Poor Poet.

A poet broke out

staggering sober into a drunken world

the moon was scary bright

he tickled his bag of measly coins

to cold stray women by the road

looking to buy a hug

a nickel of affection

and like a madman

they all flee from him.

Back he turned to his cold hut

at the furthest corner of the ghost town

on the edge of the living forest

lacking the strength to live in such world

he piled papers with ink

and wrote about a loving world

they lacked the courage to live in.

 

Illustration is ‘The Poor Poet’ by Carl Spitzweg

 

Venus Broken.

Once she held out in grace

from an oyster shell

sprung Venus in all her dazing beauty

sea nymphs singing praises

while adorning her with gowns of algae

and a crown of sucking stars,

with Sandro’s bristles made immortal.

Man receiving her ashore ,

lurking with cupid’s bow ,

struck her heart and ran away,

laughing and gay.

 

Now alone left to wander these shores,

strewn with man’s vanity ,

she treads lightly and fearfully ,

not even trusting the very ground ,

that holds her naked sole.

Her long green gown

whose helm once held by singing fairies

now withers, stained by the poisoned dirt

Zephyr’s breath that once blew her fair tresses ,

now foul and polluted wind.

 

She wails and beats her breast

a mother wailing for her lost child and her demon lover

a dark veil has been drawn over her heart,

that when she holds up her head ,

her sad eyes blot the sun.

someone said they saw her strolling the woods,

her  ghostly long moonlight shadow-

kissing  weeping tree stumps.

some say she is dead.

some say she is dying.

some say she will die.

of a broken heart.

Opium.

A chill is running down my nape,
Hair standing on end,
Veins furrowing my brow.
I am dressing this strange altar- mind,
To begin it’s senious rites.
Mount a mule’s shadow,
and ride out of my head.

Is the mind not a world of its own?
Is living just breath?
So does the poet ask,
and steady on raging storms
of ever pouring visions,
like the weaver bird’s nest,
Anchored on accacia thorns,
I am the king of the four winds,
Reigning in this scalp palace of marble.

I am the essence of jasmine
and orange blossoms,
From deep sacred funnels
Journeying across blooming gardens,
Upon suckers of buzzing chariots.
I am honey drunk with sweetness,
Lost in a thousand other nectors.

I am the reed flute,
Left whistling in the wind.
Mourning with melodious pain,
Where the desert meets the sea,
and men drop dead of thirst.
Death’s icy lips have kissed
The lips that once touched his
With eyes open wide.

I am a camp fire
At jungle’s edge,
Jewelled belly dancers of the Orient
Dance around me- mouths purple with wine.
Charming exotic snakes from baskets,
To join in their boneless sway.
But am put off: trampled underfoot,
As the campers start off at daybreak,
To burn again in another life.

I am spotted with colours strange,
From fragments of a thousand different dreams,
That my original coat is lost.
But yearning still
I break out of my cocoon,
Yarning worlds of colourful silk,
and wings of butterflies.

I am the sovereign king
Of a self-made empire of visions.
The highest of bliss,
And the most bitter pain.
My feet is in the gutter,
and head dining with the gods.
The closer to God I come,
The more heathen to man I seem-
I am a stampless envelope,
Of a love letter to the world.

Stay away bottled in a dark corner,
You the bringer of raging storms,
Disquieting solemn meditation.
You the painter of Shadows,
Upon the tenements of this fragile mind.
Let me find repose and forswear,
The potent drops of this opium-
Imagination.

I have tasted the sweet poison- Freedom
To save me now? Too late.
The venom has struck the heart,
and blazzing pupilless balls
under half shut lids watch on,
As the physicians struggle in vain,
My petal skin is flaking to Adonis.
Liberté liberté! I am free!

Illusions

The clouds hang low,
the rocky hill summit
is at heaven’s gate
on a misty day.
The fool climbs to greet God,
and the peeping sun comes
and whisks his dreams away.

The murderer’s finger is dropping red,
care and hope like star-crossed lovers
Lie in shimmering pool of blood.
Out in the pouring rain
that smothered their screams,
lightening lights the alley
and God’s reflection shines on muddy waters.
The soul is sullied
for a few moments of passion
and a handful of fantasies.

The groom comes to his warm bed,
laden with virgin fragrant flowers.
The thief that steals in the night
carries away his price,
and in the breaking dawn,
lifeless and cold
they carry her away.

The narcissus in all its nakedness
opens up to the sun, blushing
as the earth, jilted
bows at its feet.
The new radiant lover
has scorched it’s petals sapless dry
and the wind carries it away,
careless and vain.

Are you here now?
Looking on with me?
Teary smiles warming to laughter
and dry laughter to heaving sobs.
Weeping we wade our feet
in the poodles of salty tears
that boiled down deep
in the cauldrons of the soul
and made concoctions of bitterness,
As the witch life stands a watch
Her shrieking laugher growing louder
tumbling down our walls from the sky.

Who cares for tomorrow?
Arms stretched out to things unseen?
Children of the sun laughs at them
Like children playing with the village madman,
Mimicking his airy world.
Anxiously wake them up,
Crying and shaking them violently
” Wake up and live,
The rest of your life is now!”

Nantenya The Desert Rose.

Nantenya fair rose of Ombalantu

Can I accompany your gypsy soul?

You move with light feet and travel long,

With petals open wide pay homage to the sun.

You weather all and wither not.

At the touch of your sole

The desert blooms with a thousand fragrant flowers,

and all the winds come to bow at your feet.

Your footprints have stayed on the sand

against the strongest of storms,

To lead souls to to lakes of infinite life.

The mad camel takes a knee at your charms

and humps dune to dune to the orange horizon

Yet am here rooted in hope

Like the eternal baobab of Ombalantu

Seething water, seeking life,

With leaves above ground breathing hot desert air,

Waiting on your gracious touch.

Come seek shelter by me fair desert rose,

I’d uproot my eternal trunk off the ground

To walk the world with you.

Few lines along freedom park.

I took an afternoon walk

By the cool shadows of freedom park

Two lovers full in each other

A bird hovering above their heads

Raided the picnic boxes

And got his way

The lovers shooed him away

Still laughing and content

Looking on

Neither was I jealous of the lovers

nor did I envy the bird

For my love for both

Man and beast

Soars higher above all picnics

and feathered mischief.

Shaded path.

The lonesome shaded path

That leads back to my heart

Is unbeaten and strewn with undergrowth

Webbed with boughs

Hugging twigs from both sides

and in the quiet of the evening

You can can almost hear the pines weep

For our time under those those dancing shadows

and fresh flowers ever lay

On the gravestone of our past.

Walking away or walking back

May slithering vines

Shade your path

And the forenoon wind

Drench your hair

With jasmine petals

Mirror

The innocent fascination

of the child by the mirror

smiling at his likeness

rejoicing in the knowledge

of beholding their own self

That joy is gone now

that innocence is fled

and in your adult days

the likeness is another person

though the image still remains

the soul is gone.