We cavort wildly with Language

image

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

image

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-