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

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

keep me out of this one

 

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

wowowww