A GOOD MAN:

A hard working, hard earning man was he,

Believing in democracy in the land of the free,

He´d never killed a soul, but then neither had I,

Never drank nor smoked & never ever got high.      

Responsible husband & father to add to his name,

No pointing fingers & there was nothing to blame,

He was so stalwart, upright & as straight as can be,

He was the best there was & he was married to me.

But, this man never danced & he never tried to sing,

There was never a bloom, a gem, nor a gifted ring,

No soft words, books read, nor poetry in the rain,

No waltzing in the moonlight, my soul cried in pain.

My sad spirit laughed alone & it thrived in the dark,

Like roots without the sun or a dog without its bark,

A good man, who never killed a soul, never told a lie,

But then, as the good wife I was, neither had I.        

FINE FEATHERED FRIENDS:

I look up at the sky above & I can only stare,

I see all my fine feathered friends out there,

Flipping-flapping-flitting, up in the sky flying,

Swooping & dipping low & then soar highing,

Feathered freedom, pretty fresh wind junkies,

Unless caged & ringed, mere sad man´s flunkeys,

Filigreed plumes & bejeweled velvet feathered,      

Miles under wings, seasoned, salted, weathered,            

When I see you soaring, I can only see you free,                    

 I pray, “Please my friends, come flying back for me”.

SHE:

She tiptoes where small babies sleep,

Gives succour to new lambs who bleat,

To trees, bestows the shivering leaves,

Her breath is felt on the wafting breeze,

Her smile is the sun that lights the day,

The moon, her soul that shows the way,                   

The Star that twinkles in dark night skies,          

Is happiness you see in her shining eyes,

The raindrop that falls, her laughter of joy,

Earth, her arms, hugging every girl & boy,

Petals & rainbows, her pretty frilly frocks,

Clouds her hats, her pillows, mossy rocks,

Goddess of the earth & mother of us all,

 Of all winter, summer, spring & golden fall.

FAMILY TIES:

The old wrinkled woman has no family ties,

But, she never feels alone & she never cries,

No soul-sisters nor brothers to call her own,

But you´ll never hear her weep, nor ever moan,

She never knew her parents, had no kith nor kin,

Neither man nor babe, she´d ever held to her skin.           

This lady was mother to every beast that strayed,

She was the sibling to every lone tree that swayed,

She became the aunty to every little bird that flew,

She was the mentor & pupil to every plant that grew,

She was lover & wife, to universe & whole wide world,

And to her bosom, all of nature, she claimed & furled.

She laughed at soft flitterings & teasing of the leaves,

She blew sweet kisses of love that flaked on the breeze,                

This lady walked in forests, green & at times very wild,

To the whole wide world, she was its playful little child,     

The sky above was her mirror, where she saw past faces,

The oceans held promises of those far & exotic places.

“I have family”, she shouted, “so don´t feel sorry for me”,

Every member related, in feather, fur, scale, claw & tree,

Every blade of grass, blossom in every colour, hue & shade,    

All my family, in homes of every desert & mountain glade,          

Giggles of streams & tears of raindrops that joyfully cries,

All these magnificent folk  belong to me, all my family ties.

MANTIS AND THE MOON:

The praying–mantis danced with his Goddess the moon,

In silence, over desert sands, in hot balmy nights of June,

Their love was written in the stars & etched upon the runes.

The old cricket played his fiddle, beneath grey baobab tree,

Kalahari wind strewed confetti, petals of the chincherinchee,                  

 Ancient sands shifted & soulfully dreamed of old blue seas.

Old brown bats dipped, beasts stalked & pretty birds flew,

The sky wore diamonds & a mantle of velvet-midnight-blue,

Africa serenaded the night until the day was birthed anew.

The waltzing ended, as new-born-dawn cracked the lilac sky,

The moon kissed the lost horizon in tears, asking God, “Why?”

And the old desert wept stones, ancient & shamefully dry.