We cavort wildly with Language

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The fish comes , streaming and
English is not the only language making sense.

Politics accompanied by vegetables spewing flavor,
Kenyans having lunch on the Boulevard,

Lakeshore, Victoria;

Commitment is the idea that momentum cannot disrupt motion, that
Committed, one moves forward,

Becoming better,

Choosing beyond the sound
Of Americans,

Providing proof of the pudding, cavorting
Wildly,

With language, the notion that language is not owned, it is spoken; shoot
Past the target.

Make it count.
Marriage will not be left with men and women, who

Cannot follow through, it will be had by those who commit,
Whomever the couple.

-evocative short poetry-

I wish we had played on all night

5410667216_1a6f312353meameanwhilebackattheranch.veederranch.com

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-

Jive,

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

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

Lydia,
Lead back-up,

Flinging in the,
‘Alleluiahs’, and

‘Godda-let-it-be’s!

Samuel,

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

‘Alleluhia,’

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

I.

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,

True,
If red,

False.

Letters would arrive,
All written in blue;

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

We just cannot buy,
Red Ink.

II.

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!

Korea.

♦photo♦ yeyeolade.wordpress.com

evocative short poetry

On dodging bullets

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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 hope you’ve selected the right seat because,
You’re left of a drunk,

Who’s just exclaimed,
In between snorts,

That women are pricks,
And we’re moving too fast.

Survival in slow motion 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;
Not about women,

Too fast is too fast.

You survived,
The others did not.

-short evocative poetry-

Serial killer

image

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.

Insurrection

image

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,
Can 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

The sound of an African funeral

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They sing for him,
Swinging from heel to frail heel,

Growing earth between the ground and,
his casket,

Bleeding love into the air
Like orchids,

Humming,

They rise again
And again their gently swaying busts,

Move the air to and fro,
To and fro,

Intending that mother be comforted,

Intending that her wet eyes,
Smile at new wives, that

though her son was gunned down, the
Rhythm of the occasion,

Brings life.

-short evocative poetry-

There must be an Angel

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There must be an angel looking over your shoulder.

There must be, even if you
Never see her,
An Angel.

There are creatures on other, Worlds,
That look like us but, For the clothing they wear;

…delicate, gauze-like materials, that blaze…
…yet do no harm.

One visited last night, pointing out my story, -where I had come from and where I was going-

Billowing from a turquoise dress, As she beckoned.

We traveled in straight lines and at fantastic speeds,
I was not afraid.

“Come,” she said, “Look here.”
“In this ocean there are many levels, Much like your own we just,
Live, In the waters…”

And I look at the ocean she is pointing out,
Orange,
Like the metal Mercury, lit By an amber Sun.

“The ones with technology,” she continued, “Live deep within the Mantle,
And breath a finer form of this liquid, Than your air.”

“How do they move?”, I ask,

“Their locomotion”, she says, “Is fueled,
By magnetic fields in cold gas.”

Alchemy.

It is not in the splitting of radiant metals, Rather,
In the special densities, Of Gold in the right chambers,

The surfaces of Neutron Stars, Super-conducting,

Immiscible in the sludge, That allows them to breath,
And to replicate, And to think.

The creatures on the surface sting, But the planet is defended,
By those further down, And the fumes they exude.

All beings discover that light will not be overtaken,

That travel is not powered, It is carried,

In handbags if you will,
And I saw people long dead, Connected to people still alive,

Creating those to be.

The last thing I remember was a string of pearls she was holding,
In her pale, lussatite hands.

-short evocative poetry-

I have forgotten who I am.

TOPSHOTS  Newly initiated 'naga sadhus' prepare to perform rituals on the banks of the Ganga River during the Maha Kumbh festival in Allahabad on Febraury 6, 2013.   During every Kumbh Mela, the diksha - ritual of initiation by a guru - program for new members takes place.   AFP PHOTO/Sanjay Kanojia

TOPSHOTS Newly initiated ‘naga sadhus’ prepare to perform rituals on the banks of the Ganga River during the Maha Kumbh festival in Allahabad on Febraury 6, 2013. During every Kumbh Mela, the diksha – ritual of initiation by a guru – program for new members takes place. AFP PHOTO/Sanjay Kanojia

 

My shoes are not where I left them.

There is a dog howling in the distance,
And the sound reverberates,
Lifting the dew off the dense canopy of trees outside.

The bamboo lamp beside the sofa,
Sheds dull orange light across the Persian carpet,
And I am not casting a shadow.

I have,

A mug of hot tea,
A roll of Maryland,
Chocolate chip cookies,
And bad breath.

I have forgotten who I am.

I seem to remember going down to the
Laundry room,
And watching her fold steaming towels,

Fat haunches, corpulent bust,
And a very fine neck.

♠picture – http://www.dirzz.com/1155490-topshots-india-religion-hindu-kumbhall1033898069

-short evocative poetry-

Falling from the sky

pilots

The machines do not run us.
We are responsible for;
Giraffes,
Elephants,
Rhinos,

And Flaura and Fauna.

Dried,
Sparkly flowers may be intelligent,

As the case may be.

We may have to look after the galaxy next door,
We hope they are thinking the same.

Smells orange, like wheat, like oxygen like,
Slippers when you need them, black boxes are always recovered.

We can love the machine, pilots die too, just

Don’t call them machines.
It landed on Europa,

Drilled and found life.
Humanity was never more thrilled.

-short evocative poetry-

Puja

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And suddenly there is life;

Cross legged,
Bug eyed,
Oiled and massaged in the temple,

Groomed by a priest in,
Orange robes and,
Fat, fat

Ghee smeared on painted plywood,
Cheeks,

Frantic efforts to recall the past-times of,
Gods,
Frolicking on Earth,

Right next to the toilet,
Near the paddocks,
In this life.

Planes punch through the,
Sky at the nearby airport,

More planes than it seems,
India has a right to;

And the man across from me,
Is fingering a grain of rice in his pocket,

Sweetened at the alter by the,
Guru’s tears,

and
smuggled through the airport check,

just so he can swallow it now,
as his flight number is called.

Photo – LotusSculpture

-evocative short poetry-