Monday 31 December 2012

ROLIHLAHLA: (MANDELA).



A little Picinnini born in be-hutted place of thorn, dust & lowly goat,
Not knowing that one day he´d fight for his people to have the vote,
 Born Xhosa, of noble birth & from the proud, brave & ancient tribe,
To us Nelson Mandela, but Rolihlahla his true & real name inscribed.

Known & hunted, the biggest terrorist within his sad but beautiful land,
Living & fighting by the laws of those white men, so long ago planned,
Put on trial, found guilty, so very wrongly castigated & in the end jailed,
While the people of his struggling country prayed & sadly cried & wailed.

Caged on Robben Island, that very isolated & old Isle of lost ancient lepers,
 Incarcerated, Manacled in iron-chained & tight white man´s sorry fetters,
Where behind iron bars, lonely years flew fast & apologizing, past you by,
And you Rolihlahla, the world´s errant hero, would sit quietly & silently cry.

The long awaited day arrived, when Mandela at last walked proud & free,
And his life-long struggle scribbled in the African dust, became lost history,
Washed away in time, from our forgetful memories by drops of falling rain,
Leaving behind only the scribblings of the world´s receding & shameful pain.

Saturday 29 December 2012

LAUGHTER:



Give me your happy laughter, oh mother of this earth,
That which I carried upon my lips at my long-ago birth,
But along this rocky road & through this very hilly life,
I lost laughter along the way, on the dark road of strife.

Give me the crisp, crackling cackle of dried autumn leaves,
Show me the raucous roaring of the ocean´s waves & seas,
Lend me the happy gurgling of the rivers, brooks & streams,
So I may laugh & giggle, instead of resorting to my screams.

Show me the joyous wind as she hilariously laughs & howls,
To chase away my sad stubborn frowns & very sorry scowls,
Let me hear the echoing through my life´s very empty halls,
The cheerful giggling of those happy & cascading waterfalls.

Give me happy gurgling of wine, poured from bottle to glass,
Too much time been wasted, been lost & gone by far too fast,
Please give to me your joyous laughter, mother of this earth,
So that I may giggle, smile & laugh all the way back to my birth.

Friday 28 December 2012

BENEATH MY OLD BAOBAB TREE:



My body sits alone in this hurdy-gurdy, concrete, European city,
While this crazy fast world rushes by me without a smile nor pity,
In my soul I sit beneath my dear old friend, my African baobab tree,
Drinking in the floral white fragrance of the pretty chincherinchee.

The buzzing of traffic makes way for the gemsbok running in herds,
No longer the noisy din of cars, only the songs of lyrical African birds,
The plodding footsteps of the commuting dazed & dull looking crowds,
Morph into grey elephants saluting the overhead scudding white clouds.


The dirt & cold hardened pavement that hurts my restless African feet,
Is really soft red dust where the rhino roam & the old wildebeest bleat,
The fast-food frying, the hot-dog stands & the unending petrol fumes,
Are now the aromas of the Kalahari, the aromatic & herbal perfumes.

The beggars, buskers, the pimps & the whores, all gone & are no more,
Leaving me with the eagle, meerkat, the leopard & lion with gaping jaw,
The shouting & touting, the screeching brakes of the smoky sooty cars,
Give way to the orchestra of silences & echoing African drums from afar.

The ancient golden Bushman is the man I see standing upon distant hill,
Not the sad brief-cased & be-suited gent I see popping stressed out pill,
The city drained cockroach, the cur & the dirty black vermin sewer rat,
Become the little dung beetle, the eland & the big slinking stalking cat.
The icy cold, the wind, the creeping damp & the drab rainy city grey,
Now turns & warms me, dressed in hot vibrant & sunny African day,
Where my poor weary body is prisoner here, my mind is forever free,
Where it sits beneath the ancient shade of my old African baobab tree.

REPAIRS:



I´m in some real need of reforming and dire repairs,
Much more than a leaking tap and old creaking stairs,
Everything is crumbling, missing or just doesn’t work,
So an overhaul I must face and I´ll try hard not to shirk.

I’ll borrow wisdom from the moon to light my cracked way,
I´ll replace my frown with the sun to brighten my dark day,
I´ll put the night´s stars in my eyes where the illusion is lost,
I shall hold you close to my hard heart just to melt the frost.

My drab grey self I´ll daub with waving season´s soft trees,
My laughter I´ll renew with the crashing of deep happy seas,
My voice I´ll replace with the songs of the happy free birds,
My old legs shall run anew with the bison´s thundering herds.

My long errant smile I´ll paint anew with bright floral blooms,
I´ll plumb my sad blocked giggles with the river´s happy tunes,
The ocean´s salty waves shall replace my long-ago dried up tears,
And refreshing raindrops shall renew my old rusty creaking years.

The scudding white clouds above shall replace my old dead dreams,
New earth beneath my sore old feet shall renovate long lost schemes,
My new found prayers shall be whispered on the passing of the breeze,
And I shall feel the cool moss of spring beneath my bended praying knees.

My old grey head of thinning hair shall turn to abundant silvery shine,
My old furrowed and bitter lips shall again learn to sip at new red wine,
My old nut hardened heart shall now soften and gently warm and turn,
As the new blood within my old veins starts to run anew and ardently burn.  

Thursday 27 December 2012

HER WORLD:



She rose with the new dawn & went into the deep & verdant woods,
Wearing only scarlet red lipstick & her shawl with its soft silken hood,
Deep in the shadowy grove, stripping off all cloth, naked, totally bare,
She danced merrily & whirled around with her silvery long flying hair,
Giving her thanks to the Goddess, the Gods, to the one & the every all,
The heavens are her ceiling; the forest trees her sacred holy church hall,
Birdsong, babbling brook & sounds of nature, her choir & musical band,
This was her secret world, the magical world of my very special old Nan.

She´d feast on honeycombs, black chocolate buttons & rich ruby red wine,
She refused to eat animals, her friends, no calf, no hen, no lamb, nor swine,
She splashed in muddy puddles & she played beneath the soft & falling rain,
 And she refused adamantly to acknowledge the meaning of sadness & pain,
Every little stray & errant bird came to her caring hands to be watered & fed,
The hurt & sad, taken & nurtured within the soft love of her big feather bed,
All little creatures she loved & they knowing it, to her they all scuttled & ran,
This world of simplicity & happiness belonged to nobody else but my old Nan.

She´d dress like a spring garden, in the colours of a million rainbows hues,
She would never listen to nasty things, only hear the good & beautiful news,
She worshipped snowy winters, flamed autumns & loved soft summer Junes,
Her friends, the stars, the smiling sun & those deep, dark-nighted inky moons,
Her secret delirium, lollipops, teddy bears & stories of Angels, beasts & birds,
Magic spells, ghosts, & the gathering of forest flowers & sweet pungent herbs,
From birth, only for the good of one & all, was this lovely old lady´s life´s plan,
The world we all wanted & envied, the magical world that belonged to my Nan.

She was purely magical, this lovely, beautiful, & a totally enigmatic old Dame,
She wanted no riches, no glory, no recognition, no banal, inane & worldly fame,
Wreathed in colours, clouds, flowers, herbs & the most beautiful of sunny smiles,
For which birds, beasts & many folk came to enjoy, from far away & many a mile,
All came to hear her voice, touched by the wisdom of her wise but very few words,
Those musical words that echoed in the happy songs of dawn´s pretty sun-risen birds,
So wherever she is now, to wherever she has gone, to wherever far place she has ran
I pray that she has found another world that she loves in heaven, my old & lovely Nan.