I will come

vincentPatriciaWatword

“…and, I will come amongst you,
Cloaked in the rags of the sinner;

Thus shall ye all be judged.”

Painting: Vincent-Patricia Watwood

-evocative short poetry-

Published in: on July 26, 2015 at 12:55  Leave a Comment  
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Praise

image

Praised by a drunkard,

Just when my craving for respect,
From Oprah, Obama or

The Queen,

Seemed to be all the appreciation I needed,
She,

Walked in,
Demanding demurely, hand

Held out, just
Two sticks.

Her praise almost made me cry –

she was so dignified
tight dress not too
tight, just so –

Fabulous shades she says, glasses I reply.

Everybody needs words of encouragement sometime,
And she wrangles,

A full pack of cigarettes from me,
Between my shopping list, a burgundy coloured,

Brandy glass and,

An Orange Juice,
Placed just so;

Always good practise to keep a spare,
Packet of cigarettes in the car.

I am still laughing.

Photo: face2face Africa

-evocative short poetry-

Published in: on July 23, 2015 at 22:44  Leave a Comment  
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Mothership

image

You have to wake up

Democratic or not
Atheist or deciding

Male or female
You have to wake up.

You must.
By force.

No, this is not a question of belief
No, not one of freedom

You are free.
You have to wake up until

You die.

-evocative short poetry-

Picture: Mondolithic Studios

Published in: on July 22, 2015 at 11:08  Leave a Comment  
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We cavort wildly with language

image

The fish comes steaming, and
English is not the only language making sense.

Politics comes with dark green vegetables spewing flavor,
Kenyans having lunch on the Boulevard,

Lakeshore,

– commitment is the idea that momentum cannot disrupt motion, that
Committed, one moves forward,

Becoming better,

Choosing beyond the sound
Of Americans,

Providing proof of the pudding, cavorting
Wildly,

With language, the idea that language is not owned, it is spoken –

Shoot beyond the target,

Make it count.
Marriage will not be left with men and women.

It has always cavorted with love.

-evocative short poetry-

Published in: on July 21, 2015 at 00:13  Leave a Comment  
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The Courtyard

short poery, war, death, dog togs, young soldiers, experience

The courtyard is alive with the spit of angry bullets,
And baked hard by the scorching sun.

Clouds of smoke drift in,
In patches,

And are,
Collected by moans,

That become tiny whirlwinds,
Which suck on the dog tags on dead men’s chests.

See – Why we fight, Soldier
photo – 67pics.com

evocative short poetry – words move

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