My sister dropped her passport

My father left without saying goodbye,
Because I was late,
And CITES will not wait, for
African Leaders to emerge,
Female or male,
From the UN or not,
And the son was not at home to say goodbye
-partying as usual-
And my sister lost her passport on the airport road, we

Had to go back and hunt for it,
Lions in a pack,
Sniffing the grass,
Finding freedom, or
Yellowed inoculation cards, or
Rare Visas,
And I rushed back,

I Did,

After the bar, where I was crying
For the father whose glass ceiling meant that,
Africans cannot lead the world imagination, just
It’s institutions.

Anyway,
We said goodbye happily,

And we know what was in the heart.

*Photo* – personal

-short evocative poetry-

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Published in: on August 3, 2017 at 21:05  Leave a Comment  
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My name is Henry

short poetry, photography, new, fresh, ghost, gauze, faint, tenuous, dimension

The place I used to visit,
On bad days,
With yoghurt and spoon,
Is vacant.

The leaves are raked,
Into a neat pile,
By the bench,

And except for the newspaper,
Blowing about in the wind,
There is no-one here.

The river beyond,
Is a murky brown,
Same as it’s always been,

But,

Over the concrete balustrade,
On the sandy bank on the other side,
Is a briefcase.

Is it yours?

My name is Henry,
And I’ve been disappearing for years.

I can’t seem to find my way home.

 

photo – Jerome Wilson

-evocative short poetry

 

 

Published in: on June 21, 2015 at 16:35  Leave a Comment  
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