you ask me to believe
i'm left wondering
about the colour yellow

are women meant to be hidden
behind burqas of black,
or a bluebird's blue?
to disappear
into daylight;
is it for God or the lusts
of men? are not women jewels wherever
we are and whatever we wear?

tell me, is Christianity American
and Judaism Israeli and how did
the two get so entwined in Joseph's coat
of many colours? when was there a time
when Jerusalem was built to be divided?

within this lifetime
too many nights
have been bereft of touch

now there is a need
to feel heart beats
against hands as skin
lay softly against skin

no longer will the hollow void
of black echo beyond white fear
be that vacuum of alone

we have fought against
the tide of time
the chains of conformity
the ease of existence

but love ignores reason,
empowers our minds
along paths of wonder

.

thusly, I say
it is such as it is
for your sake

fortuitous
whether or not
you sense it
or even care

without this suchness
who knows....?

nothingness or
pods of protoplasm or
sky monkeys on pigback
with lassos twirling inside out
looking for an ungrateful bastard
who lives on ingratitude and weasel vitamins or
who knows...!

this here and now,
our present arbitrariness,
is under-rated by so many

have a closer look
it works pretty good
being a man, I mean

Morning after morning, days run by
You hear him whistle all day long
Tunes of wrestling songs of his youth
When he was the champion of men

Afternoon after afternoon, he snores
Sleeping on the mat in the veranda
Waiting for friends to come from work
To gamble with draft and oyoyo games

Evening after evening, he drinks
Akpeteshi and gin mixed with roots
Then turns around to ask for food
From me, one he calls weaker sex

spoke out three at once
their words spilling
laughter at the quick repetition
the flask was fixed
the game named
a hot sun flamed
and sunset died

watching each other
legs swinging arms
sweeping as we spoke
and loons called
while we waited for
the first stars to bite
the beautiful heaven
aflame with their
tongues of bright

"tommorrow is a burden"
you said your stick
stirring the hot fire
your eyes a thousand
lives away

then you turned and
smiled

The Low Road home is mine to take
for in the bitter ending of my time
when I can no longer stand the grief
of cherished loved ones left behind

I will soar across the white-capped ocean
towards those islands rising green up from the sea
I will cross the rocky shorelines
thick with seaweed and sleek seals

and by the still and quiet waters of Loch Sunart
I will meet you, where sun kisses cloud
upon the summits of emerald mountains
and burnishes the red flame of your hair

I will liberate you from yourself
salvage the wreckage of your soul.
I will claim what is left of your lifeless hulk
and place it upon the alter of safety

I will bear arms against the wolves at the door,
and cradle you in my loving arms.
keep you from the ghouls and demons
of your tortured past.

Fight tooth and claw, redeem your tattered
dreams and soothe you once more.
wrap you in my tender love,
repel those who would scale the walls, of our fortress.

I’ve got an ’84 Corolla
You might have a Porsche

I’ve got a puter hung together with wires
That keeps me online
You might have a dual core multi whosiwhatsit

I’ve got a mobile phone that takes calls
Sends messages
And even reminds me of things
No doubt you have a smartphone

My television is not flat or large

But I broke no-ones back getting any of this
And expect no knives in mine.

I looked at you and I felt guilty,
I dropped my eyes and felt the same,
And never expected your lips to find me,
Nor your hand to bring me up to you;

You said you didn’t care what I had done,
That the world mattered less than the sand in our hair,
Yours which shone so raven black on my fingers,
And your lips never dry to my kiss;

I felt the chill wind go by,
And it meant nothing;

I marked the water at my feet,
But all I saw was you;

Oh wind with your mighty fists,
who speaks of frozenness;
who sleeps inside her throat,
the singer's voice melts the iron
inside my bones,
melts it into a river of faces,
long ago.

Oh wind who whispers broken syllables
through young-green leaves,
weaving at unseen stars:
poets of the past, hanging bright
in their next season;
a slow waltz inside a galactic dream,
or perhaps a plot of demons.