I
small father, The Arch is missed even by Dalai Lama, Buddhists
this writer loves Israel, but Tutu cried for Palestine, fellow-activists
my truth: the Arch gave me permission to be an African, a Christian
when I was all Indian-South-African by birth, a Hindu nationalist
II
he began as a teacher (matriculated from Johannesburg Bantu High School)
quickly - as I would do so in a way - he saw Ministry as The Tool
for Activist Church; Britain lifted him along, we recall TREVOR HUDDLESTON
III
From the WCC: World Council of Churches, he was tailor made for SACC
The almost South African Council of Churches (for all but Catholic & Dutch;
Official churches, but "Dutch" and "Catholic" CHRISTians fought with Arch)
IV
Today, just after CHRISTMAS 2021, Desmond has seen the face of Jesus
When I was Hindu, he allowed me to think again of our Savior-Activist
The One who sided with widows, orphans, aliens, sinners against His "Church"
I am not from Lancaster ain't no tumbleweed rollin through my backyard or brain. when those beautiful snow capped mountains show up in the morning on my front lawn in a mudslide..is not me.
rollin down the dark highway road a sudden thud-a crash into a wild boar crossing the road..how many times do I have to say, that's not me. course I will admit the lightning bugs at night sho nuff are a sight to see and the crickets chirping in the early morn mo pleasant than any alarm clock I know.sometimes the going down of the evening sun provides a skyline that's simply breathtaking, course when I pass the pig farm down the road..i keep my breath whew! and that says it in a nutshell why um not from Lancaster. when my wife said let's move to Lancaster I said whoa now, let's rent a spot for a week 'n the events of that week matriculated to a conclusion..
that's not me.
It hard to know
Why i was expelled
From the fundamentals of poetry.
Each day
Like a loyal monk
i played my flute
With the basket
Over my head.
As the lemmings
Passed
In quadrangles of coe-eds.
For everything i must remember
Something must be forgotten.
Often the days
Of learning
Have attempted to remove
Both the marrow and my intuition
From my bones.
Learning is to suppress
Creativity within
Like a poor mouse
Dreams of cheese.
In the first graduation
A woman matriculated
From Adam’s rib.
Into my textbook
i stuffed the snowflakes
i have cut kaftless
With my artless intellect.
Learning
Is ego
And i am
Priest of nothingness.
Some times
The best koans
Make ice-cream cones.
In the beginning.......,
before the children went off to school,
They played companions to their parents,
going everywhere with them,
Sharing their thoughts and feelings,
They were young innocent spirits,
Then, they matriculated among their peers,
and the children who used to be so dear
turn into shells of their former selves,
Loud and boisterous, or,
withdrawn and secretive,
timid to emote about the lives
they live,
The general population can rob
the young ones of their youth,
teaching them words that are uncouth,
exposing them to all sorts of drugs,
Nothing keeps them calm or soothed,
Somehow, they always are in a lousy mood,
The medicinal value of parents' hugs
get watered down,
because they would rather "hang" in the company
that makes them act like clowns.......