Bound

And I’ll be dust to dust bound to,

Shifting black wicker furniture just so,
Patrons aren’t disturbed,

By the rain between,
The hair-do and the pedicure, separated

At least,

By three floors if the lifts are working, me I’m just
Splashing mops against mauve tile, they

Flashing manicured smiles, we

Electing marvelous politicians in fashionable leather,
Leather of the season, bound

To let us down in Range-Rovers, bound
To coffee machines spitting frappuccinos, just

Hoping for a tip to pay my damn school fees.

Photo: ♦Psychology Today ♦

See also: Hector

-short evocative poetry-

Sunday

sunday!

They say that Africans,
Will have to fight for a place on the bus,

So I am pulling out all the stops.

I am burning incense and,
Turning out closets,
-exorcising demons-

I am fumigating my life,
Throwing out old clothes and,
Trying to curry favour,

-surely children were not meant for the streets,
Nor nations meant for war-

I have found sack cloth and ash and,
I intend to,

Gouge flesh with home-made irons
Flagellate until I bleed sin,
All over the carpet.

There will be gnashing of teeth,
And great wailing,
-effort must be made-

I shall identify,
Church pews with nails and,
Kneel!

But the spotlight keeps missing me,
And I manage to elicit only,

Splendid chuckles from my nephew.

So, health

Short poetry, eartha kitt, black and white

 

And so, health.

And the discussion with mum’s friend,
Who has survived beyond her,

Turns to the evolution of mattresses,

Goose down,
Luxurious but bad for your back,

Foam,

Sometimes current but initially,
Uncomfortable,

Has silver hair that frames,
Her ice blue eyes perfectly,

And deep wrinkles around her mouth,
Lighting every room she is in,

Ripe fruit can be determined by the smell of it.

A mango,
At the right time,

Will flood a kitchen with aromas that colour,
An entire home,

Disperse into cupboards and,
Dispense across living room sofas,

They can make you forget what you are doing as you,
Iron sheets,

Raising smiles in every nook and cranny…

If we live long enough,
We will die with a pocket full of medals.

Out walking this morning,
Healthy and feeling good,

I remembered my sister and her fight with Ovarian,

The frustration she expressed,
Not with the pain,

The body that would not allow her,
To spend time her own time.

Out walking I was thought,
A million dollars can change everything.

I feel now finally,
I can be happy with health.

So.
Health.

♦picture – Eartha Kitt, Wikipedia

evocative short poetry – words move

Mt. Longonot

short poerty, wors move, american painting, history, grant wood, love

Do you remember
the climb?

short or not,
shall we not?

Remember the trip up,
Longonot,

can we not, did we not?

Remember fooling around,
In that old farmhouse,

will we not, sexy tot,
love my hot
sexy pot?

Let him have the car keys dear,
Let him go to Longonot.

 

American Gothic Challenge     evocative short poetry – words move

-visit my postaday2011 – blog-

♦picture – American Gothic by Grant Wood at Wikipedia.com & Logonot Crater at Wikipedia.com

The Motorcyclist

Between steering wheel and
Cigarette lighter,
Is a glance to the rear view mirror.

And the cocky grin of,
The rider behind.

All I see is eyes,
Glinting, and

Sleek, body fit,
Jet-black
Body suit,

Fluid,
But wait.

A twitch in the wrong place,
Sends me back to the mirror.

Becoming a blur to my right,
The old lady up ahead,
Makes her move.