Category Archives: poetry

Once, Long Ago, In Dar Es Salaam

 

darpre01

Once, long ago, in Dar Es Salaam,

A beautiful woman appeared,

where I sat, silent, alone, with a book,

in an emerald garden, to read,

who walked up to me with warming brown eyes,

and a smile like the glorious day,

she moved with a grace that made the palms sway,

she laughed like the ocean kissed breeze,

that made me alive to my state of despair,

how far I had fallen from hope,

unexpected, she sat and talked of old songs,

the mysteries of stars, and the mind,

of kindness and giving, the sharing of time,

of why we are born and then die

why wisdom is rare and often is lost,

that question, to have or to be,

amazed by her words, her questions, her voice,

I asked her to tell me her name,

“I am Grace,” she replied,

with a tear on her cheek,

spell broken, she stood up to leave,

I lay my book down and rose to my feet,

she curtsied to my simple bow,

and as the muezzin began his soft call,

like a vision she parted from me,

and some might claim it a dream,

but standing I was, for me she was real,

so sat to reflect on her words,

still silent, alone, except for my book,

but now with the strength to endure.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I Stopped A Rich Man

Begging_for_change

I stopped a rich man on a bad day,

Some change for my pride, that’s all,

He threatened arrest,

Then spat in my face,

For blocking his way.

He wore a long black coat,

And a slaver’s face,

He was a priest of business,

A cardinal of cheats,

And so, twice robbed,

I stood, hand upturned,

Head bowed low,

Eyes cast down,

Shoulders tensed,

Waiting for the whip.

We Walk Down Streets Of Broken Lives

 

Picasso, Blind Man's Meal

We walk down streets of broken lives,

or drive, it’s all the same,

and see ourselves, the unaware,

in rows of broken dreams,

of faces etched with every grief,

in jagged homes of lies,

where art consists of murder shows,

or news from bloody eyes,

where family conversations

are dramas ready-staged,

to give a false impression,

but everyone agrees,

each of something guilty,

so to talk is to confess,

and TV heads with false concern,

deceive with every breath,

while love, poor love,

survives somehow,

a frail and hungry waif,

seeking warmth in crowds of fools

who think they know it all, are free,

but walk in many chains,

who’ve lost their joy of waking,

of a warming summer’s morn,

of the running and the shouting,

of the children’s’ field of play,

of kids with small red wagons,

and those crystal radios,

lost the wonder of their breathing,

their wonder of the sky.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Reflections

image-two face entwined

It’s a sharp, cold day in October,

up here in these far-rolling hills,

decked out in fiery colours,

like the coat that Joseph received,

but I’m warmed by longing reflections,

of hot summer days and a girl

who ran to the silvery river,

that flows through the village below,

where for hours we talked,

and for hours we sat,

and for hours our eyes we entwined.

Ah, to remember her beauty,

so gentle, so delicate, so aged,

her mystery now is transmuted,

a rainbow turned into gold,

so all that’s left is the mourning

for the future we lost long ago,

as with wine and tears we remember,

though old, though sad, and though few,

our quest for the love and the longing,

that gives life to the passage of time.

 

A Cold, Cold Rain

A cold, cold rain beats softly

on the melting window panes,

like angels’ tears for mankind wept

with hopeless, anguished cries,

and there, look there, those birds, in air,

bedraggled, sad, bereft,

sweep and swirl round sleeping trees,

their quest a warming place,

to sleep, a time, to dream perhaps,

of clouds and journey’s end

they flash this way and then flash that,

look now, they hang on wing,

then suddenly, in silence sealed,

as if en masse ordained,

all en mass descend,

yet each with each unreconciled,

though all a common fate,

like me, alone, the modern man,

blank face among the crowd,

my lost reflection now only found

In shattered mirror shards.

 

 

Night Is A Game That Death Likes To Play

 

“Night is a game that death likes to play,

And dreams are the mind withdrawing from day,”

Breathless, a whisper, these words that she said,

Before I departed for war, and the dead.

 

We kissed and she blushed, an innocent still,

As we lay on the top of the welcoming hill,

Where birds sang in trees of nature’s delight,

While we talked of love, of wrong and of right,

 

We lay on the grass to melt with the sky,

The rosey-sun setting, the moon asking why,

We were one destiny, one body, one mind,

Yet with sunrise I left, to follow the blind.

 

 

Sounds of Night

Sounds of night betray the day,

Shadows mourn a dying sun,

As flowers curl round saddened light,

Whose tears sad stars become,

In soft cafes, a hand, a match,

A flame, a wistful smile,

For dreams of things that dreams remained,

For dreams long realised,

While on darkened streets,

The curtains close,

Against the hopes, the lies,

And from deep within those lonely rooms,

Come maddened hopeless cries.

Can You Hear The Silence?

 

Can you hear the silence in a dark and empty room,

Or see the stars sharing smiles behind a shining moon,

When wonder lays cold, lays slain, within a cynic’s tomb.

And innocence, corrupted, foul, sings a drunken tune?

 

Do you see the emptiness on crowded city streets,

Or hear the beggar’s rattling cup while politicians speak,

While hope is touted like a drug by elected lying cheats,

And everywhere the bully boys kick around the weak.

 

Can you feel your freedom when the slogan’s “cops are tops,”

Or speak your mind in a land of lies ruled by a bragging fool,

As your heavy chain of wants and needs grows and never stops,

‘Til in your grave alone you lay, your shroud, the Golden Rule.

 

 

 

Speak Now, My Friends

Speak now, my friends, yes speak, but speak true,

Of the darkness descended and what we must do,

When days reek of madness, and nights smell of shame,

And the air smells of gore of the infinite slain.

Let’s dream, once again, of democracy’s glade,

The peace and the calm, for which many have paid,

Where the poor are the richest, and the rich are long gone,

And in the bright sunlight the darkness is done.

And when we remember all that’s been said,

Of justice for all and where it has led;

While the cruel and the selfish veil their true face,

We’ll sing of the heroes who’ve argued our case.

So proudly we’ll speak of the brave ones who die,

There’ll be vows to revenge them, tell truth to the lie,

But yet, as we speak, will come shouts, “who leads me?

So we’ll raise a bright mirror for the doubters to see.

But why fades your voice, your eyes look away?

While you suffer alone long night and dark day,

So stay, and reflect, as we join our rough hands,

What our union could do to unchain our lands.

The Rain Pours Blood And Ashes

The rain pours blood and ashes

Steady, down upon the snow,

Lying gently in the fields,

A soft sigh upon the world,

And bleeds away its beauty,

In myriad flowing tears,

Rose petals on a river,

Foul with waste of war.

 

Church bells ring and choirs sing,

For countless angry dead,

Who have no friends, no love for them,

No one waiting by the door,

Forgotten when they hit the ground,

All torn by lead and lies,

Yet still the bells are ringing,

Calling others to their end.

 

Some, we’ve heard, dare question,

The who’s, the how’s, the why’s,

Some others turn to listen,

The rest chained are to glowing screens,

Who see not the men arrive,

Nor hear the knocks at 3.am,

To take away the daring,

As they pretend to sleep.

 

The rain still falls upon us,

The sun and moon have lost their light,

Enlightenment stands with Reason,

Hard pressed against a wall,

Reaction strangles Progress,

Justice dangles from a tree,

While vultures perch on branches,

Where other corpses hang,