No more

No more than a speck of dust upon the fleeing moment,

No more than a silent breath upon the wind,

No more than a forgotten seed that breasts the unforgiving earth,

No more than all the words that lie unsaid.

 

For this is life, and this is how the moments draw and creep,

When hope and meaning hide themselves away,

And dare to taunt that all is nought but shadow,

That who I am is fantasy and dream.

 

And yet each speck of dust is borne on dreams,

And silent breaths can carry words across the world,

While seeds that strive through soil to reach the sun

Will always speak of God, of life, of love.

BLACK CHILD

 

The black child brought to birth at last

And suckled at the breast,

Drinks greedily of that which is denied.

Yet, withered dreams are milked as well,

And drop by sour drop,

They turn away what might have been.

Then, belly full, and bubbled lip

The child is drawn to sleep,

That she may walk the dreaming path.

The time has come, and darkness turns

A new and shining face,

Upon the black child newly found.

For life will have us suckle, however

We may find, the offered breast,

The ancient milk … our destiny defined.

The split

The split  in Self is seen so clear,

And yet recoils in mortal fear

From any touch that seeks to bring

A healing to the wound within.

Twixt good and bad  the players set

And rise to make their triumph, yet,

A tiny voice keeps up the cry

That truth is found within the I.

So peace and wisdom, love and truth

Stand on one side, placed well aloof

And rage, and vengeance, basest thought

Will hold their ground, no matter what.

The ‘I’ rides grace and then will leap

The fence to fly upon deceit

And all the while knows neither can

Hold sure, swift hoof on flimsy ground.

That day will come when each will find

Then disappear in new-born mind,

And truth of each is made anew,

The ‘I’ becomes, eternal ‘You.’

Disguised

I found myself traversing,
a strange and yet known place,
with who I was, now hidden;
disguised, no visual trace.

And in the midst of losing,
the sense of my own Self,
I glimpsed a distant image;
but shape I could not tell.
 

Bitch crucified

    

Through creatured screams rise deathless cries of pain,
full tortured on the sullen, restless breeze
that plays around Luanda’s littered veins;
as bowels open, children laugh and metal bars are raised.

A cry unearthly, streaming through the cloud of dusted skies,
to settle grimy feathers at the door;
as mercy calls in broken-winged appeal,
with voice full human, terror-drawn through teeth canine.

In serpent shriek, death’s fingers tease life’s song,
upon the lyre of Africa’s cruel heart,
where trickstered being rules the world
and flesh of dog or man may wear the welt of striking rod.

In childish dance, creeps laughter, light-limbed in horror’s world
in pebbled strike upon the broken form,
teasing bloodied paws from unforgiving edge,
in joyful celebration of cruel sacrifice; the figure flayed and scorned.

And in the dying moments, when screams are whimpered births,
then wiser, older voices call an end;
cruel ignorance takes breathless flight
and day draws dusky gown to shroud the awful truth.

Dark night creeps slowly, pleading touch upon the bloodied brow,
as Sun burns fading light upon the wounds
in shadowed fire, and healing kiss,
upon the cross of shattered limbs; upon the sacrificial Now!