be made from something other than cloth,

Because it melts,
And the smoke is acrid,

And the sputtering fireballs,
Showering the crowd below,

Will scar beyond repair.

The woman who does not want to talk about it,
Has been warned.

Allah,
She has been told,

Is everything,
And so, she must shut up.

And Tunisia, and Egypt, and Syria, and Libya,
Will have to keep hoping,

That Allah,
Is not a man in uniform,

Revolting.

♦picture – Radu Sighet for REUTERS♦

evocative short poetry – words move

Jesus was always in a hijab.

Love is not a thing that we can take lightly,
Just because it’s in all the books.

The hijab is not covering the fact that he is either,
Male or Female.

Love is fresh and free, even as we discover,
That perhaps, love is the one thing,

We will never understand as universal biological entities.

There is no reason to stress the Hijab.
None to insist that the wearer is accompanied by a man.

Jezebel?

No, sorry, those are the Other Book.

Be kind to each other,
Otherwise the Alien will eat you.

♦Image by © Uli Wiesmeier/Corbis♦

short evocative poetry – words move

Do you remember
the climb?

short or not,
shall we not?

Remember the trip up,
Longonot,

can we not, did we not?

Remember fooling around,
In that old farmhouse,

will we not, sexy tot,
love my hot
sexy pot?

Let him have the car keys dear,
Let him go to Longonot.

♦picture – Youth and Cars – WebstockPro

*Longonot is a dormant Volcano in Kenya, a day’s getaway for many*

evocative short poetry – words move

He is munching on nuts,
vigorously,

Utilising the muscles he has.

He has wonderful eyes,
Hawk eyes,

Wide set and is,
Now eating a banana with a plastic spoon.

We both have motioned for a waiter.

He is masticating on a blob of Almond paste that he,
Has scooped from the glass jar in the,

Middle of the table, by the ash tray
With his index finger,

Nibbling like a squirrel,

And there is something askew,
As he rushes,

To the aid of a woman carrying,
Four heavy bags.

He leaves his own where it is,
Unattended.

I wonder if he’s on drugs, or
Just a tourist,

High on Africa,
A white man free to do as he pleases.

I wonder why the other white man on the table next to ours,
First asked him to mind his bags,

Whilst he used the toilet,
And never came back.

Maybe I’m reading too much into it,
But,

I am a black man preparing to fly, and
Have been informed about bags,

Suddenly left, unattended.

♦photo – Boeing♦

evocative short poetry – words move

The broom slices across the floor,
Cutting a precise path through the mess,

Clean swathe through the valley,

Creating mounds of discarded,
Clothing,

Pieces,

Returning slowly to their original state while,
Still holding plastic memories of the night out,

-whether or not they resulted in a steady boyfriend,
Or a hang-over-

A strong attempt at cleaning up,
A fine start.

A wayward sock appears on top of the
Crest on the
Right
Smiling.

Freedom has come at last.

The lush valley,
Though it took years,

Has been traversed.

The mannequin operating the broomstick,
Is creating life at last,

And as was written,
The cockroach was right.

When a window is shut,
Somewhere, a door will open.

♦picture♦ - Environmental Protection Agency 

evocative short poetry – words move

There are no terrorists here,

Says the classic bold type,
On the FullScap paper,

In the folder on the dusty desk,
Of the Satellite police station in Isiolo.

The drilling rigs will make no difference to,
The cows or the goats or the lives of the people,
Who do not live here.

The construction does not impinge on farms,

And will be manned by machines not capable of dying,

So there is no need to worry,

The oil will be distributed fairly,
According to the percentages,
Agreed to in the constitution.

The matter of people living
In Isiolo does not come into this.

There are no people here.

♦picture♦ – google image of media story by Nation TV

evocative short poetry – words move

I don’t know how you Americans do it.
Eighteen months of elections.

This is only my second political post on this blog – promised to stay out of it – almost made it – but considering my last post, obviously found myself caught out at the last moment.

I have a profound respect for America.
Taken as a whole, nothing on this Earth even comes close…at least not yet.

This election was won by a slim margin really – even though the Obama Campaign knew the math and executed like Warriors.

-Just over one hundred million votes, split, round about half way for each party-

That’s 50 million voices either way- formidable numbers to deal with.

You WILL heal.
Onward.

Cartoon by – MIKE LUCKOVIC

words move – short evocative poetry

allow me five minutes,
to change the world,
and i will.

allow me the liberty to eat cake,
and i shall celebrate with you,
the rich creamy taste,
of family.

sit with me,
on this red throne,
and let me remind you of,

the earth we shook,
in platform shoes,
and moved with Afro speech.

Watch me set fire to the pavement.

CLICK HERE FOR SOME CONTEXT!!!!

short evocative poetry – words move

I simply had to share.

I ask you to keep what you’re feeling RIGHT NOW, in your mind. And follow me for five minutes. Trust me.
If you’re like me, you are probably APPALLED!
I was absolutely LIVID. Flumexed. Flabergasted.
Just sit with it a moment.

The image is of a sitting American President.

I found this image being flashed around some Republican websites.
There have been many pictures like this – people fooling around with photoshop, now that it’s just a click away.
You know the other pictures…Hitler, The Devil…etc, on both sides – Romney AND Obama.
But this one is shocking on several levels.

This is the President of the United States of America.
This is a Black Man.
Depicted as a slut.
This is a woman stripped of all dignity – hidden within an image so hateful of the colour and gender it portrays, it defies belief.
This is a man, degraded.

OK, breath.

Let the anger slip off you slowly.
Let it slide off your shoulders.
And look at it again.
It is funny.

It is hilarious!

I may be getting old – but this kind of image not only was not possible in my time, but was also, un-imaginable.
Given the sheer evil invested in it, I invite you to just take a look, and laugh.

Because it is funny.
Not because we are ‘wrestling power back‘ by doing so.

The people wearing the intention behind the making and distribution of this image will have evil to deal with in their lives. That is a given.

But the world has moved so far in that grand ‘ole ‘Good Vs. Evil’ battle that we’re in, that given the depravity, I can only hope that I’m standing on the right side of it.

No.

I mean really look at it.
The gait, the glamour of the keys in her hands.

It is so shockingly funny that I posted it on this page so that I remember it forever.
We are so manipulated today - I am so manipulated – by Materialism right now, that the photo is funny because – I think – the winner is actually the manner in which Obama is wearing his costume.

How skinny! How funky! How glamorous! This is a Hollywood starlet caught in the glare of Media spotlight – and I want it.

This is what I glamorise – when I lay awake at night, deep in the throes of a depression brought about by the thought that I will never be rich and famous and wanted.

After this photograph, I will never again agree that money can make you happy.
I won’t even joke about it.

The corruption of my soul from the mere sight of this image has convinced me more concretely than ever, that I am a good man.

I am happy with my Alzheimic mother even as she forgets who I am.
I am happy with my sisters, drunk or not.
So my dreams have not yet arrived…
I am a happy man, and that is good enough for me.

Because I swear to God – I swear – that I do not want to be – that man who killed for money – who lived for money – who destroyed for money.

I swear that I will find something better to cry for, than not having been good enough
I laughed at this image because at least she wears it well -even Jesus would say so.

Already redeemed are those represented here – prostitutes and slaves.
Already redeemed here are the killers trading the image.

My laughter is a breeze that lifts her shoes, and steadies her gait, and attempts to defray, the shame in her depiction.

I am happy to battle this battle and laugh.
And should evil rip me to shreds and leave me naked,

I am happy to die a simple, clean, man.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

words move

you would
dismantle life this way
and bear no burden?

the lone yellow pebble
bore witness to the
abduction that took place at midnight

the man was gagged
and bound
and led away as women wept

keep me out of this one

a bear needs
twenty seven square miles
of forest
to live

keep me out of this one

the woman cut the balls off
the man who raped her

keep me out of this one

♦photo – AFP/GETTY images, CNN -’putting the jab in hijab’♦

words move – evocative short poetry

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