Just Clouds
They seem just ordinary fill
for a background, a fuzzy white
or gray that doesn't grab the eye
and distract from the more deserving
stuff like trees, sweeping ocean views
and mountain lakes. Clouds lack
a clean line.
They seldom get prime billing
unless infused with anger and about
to burst, or wear the outrageous
colors of a rising or setting sun.
Many exclude them altogether
with a preference for a blue,
totally cloudless sky.
Frankly, total blue is boring to me.
Give me tufts of purest white
drifting soundlessly across
an otherwise featureless sky,
big bellied storm clouds, dark
and sagging with weight,
rumbling with thunder,
letting their load of water go.
And wrap me
in the soft, filtered light
of low, misty clouds that have learnt
how to weep, keep me safe
from the big towering giants
that grow with menace on a distant
horizon and bless me
with the unseen ones
that send down a gentle rain at night
to lull me off to sleep.
My uncle,... so like Dad!
But a stout, big bellied version with different gait.
Joy he had!
But unlike Dad
Who was a town guy and refined,
No fad!
Busy,
Tending the farm.
Free!!
My uncle,... so like Dad
Who was a town guy and refined!!
Free!!!
TV creates a vegetable on the couch
Unhealthy produce with a big-bellied pouch
Yet echo words of a prophetic 60's Sage
-- The Medium IS the Message --
Applies all the more to 2020's screen page
The circles of the bloody moon,
slide Northward towards the Rive Nile,
Death and raven drift above,
As mother guards her nest with pride.
The nightingales are singing near,
The nightly winds leave the door ajar,
The big bellied old man, unfamiliar,
Shows fatigue on his face, so clear.
The sheer brilliance of Mother's many vibrant colors,
fills my heart with such unwavering joy,
As she pulls and folds the table cloth,
She sings with the bloody wood, such joy.
The silent man, like a mocha brown ape,
sprawls at the window sill and gapes,
Mother brings in the mango slices,
Bananas, oranges and the summer grapes.
The silent vertebrate in brown,
smiles the frowns then concentrates then withdraws,
then the silent bellied man in brown,
tears at the fruits with his murderous paws.
And still Mother's lovely grin,
circumscribe her dazzling white denticle,
as this man tears into these mango slices,
she looks at him in adulation, such a spectacle!
Many things i have known,
In this my life,
Cocktails and feasts,
The powerful scents,
Of meat roasting on coal,
Rich and delicious,
And plentiful free flowing wine,
But i have hungered and thirsted,
When the sun went to the west to rest.
I have known the hard smell,
The slippery touch of fresh bank notes,
Have changed hands,
with big bellied, shiny faced men,
Who change country and cards and life for money,
Yet penniless i have become,
without a beggar's ten cent coin,
For a crust of bread.
I have known the comfort,
Of London look taxi cabs,
Cruised through neon lit cities,
In the thick of the night,
I have slept deeply,
In the six inch foams of opulence,
In heated rooms,
halfway up the sky,
Yet too i have trekked many miles,
For lack of simple fare,
Worn my feet,
On dusty endless sidewalks,
And returned, humbled,
To the sack , that is indeed my home.
Find me in classrooms
Frantic page flipping in search of
the tools
Who'll one day equip me
So I can make rules
Find me at the helm
Bare-foot and big bellied
Home-makers to boardrooms
....And woman tells you what to
do
Stereoptype make me those
types
Opposing sex finds it perplexed
A timid female's muscle flex
Lady, don't you show your
strength
Woman, lay there
Here curves so fine, her hips so
fair
Born to be spent
Please him, please him
Bear him an heir!
Bear him nations
Honour him with cause for
earth-shattering celebrations
Family portrait
-Picturesque-
Yet I am portrayed...
As part as a future that I did
not choose
They took me from school
Paint me heartless, silent
canvas
Muted muse erase my colours
Deafened maestro sing in
silence
Made of soil, a bag of bones
Numb my soul
So I won't know, how
Wretched prison locked its doors
Who sold my dreams to cement
floors?
Who stole from me my room to
grow?
How I still breathe
I'll never know
I lost my soul
When I was sold
No need naming names
They know.
Those who played games
With the future
Of these hungry little ones.
These big bellied children
With fat heads and flat bottoms
That have never known nutrition
Someone traded their destiny
And their blood is on his head.
You who gambled away
Their soul at the foreign casino
And spilt their blood
On the altar of embezzlement
Their blood is on your head.
There lies the future of our children
Stashed far away in foreign accounts
To freeze. Never to be seen again
Soon many more big-bellied boys and girls
Will come
And they will need
A well dressed table
To eat green earth
Not wind and fire.
Then if you are real
Like mother’s kitchen broom
Wipe out my Africa
Like a clan of cockroaches –
Rumour eats my Africa
She trades itself
For the meagre funds
Gathered like firewood
By those new big-bellied men
Who buy & sell men’s hearts
With a piece of white paper
Or barter them
Through a cake of seminars
Chaired by the gun!
Then if you are real
Wipe my Africa
Wipe a whole continent
Out of existence ...
But whoever goes to UN
Help us
Tell our story to WHO
For Africa shall spring anew
Together with other Third & Fourth globes!
A bit of yellow tzuica
Hors d`oeuvres:trendy
Known by Dracula:brandy
Kept in big bellied
Fir wooden barrels
For weddings.
Strong!
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