Sketchbook  Jeffrey Spahr-Summers, US

 

 

Free Verse All Roads Lead to Johannesburg The scent of gold Lingers over this city Like a hot summer day And shouts boldly about The money to be spent. It screams loud and clear Across the countryside, To those far and near ‘we have work here’. And day and night You can hear the idle talk Of a need for more in life, You can hear them walking From the homelands, From Zululand, The Transkei, Bophthatawana And Bechuanaland. Across the land They’re trying to survive, They want to stay alive. They’re going to Johannesburg.     Avocado Lovers Blacker than the heated night, They meet in secret And fight each other For the ripest of the virgin fruit. Shameless, they strip down To piano teeth and pin dot eyes That flash like beacons And leer at the avocado trees. There is something like lust here. And they dig, and dig in a frenzy. They dig and lay their seeds Deep under the trees. They love the avocados. They love to feel them slowly And eat them without haste, Without waste, Without guilt. They love to peel them gently And indulge in the pasty taste Until their bellies bulge and shine Like their pregnant woman.     Grasshoppers I Vivid red, yellow and green Like a perfect plastic toy, I made it a place in the freezer (thinking to tease my sisters) But returned to find it frozen, Color faded, Legs brittle and broken. II In Zululand The natives favor them fried And lightly seasoned for flavor They are offered to tourists as such.     Cry of the Peacock Silenced I Stinging through the night always at night Whining Like spiders climbing my spine, The cry bites deep Into vulnerable sleep And suddenly dies, As if wary of mourning The eerie solitude of no reply. II Snagged without warning, Exhausted Feathers sagging You stumbled upon me, Eyes wide Flinging your head From side to side, Gagging From a crude wire trap Slapped tight around you neck. Our of ear (I think) You wouldn’t let me near And disappeared, Dragging the morning behind you     Beyond Reach Apartheid is a slow child Winded By the frantic pace of life, Dimwitted and abused Confused by the graceful space Between wrong and right, Outwitted by strife. An only child Riled Accused of too much, Mild-mannered When it pleases new friends But reluctant To give up toys for them.     Black Cup And the white boy sits By the empty black cup Struck by the futility of it all.     Prime Time 1971 Not to worry now, About the secrets The silence About the drugs and the alcohol Or the sex flexing Its muscles out in the yard, The loneliness The rage Or laying blame. Not to worry now, About the hours lost Tossed away like pages read, Rustling through the house Bled of interest. It’s time to let down the guard And conjure up games Like Yahtzee, Pinochle or cards Maybe even a play, We’re good at charades.     i saw a zulu woman once kick her husband's teeth out they fell from his mouth like chiclets on a night like this she snapped like a dry stick she struck quick as lightning a ruthless cobra stretching the full length of her body and he never saw it coming but i did it didn’t surprise me she worked in our house and i could tell you some stories     Snakes Never Stray Far from Their Mates for Daddy George A fact of nature, you said Poised and ready to strike again As we watched the Night Adder die, Writing its blood back and forth Across the floor in front of my dresser. There’s always a mate nearby, you said And I hated you For making me clean my room anyway. Then came the psychotic game I played. Where would the second be found? At my feet? Wrapped around the toilet seat? Or maybe Lured to my bed by body heat Like the stories I’d heard. I should have known, Two weeks to the day On the very same spot, Once again A taste of blood Pasted hot on the floor. I waited by the door Until I knew by your breathing Another was dead, Relieved there were no more. Unless there are eggs, you said.     ‘it must be here’ at Blood River (so named after the defeat of 16,000 Zulu impis on Sunday, December 16, 1838) It must be here At the foot of Vegkop that blood poured in the reddest. I can feel it in the sickly motion Of water flowing thick against the grain. And it must be here Near the banks of the Ncome That the hands of fate Lunged for the throat of a nation Proud in its African blood And slated a war the natives couldn’t win. It must be here That white men finally Rushed the great tide, Crushed the Zulu pride, Thought up a disease called Apartheid And flushed it across the countryside.     two sticks marching as a cadet in a beret in the transvaal in step in the kiln of summer in the front row with a drum and two sticks this is worth it i've got the snare now baby i've got it     Take a Separate Train (Johannesburg to Cape Town) for Anna   The best in the world, they say And it’s true The Blue Train is special, Like a first kiss. Picture a windowed mansion Whisked brashly down the line Tailing a quick ocean scent. Sailing through the vineyards Intent on a smooth ride. But they’ll hide you (we both know they will) On another train As if to blame black pride For your ties to this ripe county. So your time must be spent Sitting up a straight 24 hour ride Unable to lay down for sleep. Frustrated and hunger, Keeping track of the reasons Why you cannot ride with us.     The Dying of Zulu Means gracefulness dancing barefoot in the sun, proud ancient wisdom, beaded weapons, assegais, shields and knopkerries, floors of dirt and disease lack of food and water lack of healing, a sharing of clothing and borrowed shoes for generations to come.

 

Free Verse The Silver Coin A remnant of old experiment a token of old fears remembered in my hand Paul Kruger the first President on the front a Springbok on the back Suid Afrika it says 1967 soli deo gloria still smooth and ominous     Coming of Age The beauty of your curious garden Is forever stained A deep furious and painful red, Framed without answers Like questions unsaid. It is said That some white men Are led to believe You are better off dead And blame your lot if life, your children's innocent strife, On father Ham, because he made your bed. But I'm not deceived By these centuries of useless excuses And I grieve For the life that you've led, Thread bare Spread eagle across the bed Of your homeland, Snared by the dreadful touch Of a free man's careless thrust. And sometimes I believe in freedom and justice, But sometimes I simply grieve For the Africa in me. Jeffrey Spahr-Summers     Child of Afrika The child doesn't want money or Jesus to come save his soul or Toys or candy or clothes or Promises even or Food The child wants hope.     Seasonal Showers (in Pretoria) In November Jacarandas grow Powerful summer flowers Showy blue in hue And throughout December Violet showers blow Just so Like snow Floating to and fro Slowly Down the flowing Boulevards below     Soweto in My Pocket Itching behind my father's advice don't say anything son it's not like Nairobi don't speak out not even on the phone it might be tapped I fingered soweto in my pocket, A prickly fossil to be savored Like the Southern Lights. No cotton mouth African thirst Ever made me question Hiskia or Anna (little white boy on their heels) But I let them tell me Whatever they would... boy when my people rise boy they might want to kill you boy i will not stop them i cannot stop them you are white boy they are my people