Beyond the boundaries of life and death,
My friend forever, you have positioned yourself
In the sublime horizon of my heart.
Your majestic shrine glows with a light,
With what a profound hope and immense delight,
I extend my arms to the powerful expanse.
The quiet night has embraced and draped
Your feet with her sprawling dark hair,
How enchanting is the song the universe is immersed in!
Emanating from the strings of your veena,
The world becomes one with the tune of your music,
I feel a tinge of melancholy emitted by the sadness of the melody.
Sun cuts darkness with his sharp lance,
Twilight covered in a diaphanous blanket is lifted.
Trees stand supine, breeze whispers through their leaves
Birds sing in chorus in rising and falling lilt
As sunbeams weave out a beautiful tapestry,
Shadows play hide and seek like little children.
Girdled by sand dunes, a lagoon sleeps
Under a turquoise sky, its teal blue waters,
Reflecting the sprawling azure blue canopy.
The world witnesses the marriage of blue and blue.
The door is open.
It has been open for three days.
The sky outside is an endless,
terrifying blue,
a ceiling with no rafters,
a sprawling room with no corners
to press my back against when
the shadows stretch.
The poets outside write sweeping
verses about my clipped wings.
They weep for my songs of sorrow
behind iron bars,
projecting their own claustrophobia
onto my feathers.
They don't understand that the bars are ribs,
and I am the heart suspended inside.
If you crack the ribs wide open to
the wind,
the heart does not suddenly sprout wings and soar.
It is exposed. It stops beating.
I hop to the threshold, look at the
boundless, hungry sky,
and pull the little brass door shut with my beak.
Click.
Ah.
Freedom.
No ships are mooring at this bay
No ferries dragging to and fro
The visitors that come to stay
The next day pack their bags and go
No planes are landing at this airport
The timetable display is dark
We won’t be welcomed to the board
To be ascended like that lark
The sea’s in sprawling stains of oil
A smell of burning fills the air
The birds lay dead on poisoned soil
Stay home, it’s dangerous out there
Is it the phase of evolution?
Some side effects from climate change?
Authorities have no solution
Stuck in an intermediate stage
There’s no escape, no destination
But nonetheless, I’m thinking of
A better time in reservation
When I evolve in you, my love.
In bejeweled jade landscape
the topaz terrain rolls relentless
on wondrous waves,
undulating with
the sculpted panorama
of pristine cadence,
entrenches in earthen frame
the sprawling shape
of a serene lake,
sublimely sparkling,
the sapphire shining face
looking up
toward the cerulean sky,
entranced.
The southern zephyr
whispers enticing melody
to the rhapsodic ripples
intensely passionate,
spread in seraphic span
of self-suffusing rhythm,
slide on slithering shadows
of the dancing trees,
lining the contorted contours
of the splashing shore,
adorned.
Malachite lotus leaves
float flamboyant
with pulsating fervor,
the ruby flush of full bloom
makes the collage
of fiery fresco
with fanning feathers
of flaming flamingos,
their ballerina legs wading
the emerald waters
in avian grace,
supple napes swiveling
in charismatic concerto
of aquatic ballet,
surreal.
In the hypnotic gleam
of the setting sun
I watch the lacustrine opera,
captivating.
The old ink rests on parchment sheets,
While summer pulses in the streets.
We hear the ghost of marching feet,
And drums that echo, proud and fleet.
With quiet, searching eyes, we trace
The struggles of this sprawling place,
The heavy cost, the fragile dream,
And all we are, and all we seem.
Yet freedom is no static thing—
It asks the modern heart to sing.
It’s found in every untied string,
In modern art and words that ring.
In vibrant brush, in rhythmic flow,
In all the brilliant ways we grow,
We take the past and make it new,
To paint a boundless, vivid blue.
Beneath the flashes in the night,
We fuse the shadow with the light.
The history that gave us flight,
Drives our creative, hopeful might.
A living, breathing, pulsing art,
That maps the pulse of every heart,
Where ancient truths and futures meet,
To make the modern dream complete.
Fight me! Styx wants to say
It comes out as a ‘mew’
They stroke his fur and pet his head
Tickle, fuss and coo
Too soft! He thinks, Where are the claws?
The hard knocks and the teeth?
His friends, the other wampus cats
At least brawl like they have beef
But his clowder mates are holed up too
Hunkering from the hail
What he wouldn’t give right now
To bite another’s tail!
Adrenaline makes his muscles twitch
Pent up frustration writhes
Oh to be outdoors again
Running with his tribe!
Fight me! Styx wants to roar
All six legs set to scrap
He doesn’t want an invitation
To sit purring on a lap
Fight me! Styx insists
And receives a little shove
Yes! Physical contact!
He interprets it as love
Fight me! Fight me! He’s shoved again
He nips, inviting more
He’s rewarded with rough and tumble
And is sent sprawling on the floor
When it comes to good play fighting
The humans don’t quite know how
It’s not the same as wampus wrestling
But it’ll do, for now
A sea of marble markers
In perfect rows and place
Adorn the sprawling green
Above each cherished face.
Beneath the graven tombstones
Are soldiers low and dear.
Void of breath, still, at peace
Full of honor, lost in tears.
No one will forget these lives
Though silent, markers speak.
White monuments still stand
Like glorious mountain peaks.
Trumpets blare their tributes clear
Through somber, sobbing faces.
Salutes surround the site
Where loved ones kneel in places.
Their dear loss is not in vain
They bore great pain for us.
High is the soldier's worth
Come lift a grateful chorus.
Rutted twittens, ivy shadowed
flecked with fuchsia blooms
as spring nods gaily
to wake dozy summer
and clattering of feet
on the sparse cobbles
that meander in quaintness
toward sprawling flea markets
where bustle and laughter
of children, echo, larkish
amid the ruddy traders
who grin and joke
behind their wobbly trestles
draped in gingham cloth
that sport a shambles
of vibrant, ancient treasures.
Hatred, see the world with love?
Sure. That can't be helped.
Agony, arc. O alcove:
Wendigo is whelped.
Sickening loss, tempest toss.
Hard work, go to waste.
No use hanging on the cross!
Bitter is the taste!
Caiman, the gulf floor. Abhor?
Oh, good sir, you bet.
O computer, where's the door?
Aren't we fancy-fret.
Thrashing round the thresher?
O chaff blue, from brown grain.
Cannibal, refresher?
That flesh, sir! Deign to drain!
Red mountain, yellow forest.
Wild will be that fire.
Lava, ignite. Pray, poor pest.
Sad thy sprawling sire.
Parents, clutch thy offspring?
We do the best we can.
Sacrosanct? Sick? Silvering?
Reconcile run? Ran.
Ghastly gale. Green gibbous glow.
Cobalt blue bad moon.
Captive, open door. Let's go?
Well, it's none too soon.
Tiny crosses. Metal.
They fell straight from the sky.
On that cliff? Gas pedal!
Eternity, odd eye...
Aunt Mary’s sprawling wrap-around porch
hid curious six-year-old me.
Peeking over the baluster rail,
I spied Cross Creek Rosie passing by,
tall and stately, walking purposefully
down Jefferson Avenue.
Her constant companions,
rumors and cruel taunts,
pursued alongside.
In an era lacking preferred pronouns,
she was exotic intrigue,
inquisitive mystery,
a Pandora’s box of queries,
the circus orchestra
rife with colorful discordant notes.
Flamboyant scarlet turban,
deeply rouged cheeks, fiery red lipstick,
black mascara adorning manly features,
gypsy-like blouse spattered in rainbow hues,
black toreador slacks.
My tiny heart ached for her.
Small hand lifted in greeting,
I whispered, “Someday I want to be like you.”
Would I ever walk confidently in my own skin?
Two peas in a pod
she’s so hot
both showing off
branded shades and shoes
his arms circle her
a prison so secure
how could she not
want some more
from her flat belly
dramas emerge with Rasta son
this mother with belladonna daughter hum
a priestess or princess
he does not know
it is all part of their show
Two peas in a pod
she’s so hot with potato
koeksusters on Sunday morning
legs like pegs in African colour sprawling
Woohoo ! both peas were soldiers with MKs
one from Zimbabwe
other from Mzantzi
sharp-shooting was their skill
in past for a kill
now their drama is
for paying fat bills !
~~~~~~~~~~~
I feel best in nature far from city blocks.
Peace comes from viewing God's beautiful stages.
Medicinal are streams, trees and even rocks.
On natural land every sense engages.
I so love all of outdoors genuine sounds,
my happy inner child playfully abounds.
All earthly vistas mankind has not tainted
are heavenly views and feels that God painted.
Gray, gloomy and cold are the steel and concrete
of large, sprawling cities built to fulfill greed.
Clustered strangers press buttons to cross a street
and are dwarfed by buildings for which land did bleed.
There are blocks of humans from rich to homeless
where trauma and apathy leave hearts boneless.
Even in June, I loathe how cold cities feel.
I have no guess why to many they appeal.
Who are you?
Where were you?
What’s the connection?
Why now?
My mind ponders,
In figment of imagination, it wanders.
Seeking truths in riddles better left untold.
As I walked in alone,
What was the calling, unknown?
Masked in a cloak, perhaps a riddle to see,
Waiting for you to appear, to help untangle me.
What is pure joy?
What is elation?
An infant cradled in mothers’ arm,
The embrace, the warmth.
The laughter of a child,
All innocence, free from guile.
The maiden glance, the nascent word.
Phew…Effervescent beats surged within,
A fountain of joy bubbling unseen.
Your aura, brushed in hues of rainbow’s gleam.
Your vibes, as pleasant as the memory of a childhood dream.
And I stood smitten, shaken & stirred,
Awoken from the slumber, my vision blurred.
Sometimes, a lifetime is never enough,
Sometimes, a moment is magic in puff.
Sometimes, words vanish, unable to explain,
Sometimes, silence sings what the heart can’t contain.
Walking in, I didn’t know my calling,
Saying goodbye, my thoughts and feelings were sprawling.
Blessed I am to have experienced you,
Pending tale, yet untold, will follow.
From the rising sun in the east
To casted shadows after dark in the west,
Our tribal marked faces show,
A timeless story, aglow.
Seasons come and go,
Hiding shades and dimmed sparks.
Beneath the sprawling swamps,
Cornering meandered mangroves,
Our roots run deep,
Anchored in attires of legacy.
Our heads see without light,
Guided by old wisdom unspoken.
Truth and strength wrap us,
Like leaves hiding the stem,
This binding keeps us to mother earth,
Fatherland, and to each other.
The river Nun whispers
Future tales of our past,
Her ebb and flow carry songs of joy,
Of resilience, of hope.
Wells oiled to bustle with life,
Echoing voices of a southern people united,
Crafting stories with each fishing net,
With each catch and harvest,
With each chant that shakes the air.
We stand with one another,
As trees in a forest,
Strong and steadfast,
Each branch reaching,
Each leaf singing,
Together in harmony,
Brothers and sisters fit to guide,
The new call of the river Nun.
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