Sand had banked against the steps, shifted by the wind
The loose screen rattled, answering the wind
Salt welded shut the gate against the wind
Beyond the gate, the old track started to wind
Mother said, “You will find the creek by the east wind.”
I remembered past the paperbarks, the track should wind.
I heard the creek bubbling, or was it just the wind?
Through reeds, I watched the sparkling creek wind
On a low branch, a kingfisher faced the wind
It cracked a harsh warning through the wind
The coal mine of drainstream life.
Is predating the Canary in journalistic
Terms' under a banking strike.' De-banked
As per the central plank, of an atrack
Now i'm not political' yet i see free speech
As most critical.' Its abhorrent to so be'
And quite un-holy, as much, as is the vatican] see.' This cabalistic attack, a stab
In freedoms back, here my only agenda
Is that coherent reporting be not constrained by otherwise profligate spenders, wake up be aware, we need
Free speech forever and always to be there.' its jyst so splendid and i for
One hold it very dear.!
A death I have carried since youth—
not the grave’s hush,
but the slow unfastening
of all that was false in me.
Each dawn, a small surrender:
the tongue bridled,
the anger banked,
the shadowed thought laid bare
before the Father of Lights.
I have walked with this inward dying
as one walks beside a stern companion,
learning its counsel—
that faith without its burial
is faith without breath.
For the world woos with crowns
that fade like grass in scorching wind,
but the soul grows only
where it lets go.
So I have lived with death
as with a discipline—
its quiet blade
paring away the double mind,
till what remains can stand upright
and call itself whole.
If this, then, was my long death,
blessed be the One
who taught me to lose myself,
that I might finally live.
Is there a time when love is new?
Love is old;
As old as the rocks, the sea, the air.
Love is a liar as timeless as eternity.
The singer sings her blue song,
The sort that lingers such a long time
After the truth has been washed
In the whiteness of life.
The memory of you lies against my heart,
Like a cold soul seeking an ember
From the banked fire
In the depth of a winter night.
for the children of the Holocaust, Ukraine and Gaza
Where does the butterfly go
when lightning rails
when thunder howls
when hailstones scream
when winter scowls
when nights compound dark frosts with snow
where does the butterfly go?
Where does the rose hide its bloom
when night descends oblique and chill,
beyond the capacity of moonlight to fill?
When the only relief’s a banked fire’s glow,
where does the butterfly go?
And where shall the spirit flee
when life is harsh, too harsh to face,
and hope is lost without a trace?
Oh, when the light of life runs low,
where does the butterfly go?
OF RED RIVER AGONY
In this river,
Only crocodiles can be;
Alligators, no!
This is not only nasty,
It is red reality:-
The river’s bordering banks,
Are as red steaming lava:-
But let us not be dismayed,
There is that other river;
The rain-bowed river of God—
Banked by the soil of oneness:
Let us cross over:-
Do we all hear the rumour? A funeral draws near.' A spectacle is intended I think that much
Is real clear.' There will be black gloves and the
Muffled drums, that measured tread..Somber
Theater spun.' Staged to draw compassion from those (who might come?) The cornet may sound? Majestic..But I think we all know
What's the come..'
That vic-pols funeral is marching in the shadows here thrown long.'
Under the sun, As many narratives un-ravel.. That they still try to grow.' So will the
Blinds be drawn upon them? Will the windows
Stare out blank.? And also will True Blue Victorians 'about-face?' And here I shall be quite frank! Leave
Them to realise.? What a mess they have banked.! Heaped up like those mountains.'
When (they turned on their own?) Yet I think its not Victoria.? Nuh..Thats not where their
Love; and loyaltys are sown.' May they well listen.. And deeply' to that winds lone lament and moan.'
In a broken-hearted city.' Where they once did strut.! Its recorded and shown
To posture and enact such wicked anger, to vent, Yes I see, And saw
For me it has stuck deep in my heart, and in my gut.To remain reminder forevermore.'
Life's no banked river...
Life's roving waves frothing shores...
Life's oceanic...
GO GO
GIVE GIVE
GENEROUS @ @ GENEROUS
GIFTS GALORE | | GIFTS GALORE
BUTTERFLIES BELONG B BUTTERFLIES BELONG
BANKED BESIDE BOXCARS U BANKED BESIDE BOXCARS
MONARCH BUTTERFLY WING T MONARCH BUTTERFLY WING
LARGE VIBRANT ORANGE T LARGE VIBRANT ORANGE
AND BLACK MARKINGS I E AND BLACK MARKINGS I
LOVE YOUR JOURNEY R LOVE YOUR JOURNEY
SEE YOU ACROSS F SEE YOU ACROSS
NORTH AMERICA OH L NORTH AMERICA OH
CANADA YES Y CANADA YES
TO MEXICO GO TO MEXICO GO
EGG LARVA AND G EGG LARVA AND
CHRYSALIS WE O CHRYSALIS WE
MILKWEED IS MILKWEED IS
YOUR HOSTING H YOUR HOSTING
FLOWERED O FLOWERED
PLANTS M PLANTS
BORN E BORN
GO GO
Today the sun set at dawn, the grey sky poured down in torrents banked tears of yesterday.
Today, cows grazed not in the pastures evergreen, the was no herd boy playing a lekolilo melody, the stream had dried and all the gay lads came back ashen.
Today no lark sang in the meadow, no goats bleat in the valley, just a lone horse galloping on the plateau.
Today, a heroine fell, and all mourn. Even the busy bees hv taken a day off to salute this thabana-ntlenyana, this mammoth queen who leaves monuments and tales to be repeated over Bo and yonder.
Today, i shall rejoice for i know though you are gone, you are always here. In the soft breeze, in the happy songs of the morning lark, in the cry of a new born baby, in the stream that flows past our fieldd, giving us life. You are here in our hearts and minds eternally.
Today i bit farewell to a mother, a grandma, a wife and heroine in the lives of so many.
Lala kahle mama!
(c) 2014 moliehi molupe
Happiness is the whirl of lyrical runes,
voicing of raging monstrous stories in loons.
Happiness is the rough silence of the heart,
that cries in loneliness of love torn apart
Happiness is a prodigal daughter that,
swims in the rainbow of her abductor's cart
Happiness is like sleeping in milk sea foam,
intoxicating deep embrace in risk loam.
Happiness is a fear tickle that brings cheers,
a belly full banked in the depths of our ears.
Happiness burns pure like the sax of cigars,
a remembrance for how we soar in the stars.
Happiness is the screeching of our lost soul,
a ride that fondles a tender name in whole.
Happiness is harmony clocks of sour wines,
serenaded in Sunset play, Red Tide Whines.
Happiness is the smile of a sealed deadline,
that strokes our creative sane, ego hairline.
Happiness screams, a colliding in your name,
a chasing of moon and stars, a racing game.
Rooted on a moss-banked hill,
its branches spread far and wide.
By Summer's end, leaves veined gold and crimson.
Then, Autumn’s hand brushed them with russet paint.
Twas the time of year the elm tree despised.
Wind ruffled in their last days,
leaves danced as if burning flames,
until gales sent them tumbling to the ground.
Barren, as though in malaise, the elm stood.
Blame was cast upon harsh Winter weather.
Weeping for its naked limbs,
on a moss-banked hill it grieved.
For the change of season, it held loathing
and contempt for Nature's wrongful doing.
For surrounding its roots with drifts of snow
But on cusp of Spring's advent
tiny buddings will appear.
Branches will be clothed in fulgent raiment,
an umbrella agape, providing shade
for trilling songbirds in need of perching.
Reigning from atop the hill,
Ancient elm, regally frocked.
Anti-Poem— “Going To See Honey Sanchez”
gloria and me we take a yellow taxi from canoga park
we go to see honey sanchez at the olympic on grand
she be the dragon lady on skates she and terri lynch
both of them girls be tough as nails in their ripe beauty
both wearing thunderbird white riding fire and blood
lighting up the banked track against the texas outlaws
gloria keep telling shirley hardman she be dead wrong
stop your mean ways shirley girl stop beating on honey
baby she say to me could I get her a soda and peanuts
the crowd be all noisy tonight and I can smell hot dogs
the people here they be rowdy and angry they scream
cuss words eating greasy onion rings and drinking beer
my gloria she be saying only one skater be her top hero
I says who and she smiles and say it be honey sanchez—
skater dragon lady at 18th and grand in her ripe beauty
Such beautiful clarity is within my life line
No longer asphyxiated by darkness I'm fine
Experiences come frequently with bold exceptionality
I find myself expertly escorted into a new spirituality
Giving and receiving affection on the most simplest of terms
Finding flowing Infinity with perfectly banked turns
Finding deep tranquility in the here and now
Giving my ideal love to all that let me show them how
This has never been a journey without darkening
But in all those that have crossed my path what I've learned has been starkening
With all the words spoken that I've sealed with a kiss
All the verses to paper that my pen does never miss
If your reading this then I humbly invited you
To see the reflection in what I write too
Feel it's meaning as if it was meant for your eyes only
For I possess enough love for the entire world to never again be lonely
[ with a hint of the bridge from A Man Has Dreams
sung by the character George Banks in Mary Poppins ]
A bank is a community where people banked
They did so with impunity until it tanked
When interest, like a river, overflowed its banks
And fishes, schooled communally, all died and stank.
For Kamala, online communities give thanks.
Her oratory gaffs, a laugh while they make bank.
The little sh*ts get lots of hits; her ratings tank.
Cuz twitter’s a community where witters wank.
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