apples and spinach … … …

​the foul odour of scarred flesh.

the reeking decomposition.

bodies once animated, once so alive, now strewn across the moist ground.

the surgical strike.

pin-point accuracy.

the smartest weapons, deployed, to decimate the bad guys.

black and brown people, more often than not, pummeled to a pulp, black and blue.

while LCD screens miles away, surveill, scanning for potential targets, the unknown other.

the evil doers,

as mothers and daughters, pick out apples and spinach

in a market-place in the cross-hairs

Port of Call Redux aka Pretentious-ness-ness

Port of Call Redux aka Pretentious-ness-ness …

sailing between
sprinkled kisses

sipped
savoured

under swaying moonlight

bathed by whispering palms
on that talcum beach

that talcum-powder beach forever drenched by the rivers of my dreams

and

the open seas of parched memories
famished souls
soiled by desperation
hearing nothing

nothing at all
but the vultures ravenous call …

… so come on, dear friend, take my hand in yours ( metaphorically speaking if nothing else ) and let’s walk back to that talcum caressed beach of dreams

because
with you it is all

and without you

still
and
always
and
perhaps forever more
in some quiet corner

deep within the core of your heart

shall always be
deeply anchored
my very all

my final port of call

_________________

Port of Call
http://tinyurl.com/ochvfq9

Seducing my Soul

caressing the seductively swaying marmalade roses,

teasing the stealthily approaching morn,

the smell of you lingers,

on,

and on,

as I lie awake and allow my vagabond thoughts to wander,

to the thoughts of you, seducing my soul entire,

as I sat,

and as I basked,

intoxicated,
teased,
raging,
transfixed,

and warmed,

by the healing glow,

that embraces your being entire …

Madiba (1918 – 2013)

Madiba.

( 1918 – 2013 )

Madiba, you are resting now.

Madiba, you have joined the ancestors.

Madiba, you are with your comrades.

Madiba, you are with us.

Madiba, you are within us.

Madiba, you live!

Madiba lives!

He lives!

He lives!

He lives…

Realpolitik in the Bullet Riddled-East

Realpolitik in the Bullet Riddled-East

Trembling, the child weeps,
silently sobbing, tears rolling down,
moist cheeks speckled with dried blood.

Shivering, the child seeks warmth,
huddling close to the stiff corpses,
with faces blown off, limbs crushed,
not looking like mum and dad at all.

[ complicit, I sit back, hurling invective,
at the inaction, or the lack of reaction,
assigning blame, here, there, everywhere,
sipping my cappuccino safely in my cocoon ]

Famished, the child shivers in the night,
ear-drums blown out, senses heavy as lead,

as the dogs of war circle nearby, bellowing,
spewing diseased words from severed tongues,

waiting for the bleeding child to have fully bled.