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♦

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-

Walking in the Light


We could dance on Gravity,
We could burst the Sun,

We could be that horror Alien who stole your child,
We are born metal touching galaxies though glass,

Galileo’s kids seeing through Sombrero,

We could look after water,
Or it’s facsimile,

We could look after Earth.

                                                                                                                                                        evocative short poetry

On Loosing People


How I wish I had another chance at,
I would rub her stomach until,
She fell asleep,

And sit there some more,
Catch her  when the nightmare ,
Threatened to be too real,
I’d tell her stories about the past,
about dragons and princesses and,


I’d sit still beside her all night and,
Close my eyes and find her in,

Of sand castles,
And sunflowers,
And puppies in the rain.

                             -evocative short poetry-

Where Do Socks Go?


The broom slices across the floor,
Cutting a precise path through the mess,

Clean swathe through the valley,

Creating mounds of discarded,


Returning slowly to their original state while,
Still holding plastic memories of the night out,

A strong attempt at cleaning up,
A fine start.

Loose Birthday cards too,

Steal up on you,

Perched as they are atop,


from a long time ago,

On leather surfaces by

open briefcases,

Dragging with them memories,

Sweet enough to have you sitting there,

well past that very important appointment,

With a Very Important Person,

In bed beside you now,

Like an angel,


Wayward sock appears on top of the,
Crest on the

Freedom has come at last.

The lush valley,
Though it took years,

Has been traversed.

The mannequin operating the broomstick,
Is creating life at last,

As was written,
The cockroach was right.

When a window is shut,
Somewhere, a door will open.

-evocative short poetry-

Love the sinner, not the sin


I go to church and sit at the back while you tell me I’m going to hell

I go to church and sit at the back while you announce the Dates for ‘Men’s Breakfast’

I go to church and sit at the back while you undress my sin, wanting to love me naked

Stripped, beaten, unrighteous, unholy, I sit at the back and go to church, every Sunday.

I go to Church.

I go to Church.



They are doing white
Nice haircuts and,
Broad Boulevards,

They are doing slick radio Ads,
Smooth charcoal voices,
And Western music,

Wrapped in Cashmere,

Air-conditioned Kaftan’s catching the breeze,
They are doing dark glasses like reflective buildings
Perched on tight noses,

Moving forward with morning talk shows in,
Gleaming white cars,

Elegant fingers prodding opulent buttons,

Elaborate mechanisms,
Stylish manoeuvres,

In Dehli they are moving swiftly,
Their fabulous Sari’s, flapping in the wind.

-evocative short poetry-

Careful as you go


A time will come,
When you don’t even,
Own your own body,

On the side of the road,

A full breakdown not a common,

Leave your heart, it’s broken,
Total mechanical failure.

What will you do?

Trust what you have given?
Love, a blue opinion?

You have only what you spent.

You think you can ride your habits,
You should be fine,

It’s just, the vehicle is suddenly inoperable.

Your soul no longer requires a fading heart.

evocative short poetry

Card trick

life, cancer, poker, gambling, memories,
Dance music,
Damp heat and talk

Drifts to halcyon days of,
Seventies groove and Afro’s ruffled,

In the political funk of,
Freedom fighters and platform shoes,

Cadillac language,
Smooth and languid,

Dripping off honey colored lips like,
Melting chocolate…

It’s a card trick,
And we are mesmorised by,

Furtive glances,
Over fanned cards,

Fascinated by the sleight of hand,
And the afternoon light,

Our soft voices and loud giggles,
Caught in a trick of time,

Heavy with love and breakfast.

-evocative short poetry-

Careful now…


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


And look!
There’s an African!


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

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 in Mossad,

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 –

evocative short poetry – words move