KWERI:

Soft clicking tongue from the lips of a thousand dunes,

Calling spirits, ancestors & rain in your chanting tunes,

Telling me of the Gods who live beyond my wary eye,

Showing me that when I am dead, I´ll never really die.

Kweri, you were my golden black-river Bushman friend,

Of my childhood, in the world´s far away & distant end,

In Kalahari where you talk to birds & the beasts in herds,

Your code-lost-lingo, on red-dust-clad breeze softly heard.

You taught me herbs & how to track beast´s print & spoor,

How to feel rain clouds & life beneath the dry desert floor,

Showing me secrets of skin drum, of red dusk & rosy dawn,

Of how to interpret the night & how to embrace new morn.

Your people, nomad scatterings & scatterlings of ancient plain,

Land you´ve walked for eons, not permitted to rightfully claim,

Of bow & arrow, clicking tongue, of golden soft & signing hand,

In my dying, Kweri, I hear your soft sighing in the shifting sand.

I STILL AM:

You tell me I am old, that I´m wrinkled, flabby & lined,

You´re right, but I still love to be wined, wooed & dined,

You tell me I should cover my breasts that droop & sag,

But I shall not be covering them up in a shapeless bag.

You say my old arms are not fit to be bared to new morn,

Upon them I shall place pretty bracelets, gaudily adorned,

You tell me my neck´s a wreck, not pretty & soft anymore,

Around it, beads & flowers I´ll wrap, then walk out the door.

You tell me my fingers are claws now, talons & skinny bone,

Then I´ll wear big stoned rings & nails painted in vibrant tone,

You tell me my sparse hair is now thin, straggling & going grey,

Then I shall wear hats of exotic feathers & pretty floral nosegay.

You tell me that I´m going deaf & my old ears now don’t hear,

And that my dimmed eyes are rheumy & always dripping a tear,

So I´ll wear fancy dark glasses & big earrings from my old lobes,

In garishly vibrant bright colours to match my shoes & loud robes.

You tell me my legs are wobbly & say my old feet now don´t work,

But I can still walk in forests of bluebells, even with a gait that jerks,

You tell me my voice is now croaky, to stay silent & not to be heard,

But I still remember old songs & can sing along together with birds.

I may be as old as you say, but I´m still very much alive & still here,

I still enjoy life to the full, but now know how to do it with no fear,

And with each new morn that appears, I know that here I still am,

I´ll not hide & I´ll be espied & if you don´t like it, I don´t give a damn.

HUNTED:

Day stalking night with its arrows & its bow,

Waiting in the wings to aim, shoot & throw,

To pierce the onyx dark with its darts of light,

Aims to rend the shadows of its helpless plight.

Night on its knees & weeping her tears of dew,

Surrenders to her arch-enemy of the day anew,

Knowing she has lost the battle of mighty skies,

As the new leader sun opens heavy-lidded eyes.

The battle starts anew when the sun yawns tired,

And moon decides it´s time for a new night sired,

Now no arrows needed & no violent war waged,

The mother night´s take over is so gently staged.

With a soft gentle nudging of her pink rosy dusk,

Day disappears softly, leaving used & empty husk,

No hard cruel words, just the harsh light blunted,

So it is, prey dispatched by the femme well hunted.

CARIAD:

My sweet cariad on the west winds does call,

Echoes through valleys of my heart´s lone hall,

Weeping songs that plucks at those old strings,

The melancholy tunes from the harp that sings.

Longing for those hugs of Welsh given cwtches,

The wealth of wisdom from Druids & witches,

Give me Cymru daffodils & Eisteddfod´s songs,

The unrequited love of red dragon´s `prongs.

Whisper me the mists of the evergreen land,

And show me the coal in the seams & strands,

Where the miner sings for the love of his hills,

And tears with raindrops mingle & gently spills.

I miss you cariad, with my flesh, blood & bones,

Your voice, calling me on the breeze back home,

“Hwyl”, I hear your breath, “one day, one day”,

I´ll return & in your valleys we shall dance & play.

THE BEARER:

She´s life´s carrier, she´s the bearer, of weighty matters all,

Bearing, in womb, in arms, on back, on head, not letting fall,

Babe, water, grain, wood, awkward branches, & heavy stone,

Giving life, nurturing, sowing, reaping & building sweet home.

Her only dropping & shedding, each month with full red moon,

In silence, humming deep in her soul, the ancient wafting tune,

Bending, stretching & continually lifting, all that´s in her wake,

 Building, ploughing & gathering, to feed & thirst’s pain to slake.

In all five continents, in countries so wide & very far away flung,

Plodding tired feet, leave prints in red dust, thorn & animal dung,

With kicking in belly, sun on her head & sloshing in rusty tin pail,

Swaying through deserts & forests, with tides to primeval old wail.

Carrying, from the dawn of earth´s birth till the dusk of our times,

Bearing, from the stoned groveling of apes till man´s zodiac signs,

Woman, this carrier, this bearer, of this whole world & her pain,

“Survival”, she says, but wonders, would she do it all over again?