Long Dried up Poems
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The wind blows platitudes through
my hair, a few come to rest
on the soft flesh of my scalp.
Slowly, so slowly,
like an ant hill, they permeate
my skull and carve soft
caverns in my brain.
On days where I have nothing to say,
all the love on my tongue has dried up,
I'll go fishing in their reflective pools.
The fish are smart though,
wary as an unfamiliar roundabout,
and I sit, invisible string making
ripples on the still, pink water.
Eventually,
the line is pulled taut as an occupied
swingset- good things come to those
who wait.
Once thought in a dream, lost in the night
Slipped through the cracks, not enough light
Who would have known after all the money and tokes
That all of it would be forgotten, just a joke
Young drive left behind in the dust
Took off so fast over fake love, also known as lust
I can fault myself for the wrong way traveled
On hell of an enabler was by my side to watch me unravel
Dried up, I stood around not knowing what to do
As she ran off again not caring what she put me through
I don't pass all the blame but it hurts not being the same
How can someone walk away just like a game
Genuine love from the heart isn't always easy
From me it's such an honest feeling, u can't see
I'm the one who held you up so strong
In the end you did the only thing you know, me wrong
If water is my only meal, let it rain; if water can move the platter on the sea, let it rain, fill the rivers and valleys with water and the people will come together, let the hot desert drown with moisture and fill the dried up stream and tell me of love in your dreams; rally the universe together and let all the unwashed multitude soaked off their sorrows with fragrance and pure oil from nature and natural sea salt from Africa. Drench the people with love and pour out blessing from above, let the poor wash their clothes in rivers of love that was reserved for the rich and the bold. If water is my food, I will drink from the wet spring of life and continue to make that woeful sacrifice. If water is my food for life, spear all the grapes on the vine and empower me with courage no one dear to challenge. If water is my food, fills up the dry wells and dams and purifies all the dry and thirsty land, wash away the germs from the earth and prepares the land to produce a brand-new crop that will feed the nation that lives on the mountain top. When the cloud and mountain meet, the rainbow in the sky will sign a new decree and a hundred thousand spirits will be free. The grand occasion is coming soon and my best friend will meet me tomorrow at noon .We will roll in the mud and soak in the hot tub with fragrance of time and scent that is divine. If water is my food, send the showers and put me in the mood; if water is my food the universe will approve, so write a brand-new menu upon my heart and I will show you where the journey starts.
Mental illness slithers like floss.
Hurts like stabbing lip gloss.
Runs around like trash with feet.
But that’s not the cause of retreat.
It’s globs of smiling overflowing.
And patterns of unknowing.
He walked up one day, like a dried up jellyfish.
Asked what kind of coat I wish.
But I’d rather be chilled than endure a soft jacket.
Which stings like a loud racket.
Mental illness isn’t like just any wish in a well.
And it’s more than being unwell.
It’s junk piled in a corner shed.
And fangs appeared on me instead.
An apparition or a voice in the trash can?
That’s when I tossed my clothes and ran.
Dried Up
Time – Mother Nature – guiding forces of the Grim Reaper,
that guardian Angel, that patient gate keeper.
Autumn leaves, clothed in reds, browns, yellows and gold.
I, a man of experiences, of age – this life has grown cold
in the warmth of the sun, days that are kept fair
- under blue skies, in my crown of white hair –
in time – callous – laying in dark shadows, to wait,
to watch it all crumble – in hand – my fate,
as it is for all, - skeletal remains - as all turns to dust,
as all, in the end, in the final analysis, must
in order to set free - for the soul to be –
all, as all reaches out to become a part of eternity.
Life’s great, glorious ship, set adrift in that black ?, sea,
is life’s journey, what lays ahead for you and me
as we move on into – that question - what will be,
for us, consciously, never to see.
B. J. “A ” 2
September 3rd 2004
Quickly we had our breakfasts
Then we both gazed
At the station clock
The morning train is late
Everything is wet
At night, the rain poured heavy
I listened to it
Hitting the bricks on the roof.
So tasty is this coffee, you said
The smell of bread, the flame of the oven
And the two bags
You didn’t wear your trench coat, I asked
You didn’t reply
You doubted
Whether we could reach the airport before noon
The plane won’t wait for us, you said
What if the train never arrives
We have no time
The hands of the clock are not moving
And those waiting before us
Took their bags and disappeared
What are we waiting for?
I was lost in the cumulus clouds
Over the chimneys of country houses
Yet, the village was still sleeping
The station guard switched off the lights
And left, humming a song
Tell me
When will we leave too?
No one is here
Even you
You are not here
The rain has dried up
Your dreams became pale
And very far is the airport.
Relentlessly the sun beat down scorching all
trees drooped leaves all withered mostly gone.
People staying in the shade sweltering as
they fight for each breath dripping with sweat.
Not a cloud to be seen, just blue skies
with a blazing red gold sun sapping life.
In the fields the animals struggle seeking
relief yet there is no respite from the glare.
Bodies shrivelled litter the plains, grazing
here not possible roots exposed and decimated.
Water holes long since dried up, rivers empty
Hopelessness shows in all the staring eyes.
Dust clouds the air causing all to choke on it
as far away rumbles are heard and flashes seen.
But here on the plains not a single drop falls
Life almost non existence as desert takes over.
People abandon their homes and farms
moving away to less harsh conditions.
Life here seems to be done for good
as the sand dunes march in claiming all.
The dry cracked earth moan under its crust while the languishing trees hold firmly beneath its grit absorbing little moisture within its root sending memory of hard time way back to its youth. The grass has dried up in the hot dessert heat and the animals have no place to sleep.
The sun rises in the morning walking with vengeance through the corn field, scorching blades and burning limbs from the shades then sits on top of the roof. It splashes its beam everywhere penetrating the asphalt melting it in front of my bulging eyes.
The heat continue to move around drying up rivers and sucking out water pipes while the busy trucks moving around the town with big water hose, filling the residence drums, bottles, pots and everything that they have got with water.
At nights they open their windows wide, trying to get some cool breeze but only hot hair kept circulating in the atmosphere and the crying babies keeps the mothers up late at nights burping and spewing sour milk on their shoulder while the heat continues to play a brazen rhythm in their feet.
It is a strange heat that is taking over the street, it burns the energy out of man, weakens his limbs and when he goes to the field he can hardly move the plough. It drains his spirit and put nature on the run and so the day went by holding man to his conscience while the curse of nothingness penetrates the earth.
I couldn’t bear to see the drought that is flirting about the earth
Moving between space giving rise to tension and ripping up the emotions. It sets the earth on fire and replenishes the desire, it cause justice to rise to its feet and solve the murder in the third degree.
The suffering was intense and so I had to do something. I walked towards the south and stretch out my hands and hum a song. All of a sudden the skies start to get dark and the birds start moving towards the south, hundreds of them flew in a pack while the old lark lingered at the back.
I know that something was about to happen so I watched it played out and just as I moved my hand the thunder start to shout and lightening respond in seconds. And so the heavens broke loose and fill the southern earth with water.
I tell you this weather
Could almost turn skin to leather
For quite some time one thing we've missed
Is those lasses hashtagging #sunkissed
By the beach making toasts
While tearing up some roasts
Adding another one of #cheerstothegoodlife
While a broke brother fears for his good wife
And all that he cannot afford for her
The thoughts are ever near but the pockets are far
Oh this weather; this scorching sun
That kisses the daughter but bites the son
The birds claimed to be of a feather
Are no longer flocking together
Lush branches have become pricking twigs
Ruffling their feathers that they may need feather wigs
Dried up grass unyielding to weaving
That nests are not for living as they are for leaving
Though held high in the air by the leafless structure
They hope that in its dryness it won't fracture
That it will endure even with the droplets of the dew
To hold up though nothing could be savoured of the view
To not let the past be a bother
But to believe that by coming this far we can go further
And all these hard days faith has been the only assurance
And the good weather comes to reward endurance
We recall faith and endurance making for bad weather
So we preserve them both and debate on either
For we wouldn't be built and cured by only hearing
The fire must be for your testing and searing
And the only thing one would bitterly regret
Is if through it all you ever forget
So let prominent remembrance be at your service
A man redeemed from judging from the surface
A man inquisitive and discerning
A man content and not plunged into longing and yearning
K. Muitherero.
Footsteps echo in the corridor of doubt
A thoughtless mind in lasting drought
Dried up thoughts = washed up habits
Habits sprint like wild jackrabbits
Peaking like a vicious storm crashing ashore
Spreading like a wind-blown poisonous spore
Quick to arrive and leave like molasses
An IV drip through jade-colored glasses
Finally absent with absconded talent
An effort must be made which is gallant
Habitual company was a psychological ally
Fool’s gold with cratering lows and smile so wry
Laborious efforts chased away idiosyncrasies
Stillness in idle dimensions begins to squeeze
Echoes turn to laughter then escalate to shouting
Distinctive accents with tunnel vision spouting
Usher the consigliere back to increase productivity
Compulsive companion whispering notes of creativity
Sweet surreal thoughts return to illuminate possibilities
Cautiously withdraw avoiding cloak and dagger hostilities