That we are given
Are not ours to keep
All we get is the moment
A minnow of time to borrow
And soak up sunshine days
Birdsong gifts stormy winds
And the thunder in our hearts
Having felt the wonder of irony
And reflected hard on my life
I say let tears fall like raindrops
Drenching the soul cleansing
That awful sad gasp of growth
And pain each and every day
Cigarette Break
I stand outside with
two tourists
They are watching me smoke
As I inhale and hold the smoke
Deep in my lungs with purpose
One talks about Amish carriages
Back home in Pennsylvania he
Asks have your ever seen them?
Damn things get nailed by cars
Every now and then he drawls
Yep all black...nothing but black
And his brother nods in agreement
Sometimes they get drunk and pass
Out and the horses know the way
Home but they don’t know to stop
For traffic lights and WHAM the
Brother smacks his fist in his hand
I can tell they are brothers they
Have the same peppered beards
The same blue eyes of conviction
The same ironic believing smiles
Mama Ruth
(in memory of Ruth
First—
killed by a letter-bomb
in 1982 while in Mozambique)
Of one mind, one spirit,
They called you a traitor
An uppity bold white woman
Kind enough, but ripe for the fall.
So they stalled for time
And confined you under ‘section 6’
Behind their cold prison walls.
and they said that the halls
Must be silent in your presence
And sent agents to correct you,
To sway the error of your ways.
But your way was to deny them
Their pleasure, to fight and to die
By the tethered voice of your conscience.
Your choice was clear; no tears,
No nonsense, no fear
Just years of rough weather,
Tough jailors turning questions
Until finally
An answer to your challenge
A surprise disguised as mail,
And no chance to turn away.
pretty boy
ive never been any
good at this oh
sure when i was pretty boy drunk
just a punk it was easy so easy but
im older now maybe even smarter
somehow the game still baffles me
If Only for the
Sake of Secrecy
To be at odds with
Einstein, one
Must wrestle with such heavy baggage.
Somehow we know this.
Or more simply
Instead of threat of sleight of hand,
Picture the heavy doors of the universe
Thrown open wide for all to gape
At what so far has been missed.
Picture the man some call a mystic.
The physicist without socks, whom
We suddenly find ourselves in awe
Of, for surely he knows a secret.
Imagine what that secret might be.
And it’s a curious thing to watch
As he leans across the table to say
‘The secret of this mystery is that
There is no secret at all you see.’
an assassin
and then she takes my
hair
the apache i mean its
a trick she learned from a man like me
after she befriends me
after she melts into the fabric of my life
after she kisses me and
lets me sleep in her teepee
she paints herself a war face
of such frightening beauty i hesitate
what a cruel and messy affair this becomes
this steaming scalp dripping blood from her belt
her eating my heart
her licking
her fingers
satisfied somehow
angst before
sunrise
my bed becomes a
battlefield
smoke and dust and terror
in my head like
running through the onion fields
where i must take my stand fight back and forth
boots squishing across
the bloody red sheets
slicing and yielding
ducking cutting and stabbing
what business do I have
with such business as this?
Queen Nomzamo
Madikizela
As a child
I dreamed of a finer Africa
Than the one I know today.
I dreamed of my people proud
Coming home to their rightful place.
I dreamed of beautiful gardens,
Jacaranda trees and Aloes along my stoep*,
Food-a-plenty and a happiness
Of the sort that is born from freedom.
I imagined friendship with all races
And an attentive, gentle husband
Who would be a powerful man and our king.
I dreamed of love.
But I never dreamed of Mandela
And the heavy legacy of his name,
Barren cells, cold cement floors
And no shoes, or whistling bullets
Biting children before my eyes.
I never dreamed my people would murder
One another for favors from the tyrants.
I never dreamed it would come to this.
*stoep is Afrikaans
Slang for "porch".
Coming Moon
It begins
tugging
and pulling
a coy woman
behind the clouds
brilliantly teasing
like you
a master potter
with crackling
wet fingers
spinning
molding
and shaping
a vessel
from
my red clay
heart
On Apartheid
Thirteen years of
silence
Flaws the eyes of a child
Still raw from the wild debate.
In awe of his fate
He withdraws
And waits.
And when he tries to relate
The violence,
The fear,
The cause,
He will deny
This thin pause
Between love and hate.
Cleo
Poets are so clearly
tainted
By their convictions, she thinks
Or would like to think, only
The thought isn’t really hers.
They see the tricks of the world
Through tiny tinted eyes,
And for the most part
Are surprised by the obvious.
But she hints at certain oddities,
Certain quirks of human nature
Found in those so taken with words
And rhythm and the limits of song,
And she suppressed the urge
To travel along the edge of life
Alone through darkened alleys
Or on the midnight train,
In search of where the poets go
To bare their souls and hide.
