The edge of my eternity begins with you.

My love, I lulled you with lyricless lullabies, sheltered you in a sheet of stars, yet, in your sleep you still speak her name. "Inferno," was it? You always were a pyromaniac.

I furnished you flames to tame winter's teeth, and yet, you still use them to burn me. How can you pour that boiling blackness in my bloodstream and dare to call it love?

You leave coal-like clouds swirling stormily in my lungs and the taste of smoke to scorch my tongue. Still, my throat is raw and red from coughing up ash and blood, still you call this torture love, and, I believed you.

Tell me, do my mulberry scars entice you? Those marks mingling with my skin of moss and morning glory; you put those there. You made a hell of my skin to rid me of the blue-green, beryl-shaded "blemishes" that provide the very breath you waste, only to build a factory to pump more poison into my lungs. I can taste the tar on my tongue.

My love, as you tear at my being with your careless claws you seem to forget the fact that you need me, but to me, you are meaningless.

Where I was once a sanctuary of life and beauty, you have made me a battlefield- a cemetery of living corpses craving to leave behind bombs and bloodshed, to cure their heart wrenching homesickness and to fall asleep in their lover's arms.

Why must their precious rubies mingle with the ashes of detonation? Why do you **** each other when I have provided you with my harmonic grounds as a home? Why do you raise your children to believe that dying is an art and death is an escape?

My love, I cannot understand why your knees are pained and purple from praying to the angels when you dance so divinely with the demons that you have created. You deserve each other.

Don't you see that you are burning me alive? Can't you smell my cooking flesh or see the charcoal clouds smothering the sky? How can your seeing eyes be so blind?

My love, my death is yours, and if I shall burn you shall blaze beside my broiling bones.

I was first born a solar system.

Living in a realm where I wheezed stars and suns. My eyes, black holes to a new universe.
It was a time where planets burst from my belly and latched onto my ******* - no longer hiding in my vortex of a womb.

The world swung around my neck heavily. Steadily, I adorned my fate gracefully...

...because I was born second a mountain.
My hips creating hills and heaps while my tears birthed oceans. I carried the crescent moon in my left eye - Venus in my right.

And often times, I’d shape shift and kneel to the ground, grabbing the soil of the earth.
Its mud, dancing under my nails and knuckles. Its dust, smouldering the creases between my palms.
Sand, caressing and matching the tones of my skin. Accenting hues from the palette of eternal life.

My mouth, birthing spirits and spells. Souls - mining from my ribs.
My womb, carrying ancestors and avatars - Coloured girls glowing in browns, blacks, purples and blues.
Their nebula personifying secrets from Zion as they break through the realm between my legs.

As I continue to carry my message in the wind; breathing life into lifelessness;
narrating stories of hope in times of hopelessness; morphing my magic across the abyss.

I was born third a Nubian.
A Maasai, I am the one they call MAKEBA.

Walking these townships streets as though diamonds lay at my feet.
Gliding on gravel from the ghetto to Greece. Leaving behind a fragrance so sweet.

Blessing the unblessed even when left distressed. Honoring the feminine power that flows within me. The roaring lioness! Smell the audacity of my celestial essence. I am the first to bleed, but last to fall – the S forever embroidered on my breast.

For I am you and you are her and we are She! MAKEBA!

Inkosazana. The melanated fruit that you seek. You stare in disbelief at these words that I conceive.

Sheba!

Ke mang a tshwara thipa ka bogaleng? Ke mang afang botho mo batho ba hlokang motho? Ngubani le mbogodo elingabambeki?

Beka!

My eyes, carrying alchemy.
My smile, a treasury. My skin, reflecting the origin of humanity.

I am, MAKEBA

An exploded world
inside out
unfaltering

the water swallowed up
and the crust an asphalt sea
a dead sea, wasteland

where no cattle can graze
and everyone starves
is a horror dream

of one and a half hours
in the cinema hall
Outside we rely

on nuclear bombs and smart solutions
for a humane environment
because there is no growth

in placenta earth

Bare buttocks in the berm
free, peeing under my pants
laying down on my side

the world and I flatter
grass everywhere, empty
of chairs

blue flashing light over the ****
I think the sound
to the condensation stripes

My look jumps over
the ditch, sees hided
flowers, I hear beetles

that I don't hear
the grass colours my eyes
it flies upon my tongue

and lets me have a taste
green with marigold
and fresh *****

The clouds are the blood

of planet Earth, my mother --


the blood of my blood.

We are the Tree Poet
connection at The Source
communication via collaboration
triggers imagination

Food flows down the train
not to be sent back again
We receive when you do
all debts paid in gratitude

Blue rice is nice
while what you truly desire
always tastes best
We have access to all resources

Let us feed you

-The Trees

The Blossoms from the Pear-less Trees
blow like Snow in this spring breeze
glistening in the sunlight
smiling as their in flight
not a care about where they land
becoming one again with our Mother
this life
one adventure after another

My Mother:

I ground my feet into Her
Gaze up at Her mountain peaks, tree tops and blue skies
Taste Her springs, swim in Her seas
Feel Her Love embrace me in the air that I breathe
Caressing my body, filling my lungs.
Her light brings life
Her dark brings depths of emotion
She blinds me yet helps me see so clearly
She inspires,
Fulfills my heart’s desires
Which is simply to feel Her
Underneath and all around me.

Pearl of the Indus,
January fades into February.
February slumbers in march on your lap,
I wonder what’s with the November criminals.
The waves of silence that
Hit our ears and eyes in October;
Did they get engulfed by the November criminals?
Late into the Maytime
January faded into February.
The flowers napped happily
As February bloomed it to march.
I understand if the flowers were stolen by the November criminals
But must they shroud the heavens too?
The little child wails along with sky and above
When the other children
Set them to fire.
November criminals;
What do you see in those November flower pots?
That you miss in march’s pots.
Do they have to crackle to bring joy in you?
Do they have to combust to bring life around you?
When they often take them away from you.
if you move with the moon every year,
why conceal it with your fog every night
during the five-day strike?
November criminals,
I’m afraid you can’t be contained.
The customs are bigger than the laws in our land.
Hopefully, you pass as a man-made disaster…
           -4324