Dicks in space-suits

UNEP, environment

Dead beetles die in their skins, and

Seychellois, Mauritanians, Maurtians, Martians,
Fighting with sun-tans all, and

Bad lip jobs,

In Nairobi,
Silent giraffes grope for love,

God,
Tends to antelopes,

The world ends
In a traffic jam or,

Dicks in space-suits building railways​ through the heart of a city.

♦Photo♦ Friends of Nairobi National Park

-short evocative poetry-

Published in: on April 21, 2017 at 09:21  Leave a Comment  
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China is not a free market economy or, On Welding

I would have to have 800 haircuts,

To,
Buy the ‘Professionals haircutter’ electric clippers deal I saw in the shop window whilst having a pee, and 

Trying to hit the resting mosquito on the wall,

With my urine,
-stream of thought- 
When,

I noticed the incessant sound of a welding machine, Workshop beside the loo against the restaurant and,
Just thought:
God is the World welder,

And In God We Trust.
Change the rubicon

Photo – Jua Kali https://migrationology.com/jua-kali-kenyan-informal-labor-sector/

Published in: on September 28, 2016 at 12:57  Leave a Comment  
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China is not a free market economy or, On welding

Observed-6c

I would have to have eight hundred haircuts,

To,
Buy the ‘Professionals hair-cutter’ electric clippers I,

Saw on offer,
at the shop window whilst having a pee, and

Trying to hit the resting mosquito on the wall,

With my urine,
-stream of thought-
When,

I noticed the incessant sound of welding,
Work-shop beside the loo,

Against the restaurant,
Africa,

And just thought, 

God is  a welder,

-The Welder-

And In God We Trust.

Change the Rubicon,
I do not need eight hundred haircuts all at once,

America is not the only free country.

-♦Photo – Jua Kali♦-

Published in: on September 28, 2016 at 12:54  Leave a Comment  
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Office Lover

 xPWRd3p

Dreaming of;

Colorful balloons on an African plain,
Hot air rising, with

Rich people making eye contact,
Heaving brandy glasses at the bar by the salt-lick lake,

Making new friends with,
Levitating boobs or

Buoyant balls,
Out on the reef, whilst;

Putting out lurid spread-sheets,
At the office photocopier,

With Sam,
And his dark blue eyes,

Hoping buoyant balls will crack it too,
That male or female,

Cleavage wins,

That bobbing balls will sway him from the levitating boobs of Caroline in the corner,

Will bring Sam round,
With his dark blue eyes,

To dreaming of African sunsets with me.

 

 

 

-evocative short poetry-

Published in: on November 24, 2015 at 05:37  Leave a Comment  
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The sound of an African funeral

20150627_120913

They sing for him,
Swinging from heel to frail heel,

Growing earth between the ground and the casket,

Bleeding love into the air
Like orchids,

Humming,

They rise again
And again their gently swaying busts,

Move the air to and fro,
To and fro,

Intending that mother be comforted,

Intending that her wet eyes,
Smile at new wives, that

though her son was gunned down, the
Rhythm of the occasion,

Brings life.

-short evocative poetry-

Published in: on August 15, 2015 at 20:22  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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Three trees

short poetry, colonialism, family, history trees death religion separation, love

A brook runs through my Grandmas farm,
That used to carry gold.

My Grandpa
-Benjamin-

Did not yield the land,
To the British, who wanted it dammed.

In 1968, they took him in,
To have his appendix removed,
And Grandma never remarried.

My Aunt Alice,
Was a witch.

She flew in on broomsticks
We never saw,

But heard in the barn,
Where she parked.

She brought foreign sweets that didn’t
Crack our lips,
And told us naughty jokes.

-Oh Pope the Bastard,
Please pass the Custard!-
We’d squeal and never tell,

And feel all grown up and,
Conspiratorial.

Grandma says she died running with
The wrong pack,

That she was knocked from the sky,
By a cross.

Later we learned,
It was a broken heart that did it, that

Grandma wouldn’t accept a,
Jewish man in the house,

So she killed herself.

Mary was dead when we got here,
Her tree is the prettiest.

It’s a large yellow poplar that
Trembles in the slightest breeze.

She was a violinist,
A frail, little thing, who

Is fading away in family photographs.

Irridescent sparrows trill,
Beautiful harmonies,
From skinny branches,

Shielded by the most delicate,
Drooping fronds.

You see, my Grandmother has three beautiful trees,
Growing in her garden,

One for Benjamin, one for Alice, one for Mary.

My grandmother used to sit under these trees.
They’re feeding off the bones she says.

-evocative short poetry-

Published in: on June 21, 2015 at 18:03  Leave a Comment  
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The Contest

short poetry, words move, smoking gif

The man is pressed into the lime green decor,
This bar is known for.

Four cones of orange light form,
Four distinct pools,
On the blue formica counter.

There is music playing and he,
Taps his foot methodically,
On the porous brown floor.

I am taken by the hair on his arms,
Down to his knuckles,
Dark and thick.

The barman glances at the silver case,
The man pulls his cigarettes from.

I am aware of a pulsing at my throat.

Two women,
One carrying a large important handbag,
The other,
A Japanese fan,
Conquer the purple leather bar-stools,
On either side of him.

We are at war.

Due to irregular patterns on my Hawaiian shirt,
It is not clear which way this will go.

image – twilightwap.com♦ linux hosting

evocative short poetry – words move

Published in: on June 21, 2015 at 16:31  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.

Here politics comes with dark green Kale spewing flavor,
Kenyans having lunch on the Boulevard,

Lakeshore strip, Victoria;

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

Becoming better,

Choosing beyond the sound
Of Visiting Americans,

Prodigal sons,

Providing proof of the pudding, cavorting
Wildly,

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

Shot beyond the target,

Marriage for instance, cannot not be left with just men and women,

It must not be left to white opinion,
It is,

A new democratic notion, an
African one.

In time.

-evocative short poetry-

Published in: on June 15, 2015 at 21:59  Leave a Comment  
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