Let's meet under all of this.
Under all the skin and politics,
under all the hate and animosity
that society is burdened with.

Mother nature got it right
she waterproofed our skin.
She didn't waterproof our minds,
hence the state we're in.

So it's hard to meet below the surface.
Just easier to swim
and thrash about in the waves of our ideological whims.
Front crawling, backstroking
"Go with the flow" kind of doomed.
The odd ones butterfly stroke,
the rest of us are stuck in our cocoons.

Am I meant to just hold my breath?
If I don't then I might just get knees on my neck
or bullets in chest
from a pig with a bulletproof vest
who sees this melanin
as the greatest of threats.

"He was this, he was that"
I don't care, HE WAS BLACK.
unarmed citizen with a cop on his back.

I don't wanna hear the "the all cops aren't bad" raving.
That's like saying "three percent of white people controlled slaving"
but if the other ninety-seven cared we wouldn't need saving,
so George Floyd was dead
way before the cops came in.

R.I.P.

When you hear "Don't keep all your eggs in one basket"
Translation: "Don't put your heart in a casket".
I only have one heart
so I freely impart it.
I don't label it heartbreak,
you can't tape it or mask it.
The heart's the greatest gift
it only breaks if you guard it
and I never question it
I don't care much for asking.

Heartbreak and heartaches
aren't things that your heart makes
it's teetering the scale
of what the heart gives
and heart takes.

There's borders between the clouds in the sky
and I wonder why the space between us
can't be as soft down here
as it is up there...

I gaze at the clouds with eyes of the guilty
ashamed we've carved up something so pretty
with cities, committees, concrete gritty
Clouds stare down with nothing but pity.

If borders that know nothing but war
could be given the serenity of the clouds or shores
your feet wouldn't bleed to claim what's yours,
to live free wouldn't be something to pay for.

When the ground mirrors the sky
and our hearts reflect July
we will all look at one another
without bordered eyes.

Hearing is not listening
we fear, so start missing things.
Far off and dissonant
souls always stiffening.

Try social distancing
from the incessant whispering,
a product of your conditioning
so very limiting.
That voice in your head?
So very crippling.

Look within, start witnessing,
the ego needs a visiting,
a minor repositioning.
then you may find
your compassion
doubling, tripling
nevermore dwindling.

Exit yourself
listen in
ensure that you're listening.
Not always to the words,
but to loud eyes glistening
Not always to the conformist,
sometimes to the dissident
Not always to the waves
sometimes to the rippling.

Somewhere between the pages of Soyinka's Ake and my wondering mind
The Robin comes to visit me like it did last time
I catch the fleeting body at the edge of my periphery
but for moments I ignore it
mistaking it for leaves falling from a tree

But it's summer,
and there are no big trees in my garden.
The Robin lands right at my feet
and for my granola crumbs it bargains
We stare at each other, both equally curious
I ignore and return to Ake
I think it finds that injurious.

Throws a tantrum around the garden for roughly 5 seconds,
but almonds in my granola to the robin they beckon.
Fluttering around me ever so nimble
landing at my feet again
and the granola deal rekindles.

This time we exchange looks
with an unspoken knowing
so I submit and get to my granola throwing.

I hear the unfiltered tune of birds from somewhere among the trees.
Unaware that I watch them with my pen
they keep singing.

The lone generator,
where the towering evergreens used to be,
emits a soft baritone hum.
It's loudest on the days when the sun is brightest
as if mourning the loss of that reposeful shade.

So I try to write some shade...

and the tip of my ball point rolls me back in memory
to that stubborn 'NO BALL GAMES' sign
that would try persistently to deter our playfulness
but instead
made childish rebellion so much sweeter.

The low gravelly glide of pen to paper stops
as if the words have been delivered to their destination.
And my senses come to a standstill
to check which memory they may have accidentally dropped
along the way.

...then they remember

and my nostrils welcome the scent of Mum's cooking,
which flows inwards and floats downwards
where it branches out in my chest
and gently pulls my heart into an innocent grin,
that sometimes I forget,
but Mum and Dad never will.