Walking with butterflies


She shifts with the breeze,
Neon white with blue streaks,

Antenna filtering the air for blossoms,

Owning the street,
Owning the couple,

At sunset before,
The African roundabout,

A butterfly that will not let go,
Wafting beyond reach,

Before the hawk and
Gently anyway –

Ever been a glass-wearer looking for your glasses with,
Your glasses on to begin with?

– evocative short poetry –


guru, meditation, india

Tie the thread to the farmer!
Marry the Bride to the Groom!
Arrange a wedding for five billion people,

We are approaching the end!

Road rage is the immediate,
And sudden reconfiguration of,

A prior expectation and we are doing well,
The old lady, the Guru and I,

We are making effort.

It is,
In this moment,
A crisis which kills on the streets of America, and
People are cruel.

Just off the ashen pavement, obsidian in the dark,
A boy is playing PlayStation, so –

Kurukshetra! Ping,
Lakshmi! Ping,
Mohammed! Buddha! Ping, ping.

The lady looks hypnotised,
I am cold,
And people are cruel.

They have left the Guru here and gone to bed,
Can you imagine that?

♦Picture♦ PJ Kaiser

– evocative, short poetry –

They will stone you in God’s name

short poetry, politics, religion, government

It’s a revolt.
A revolution.

And in the name of God, they are building schools,
Delivering doctors, door to door.

They are conveying the message that people care,
And that no one is forgotten but,

Cameras are not allowed in some places.

People hoist burning American Flags,
Which melt and spit plastic,

Scarring children with big brown eyes and,

Women will not talk about this;
Allah is a man in uniform.

-evocative short poetry-

♦picture – Radu Sigheti for REUTERS♦



Praised by a drunkard,

Just when my craving for respect,
From Oprah, Obama or

The Queen,

Seemed to be all the appreciation I needed,

Walked in,
Demanding demurely, hand

Held out, just
Two sticks.

Her praise almost made me cry –

she was so dignified
tight dress not too
tight, just so –

Fabulous shades she says, glasses I reply.

Everybody needs words of encouragement sometime,
And she wrangles,

A full pack of cigarettes from me,
Between my shopping list, a burgundy coloured,

Brandy glass and,

An Orange Juice,
Placed just so;

Always good practise to keep a spare,
Packet of cigarettes in the car.

I am still laughing.

Photo: face2face Africa

-evocative short poetry-



He was drunk on the wheelchair,

oily, black skin,
black, greasy hair,
greasy, black overalls,

Dead drunk on the side of the road,
Wheelchair crooked up against the curb,

head hanging off the back,
eyes wide-open and rolled right up,

cars swerving passed carelessly,

Was drunk,
like any other drunk on the side of the road and

Picture: The Unknown Soldier Project, David Jay

-evocative short poetry-

I wish we had played on all night


I wish we had played on all night,
African cowboys with not much,
Else to do,

I wish we had challenged the fish in the sea and,
Called out to the Bison,

My father and his band,
And his

-strike while the iron is hot-


Johnstone, his brother,
On the drums,
Kicking up a riot,

Sarah the lead,
Crooning about her rescue from a,
Very bad man,

Lead back-up,

Flinging in the,
‘Alleluiahs’, and



A doctor dying of AIDS,
Breathing life into a tin-metal harmonica,


Rocking the old man at the end of the bar,
And the couple at the table, fighting with their lips,

I think heard it coming when he fumbled the line,
AndI wish we had played on all night.

-evocative short poetry-

Red Ink

Short poety, works move, out and about Africa


We used to receive, in West Germany, handwritten letters from friends in Soviet Russia.

Mail was read by censors so we established a code;
If written in blue ink,

If red,


Letters would arrive,
All written in blue;

Everything wonderful, stores full of food,
Apartments large, weather is good.

We just cannot buy,
Red Ink.


So then I was moved by,

The shoddy silhouette,
Cut into concrete,

Of three bedraggled figures;
One woman, one man,

And a frail old lady.

The woman,
Cradling a baby swaddled in yellow rags,

Called the man, ‘…Husband.’

The man was the old lady’s Son,
And was weeping bitterly on his mother’s shoulders but,

The schooner had not failed this time,
And she was finally here,

On the dock,
Cold and withered and whispering to her son,

Grandma will be happy to learn the new ways,
Of feeding her children, soup!


♦photo♦ yeyeolade.wordpress.com

evocative short poetry

On dodging bullets


A glance at the rear-view mirror,

And you’re in the hands of a driver who’s chewing grass and,
Kneading her weave.

You are left of a drunk who’s just exclaimed,
“…we’re moving too fast!”

Survival can be glamorous.

You imagine you see,
That you can dodge bullets,
And retain bouncy hair,

That keratin replenishers really do work but,
The drunk man was right,

Too fast is too fast.

You survived,
The others did not.

-short evocative poetry-

Serial killer


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.

When I returned, The cockroach 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.