jewelled studs
stretched to forever
in an endlessly encompassing
quiescent deep

a panorama
aglow

an intangible taste
of a vast breadth
with future in potential
that shimmers just out of reach
.

20th December 2012.

THIS MORNING

Hills delicately touched
with seeping light of morning
dawning in the east,
they lie like icing on the cake of day,
the heavens tinted pink and grey,
pale blue a back-cloth
peeping through the haze,
the temperature ten degrees of frost,
a buzz of traffic dully reaches us
through silent roofs and trees,
the trees,
like statues of themselves,
there is no breeze.

DAWN

there is a mismatch between the Mayan
and
the Gregorian
current calendars…

earlier on, life was lunatic
lunar based
now it’s pragmatic
that is scientific
Equator oriented

hence you all are welcome
for breakfast at Tiffany’s
at 8.30 am sharp
22nd December

In the end it’s all about women.
When men create it’s not to emulate the womb,
it's to impress women.
Yes, about getting in her pants
but more about getting close

There must be loss and grief in the parting,
because when men are all gone,
women will remain.

I listened to the year of songs
Wondered on what to sing
A song of choice and preference
From Africa of my childhood
I stopped to laugh at the sound
My baritone booming big
In dialect songs of stories
Of folk lore and moonlight tales

It is now a year of poems
I have a handful inscription
But none of them has got a rhyme
To decipher my native ways
Of African thoughts to English
Like the struggle of the hopeless
A malfunction reflects the dearth
This terra firma bereft of text

KEEPER OF THE FLAME

I am the setting sun
bleeding crimson-red
Into blue horizon.

I am the moon riding
In a midnight sky
shrouded yellow pale.

I am the Keeper of the Flame
with a prophet’s name *
and when I forever fall
I will have kept it written all.

*Jeremiah= Geremia

Trudging through cold winter rain
shoulders hunched against the chill
all the trees now bare and plain
how long 'till they don leaves again?
Easy to think they never will.

For year and I have both grown old
my long trek soon will reach its end
like a ribbon near unrolled.
This old poet can't pretend
that much of my story's untold.

You must forget me

As to do otherwise
is to tear wrench torture
what's left
of me

I'm left on promenades
walking in straight lines
but not reaching
my destination
jutting out in rough seas

I float a firm footing
over boiling cauldrons
but we all know
the soup is now
spoiled

I can bear all
if you are erased
bleached
whitened
out

Remember to forget me
Who
are
You?

On those cloudy early evenings of
winter months is conjured up a certain chill,
even in the steam of this tropic place.
Unlocked are stored up memories
of other winters long forgotten.

There the sounds of evening traffic and the city’s
passing life are muffled deep within a wintery baffle.
This quite broken only by the occasional and
repetitious clunk of a carelessly fastened snow chain,
against the undercarriage of a home bound car.

I