Long Travel by Poems
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There is a specific kind of silence that happens on a phone screen
when the uncles in the village post a picture of the dried-up borehole.
They do not add caption text or dramatic emojis;
they just let the cracked mud speak for itself to the cousins in Gaborone
who are busy paying off car loans they can barely afford.
My phone vibrates against the wooden table like an unwelcome heartbeat.
An aunt text-messages a Bible verse about enduring the famine,
typing it in all caps because her eyesight is failing under the dim solar light.
Nobody replies with poetry or clever metaphors.
We just type Amen because it is the only currency we have left to share.
In the city, we pretend we have cut the umbilical cord,
moving between air-conditioned offices and scanning barcodes at the mall.
But you cannot block the dirt road from your bloodline.
A notification pops up about a contribution for a broken tractor part,
and suddenly the salary you haven't received yet belongs to Kachikau.
I remember when news used to travel by foot or on the back of a donkey,
arriving late but carrying the actual breath of the person who brought it.
Now, the emergency arrives in blue ticks and instantaneous panic,
breaking through our neat, modern routines
to remind us that survival is still a collective hustle.
So I don't look for rhymes to soften the blow of these text messages.
I write this down exactly as the screen glows against my face in the dark.
We are a generation caught between the data bundles we buy
and the old soil that still demands our sweat,
waiting for the typing indicator to tell us who we have to save next.
2026.06.03
Today is the last day,
Of my mother's existence.
Her cold white body had been laid
Inside the closed coffin filled with blessings.
The petals and the fresh roses,
After all the necessary prayer performed,
All family members bow to the deceased,
Say goodbye for the last time as a group.
I follow and walk behind the coffin,
Out of the temple all the way,
Onto the white hearse.
On her last journey travel by vehicle,
Her coffin travels to pass her last home address
Where she lived before being hospitalised.
That was her last trip home.
Before being taken to the cemetary,
She chosed her body to be cremated,
Once the coffin carried to the room,
For ever, she would be burnt to ashes.
Just one day before her funeral,
I helped dress her on Monday,
At the funeral parlour cold room,
She looked beautiful for her age.
Her skins were pale and icy cold.
Her earthly body but not her soul.
For some reasons, we put on her,
Four layers of Buddish long gray clothes.
Together with her favourite jeweleries,
Her religious prayer's uniform,
Her Buddish temple's identification,
A string of the prayer's beads,
All of these placed on her or next to her.
At the Altona Memorial Park,
Her coffin sits on the castors,
Quickly rolls into the furnace,
I quickly wave my right hand and say,
"Bye-bye Mummy"
My tears were uncontrolly poured.
I cried as loudly as I shouted.
Once the naked flames were ignited,
Her earthly body would warm up,
Be burnt until all turned into ashes.
Mummy, I lost you, I love you.
Forever, you totally vanished on earth.
But you shall live forever in my heart,
As long as it beats and pumps my blood.
First trip was at Kuala Lumpur
Flight was always delayed due to a strong down pour
Second trip was at Langkawi
So giddy when our ferry boat sails on the sea
Third trip was at Penang
Thought we’ll travel by train on land
Having now my very first travel insurance
Hello! I prefer to travel by foot on land!
Oct. 7, 2017 2.15pm
A remembrance trip poem for myself
3 Free Travels + free travel insurance for the 3rd time:)
Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia: Oct. 13-17, 2012 Students’ Educt’l Trip)
Langkawee, Malaysia: March 12, 2013( Faculty Tour)
Penang, Malaysia: Oct. 1-6, 2017 (Students’ Educt’l Trip)
They are my lucky pants, they come with me wherever
They are my lucky pants, we will always be together
They are navy blue nylon, not cotton or leather
They are all purpose jogging pants for any kind of weather
They are pants that are worn for all of the seasons
I travel with my lucky pants for many different reasons
They are not too hot and not too cold, my traveling pants will never get old.
We been to New Orleans, Texas and even Alabama
We traveled to Maryland, Atlanta, Memphis and D.C
They went to Colorado, Florida and Vegas with me
We went to New York, London and then back to the states
We travel by car, bus or plane, whatever it takes
Whether worn or not, they’re coming for the flight
Wear them for my wedding um, I don’t know, I just might
They are my lucky pants, I will have them like forever
They are my lucky pants, get rid of them? Never!
You can count on your fingers
You can count on your toes
You count all the petals
On a newly blossomed rose
You can count on an abacus
You can count apples on a tree
But, most of all
You can always count on me
You can call on a phone
Using a mobile or land line
You can call for a pizza
They deliver all the time
You can call for a recount
You can even call on your PC
But, if there’s anything you need
You can always call on me
You can travel by boat or plane
You can travel by car
You can travel locally
Or you can travel away far
You can travel around the world
You can travel anywhere
But, wherever your travels take you
I can always travel there
You can find yourself a spouse
You can have a couple of kids
You can marry the church
Like Sister Teresa did
You can wed the same sex
Even if others think it’s bad
But, no matter what you do
I’ll always be your proud Dad
Painting the horizon of heaven
bet you blue is there
as you travel by plane through air
while you sink within your drink
blue is in the mix
so your throat is cool
your head has a fix
brown and mellow in your seat
comfortable in your blue jeans
you think of your destination
blue rules the invocations
beat of the jazzy band
oceans making love to sands
somber eulogy dear ones passed
like the old Chevy Nova
that use to leak gas
first time you held baby boy
last minute of a sensual joy
the music that travels in your moods
composing the essence of
the house of blues.
BLUE POETRY CONTEST
SPONSOR MYSTIC ROSE ROSE
Intimation of beyond
The attraction of the twilight firmament in a hazy stream,
invited me to ponder on the meadows of this timeless esteem.
Where this rotating light is a constant reflection by global sight,
apparel of celestial confinement in each moment of light.
Like the remembering and freshness of a dream,
observing the lights of heaven in this theme.
Only the utterance of time comes with grief, beautiful and fair,
while the frequency of timelessness has no promise to bare.
Echoes of images in constant seasons revealing our celestial infancy,
shades of the prison body shape shifting in this intimacy.
But behold in this light and observe how it flows,
it is the dream who daily furthers from the east and grows.
Natures priest must travel by visions splendid,
the dream makers way intended.
Time perceived will die away,
fading more and more to the light in centuries of a day.
Earth enjoys her spherical lap in celestial union kind,
unconditioned, forgiving and compassioned shined.
The ultimate mother nursing all she can maintain,
perpetual benediction simple and plain.
To write means being calmly relaxed
it's so soothing upon one's mind
giving the words freedom to flow
loosen one's self to be no longer blind
It's so inspiring to travel by coach
looking across the green pleasant land
such magnitude of the mountainous hills
the Scottish landscape makes one stand
As I sit always on the window side
the scenery a feast upon the eye
words come full of insightful truths
desires full of ink penning sky high
It's always a joy to write on a coach
the mind dreams of another kind
filled with sugar sweet all things nice
my hand writes forever signed
My trips south, north, east and west
uphill down dale so expectant
bringing inspiration to my heart
this makes one look so aspectant
(I have written this to show the places where I find the most inspiration to write my poetry.)
Word Lyric #9 for Music
“Testimonies of Old Hippies”
We are still traveling by the speed of mind,
We’re the old freaks, and survivors of the great Be In,
Winsome hippie girls, now old and still kind,
Play pan flutes with feathers glued to their skin.
We were there when Joe and Jimi stole the big show,
With their mythic renderings cast in vinyl stone,
What was it? Where are we? We did not exactly know,
Janis and Pete and Alvin Lee lacerated the night alone.
And we heard The Bear boogie on down the wooded road.
Some of us saw magic mushrooms smiling on a giant toad.
Richie Havens and Carlos Santana let it all fly as we sat there,
Far away into mind space, their epic explosions resounded,
Electric guitar hysterics with screaming rants compounded,
We were all laid to waste there, in the rock n’ roll blare.
We old freaks still travel by the speed of mind,
Old dudes, and hippie girls hang around and are still kind,
We still secretly toke at midnight, all of us with the ghosts,
Of Joe and Jimi, when they sliced the sky, before that vast host.
I loved your garden and wanted some pictures.
One day I stopped by to introduce myself.
After taking my pictures you said, let's sit and talk for a while.
Turns out we had lived in the same town before moving 2,000 miles away.
You asked me to go to lunch and I said that would be great.
Our friendship was starting along with laughs, lunches and fun.
We loved to travel by day and by sea laughing all the way.
Little did I know it would not last.
You had the nerve to move to heaven and leave me all alone.
Now I have all the fun memories until we meet and lunch with the angels.
The lady down the lane you were always so much fun.
Date Written: 3/15/2020