FLASHES

See a tree,
leaves like ears
listening
to whispers of the heart
smiling
in the sun
as if they can hide
their green
a green so grim
it insists on
shining.

Under that tree,
boys and girls, one adult
and a drum:

then years later
a voice on the phone
says half of these are gone.

The tree stands still
in the imagination of one
so far away that his dreams
cannot leave it alone.

We sang and praised under that tree,
pursued hope until the sun stumbled
and regiments of the nights
thundered.

No, not that serious,
but before the sun rots
see the group stomping on time
because they are determined to win
the race before a new day
yawns.

Maybe this is serious:
Two drums, seeking hands
whose fingers ooze art

until we know
this is not about art
out there, but that in here.

The tree is a home,
the boys and girls are sheep
and rain dreams of setting foot here

until the sun stumbles
again, a night without
regiments.

The hooves of time
don't thunder, rather slumber
when throats free imprisoned sounds.
Drums wake,feet hammer the red earth
until it sobs with joy.

If it shines
it's the grim green
smiling in the sun,
a tree with leaves like ears
that listened to things of the the heart
before departure extinguished innocence.

GET UP & GO

If you can't arrive
it's because you never departed;
so you will wind down
the ghost of a path in your imagination
Warn-out once by adventerous feet
overgrown now by the weeping grass
that refuses to sing
when destination confirms
no more that someone
left one place & arrived somewhere.

READY FOR CHANGE

Swift-hearted muckraker
help us feel
how
the day sobs,

how
the sun's rays
protect
themselves
from our eyes,

how
the receding moon
wobbles
along
its warnout
path,

how
the stars
peer
through the sockets
of their maligned
universe.

SIX, SEVEN, SIX, SEVEN

Here, where the land sobs
and rivers chew livers
while helpless mothers watch
we have learned to laugh
even when the steel doors
have been permanent-locked.

We still remember those days,
so, no sir, no madam,
We don't fault Mandebvu
for his T & R days
but a little slap on
the wrist even, could
have sent a message.

We have already seen tomorrow
and live not to remember
even where nightmares
continue to throw rocks
when the wasteland we call sleep
rouses us again.

You come on here
scarred land of forgetfulness,
where now our hearts
are dry rags
that can never be wet,
even when the river
offers to quench the thirst.

YOUR RETURN

Three-legged bed
after two decades there?

Why did our ancestors
mock us by making you
the one who could ever cross?