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Anna Hart Poem
I have to write of the Cape’s evening skies
Of apricot seas and swooping gull’s cries,
Light fading from gold to deep blue, bit by bit -
Table Mountains silhouette, hauntingly backlit
By hidden spotlights far above the town line -
The warm smell of fynbos, of kelp and of vine.
Silver moon pathways across the sea, starlit skies
A shimmering chorus of crickets’ cries
The sudden “chuck-chuck” of a guinea fowl’s warning -
The earth wheeling silently on her course toward morning.
Copyright © Anna Hart | Year Posted 2007
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Anna Hart Poem
My revolutionary heart smiled at its private joke:
“The poor can’t eat the rich because they’d gag and they’d choke
On toxins like guilt, cynism and greed,
Prozac and Botox – not quite what the poor need.”
But, the above-mentioned attitudes, I hear you demur,
Are found just as commonly amongst the poor.
Yes, I retort, it’s just as you say –
But they have better reasons to feel that way.
For those with soft beds, their futures assured,
Their needs taken care of, their investments secured,
No wolves near their doors, their faces unlined -
Surely these ones can simply afford to be kind?
For the poor each gesture has a real cost –
A loaf of bread given may mean a meal lost,
But the rich can donatecratefuls, it takes no nerve,
It is only a snack, a missed hors’d’oevre!
Copyright © Anna Hart | Year Posted 2007
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Anna Hart Poem
She says: “I heard about this service offered by an Australian mobile-phone
company – you can request that they block certain numbers after 3.00am…”
He says: “Why?”
And she replies: “’Cos that’s the time when people call those numbers and
make fools of themselves…”
She can hear the penny drop, the subsonic ‘click’ of understanding, before he
asks:
“What’s the time over there…?”
She says: “3.00 am.”
Copyright © Anna Hart | Year Posted 2007
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Anna Hart Poem
So here’s me, on the phone, being so inane
That it feels like life is spilling through my fingers.
And you, all warm and shiny in the folds of a new love,
Being friendly and wishing me luck with the rest of my life.
And this is me –
The one who thought she was emotionally invincible,
The one who had turned the looters of her life into charities,
And the robberies into donations,
This is me realising that being afraid of owning something
Is not quite the same
As having nothing left to lose.
Copyright © Anna Hart | Year Posted 2007
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Anna Hart Poem
Holding this fragment of you in my fingers,
This tiny piece of evidence that has flown across an ocean,
Trying to find the big ringing words to describe what I feel
When I see the touches of grey at your temples
But the only coherent thought to emerge is
That seeing your face is just like coming home.
Copyright © Anna Hart | Year Posted 2007
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