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
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
On the African savannah,
The mission brief had been simple.
Go in and find a Warthog.
The Americans had gone in and nuked the place,
Then claimed there had been none to begin with.
The Israelis against strong,
Local advice,
Had sent in Mossad,
Undercover.
-why go in, looking like food,
the lions had a field day-
The Africans, however,
Had not reported by nightfall,
So at daybreak a search party was launched.
They found three Kenyans surrounding a giraffe,
Spread-eagled securely to an Acacia tree.
The Sergeant-at-arms was taking notes,
Whilst his Officers flogged,
The poor thing screaming,
“Confess you’re a Warthog, confess!”
See – nigger, whore, bitch!
♦photo – webstockpro.com♦
evocative short poetry – words move
I squashed a cockroach the other day.
A big,
Fat,
Cockroach.
It was trying to get away and I squashed it.
Not that I had anything against that,
Particular cockroach but,
I was bare-foot.
I had tea,
And biscuits,
And was bare-foot when he made his dash across the corridor.
It took some time to calm down and,
Fetch another tray.
It had moved.
A thick, white streak,
Of substantial viscosity,
Ran right across the floor and,
Straight under my door.
Her gartered leg was up on the table.
She removed a delicate silver pistol and,
With his back turned,
Fired a single shot.
I used a shoe this time,
Like a maniac,
And then,
Framed by a single,
Swinging light-bulb,
Waited for the detective.
evocative short poetry -words move
♦photos – my little sister♦
The man is pressed into the lime green decor,
This bar is known for.
Four cones of orange light form,
Four distinct pools,
On the blue formica counter.
There is music playing and he,
Taps his foot methodically,
On the porous brown floor.
I am taken by the hair on his arms,
Down to his knuckles,
Dark and thick.
The barman glances at the silver case,
The man has pulled his cigarettes from.
I am aware of a pulsing at my throat.
Two women,
One carrying a large important handbag,
The other,
A Japanese fan,
Conquer the purple leather bar-stools,
On either side of him.
We are at war.
Due to irregular patterns on my Hawaiian shirt,
It is not clear which way this will go.
♦image – twilightwap.com♦ linux hosting
evocative short poetry – words move
