The cost of free is:
four hundred years of slavery,
a billion pounds of gold,
decades of senseless brutality,
millions in captivity
and the body of yet another innocent man.
A poem written after the University of the Witwatersrand protests
I still recall the minutes spent;
Every kiss and moment — hands intwin’d,
Days with thee, thy interest fully lent.
Sitteth I and ponder sober mind’;
Of thy gaze and grace and lovely face,
Of thy voice tuned sweetly like the lark.
Tho’ time apart hath drawn a pace,
Riseth I, with heavens eye to hunt the snark.
Seeketh I in places dark and sullen grim
With naught but hope and love equip’d,
Plungeth I to caverns gull and dim
Void of joy and weary grip’d.
I trace the beast and find it’s lair,
To my surprise: a maiden fair!
A ballad writ for a maiden fair
I remember when we first met,
t’was a chill’d Autumn day.
Oh, how ever could I forget!
it was a Friday, many a May.
On that day, stood thee:
fair skin’d and rosey cheek’d,
dark plumes in morning gust.
your gaze my eye had seek’d,
your touch my heart did lust.
on that day, stood I:
heart heavy with fluster,
stood I still as time did flow;
if only courage could I muster,
my love for you would I show.
Wo! my heart did cry,
Wo! had I sadly weep’d,
until my name you did call
and my heart to heavens leap’d.
oh the joy! I still recall.
A poem for a girl with fair skin and rosey cheeks
With hearts in tandem
we stand: lip locked
bated breath, sweaty palms
tongues wrestling to wring a sodden truth.
A simple truth that is this: I love you!
There's something about kissing that feels like trying to extract a confession of "I love you" from your lover's tongue.
I lost my footing in the wide of your smile.
I beg your pardon?
It’s a simple slip of the tongue.
Falling in love and tongue tied
“There’s plenty of fish in the sea,” says she,
drawing a blade to cut the line.
“I’m hooked to this fish!” protests I,
begging her not to.
I cover the strident stench of lies
with menthol candy drops,
It clings to my skin like beads of sweat.
I hold ten notes in clammy palms;
Nine on left and one in right.
I hand them to my mother,
Nine crisp notes and a crumpled truth;
Don’t get too close — I wreak of nicotine.
An honest poem from a closeted smoker.
— The End —