#botswana - Hello Poetry

Aardvark Odd Park

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Dec 14, 2019

Dec 14, 2019 at 4:08 PM UTC

I tried to be the father, that I didn't know there for laughter, and the ball, to throw birthdays and occasions, always in the stands cheering wins, and failures, striving to understand I wouldn't change a single hug, or smile that I received giving support and encouragement, and, in him believed it always seems to short a time, until he left the nest all the emotions and feelings, unsure, if I passed the test Shine we must, as their beacon's bright gladly, singing songs, and asleep at night Realizing only, in the waning afterglow inspire all their nightly dreams and daily dreams will grow

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Mar 29, 2017

Mar 29, 2017 at 8:31 AM UTC

TemporalFugue

Pink Floyd and Dire Strait Lullaby's

I tried to be the father, that I didn't know there for laughter, and the ball, to throw birthdays and occasions, always in the stands cheering wins, and failures, striving to understand I wouldn't change a single hug, or smile that I received giving support and encouragement, and, in him believed it always seems to short a time, until he left the nest all the emotions and feelings, unsure, if I passed the test Shine we must, as their beacon's bright gladly, singing songs, and asleep at night Realizing only, in the waning afterglow inspire all their nightly dreams and daily dreams will grow

14

Barren, Open, Plain, No water, No life, No rain, A cracked ground, A dry river, An old borehole, Is this my life? What's wrong with me? This drought by itself, Shall **** us all.

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Nov 17, 2015

Nov 17, 2015 at 12:33 PM UTC

BeatricePrior

Drought

Barren, Open, Plain, No water, No life, No rain, A cracked ground, A dry river, An old borehole, Is this my life? What's wrong with me? This drought by itself, Shall **** us all.

13

And the wind whips the unsteady fingers of rain like the swirls and whirls of ice-cream in cones - melting on my unsteady fingers, on a sun-stricken holiday belonging to a place in which I don't belong - until the rain and I meet in recognition and open fingers

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Sep 30, 2015

Sep 30, 2015 at 4:37 PM UTC

vamika

Independence Day

And the wind whips the unsteady fingers of rain like the swirls and whirls of ice-cream in cones - melting on my unsteady fingers, on a sun-stricken holiday belonging to a place in which I don't belong - until the rain and I meet in recognition and open fingers

11

Uncle Sam sometimes whispers a little bit too close. I’ve felt so many scraps scraping against my cheek- those numerous numberless things he carries in his beard by ‘accident’. So many things get stuck there and I feel them all, whenever he dares, and he dares often, to whisper alittlebittooclose. One time the grey beard leaned in and touched me in my sleep and planted in me strange dreams of faraway gothic towers passing off as libraries: Harvard dreams, Princeton dreams, Yale dreams: I haven’t quite slept since. The shaggy scraps stuck to the forest of strands on his face would never let me. They scratch away at me often even in the brightness of day, and claw jaggedly in the darkness of night. Little heart of mine has lost its own beat. It beats to the beat of a beat on a beat from a beat with a beat by a beat which beats those beats and beats beats that beat not of my beat. Little heart of mine, when did you lose your own pulse? Why won’t you tell your family that Uncle Sam’s whispers are more than whispers? Why won’t you tell your family what Uncle Sam does to you in the brightness of day when everyone is smiling as Uncle Sam pats your shoulder? Little heart of mine, why doesn’t your family know what Uncle Sam does in the darkness of night as he whispers whispers under your whispers and what he does beneath your skin? Didn’t you know, little heart? They have laws that say that greybeards shouldn’t be digging into little boys’ insides, don’t they. (Uncle Sam has travelled far and wide, far and wide to tell me lies. Recall that this is not the first time…) But little heart you know why. This is not the first time. It is the natural progression for a Coconut like you: darkness of night on outside and brightness of day on inside. Your skin doesn’t matter; you all taste the same. Cut you off the homeland-tree and cart you all away. Then, in this way we can say and say the homeland is “Rising”- Uncle Sam tells the world of his diversity in selection of little boys to touch with strange dreams. And I like the feel of the scraps in his beard. Maybe I can become one of them. One with them.

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Sep 21, 2015

Sep 21, 2015 at 10:58 PM UTC

tawandamulalu

'Murica.

Uncle Sam sometimes whispers a little bit too close. I’ve felt so many scraps scraping against my cheek- those numerous numberless things he carries in his beard by ‘accident’. So many things get stuck there and I feel them all, whenever he dares, and he dares often, to whisper alittlebittooclose. One time the grey beard leaned in and touched me in my sleep and planted in me strange dreams of faraway gothic towers passing off as libraries: Harvard dreams, Princeton dreams, Yale dreams: I haven’t quite slept since. The shaggy scraps stuck to the forest of strands on his face would never let me. They scratch away at me often even in the brightness of day, and claw jaggedly in the darkness of night. Little heart of mine has lost its own beat. It beats to the beat of a beat on a beat from a beat with a beat by a beat which beats those beats and beats beats that beat not of my beat. Little heart of mine, when did you lose your own pulse? Why won’t you tell your family that Uncle Sam’s whispers are more than whispers? Why won’t you tell your family what Uncle Sam does to you in the brightness of day when everyone is smiling as Uncle Sam pats your shoulder? Little heart of mine, why doesn’t your family know what Uncle Sam does in the darkness of night as he whispers whispers under your whispers and what he does beneath your skin? Didn’t you know, little heart? They have laws that say that greybeards shouldn’t be digging into little boys’ insides, don’t they. (Uncle Sam has travelled far and wide, far and wide to tell me lies. Recall that this is not the first time…) But little heart you know why. This is not the first time. It is the natural progression for a Coconut like you: darkness of night on outside and brightness of day on inside. Your skin doesn’t matter; you all taste the same. Cut you off the homeland-tree and cart you all away. Then, in this way we can say and say the homeland is “Rising”- Uncle Sam tells the world of his diversity in selection of little boys to touch with strange dreams. And I like the feel of the scraps in his beard. Maybe I can become one of them. One with them.

40

World watch me, aflame; hear me roaring strange emanations of inner dreams made external, made vivid made real made me made world. Watch and wonder: How did mere mortal learn to speak in godly tongues? World I'll learn, world I'll learn. Just wait, wait for me to grow.

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Sep 6, 2015

Sep 6, 2015 at 4:14 PM UTC

tawandamulalu

The Early Days (1)

World watch me, aflame; hear me roaring strange emanations of inner dreams made external, made vivid made real made me made world. Watch and wonder: How did mere mortal learn to speak in godly tongues? World I'll learn, world I'll learn. Just wait, wait for me to grow.

14

Quaint Acacia tree forest: ****** unblemished as it was when my grandparents first met here- mountain school. The chapel beside the administration office is locked. But just as holy are the dark coal mountain rocks that sweetly fell from God's hands before Jesus set his feet here. He didn't. This place is lovely nonetheless.

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Jul 7, 2015

Jul 7, 2015 at 1:44 PM UTC

tawandamulalu

St. Joseph's College.

Quaint Acacia tree forest: ****** unblemished as it was when my grandparents first met here- mountain school. The chapel beside the administration office is locked. But just as holy are the dark coal mountain rocks that sweetly fell from God's hands before Jesus set his feet here. He didn't. This place is lovely nonetheless.

14

There's always that one girl with the astonishing smile and the little sly gap between her front teeth- charming because it screams of mischief. There's always that one girl with the literature voice and the Zimbabwe speech sneaking in through her points, arguments, metaphors. Identity. That one, inexplicable, eccentric girl who somehow teaches you how take to take a selfie in the dark nighttime balcony of an African university. And somehow by the end of it, as you are carried away to tomorrow by the sound of her new sim-card voice, you wonder why some victories cannot be gold medals you can take back home to your parents, as she bus-drifts away back to that spirited mother land that hatched her onto a podium. Then that new sim-card is discarded. And some smiles you cannot forget.

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Dec 17, 2014

Dec 17, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC

tawandamulalu

Debate Tournament.

There's always that one girl with the astonishing smile and the little sly gap between her front teeth- charming because it screams of mischief. There's always that one girl with the literature voice and the Zimbabwe speech sneaking in through her points, arguments, metaphors. Identity. That one, inexplicable, eccentric girl who somehow teaches you how take to take a selfie in the dark nighttime balcony of an African university. And somehow by the end of it, as you are carried away to tomorrow by the sound of her new sim-card voice, you wonder why some victories cannot be gold medals you can take back home to your parents, as she bus-drifts away back to that spirited mother land that hatched her onto a podium. Then that new sim-card is discarded. And some smiles you cannot forget.

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