We stand outside the inn
Arua is a kiln
We crawl back in
But we know no kin
Mungu ni mukee!
Bawls Pastor Paddy
From the inside of a robot
Mazarau's robot
When we look outside
and can barely view any clouds
We know this is no place
for normal sons of men
Summon your demons, devils, and wraiths,
visit moments of hurt and loss.
Replay what might have been, wrestle with regrets,
Do “if only” scenes haunt your past?
I follow the faint ribbon of sand on Mackinac Island,
lined with sugar maple tree, aspen and lilac.
Wild lilly of the valley, its fragrant musk, from dusk to dawn,
clings to lichen and headstone,
in the old cemetery at the end of Lime Kiln Road.
I am as ghostly as the local specters.
The fine young military boy,
eyes wild and strange,
wandering across the old rifle range,
striving to collect his remit.
Payment for the murder he did not commit.
Or darling Miss Biddle, only eight years old.
They handed her Mama her green Christmas coat.
Drowned when the ice cracked, no-one saw.
Lost in a snowstorm on the island of Mackinac.
Ghosts are so practical. They wander, they howl,
always in the same place, always the same sound.
Patient in time eternal, that their fate will dissolve or resolve.
My earthly body moves through life,
restless in my quest to change the past.
Spirits moan, I am not lost.
I close my eyes and dance with my ghosts.
Red, orange, yellow, white
licking at the wood so bright,
Burns the flesh,
charred bone colapes
gone, melted in to the flames,
As I burn to the last cell.
(After)
Bones of the dead,
Diffrent by looks,
but all hold the same story
of the flames consuming them.
Body, soul and faith
stolen by the devils hands
here, nestled among jungled trees
vines, leaves, ferns
antiquated ceramics and miscellany pottery
the monstrously massive
the grotesquely hilarious
the intriguingly quirky
the familiar and the surprising
dusty congregation in somnolence
indigo, cornflower yellow, bone white
a delight, a mystery
a forgotten anomaly
a skip and a hop from the nearest shopping-insipid-mall
navigate the silent corners
up the creaky stairs
between rows of pots, vases, plates and sculptures
a. veritable. treasure. trove.
whiling away a rainy afternoon
enchanted, entranced
lost, and happily so.
here, nestled among jungled trees
vines, leaves, ferns
antiquated ceramics and miscellany pottery
the monstrously massive
the grotesquely hilarious
the intriguingly quirky
the familiar and the surprising
dusty congregation in somnolence
indigo, cornflower yellow, bone white
a delight, a mystery
a forgotten anomaly
a skip and a hop from the nearest shopping-insipid-mall
navigate the silent corners
up the creaky stairs
between rows of pots, vases, plates and sculptures
a. veritable. treasure. trove.
whiling away a rainy afternoon
enchanted, entranced
lost, and happily so.
I can see the potter's hand when looking at your face.
Each gentle feature not by man could such a thing create.
I watch in awe as you sleep, this cherub from my flesh.
A most precious gift he gave to me he knew 'fore she drew breath.
I know nothing but to stand rendered in my awe.
In this role that I have granted me by God.
I wonder eyes how did you see before you saw her face?
And heart I wonder how'd you beat 'fore the kiln yielded that day?
What the potter's hand had made.
Fragile,as a tender pot
He moulds us in the furnace
The fire makes our beauty last
Clean,glazed mistakes erased-
A new creation cast.
Fragile
and tender pots
molded in the furnace-
mistakes erased,their beauty will
endure
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