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The sun is risen above the summit of a mountain- a Dwala-
Beaming, chasing darkness away;
Rejuvenating the veld as the dew shimmers,
Pasture assumes its deep brown lustre
As if trying to blend with the golden sun’s rays;
The Dwala – where it had momentarily perched-
Has slowly set it free for its westerly journey

My Tropical Savannah is a beauty:
Deep brown pasture in summer, clustered bushes, umbrella trees
Irregular footpaths run across its plains,
I assume one of them leads to you,
But as I trace them, they shy away at a distant horizon,
As if the sky is eating them up

The sun brings a light breeze mid-flight,
It blows softly on my quill,
Making a melody with the fur;
Whistling a song on the brim of my inkwell

On one footpath, I spot two love birds coming from the well,
The damsel is balancing an earthen calabash on her head;
My lips crease into a marvel-smile at their chatter and carefree laughter
I am surprised at myself for sharing their moment of bliss,
But then, it is always easy to share happiness.

Bliss is…
abstract,
As the beauty and radiance of our sun

But the burden of sadness is…concrete,
Something I can share with you,
Only after I trace these footpaths beyond the horizon


The dying sun perches on a faraway ridge like an alter offering
Its deep brown rays permeate the foliage.
By and by, colours fade away with darkness.

The veld now looks old and beaten, almost gothic,
The sun is gone, leaving a trace of a blue-brown spectrum;
I hope it has come to you my dear,
With the same happiness it brings me
*

Darkness sets in.

Though my sentiments are hurt at the thought of having to close my inkwell,
I love the sweet calmness reigning in harmony with the sound of nocturnals,
Besides, seeing another beautiful sunrise is enough consolation.
Written for Z, my online friend from another continent.
Glory be to You Christ for these blooming Jacarandas
with ramified leafless branches
pointing up to the clear welkin of this Savanna noon,
their delicate purple flowers scattered
all over the school courtyard,
they stir my memory of a time
at this same place,
the days when I was still little
and I had to cross a stream which was much ordinary
than the brine before me
Thank You Lord for this invisible air
whose existence is a mystery
yon’ what my mind can fathom,
yet its presence is tangible
as long as my heart beats,
even at rate lower than this:
the beat from the choir percussion,
and adrenaline much higher.

But the caprices of my heart,
with a faith so feeble,
distance me from You my Lord.
Have mercy on me oh Christ
and carry me across this brine
lest these days become a poignant memory
that will haunt me till I sleep
Eternal sleep.
[IN ZIMBABWE, JACARANDA FLOWERS START TO BLOOM FROM MID OCTOBER, A SIGN THAT EXAMS ARE AROUND THE CORNER.]
The outsiders bid farewell to you Little-London,
Fire on your pasture forces them to flee
To sweet home, home sweet home
They all come to you for different reasons,
And with different intentions,
You lure them all,
The cruel and the kind,
The hardworking and the lazy,
The educated; and even the illiterate,
You ****** them all
They try to calibrate themselves to your society,

Your culture,
Your dressing,
And language,
They make homes away from home,
Mingle and fit in
Where you do not want them,
Like an uninvited jilted maiden
At an ex-lover’s wedding anniversary
They receive privileges forbidden them,
They are a wandering flock
Grazing on forbidden pasture,
Breathing the air
Meant for your flock,
They are the alleged cause
Of your own follies;
Of climate change,
Of children skipping school,
Of the highest rates of divorce,
Of the highest rates of early, unplanned pregnancies,
Of the highest levels drug abuse among teenagers;
And of abortion,
Of the highest crime rates,
Of unemployment,
Of the infamous strikes and demonstrations
That result in blood being shed,
Of power cuts,
Of guns in schools,
Of the..!

There is a lisp in the outsiders’ assumed calibration,
It sets them far apart from your flock,
It is a tattoo on the forehead;
It identifies them,
And they stand out as aliens, to be condemned,
To die in the most excruciatingly evil way:
Death by fire, by knife; and by stone,
More painful than pain,
Your flock set fire on your green pasture
To burn the outsiders,
With a flame so vehement the whole world has eyes upon you,
Lovely Little-London, were your pastures green
Would they burn so vehemently?
Beautiful Little-London
The cure for the chaos in you is not chaos,
The solution to the gangrene on your heart
Is not infliction of pain on guilty innocent outsiders,
But look deep into yourself
With an unblinking eye,
Have you been faithful to yourself;
And to THE MOST HIGH?
(THIS POEM WAS CALLED FORTH BY THE ATTACKS ON BLACK FOREIGNERS-XENOPHOBIA-IN THE REPUBLIC OF SOUTH AFRICA. REFERENCE TO “LITTLE-LONDON” HERE IS MADE WITH RESPECT TO HOW SOME PEOPLE FROM OTHER AFRICAN COUNTRIES REFER TO CITIES LIKE JOHANNESBURG AS “LITTLE-LONDON”s)
You are the beautiful rose I wish I would behold
for more than a while
but you always turn your back and look away,
if only you could allow me,
I would look into your eyes
and put words to the unsung silence
and unfold what is in my heart
that which only my eyes speak of.
but I cannot, my dear,
for to you I am inadequate.
I chose to let you go, I let you pass, only because I saw that I was not good enough for you. You never gave me any chance to be who I am.
At the genesis of eternity,
Immortal love was born
When Matahari and Bulan were born,
Matahari is blazing fire;
Bulan is black ice,

The four seasons began their cycle
According to the positions of Bulan and Matahari
The conception of Fire and Ice
Gave birth to time

Matahari was born inert and golden,
With a radiance which makes Bulan snow-white;
Bulan would have been but a bleak bloat
Of darkness without Matahari

DEAR Matahari, our love is an airborne wisp;
Swept and whirled by Nature,
It flies in the air like a flight feather,
With not a care
About where its bearer takes it;
Swaying in this, and that way
Coincidence being rare,
It is only at full moon,
When I can trip upon your beam
And gladly embrace the ‘Light of Honour’’

Oh, my dear Bulan;
Our destiny was predetermined before creation
Our love is not easy to nurture

You have been the centre of my orbit,
And I have orbited all my life,
I dance around you Matahari,
Oh how I would love to dance a tango with you!
I have made myself vulnerable,
And have laid myself bare before you.
What effort have you made to reach out for me my love?
I will not lament over the brevity of life,
We are the elements of time,
We are time itself my dear
Each step I take as I orbit
Gives birth to the second,
Minute,
Days,
Months;
And years

I know eclipse is not enough Bulan,
But in our helpless passion,
I have chosen to shield you from my vehement desire;
But have hurt you in trying to protect you.
In my inertness
I have chosen to give life, warmth and light.
To give life is to love,
But is to love to give?

Matahari,
It’s the pain of separation,
There is a chimera chasing me,
I wish it would catch up with me soon.
It is a dream of us spiralling
Into some convivial space of the universe,
Dancing a tango
It is a dream of you holding me close
Unceasingly whispering endearments,
And I, gasping, moaning; melting…
Should the dream ever materialize?
Can Fire ever dance with Ice?
I do not know.

Love is long-suffering,
*Love is patient and kind,
True love is immortal.
This poem is for you Z,  it's from the heart.
Bulan-the moon
Matahari-the sun
*part of 1 Corinthians 13 vs. 4
“Get over here!” you bid me join
And I, transfixed at Dawn,
But gape at you, my dear; and he, and the revellers at Dusk

The revellers:
The conceited dance ballet,
Twirling in pairs with a swirl
Their slender lithe bodies swish through the air
Imposing arrogant silhouettes on the wall
That shimmers, as if resentful of their delicacy,
From that beam through the door,
But the splendid parquetry deceives,
Some pairs slip and slump on the cold hard floor.

You, my dear, are serene;
Mellowed by the serenade.

Twilight is dying, dusk is born;
Night is growing old,
As it gets darker and darker.
The pairs embrace, kindling a passion halo.
The glow of the embrace is mediocre,
They find a warmer glow ‘neath each other’s tutus and breeches,
But the flame of the warmth singes;
By and by, some ballerinas change girdles
With bigger ones as buds sprout in their bellies.

By and by, the foolish tire;
And tumble from prancing as injured knight horses
You, my dear; and he, are radiant, your eyes sapphire;
Are you part of the revellers?

Prancing and ballet have grown banal
The revellers decide to improvise the flue’s melody
Of fumes whirling flippantly; stifling your smile,
Some imitate the Sponge and get drenched
Other play nurse with syringes
Capsules
Lozenges
And queer pills:
Inviting Grim Reaper.

I join you on the moonlit balcony
You titter as you marvel at the starry sky
Oh dear; your titter is irony
To he, “We resemble the twin stars” you say;
And to me, “The Little White Dwarf, lovelorn”
You laud the intimacy twin stars portray
My dear the stars are but gleaming
Pearls studded on a brine of darkness
Such is the paradox, for I am longing
For a caress
Akin to your lambent embrace unto he my dear
And I ***** on this little stair,
Teenage, where caresses and embraces but flare!

Time ***** her wings fast my dear, time flies
Even my colts cannot keep pace with her
“Give free rein to your cravings,” she says
“Consider the brevity of life!”-Even so my dear,
I have become frigid
To the sweet aromas and aphrodisiac melodies;
Mirages clogged my mind, my neurons frayed
My puritanism and gravitas;
They are fabrics of a stale fashion of preservation.
This is a poem for Nicole. "My dear" in the poem.

— The End —