747

Boeing-747-8

 

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,

Center of the table,
With his middle 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,

Left unattended.

 

-evocative short poetry

We are leaving them behind

Aokigahara-Jukai.nanoda.com

 

Never mind steel,
We are creating new materials,
Carbon nano-tubes, poly-ceramics,

Twirl a ball above your head, we are
Building elevators into space,
Stringing massage parlours around the earth,

We are engineering ourselves,
Computer worlds and,
Selling real estate, we

Are leaving the old people,
Behind,
Stained curtains and they are,

Walking into forests,
In Japan.

 

 -evocative short poetry-

My name is Henry

short poetry, photography, new, fresh, ghost, gauze, faint, tenuous, dimension

The place I used to visit,
On bad days,
With yoghurt and spoon,
Is vacant.

The leaves are raked,
Into a neat pile,
By the bench,

And except for the newspaper,
Blowing about in the wind,
There is no-one here.

The river beyond,
Is a murky brown,
Same as it’s always been,

But,

Over the concrete balustrade,
On the sandy bank on the other side,
Is a briefcase.

Is it yours?

My name is Henry,
And I’ve been disappearing for years.

I can’t seem to find my way home.

 

photo – webstockpro.com

-evocative short poetry

 

 

Toward me



moving
  forward
    me
     moving
      greatly
        forward
          me
           moving
             straightly
               forward
                 greatly
                   forward
                      straightly
                         toward
                           me
                             moving
                              straightly
                                  toward
                                      me

-photo - 123rf.com-

Careful now…

 

short poetry, Africa, hope, future, children, freedom, potential

 

And look!
There’s an African!

Oh!

There’s another!

So fragile,
Precious stones off,
Every limb!

Careful now,
May come a time,

When evil cloaked in,
What is right!
Leads goodness into night!

 

words move, Africa, reconcilliation, ownership, economics, future, death

See – Exile
photos – Pierre Holtz & Paul Cadenhead for REUTERS at TotallyCoolPix.com

Radio Wars

The strident tones came through the radio,
And announced themselves
Israeli!

Others took defensive positions.

The mediator,
On BBC, changed
His shirt
And asked another question.

They had set up camp around a wall that was
Either
Only half way done,

Or,

‘What are you gonna do about it!’
Fully scaled up.

It didn’t occur to me to turn the dial.
I thought about my passport instead.

photos – 123rf.com & Talal Abu Rahma for France2 – controversy details at honestreporting.com/a/alDura.asplinux hosting

The thing with torture

words move, torture, humour, war games, effectiveness, interrogator

 

On the African savannah,
The mission brief had been simple.
Go in and find a Warthog,
By sunset.

The Americans had nuked the place,
Then claimed there had been none,
To begin with.

The Israelis against strong,
Local advice,

Had sent Mossad in,
Undercover.

Why go in looking like food?

They lost good men to lions,
But eventually got their warthog.

The Africans, however,
Had not reported by nightfall,

So at daybreak a search party was launched.

They found three sweaty soldiers,
Whipping a giraffe,
Spread-eagled securely to an Acacia tree,

Whilst the Sergeant-at-arms
-taking notes-
Yelled -
“Confess you’re a Warthog, confess!”

See – nigger, whore, bitch!

photo – webstockpro.com

evocative short poetry – words move

Whoosh!

short poetry, new, fresh, cityscape, mood, lighting, Hopper, painting,

 

Catch the fragrance on the suit,
Of the man in the queue in front of you,

Follow the creases as he sits,
Right up to his face,
This time, and notice,

Blue eyes, moustache,
Hair peeking out from under stiff collar,
The man is immediately the foreigner,

Hurling as he is,
The prospect that,
He may ask you to track his trajectory,

Through town, this
City of the big shoulders and,
Lost in the words of the author you are reading,

Compel you to divert your own,
Down the street,

So that you meet,
At the bar,

Where he electrifies his,
Breath with tobacco,

And you accelerate your own,
To find,

That this all happened yesterday, whoosh

Just yesterday you fell in love.

 

photo – Nighthawks by Edward Hopper on Wikipedialinux hosting

evocative short poetry – words move

nigger, whore, bitch

short poetry, identity, race, sex, gay, homosexual, African, colonial, diaspora

 

I have always liked,
Defiant Africans,

Nelson, Patrice, Kenyatta,
Martin Luther King,

Groovy black men,
Niggers with attitude,

But they intimidate me,
Black men.

Freedom fighters,
Bar room brawlers,

And I rise from sleep,
Sheened in sweat,

Running away,
Scribbling my number,
On scraps of paper,

On foreheads and trousers,
On outstretched palms,

And I’m breathing heavily,
Feeling stained,

Because,
That one there,

The white man in Navy uniform,
With hair on his balls,

I know him,

-conquistador-

He smells of garlic and grease,
And my black friends call me,
Nigger, whore, bitch.

Will he take the lion tooth offered,
Will he make the tribal dance?

-I can teach him to love the earth,
Teach him to plant his feet in, deep-

I masturbate from sleep, supported
By thick, colonial, muscle.

I am forging steel,
Industrial iron,

I am engineering a white lover
Beneath the sheets, whilst

Apologising to freedom fighters,
Who call me nigger, whore, bitch.

 

♦photo – personal

evocative short poetry – words move

Aphrodisiac

short poetry, evocative, environment, growth, spiritual, freedom, new, fresh

why don’t you?

lift your arms and
heal yourself

stand taller than you
were made

be stronger
than fear

mould dreams into
rainbows

why don’t you
set root and

paint the world
green with envy

you are alive

simplify your needs and
grow wings,

or stand still,
and skin lizards,

decorate yourself
with war paint,

shake off the dust,
why don’t you

uproot yourself and
walk a mile

in any direction you like,

you must at least
try,

To rage against
this idea

that you cannot

and perhaps
the sweat off your brow

will seed
fertile ground,

coat handsome men with lust
for life

become
aphrodisiac

photo -webstockpro.com

evocative short poetry – words move