Untitled

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He sat across
From me,
Cigarette in hand,
Blowing out
Circular puffs of smoke.

He wanted to tell me
Something, something
Only he would find
Amusing, something
He was itching to tell.

But he was waiting
For an opening
An appropriate segue
That would transition
Into his thread of thought.

I never gave him
What he desired,
Choosing to ignore
All his cues
For conversation domination.

With narrowed eyes,
He watched me
Take the last swig
Of my whiskey,
Then pull out my share
Of the bill.

"You know I still love you."
My hand froze
And through beer goggled eyes,
Or is it whiskey goggled eyes,
I looked at him.

In the year
That we were together,
He told me he loved me
Once, three times
If you counted when
He was drunk.

I placed the money
On the table
And stood.

"Too late, baby,
Too late because
I've already stopped
Loving you."

I walked out of the bar,
Walked away from him,
And walked into
My happiness.
A dark cloud now gone.

Only A Mother

 

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Only a mother.

Only a mother
Can hear the faint
Stirrings of her charge
Two rooms away
With the radio on,
The TV on and
Their girlfriend sharing
A sweet piece of gossip.

Only a mother
Would know when
Her child is in distress.
No matter how many times
He or she says they are okay,
She knows that waves
Of anguish crash against
The shores of her child's soul.

Only a mother
Would sing her child's praises
Even if others spew nothing
But malicious lies
Or necessary truths.
In her eyes,
In her mind, her child
Can do no wrong.

Only a mother
Could love the little creature
With the pointy head,
The squishy face
And the screaming mouth
That came from her loins,
Not knowing what the future
Holds for it or herself.

Only a mother,
and yet not all women
Who give birth
Deserve the name,
The word, mother.

Not every woman
Would love, nurture
And support a child
From when they are
So vulnerable to when
They are ready to let go
And claim the helm of their lives.

So to all the mothers,
Who have loved,
Who have shed tears
Or both joy and sadness,
Who have held their heads
High with pride or in spite
Of their disappointment,
Who have been
A guide through
The tumultuous times of
Childhood, teenagerdom,
and on becoming an adult.

To these mothers,
Be the women or men
Who have to be both
Fathers and mothers,
I raise my glass and
Say we love you,
We honour you and
Thank you.

Old Man of The Desert

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It was many days
Before I found him,
The old man
Of the Desert.

I had heard of him
In my master's household
And with his permission
I sought the old man.

I came upon his tent
In an encampment.
It sat on the edge
And was easy to find.

As evening settled in
I entered the tent
And sat across from him
As it was custom.

He looked up at me
With unseeing eyes
And nodded at me,
Acknowledging me.

With measured grace,
He began to write
Upon an empty scroll
And I sat watching.

The light of a new day
Crept into the sky
When he had completed
The story he was writing,
The story of my future.

Alas, I could not read
And asked him
What he had written,
What was the future
He had foretold.

"My child,
I know not what I write,
I am but a tool
Used by your soul,
By your spirit."

With that said,
He bade my farewell
And made his way
To his sleeping quarters,
Dismissing me.

On the journey home,
I asked many
A learned man and woman
To read the scroll for me.

Each read it
But refused to tell me
What they had read,
Saying that it was not
A story they wished to tell.

I was greeted by my master
Upon my return and
After I was settled,
I sat with him over tea.

After much pleasantries
And idle chatter,
I asked him to read
The scroll, my future.

He read it once,
Then twice and
Without warning
He tore it up and
Fed it to the flames.

I honoured my master
So much that
I did not say a word,
Swallowing my surprise.

Over the years that followed,
We spoke naught
Of my journey, the old man
Or the scroll that told my future.

In those years,
I lived a full life,
I learned to read
And blossomed under
The tutelage of my master.

It was only as he laid
In his  death bed
That my master spoke
Of the scroll and
What he did that day.

"Many years ago,
You presented my a scroll
That was to tell your future
And I destroyed it."

I said nothing,
Choosing to stare
At the floor.

"Have you lived
A good life?"

Looking up,
I assured my master
That I had lived very well.

"According to the scroll,
You were to die
Two years after that day."

I gasped,
My master had no use
For deception, always
Choosing to tell the truth.

"My son had sought out
The old man of the desert.
Unlike you, he could read
But like yours, his scroll
Spoke of his death."

"He tried so hard
To avoid it that
He walked into
What was destined
In his scroll."

"I did not want that for you,
So I destroyed your scroll."
His breath became laboured.

"Your destiny is not
To be determine by
An old man in a desert.
It is for you to make
Your own destiny."

"Your destiny is determined
By your choices,
By your desires and wants,
Don't ever let another person
Tell you what your future holds.
Live the life of your choosing."

Those were my master's last words.

In his death,
My master bade me
To live and to honour him,
To honour myself
I did as I was told,
I lived a life of my choosing.

Vulnerable

 

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"I love you."

It broke the silence
Of my bedchamber
And like a sword,
It cut into my slumber.

My understanding bled
Out of the wound.
From those three words,
I understood that
He felt something
That we had never broached.
When it came to that thing,
We skirted around it
Like bullfighters
Around one bull.
I know at some point
We would have had
To attack it
But I didn't know
When.

When became a night
In my bedchamber
With him behind me
Lying on his back
And me on my side.

I dared not move,
I dared not let him know
That I heard him,
That I was present
During this moment
When he was most
Vulnerable.

I dared not move
Because in turn
I would have had
To be equally
Vulnerable and
I just wasn't ready.

Instead I slowly
Stitched gaping wound
In my slumber,
Tucking myself within.

Hoping upon hope
That one day,
One day soon
I would be
Strong enough to be
Vulnerable too.

OMG, Poetry.com

 

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Wow, over a week has since my last poem, I am so ashamed, LOL. Normally I would give and excuse, but in life excuses are too easy. I believe excuses should be relegated to when they are really needed. Instead one should, I should own up to my short comings. If I really wanted to get a poem up I would have moved mountains to get one up. So I am making a vow to you my loyal, lovely, divine readers to put up a post three times a week, even if it's not original poetry. I want you to know that I appreciate you and that will share with you my work, what I like on the poetry side, be it great blogs, spoken word artists or sites that will help you to share your work.

One site I came across was poetry.com. Somehow an email from them popped into my inbox and I was curious. So far, I've posted 3 poems, all of which were posted on this blog. My thoughts on it? I don't hate it, but I don't love it either. Yes it gets your work out there, but it requires so much from you.

• For your poem to be listed, you have to register. It's easy if you want to register with your FaceBook account, but you have to be mindful of the boxes that are ticked as it will post on your Timeline (the dreaded Timeline). I don't know about you but I protect my FB profile like a lioness and her cub.
• Also you have to review two (2) poems before your poem is listed. This is no problem, it's a give and take. The only thing is you can't choose the poem to review so it might not be the genre you like or willing to investigate. I sometimes check what other reviewers write if I just can't grasp the poem. This only happens when I just can't concentrate.
• A great thing is once your poem is up, it is reviewed in a matter of a couple hours. I am grateful for that but then afterwards it's just there. So it's great if you want instant ego stroking, but if you want to grow a following, not so great.
• I'm not crazy about the look, it looks too commercial for my taste. Hey we are talking about poetry here not McDonalds. I'm not sure about you but I like warm tones that invites the reader to settle in and read, not something that makes me want to run or stay long enough to get my work out there.

As I said, I don't hate it but I don't love it. It's a great way to get your work out there, I just have to get into the habit of putting my blog info in my entries. All in all, a good starting point and it would be interesting to see where it goes.

So tell me, what websites do you use to share your work? Also send me your sites so I can share with others who read this blog, cause sharing is caring.

Woman And Child

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As I walked 

Through the place

Where life and death resided

And sickness was 

A house guest who

Now claimed residence,

I came across a woman.

A woman tucked away

In a corner, set aside

From prying eyes.

In her arms,

Lay a baby suckling

Upon her ripened tit.

In the moment or two

That it took for me

To register what I beheld,

I could not help contemplating

Who this woman and her child were

And who they shall become.

I wondered if she was

On the cusps of womanhood

And already was with child

Or if she was beyond ripe

And still was able 

To bring forth life.

I wondered if the child

Was her first,

Her second or

Her sixth

And if at home 

Waited siblings looking

Forward to their new

Brother or sister.

I wondered if the birth 

Of the child was planned,

Their existence craved

By both father and mother,

The embodiment of their love,

Another element that

Bound the parents together.

I wondered if the birth

Was an accident,

A broken condom,

A miscalculation on his part.

His dipping his pen

In the inkwell

And signing a contract

He would soon break,

But she unable to do 

The same. Eighteen plus

Years living with a mistake.

Despite what brought

This child into being,

I hoped they would

Take the gift

That is life and

Bring change to the world.

I hoped they would

Make advances in

Health, science, technology,

Or create a new business model

Or inspire others to 

Move beyond their limits

And live the lives

They should be living.

And even though

They may never live up

To my loft aspirations

For them, I hope

They would love and respect

Their parents, their loved one

And most of all

Themselves.

I looked away

From the woman and child

And continued on my way

Through the place

Where both life and death resided.

My time had come

And I was to return

To where I had come,

But I was comforted

In the knowledge that

Another will take my place,

Another will take up the challenge

Of changing the world.

Loving The Night

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I fell in love
With the night.

The way the world
Was still and
Nothing got in my way.

I loved the quietness
Of the moon, now
Finding the sun
Too bright,
Too busy
For the senses.

The night to me
Was as taboo place,
A hidden secret
That now quickened
My pulse as
I contemplated
Sitting under
A star filled night.

As the soft night sounds
Put many to sleep,
I stretched out
The kinks in my body
As I listened to
My new soundtrack.

I set to the task
Of living,
Of loving,
Of existing
And in doing so
Peace blossomed in my heart,
Then it filled every cell
Of my body until
I shone like the moon.

Unfortunately,
This was not to last,
Society pulled me back
Kicking and screaming,
Telling me there was no place
For another night walker,
This was a world of
Day walkers and that
Is what I was to be.

Still I yearned for the night,
Still I wanted to drape
It's coolness around my body
And convert back
Into a night walker.

Alas, this is not to be
So I comforted myself
In the occasional
Nocturnal escape
Where I lived,
I loved,
I existed
Beneath the night sky.