The Eon series - 1 – The Treyboars Legacy
The
salad in the bowl emanates
nuclear
fall-out
the
light green glowing fluorescent
the
yellows gold
the
reds crimson
the
purple of avocado glows indigo,
The
morphed shapes of nuclear rampage
guard
the fall out site with twisted grins
the
ladies in glowing geisha frocks
pink
cheeks where once shone red.
The
Lords of the Treyboar stare bemused
an action
meant to end life
instead
rumanoids wander free slaking thirst
the
rains pour iridescent blue
on gardens
flattened by the blast.
Above
ground zero, mutant crow’s caw
searching
for any fare to keep them alive,
the
blisters of heat evident neath feathery skin,
dogs
with no tails and no bark scatter
the
thump of another building toppling.
A European
couple reinvent themselves
trying
hard to see through skins purple-hazed,
their
adventure in Middle Kaplan stifled
by the
actions of weapon hungry Treyboarians
the
need to prove they have, we have, we do.
In the
ages ahead, all comes to fruition,
babies
with boils, families misunderstanding,
the
water slightly gray with aftermath
the
memories of Chernobyl enough to shiver,
some
said never again after Japan,
and
beware after Chernobyl
yet
still to Lords play with unwarranted power.
Ceculan
Terbonichi eats from the salad bowl
from
the platter on the misshapen table,
thinks
death is nice in an oil painting.
The Eon series – 2 – slaughter of ten ants and a dog
I missed
the count, started at nought
finished
confused at ten
the
last carrying a large leafy five time his size,
it was
the dog that drew my attention,
the
main around the neck in tufts
as if
it had been in a tug of Love
more
a Tug of War and the dog the loser
I hear
his master shouting his name
out
on the street, the thump of his footfall
passing
the
dog dips his head in sadness
I then
see the welt down his back
as if
the leaf was too big and scarred
the
ant in passing, but whoa, this is dog
I shoo
him away, worried, but not the owner
he can
deal with the guilt, as I do now
why
am I a chickenshit ant counter, tallier
My wife
rubs my head, sorting tufts of uncombed,
tut
tuts when she sees the dog, races inside
calls
the SPCA, the voice of her owner down the road,
I think
– why me? why didn’t I do the right thing,
the
dog takes on sorrowful look back, disappears
allows
me to get back to counting ants, leaf tossers,
me the
biggest tosser, my wife slaps my head
and
tufts of hair vanish into the ether, I look down
and
one ant attacks the combined tufts
dog
hair and my hair, calls for reinforcements.
The Eon series – 3 – The Kid is just a kid
Ok so
he’s thirteen, going on twenty
sneaks
into his Dad’s room when he’s not home
thumbs
through the magazines
takes
his shame to the toilet and ejaculates,
his
first girlfriend commented on the size of it
he just
blushed amazed she cared
they
did it on Dad’s bed, bugger the mess.
There
is always life in an old pencil!
When
he was thirty-ish, he divorced her
found
comfort in Roxanne’s on Cuba
the
salt and pepper shaker missing from the table.
So why
at 38 did he get a vasectomy?
78 now,
missing womanly contact
slithers
into John Gibbons room
and
sneaks a look at the pictures on the wall.
He needn’t
bother going to the toilet.
The Eon Series – 4 – Unnatural Disasters
I can’t
figure it out
why
things around collapse -
I touch
a building for example
cracks
appear
I run
in fear
to nowhere,
though
on the way I wave at a train
the
driver waves back
the
train leaves the track
I feel
black
I hurriedly
run hither and yon
I wave
at a plane overhead
the
one thing I dread
crash
– two dead
I run
down the long straight road
I wave
at a truck
you
know my luck
saved
by a wandering duck.
My footsteps
whilst running
meet
a hump,
the
sudden thump,
Earthquake
chump!!
I stand
in the middle of a mis-shapened world
architect
of my own demise
a word
to the wise,
love
me - I surprise.
The Eon Series – 5 - Ice
Ice
on the window
Ice
on the floor
Ice
on the walls
Ice
on the door
Chills
in the room
chills
up my spine
chills
in the icebox
chills
are just fine.
Nuclear
Fallout sits
and
then it rocks
two
deformed feet
don’t
fit in socks.
Salad
in the punchbowl
greens
on the tray
The
Eon series ends
resurrected
another day.
It’s been 10 long years
It’s
been ten long years
since
I was a Dad
mental
illnesses
have
done me bad
the
feeling I have
I’m
always sad
Why
god tricked me
as if
I’ve been had.
It’s
been ten long years
since
I hugged my girls,
been
far too long
since
I twisted their curls
and
videoed their dance
their
acrobatic twirls
I feel
so sad now
our
separate worlds.
It’s
been ten long years,
since
we all danced a-feather
it’s
been an eon since
I sheltered
them from the weather,
the
rains my tears now
seeing
them maybe never
a natural
blonde
and
a brunette quite clever.
I have
their pictures hanging
on all
my four walls
I hear
them talking
in long
lost calls
I miss
their smiles
help
them when they fall
I just
hope both of them
are
having a big ball.
It’s
been ten long years
since
my mind evicted me
the
memories are barren
they’re
no longer a part of me
no tangible
hugs
just
stark reality
now
I can’t talk to them
not
a pretty penny.
The
Captain Series – The Whalers
Cap’n
Staunchbottom stands ramrod straight
the
wind trying to chisel wind burns into him,
the
state of the swaying barque dependant
upon
the strength of man and breeze.
From
the deep south the Roaring Forties
promise
to dismantle all who wander into it,
the
stark cold of Antarctic Ice cutting ropes
in the
form of Ice and Icicles.
Sails
Frapped against a strong wind, Breather
the
warm wind of the subtropics, temperate
a place
to sail with frank honesty, no death
except
perhaps the taste of scurvy and murder.
The
Cap’n points the bow southward, Island bound
heading
to ports bearing women and sailor fare
a chance
to keep a crew, to manage boredom,
to ensure
the Maori maidens of Aotearoa impregnated.
The
ship’s an old barque, former pirate ship from Cuba
taken
as a prize by a British Man’o’war and sold
to the
first person to raise a bounty purse, a thousand
gold
guineas, not often seen in the British realm.
In a
port, she’s converted to whaling, harpoons, ropes
lanyards,
slicing knives and boiling pots, the salt too
female
company now behind, the ice of promise,
delivered,
great woolen coats disguising tension.
The
days start anew, targets acquired and dispatched
hands
bent to the task at hand, death, blood, blubber
the
time flies and all too soon the pots overflow,
a successful
hunt, and not too far dipped to the south.
The
ship roars northbound, the Roaring southerly
pushing
like a punch into a punch bag, energised,
the
port reached anon, cargo unloaded, crew paid,
more
lovely maidens, desertions, new crewmen.
The
whaling season lasts for nine months
until
icicles cut ropes further north and the need to
run
the gauntlet with Ice Floes negated by the rush
on the
sou’easterly trade into the tropics and home.
The Captain Series - Flightdeck of American Airlines 77
“Dad, can I wear your cap?”
“Don’t annoy daddy sweetheart, he’s got a long job today.”
He walks
around the Pentagon, his old plane charred,
helps
officials identify parts of the plane
helps
to bring truth to a heinous crime
The
crash was manufactured, under threat
nothing
survived, except paint on the tail,
ten
years of familiarity gone in a terror-filled moment..
There
are no lies in blatant truth, it seems.
A limb
dangles with a gold Rolex shining in the sun.
The Captain Series – Sports is the Winner.
The
skipper pulls up his pants
another
ruck in another melee,
the
ball now passed to the half back
ready
for the next phase of play.
A small
boy stands on the sideline
chasing
balls back and forth,
admiring
his hero’s belting out another
rugby
game, the game of warriors.
The
sweat drips on a cold evening
steam
rises from a scrum packing down,
“Crouch,
Touch, Hold Engage pouts the ref,
the
sudden crunch of kilos against kilos rings,
a small
boy on the side line dreams
dreams
bout the day he’ll be an All Black
the
days when his fitness will be tested,
the
days when heroes march in unison for a win.
He then
sees the Captain run, fat man’s alley,
the
chasing support players run and ruck
the
tension in the air broken by “f**k you”
and
the perennial “oh Ref”, and the pee blows.
The
backs are freezing in the cold, even the bellboy
with
his continual running the sideline, is warm
the
backs are called into action, the halfback passes,
the
inside backs double around, a pass to the fullback
TRY!!
The
opposition gather for a chat behind the posts,
discuss
defensive tactics, offensive frailties,
the
ref blows the pea for a successful conversion,
everyone
returns to halfway to start it all over again.
The Captain Series – One small step for Man
You’ve
seen the pictures
the
Captain of Eagle
stepping
down gingerly
to a
surface gray dust
Apollo
13 – we have a problem Houston
the
numbers crunched,
computers
monitored
there
in the wiring loom
a small
fire, death.
Columbia
sails Earthbound
mostly
on automatic
tweaked
expertly by a Captain of Space
the
wheels touchdown
the
Ship returned to Canaveral
for
another return journey
to a
space station
slowly
getting bigger.
The
Captain of the Control Centre
calls
the numbers, the tune
set
to repetition
to countdown
another
space mission
another
Captain at the helm
another
life event for spectators
to drink.
The Captain Series – Bus Driver
Everyday
he does his rounds
Morningtown
through Parsonage
then
south to Hampden Downs,
then
changes the sign and returns,
People
his crew, his business
the
daily rush of worried housewives
the
patter of children going to school
occasionally
the local hood sans car.
He drinks
for his health Bottle
spits
out the window the detritus of bad air
turns
left and right with measured ease,
the
daily ritual almost automatic in nature,
The
Church Ladies for St Mary’s on Ponsonby
all
get on in Parsonage, tightly dressed
and
settle at the front of the bus
leaving
the back for cheeky young reprobates,
the
bus holds 45 , yet at times it swells
to those
having to stand, public transport
a swelling
occurrence since petrol rose in price,
the
stink of BO overwhelms, daily fare.
The
driver’s the captain of his ship, dictated to
by bosses
who have planned immaculately,
yet
he rules on who does and doesn’t board,
the
young glue sniffers of Redding Rise, no go.
Happy
empty, at the depot, fills the Diesel tank,
time
for a well earned smoke and a bite to eat,
remonstrates
with fellow captains, the strange ones,
the
good looking girl at the stop near Jamestown,
The
bright young hippy on te invalids benefit,
always
flips him a 50 in monopoly money, it counts,
then
back to the Bus for another foray into alienship,
the
places the same, most of the folks too, the vagabond.
The Captain Series – Cap’ns of Industry.
He stands
in a Penthouse, Red Square Hotel
overlooking
Red Square in deepest Moscow,
the
wheels of Industry ringing loud in a mind,
a mind
attuned to running things and making
things
work, a true entrepreneur, a worker too.
The
dice on the table roll Sevens, a casino Boss
stands
and watches as the punter wins more,
more
money than the casino is willing to part with
yet
all he sees is luck, hamstrung to do anything
but
watch the time roll when the punter’s had enough.
The
dog sitting quietly on the footpath outside the hotel
pleads
scrawny poverty, yet is willing to stand and watch,
the
mince in the kitchen soon to be thrown out, time
even
for a dog, waits for no man, as he does now,
a suited
penthouse dweller sneaks out for lust.
The
winner leaves by the front door, his win emblazoned.
the
pit boss, captain of his realm, scratches his head
the
casino out of pocket to the tune of millions,
oh well
always the other 99% of punters, to roll in
a pit
dealer, sexy in her after work mini dress
races
in a taxi to Seventy Five Lamokva Avenue,
meets
a mysterious man, he well to do, she almost
another
two months and she’s saved enough
to escape
the cold of Moscow, the freeze of winter,
to bask
in all day sun on the Iberian Peninsula,
The
wheels of Industry role ever onward, paying
the
time for retirement closer with every working day,
the
winner of the Craps Game buys a yacht, and sails
past
Valencia, towards the casino in Monte Carlo -
the
penthouse now filled with the grunt of lust,
as the
mechanizations of payment due helping-
helping
to pay a girl her dream, her willingness
to do
anything to escape – she leaves loaded
he retires
for the night dreaming of retirement
a man
steps ashore to role Craps in “The” Casino.
A Dog
walks out of the back of a restaurant, sated.
Salamander Eyes
You
look at me with upturned nose,
eyes
bulging to see up my nostrils,
poke
your tongue out for effect,
your
lips a license to kiss
your
face a love
your
soul
enough.
The Captain Series – the Last – Me.
I’ve
stood at the helm of a ship, Driver
I’ve
stood in the middle of a boat, Captain
I’ve
stood in my room – memories,
the
way things could have been
if I
hadn’t been afflicted genetically.
I sit
in my chair, writer
A
stand behind my chair, watcher,
I stand
and pace my room,
Captain
without helm,
I salute
myself, as it is done.
I measure
my domain in yards now,
no longer
in miles, whence my boat days
I take
a rule of thumb and apply it to life
then
scrutinize all around me with measured eye
a hangover
from my surveying days, the sun sets
on a
life fast approaching relinquishment,
the
shades dimmer now, the moon strong
the
ice on the beard says get warm and live
the
beard and face behind it say bring it on,
the
lady of my life my last vision, and her girls.
Ignacio
The
chiseled might of David
the
layered peace of Mona Lisa
ten
visions of Dali’s Ghost
the
Fruitbowl Picasso paints
Ignacio,
a roman sewer
depicted
by Leonardo De Vinci
on a
piece of canvas stretched,
the
age indeterminate
the
style – rushed.
In that
frame, a little boy
poking
his head out
sewer
rat, lives of misery,
one
wonders how a painter
sees
such things, askance.
Draining Veins to Build Arteries
The
licquorice builds bodies
pumps
blood in a heat of the moment
when
a whole bag disappeared,
the
taste on the tongue
deliberate.
Babies
with innies
a rare
occurrence
mothers
with distended bellies
commonplace
in pregnancy.
She
met a man
well
that’s a teenagers prerogative,
went
to his house
to measure
his rooms
for
refurbishment.
Allentown
revisited
the
pavement chalked
with
kiddies games
the
gutter filled
with
discarded
smokes.
The
placement of the decoration on the table
meant
to draw the looker in, mesmerise
the
knives and forks set out right handed
just
in case a leftie sits
and
confuses.
The
blood in an artery
pumping
out
then
travelling back in veins
blue
on the surface.
Sausage
meat is handy.
Roll of Film
I find
that roll of film, you know, the one from
January
2000, the picnic south of Dannevirke
when
Mary and Jane danced on the playground
a memory
in passing of times past, good
the
roll with stick figures at play
as children
are, stripped of adulthood,
the
lace skirts billowing in the breeze
and
Uncle David throwing sticks with Rusty.
There’s
one of you standing by the car
forever
turning your blonde curls in your fingers
the
rum punch on the boot untouched
as the
gathering performed miracles.
The
left chamber of the Ford shows bare paint,
one
of those must do jobs that never got done,
the
kids leaning either side, a bun and cake
slipping
wet into hungry mouths, the film rolls
Aunty
Ignacius Queen of the Gathered Throng
with
her hair on fire, the hat too red to be that,
Cousin
Graham spill marks down a green shirt,
runs
after the girls, Ice cream flowing molten.
But
I treasure the Girls, I have rarely seen them
as well
you know, I don’t blame you, I blame life,
but
I will send this as a gift for you to cherish
for
the girls to have as a reminder of gentler days.
Deliriousness
You
rattle your brain in a too-large head
rip
eyeballs from sleepless sockets
pronounce
“Beat” be at the way it’s spelt
the
tussock of your hair hides melodrama
the
sweet ruby of your lips hints possibilities
the
drip of cod liver in fine curly locks, skids
and
slips to a nose hooked for effect, latent
the
thought of wiping oil from your nose
as it
runs past your chin to mar another top,
the
recognition when others see your dilemma
the
happenstance of metallurgy as Trojans fight
the
time on a discarded watch stopped at 8.47pm.
Rain
on your hair melodances, as Ginger Rogers
or was
it Gene Kelly’s Singing in the Rain? time
indeed
to find a new life in a four bedroom bungalow
to house
your insecurities, your misgivings, eccentricity
the
play your mouth plays when words are hard to find,
the
Doctor prescribed Lamimatol, not telling you
the
stuff was used to give horses shiny coats, glisten
the
sheen on your mangy hair-tail-mane, shake loose
the
ribbons of your mind and chase a hairbrush in a
mirror
steam pressed to blur reality, the hobo stares back
the
lady in the room disadvantaged by age, short too
she
makes a mental note to wear nine inch heels.
Placid
now, the rain gone, the hair drying and sticking
the
mirror an afterthought, the time still says 8.47pm
but
she can get by without it, just makes life dull anyway.
In the
end, the rattling brain tosses new nuances.
That Pen
It was
a gift, gold cap,
black/red
barrel
the
ink flows blue
when
I use it,
I don’t
use it though
in –
laws gift, Christmas
I just
stand it up
in front
of me
look
at it’s shape
and
surety
one
day an important
letter
requires signing.
Subterranean Creatures.
Five
foot seven long
a tooth
in the middle of three snarled nostrils,
the
tail electric for stunning effect
the
dog like roar
a wolf
hound regenerated.
The
lady at the kiosk on the corner,
you
know, Down and Out,
the
gentlemanly five year olds flick marbles.
the
daylight fades as it always does
when
wolves cry in terror.
Alfred
Hitchcock stands by the number 12 bus stop
the
memories flying like The Birds
around
a bald pate
a shower
drips above
somewhere
a knife flies and imbeds itself
in a
wooden power pole
as knives
do.
The
Kiosk lady removes the knife
slits
her wrist as succour to subterranean creatures
the
lifeblood regenerating as a tail whips
wraps
itself around her legs
the
marbles scatter with their owners,
past
Old Alfred, to Ma’s and Pa’s
to tell
the unbelievable.
Then
the scene disappears,
a quiet
field of yellow lucerne,
a girl
in Dorothy clothes dances
to “The
Sound of Music”
the
wind brushes the field in blue waves
whence
the flowers dip and dance and dive
towards
a cottage of Hansel and Gretel quality.
You
sense the wolverines
but
all you see is beauty and love
and
Alfred leaning against a large Oak
the
witch in the cottage a Kiosk Lady
the
sumptuous smell of fresh baking
the
bait for the wolves to take you,
yes
you are scared again,
your
mouth dries,
your
eyes distend
you
sweat in areas you haven't sweat in years,
the
girl dances to the sound of Yellow Brick Road
the
scene a brown rye field swaying to a new tune
that
golden path a thing of abject beauty,
the
Tin Man resembles Freddie
from
Nightmare on Elm Street
and
the fingers as knives
cut
rye heads as they pass,
the
Scarecrow with a Frankenstein Heart
kicks
the stones with toenails of glass shards,
and
the Wizard once again Alfred
the
door wide ajar,
I hear
you say no, no, no
yet
the song weaves towards the door
and
she dances the stoop
the
creatures of horror strung out behind her,
You
wake and sit up with a stance
take
a look in the mirror, see nothing in return
no face,
no arms, nothing,
not
even your gold medal smile
of course,
a dream, then where am I?
and
the sound of gnashing teeth from your blind side
and
you jump out of bed
seek
the mirror (and solace) of the bathroom
the
sideways look reveals nothing, just a dream,
the
mirror there steamed over
you
then notice the shower, who???
The
day draws to a close, the kiosk stands empty,
the
street at that corner empty too,
the
reflection in the number 12 bus yours to peruse,
A marble
in a gutter strikes a note,
you
search the street, no Alfred, no wolverines
just
an empty kiosk and a fissure in a lamp post,
no fields
of dreams, no golden roadway,
you
hurry home to turn the shower off, your name Snow White.
Sweet things
Car
candy apple red
wallet,
alligator green
the
yellow sunflower,
blooms
Taste
cherry ripe
the
succulence
of beer
hops brewing
drink
the
amber fluid of Kings
bubbly
to froth
the
champagne divine
anointed
Bishops
in cassocks
relaxed,
the timekeeper
flicks
a black switch,
pedantic
the
control man
for
trains East/West
and
vice versa,
delayed
the
naming of Gods
the
rugby paddock
a carpeted
green
tackle
the
bag in front
confront
the
joys of misery
salacious
the
bite into ice cream
bitter
with caramel
the
taste of Jesus
pray.
Recognising Space and Time in Bathroom affairs.
The
bath holds 40 gallons of water
yet
I only displace 86 Kilograms
when
I dive headlong.
From
deep underwater I look and see
the
blurred blue/grey of a ceiling
much
in need of painting.
My hand
reaches for the soap, brush
the
lather enough to ruin ten years
of decomposition
at the sewage plant.
The
razor is sharp to the nth degree
still
I apply it gingerly to red whiskers
the
blood dripping that of carelessness.
I measure
the distance from the bath to the toilet
then
with simple ease slide a hook shot
and
kerplonk!! bull’s-eye (“disposable razor” it says).
The
water spirals down the drain clockwise
yet
in the northern hemisphere its opposite,
I watch
the water and dream weather forecasts.
The
fallen heroes of Hair stick to the lathered sides
standing
testament of the good fight, warrior
leaving
it all for someone else to clear.
Loves Feather
Soft
like light tissues
the
texture of essence
market
days sell plenty
a balloon
– bird shaped
The
lady with a whisper breath
soul
floating in front
the
float of air attains
daisy
chains sensual.
Today
they buried
the
lady of light gone
her
presence lowered
featherlike
into a casket
sent
across Oceans
across
the world
her
message in life and death
love.
The Inner Workings of a Dead Poets Mind
Salutation
renditions of Sean Connery in Garn
a movie
not yet written, though not far away
the
lace of Rachel Welch’s corset fine, roaring
the
souped up V8 in an American Graffiti
roars
down a road with Harrison Ford
picking
snot balls from nostrils, flared
the
guards on a Police Cruiser, arresting
the
hearts of bystanders as cars reel out of control,
Jane
Seymour kisses Cary Grant, yeah the gay one
as happy
as two kids in love, like Munroe and JFK
though
don’t tell Jackie, she with the reins of power
the
height of power the measure of a woman, fresh
the
breeze that blows through Kansas in search
of a
wizard and a weird movie, if you look at it,
the
skip of a little dog chasing skirt tails, blooms
aligning
in gay abandon, to paint a picture with
colourful
rows of nothingness if you can’t see,
can’t
recognise the dark trails they beautify, green
the
colour of money when stars mingle and dine, the purple cassocks hover, ever trying to convert the kith
the
kin that celebrates life as it wanders along, death
the
last gasp signifies the dying thread of thought,
the
purification of characters, the passing of names
the
quirks and foibles of those who choose notoriety.
Birthright.
I call
you Prudence, though your name is Delight
you
waft fragrant Rose on my hearty Beef
You
singe in my arms, swelter in my clutch
the
smile you tattoo on my face reflective
baby
in arms, we share, kiss, cuddle, calm
the
ladies endeavours witnessed by a caring man
the
days you coo and caw, the screech of blackbirds
as you
hang many nappies for another assault,
whence
baby calls Momma, and walks, falls, walks
and
rolls along in a barrel fashion to reach nowhere
The
day he stands and teeters, you ready
to save
a broken nose and unwanted howls
but
steady and true, like his Mum and Dad
he wanders
around the furniture with ease
Darling,
come sit with me now, he sleeps
eventually
a brother has a sister, as it is.
In the Belly of a Sperm Whale (or Jonah cries)
I was
swallowed up two years ago now
a sperm
whale named Gromunkingly
I’d
been kayaking around a few Islands
but
he thought I was needed, so swallowed I was.
We went
miles, always trying to keep away,
far
from the sharp prongs of Japanese Harpoons
from
the deep Southern Oceans to the warm Pacific,
swimming
mainly in the sanctuary of New Zealand.
He kept
me fed with fresh krill and crustaceans
kept
himself fed too, and directed his family,
and
for those years we evaded the enemy, till one day a mayday call from the deep south, a slaughter,
hurriedly
we dove southwards, whales of all sizes
shapes
and designs, all chasing the killers,
too
late, a bogus call, tricked, the light went out,
the
mighty Gromunkingly harpooned through the back
bleeding
to death, his heartbeat strong, weakening
his
speech to me, both help me and don’t worry,
Yes
I hear you say, Stop Whaling, Stop the Japanese!
Stop
the senseless murder of such delicate creatures .
The Success of Readership
Late
last September, twas wet and cold
manufactured
a poetry book, likely to be sold,
did
only two copies, one for my self
and
another volume for the Library shelf.
Well
the local library took their time
to get
it to the shelves a place sublime
and
before one reader had taken the bait,
someone
had booked it, and I feel bloody great.
I tried
to get published, 417 poems in all
the
number growing till I had to stall
my manuscript
from 2000 until 2005
so happy
someone’s reading, yup Hi Five.
As I
was saying tried hard to be published,
needed
$4500 for 120 tomes, just a wish
to put
one volume in each library in the land
well
that’s the crux of my well balanced plan.
I still
wish to go down this path, and be read
before
I’m licked and left damn well dead,
to know
that others share my many words,
72,000
last count, or that’s what I heard.
The Malawi Legacy.
Sum
Bar el Hajri’s twelve today
like
a lot of his friends
he’s
not seen as normal
AIDS
has that effect
He doesn’t
understand why he has it
why
he and his friends think normally
yet
are afflicted with the African Disease
why
they have no access to medicine.
The
world dies a little
when
these kids cease to be
unwilling
to throw money and medicine
the
thought that it will go away on its’ own.
And
slowly it is dying, coffins a dime a dozen now when there once was a shortage
yet
a 12 year old dies with no hope.
a free
coffin for children, too many.