This morning I fell
into a dream
Back in Pretoria one hut muggy night
When I’m a boy of fourteen again
My own lovely long-legged Anita
Of the luxurious long brown hair
Wraps her blushing arms around me
Her satin cheek pressing hard a
Faint gasp under the deafening starlight
Soft painted lips muttering something God
Given as we dance alone in the garden
Mary Jane
Doesn’t Live Here Anymore
But her sweet
guttural scent
permeates through the house still
Like dull shafts of sunlight
Hung dusty in the windows.
And I remember her in that chair
Staring at the books for hours,
Electric moments under headphones
Giddy from the white album.
And she was a lover to be sure,
Quick to excite and comfort,
Quick to entice a lonely man
With a smile and soft afternoons.
And I imagine her some night
Blowing in on the arm of a friend,
Blending into the party easy,
Teasing me with the love we once had.
meanwhile
so they feast on
oklahoma
on filet on salmon on merlot and
she tricks him with her camera phone
Homemade
Chicken Soup
There is this
steaming bowl
on the counter in the kitchen
the scent fills the room like
desire just ripening place it
gently to your lips and sip
reasons for
raisins
1) digging for seeds
we
kneel on the ground little weasels
scratching in the dirt
so we dig and dig
we dig until we hurt
until we are tried and thirsty
and require rest we
drink wine and our son
eats raisins a fist
full at a time
and we dig and dig so long
and it goes on
and on
and on
until nothing escapes us
2) we are at odds
with how to do this we
so nearly beg for
a storm to come crashing
through our lives
we are calling for rain
to save us the need
to pace and stomp or throw
our hands up to the sky
so we think on how a
dance might do it
or maybe a riddle
or a poem
or a song
or maybe just a little
of them all
3) your don’t actually see
the vines growing
they grow very slow
4) we know to let them do this
they know to make us wait
3) she likes the sweet ones just
the very green ones without seeds
the ones that pop in your teeth
like cherry tomatoes spraying
across the inside of your mouth
these are the ones she
wants and so do i and
our son also likes them sweet
but small so we give him
all the small ones
and secretly we are amazed
or maybe more disturbed really
how quickly they disappear
one after another
some for her
some for me but
mostly for him we divide them so well
6) tell me you know something
of the love lost on grapes
of skin peeled away
very carefully
and while eating the grapes
skinned and exposed
for what they really are
think of those of us who crave them
who want only to eat them
again
and again
and again
who want only to hold them
to save them for another day
to do the very human
thing and change them
into raisins or wine
7) call it age if you like
or experience or maturity
just as wine matures with
are
or call it a stem in the cycle
through which all living
things must pass
in order to survive as
humans we believe
in the pleasures of life
this is why we eat grapes
or drink wine
or plant such seeds
and as humans we ultimately
mature so as to provide for
ourselves and the ones we love
this is why we must grow old
so it is also with grapes
8) collecting them
was the hard part they
came down on us like hail
it went on
and on
for days we wondered
where would it end
and we collected them
in whatever we could find
instantly out of bowls
pots and pans
we knew we could
not keep them all
9) here is the first raisin
the sweet one
to some the one
most likely to dissolve
in your mouth or hand
or afford such devotion
the one with thick skin that is
frustrating and hard to penetrate
the one that cracks and
is brittle like glass
this is the one
that becomes bitter
10) this is the raisin that
while bathing becomes plump
as a young grape again
the one most certain
to satisfy a thirst or hunger
or something you cant
quite place like desire
the one so pumped full of life and
a need for more than is here
here is the one
that must go
11) and here is the smallest of all
the child grape
unripe and undone
the sweet one
the i dont want to go
and please
dont leave me grape
i will be as you are
12) better than thirteen
are twelve
each a story
little secrets of a child
each a dream
better things to come
13) here are the ones
that got away the ones
so cocksure and cool the ones
who ran so electric
as they slipped under the
stove the refrigerator and the sink
how sad they all seem now
cloistered in the corner dust
14) we place it on the table
the last one and
we gather around to stare
we are dogs licking our lips
but we dont dare
eat it or split it
three ways afraid
each of us in our own way to
be through with the thing
15) empty boxes
what happens now
is they become one another
16) god
protect these seeds
keep them healthy watered
and warm
allow them space to run
let them multiply
spread their species
far and wide
Candle Light
Your poems
dance and quiver
by candle light
the words flicker
little heart beats
little campfires
of shadow and light
of darkness and life
I am drawn to the flames
the rhythm of the glow
I warm my hands
and sing softly
by the fire
I Know a Rose
What I did not say
the other night to you
is that somehow comparisons don’t really
ring true with out a full breath of honesty.
Now consider the rose, which we know to be
at least the most beautiful of all flowers.
and suppose that somehow we compare
the rose to the morning glory, both of
which will turn my head in an instant.
But the morning glory often doesn’t know
her own mind and grows in abundance
spreading herself thin across the ground
like strokes of a painter’s brush, so much
that she is frail and easily stepped on.
The rose stands on her own in comparison,
enticing in her velvet blush and known
to laugh out loud for the sake of men
who cannot reach her for her thorns.
I myself, tend to be shy of the danger
and am jealous of any man who claims
to hold the rose when I cannot. But
I know a rose that no longer scares me,
and I think on how to collect her
fallen petals, place them on my fingers
and take a chance on her thorns.
Of poems and
people
Never satisfied
The whiners
Always primping
Looking in mirrors
Screaming for attention
Always wanting
To re-invent themselves
Rise out of the ashes
Presto
You know
Go Phoenix
Outside the
Emergency Room
At least the sun is
forgiving today
The warmth makes me think of you
And there are birds chattering but
I worry about you and your mother
And grandma is fine considering 90
Pneumonia and a bladder infection
She tells me I should be a doctor
And asks what they say in the office
I think she means the nursing home
I tease her to make her smile and
Then she is lost
and then I am lost
All these lost people here together
It occurs to me I am watching a girl
Who cannot stop crying her eyes so
Red and swollen something very bad
Has happened to someone she loves
A weary woman pleads on her phone
This is the worst time to leave me...
And a cute little boy climbs the back
Of my chair only smiling when I look
Into his eyes we are all lost together
And I hear a little girl talking about
Puking in a car that’s why she’s here
I hear a baby boy crying behind me
There is no happiness in this room
Not in the woman in the wheelchair
Broken because she’s out of Zoloft
Not in the couple patting each other
Not in the old woman who just stares
Not in my mother who waits with me
At least I have a sliver of you inside
Per-spec-tive
Caught
in a dali moment
just outside of wichita
just after dark in kansas
a ballerina of the cornfield
not far up ahead the
hot red hail of tail lights
just up ahead
a white tail deer pirouettes
in a puff of steam
just like this
as the hot blood trips
the frigid air
in my headlights
a strangely beautiful arc
of crimson red
Moenie Jou Les
Vergeet Nie
on Johannesburg
Don’t forget the
hunger
Silently humming underground
Like a rash
Violently drumming beneath city street.
Don’t forget the young
And the old crying in mines,
Sold for white man’s gold,
Bound and determined
To die for a thread of respect
Or simply for bread.
Don’t forget the thunder
Of a thousand Zulu feet
Dancing their blood down,
Flooding downtown,
Pitch-black-brown waves crashing
Thrashing around white man’s door,
Cracking the concrete floor.
Don’t forget to wonder,
To suspect
To recognize
The error in white man’s plunder.
King of the
Manure Pile
How can we possibly
match him for
Wits, pure muscle or determination,
Or ever hope to entice him just once
Over to what has become of our side?
And we stand so nearly knee deep in it
Squinting from the acrid scent
As he crouches to meet us and grins.
And we circle, like girds of prey
Edging out way to his throne, his
Trampled mound on the old side
Where grass grows green and strong.
Talk About My
Girl
My girl doesn’t
clean the toilet,
The sink, the bath, the floors
Or this wood paneling
Like a good maid should.
She doesn’t seem to care
That dust lays about my house
Like it hasn’t been cleaned at all.
I try to be patient and explain
That thing must be very clean
But I don’t think she understands.
It’s so hard to find good help.
I hate to wonder
What her home looks like.
She’s lucky that I keep her.
My madam has a beautiful home,
Fine furniture, nice pots
And running water, more clothes
Than I have ever seen at once
(except in stores) and many
Large rooms for her small family,
Rooms with many pretty pictures
That hang on the huge walls,
Rooms larger than my entire house
And real floors, not dirt.
She tells me I must clean very well
Like a good maid should
But everything is already clean,
So I pretend to clean again.
She’s very lucky
To have such a nice home.
My girl steals porridge, meat,
Flour and sometimes fruit
From our trees in the garden.
I don’t know why she steals
When I give her extra food
From our plates after supper
To take home to her family.
I try to be patient and explain
That stealing is wrong
But I don’t think she understands.
It’s so hard to find good help.
I hate to wonder
What else she steals when I’m gone.
She’s lucky that I keep her.
My madam always has so much food.
Plenty of canned goods, flour,
Meat pies and deserts, much more
Than I think her small family
Could eat in a whole year.
Sometimes she lets me take home
The leftover food I cook for them
Or bones to make soup
But it is not enough to feed
My family and cousins,
Who cannot find work in the city
Because their passes are not in order.
Sometimes I must steal extra
To keep my family from starving.
She’s very lucky
To have so much to eat.
Sometimes my girl doesn’t show up
For two or three days in a row
And I become very upset.
I don’t like to be without help.
Sometimes my madam is upset when
I cannot work for a day or two,
But I must hide my husband and
Cousins when police raid my town.
Sometimes I think my girl
Doesn’t bath herself at all.
Sometime I think my madam
Must wash herself many time a day.
My girl is very lucky to work here.
My madam is very lucky to be White.
