"baobab" poems
Dear me,
I hope this letter finds you kind, I hope it finds you at ease,
I hope it finds you as you were born.. a soft spring breeze.
I am writing this letter to inform you that you still have space to unfold, that you are a continuum that doesn’t have to settle for the broken uni-verse where you were unraveled.
You, love, are not limited to your synonyms.
You can develop into a sandstorm speaking the names of the Saharas to your left and to your right.
a sandstorm that does not blind the sufi midnight traveler.
a sandstorm that travels beyond the desert.
a sandstorm carrying a water-well for the thirsty.
You can develop into an ocean that doesn’t stand in arrogance where there is land.
an ocean that waxes and wanes to the rhythm of the moonlight caressing you.
an ocean that doesn’t erode the rocks standing on its shore.
You can develop into a soft spring breeze that makes a home of all the other seasons.
a soft spring breeze that gently ****** through a baobab tree trunk.
a soft spring breeze that playfully tickles the arms of a nesma on her university bus writing this.
Kindly find attached to this letter the love your father has tucked in bed a long time ago and never double checked on it.
Kindly find attached to this letter the understanding your mother stored in the kitchen cabinet she is too short to reach.
Kindly find attached to this letter the forgiveness you have tried to grow out of sunflowers seed every winter.
Always sincerely,
Forever yours.
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 3:48 PM UTC
We mourn atop skyscrapers
As our forefathers
Mourned amongst baobab trees in Uganda
Because we have been forsaken,
It is judgment day,
And we’re fearful.
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 12:04 AM UTC
Look, you have now broken your back bone
Because of climbing tall trees and high balconies
To spy on your wife as she roves the village,
You climbed a Tall baobab tree up to the apex
To play sentry and spy on your wife
When she went down the river to fetch some water
For you to bathe and wash your jealousy body
And when she met her brother-in –law;
The man from another village across the river
Who greeted her with a prolonged hug
Embracing your wife in his strong arms
They way a giant can do to a beauty model,
Feat of goofy jealous gripped you
And you forgot that you were perching in high danger
At the top of the baobab tree, you left yourself unsupported
As all selfish men can in feats of irrationality
Coming down like a sack of wet sand
Falling in a thud, breaking your poor backbone!
Dude; be warned from spying on your wife.
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 3:25 PM UTC
The flapping of the listeners ears.
Their meddling noses.
Careering through the undergrowth
Thick skinned and worthy of massive respect.
Their ears listen,
But sadly their eyes didn’t see.
The poachers passing by the Baobab tree.
The huge noble beasts.
No-one supposes.
That elephants ever forget.
That’s what the people say.
I guess they forgot the sound of the poachers’ guns.
And they’re probably not scared of mice either.
Mice are pretty nice as well.
© Livvi
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 8:49 AM UTC
To cast an infinite chamber
In certain places of the moon,
To twist and to waltz
Till the black night fades.
Then soften at sultry morning
Underneath a baobab tree
While afternoon stroked the horizon lightly,
Lovingly as I ---
A strange yet, delightful vagary!
To cast an infinite chamber
In the beloved areola of the sun,
Waltz! Twist! Twist!
Till the brisk day is done.
Soften at fallow night…
Underneath the baobab tree…
Night stroking gingerly
Lovingly as I.
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 12:03 AM UTC
We shall wipe you OUT
We will ERASE you
We are the children's of Cain and that is what we do
I come from the lands of the Baobab tree and Cocoa Tree
Steep in the tradition of revering life and nature all free
By my wits and honest endeavours toiled and earned my fee
Never harmed nor injured never stole even a penny wee
Paid my dues and gave when I could always busy as a bee
Now YOU the children's of Cain spake and declared
We shall wipe you OUT
We will erase YOU
I come from a land that knows parched earth and hunger
Where great rivers flow yet clean water comes in little beaker
Proud animals run free and only the rodents are for hunter
Trees are fertile with fruits aplenty and vegetables are litter
In gleeful kin and merry we share harvest with each other
Now you the children's of Cain spake and declared
We shall wipe you OUT
We will erase YOU
What is my crime pray tell me when in honest endeavour
I gave and shared my wages and food to an errant neighbour
Who repaid my kindness by robbing mine with cruel vigour
And whilst I remorsed such vileness with fervent pained ardor
They riposted, a trip back to your jungle is what we will conjure
Now YOU the children's of Cain spake and declared
We shall wipe you OUT
We will erase YOU
Children's of Cain know nothing but death and destruction
You came to ours and plundered all you could with ruction
You stole, fornicated, ruined and destroyed with glib seduction
Modern times has merely refined your vainglorious disposition
Distinguished misrulers, liars and evil masters of misappropations
We shall wipe you OUT
We will erase YOU
Children's of Cain OTHERS know all YOU do is ****
Like your FATHER killed his BROTHER
Like your FATHER killed his guiltless BROTHER
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 11:15 PM UTC
Hues of gold hug the horizon,
The air is heavy with the scent of a rainy day,
A pride of lions moves its limbs with a motion of might,
A motion of magic precedes the pack.
A dragonfly bounces along the river of relief,
The sun sets its final shimmer of sophistication
Behind the silhouette of a striking baobab.
A pocket of air holds the wings of the stork in a mathematical manner,
as it sweeps over of the plateau of promise.
South Africa,
A nation in progress,
Where each combination of skin tones each have a story to tell of its own,
a story of history,
a story of might.
Long live the pride of lions,
the Giants of our Rainbow Nation who sow seeds of sunshine in every corner of the soil.
Nkosi Sikelel' iAfrika.
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 9:15 AM UTC
Before the time of Legions strong
When Romans wore their tresses long,
Before the ape man rose *****
To view the world as circumspect,
Before the storms of red dust came
To render this parched land arcane,
There grew a tree of ugly norm
Of massive girth and height and form,
Ungainly so and so immense
As to astound thee to commence,
To fear the very sight beheld
On Africa’s savannah veldt.
The baobab rose from the plain
Unearthly, in demonic name,
An apparition to dismay
All those who dare to come this way.
Vaulting from savannah grass
To clasp the heavens in it's grasp
Then spread its’ limbs, as if to be,
All silhouettes’ eternity.
Giant Aloft in giant-less land,
Far more than thee would understand,
Mystic in its’ silent way
Eternal as the light of day,
Starkly silhouetted sight
Affronting delving sunset’s might.
M.
18 January 2016
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 11:01 PM UTC
And the secret things she whispered to me.
Beneath the limbs of the baobab tree.
I held to my lips like molasses and wine
And dreamed of her kiss with the promise of mine.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 7:40 PM UTC
In the hope of grasslands
stands an ancient Baobab tree
somewhere, a village
of dust & dirt, wakes slowly
she ties her shoelaces
an elephant walks past
on the distant horizon
the camera breaks
right at that moment
when she wants to take
a picture to bring home
so she resorts to postcards,
half-written letters
& learning the language
so she could impress them
the hotel porter, a lean boy
of merely twenty-two
watches her
his hunger is written
like lightning in his eyes
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 6:31 PM UTC
Lost Lost Children's song
Lost at 3:20
in the morning where clock ticks
struggling to blend
*Slime-smoo-thie, slime-smoo-thie drink
Slime-smoo-thie, slime-smoo-thie drink
Oh* Sia has never been wrong
Bullets brain, bargained
Ballet shoes, never worn out
Stay as clear as tears
Stay as clear as tears
Just burn the witches
where clock ticks
struggling to fade
Oh not even could light a cigarette
Lost Lost Children's song
Lost at 3:20
Found it
Stuck in your baby pink lungs
*No smoking, sweetheart
Smoking kills*
Lost Lost Children
Do not grow up so fast
Just come back home to Mama
Heal your scratched knee,
never
Do not learn to bike anymore
Just stay home with Mama
Mama has a song too
Mama sings only for you
Just come back home to Mama
*Downfall like baobab's
How dare you grow so fast
Downfall like baobab kid
I hope you find your sheep*
Lost Lost Children's song
Lost at 3:20
Lost at wrong perception
Do not find Mama is fine
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 5:27 PM UTC
I sit
at the
center of
one worm-
holed world,
wanting to
wave words like
"young" and
"skinny" at
women who
would want to
hear them and
I wonder,
with Williams
in my ears,
"What did I do
to deserve this?
Am I happy?"
Hair curls
down from
crown to
third eye to
throat to
heart and
I wince as
my solar
plexus sings
Celtic chants and
its songs
radiate out in
waves of
"oohhmm."
If you've
already heard
of me,
that makes
one of us;
I'm driving a
mint-condition
hand-made
bus powered by
thunder claps and
electric jazz melodies
into the
cosmic sea
to meet up
with Pluto and
make myself
his mistress.
Chain me to
the baobab
trees of your
perceptions and
I will claw my
way to the
mountainous flat
tops of your mind,
laying my limbs
out like wet
laundry in
silent soliloquy
dedicated to
your soul
finding a
use for
the word
"free."
Your ice cream
cone dreams
may start to
melt deliciously
but forgo your fear
and lap them up,
then abandon
the drops for
want of
fresh fruit and
cool, cool water.
Be cool,
baby,
let the otter
make the
moonlit path to
paradise and
mount your raft
to ride it only
twice in
one life.
Keep your
eyes peeled
and put the
carrot skins
in the compost.
You are the
one you need
most.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 4:33 PM UTC
Whispers I sent out to dawn latched
on to the solitary sun to trail
the arc of a common time
in a sky the hue of gold in grass.
The land leans on the baobab
in a dust storm of wheels and lenses.
Wheels and lenses.
When the dust settles, I will dust
my shuka and the goats will return
home, to comfort my eyes that flow
the spate of the Great Ruaha,
seeping secretly into the baobab
I have chores to do, a shuka to ****
A shuka to ****
Will they buy the beads I strung
as I rocked Naeku on my back,
to make circles of day and circles
of night, as wide as the baobab,
in the colour of clouds, the colour of sky.
There's colour to stars in a darkened night.
A darkened night.
Killeleshua is fragrant in thousand leaves
Am I not worth more than thirteen Zebu?
The watering hole was flecked in hippos
and the firewood is the colour of dusk
abundantly generous as the baobab
Time, a viscous passing of the sweetest honey.
The sweetest honey.
Apr 22, 2021
Apr 22, 2021 at 11:35 AM UTC
The outlined shadows of angel-like apparitions, and I'm soaked in anxiety like the wingless houseflies,
Where can I find peace in the midst of hell and nirvana?
My soul is torn apart and my body a rigor mortis,
I feel the blows under the baobab,
Where is the Lord? Where is the God that sheds light? Where is the God that resuscitates dead souls?
The devil has ****** my spirit in the dark hole, I'm now groping in the murk with my dogged effort,
I have been a survivor of many months, of the battle between the devil and the many generations, the way to find peace is to rest in peace, No! And what about my mama?
The divine lady who enshrines his son with a prayer, this woman tells me of how coward the devil is, she talks of the galaxies and the Hail Marys,
But I'm not dead yet, she is the reason why I'm still alive, and why I should live to 72
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 4:47 AM UTC
There is at all times
A soup boiling
In the plains of the Savannah.
As the wind presses its large and small hands
Into the course straw grass
To smooth the wrinkles-
But also to make more.
And falling slowly, fluxing,
Between the waves—creatures,
All of them strange,
Blending.
And from time to time, a sickening red,
But only for a while,
Until it is swirled once more into the soup,
Or steeping into the earth as tea.
There is sometimes a stacking of skies;
Amber
On top of pink,
On top of blue,
With pyrite flecks-
But not yet indigo.
And one form rises up out of them;
A baobab moving slowly,
Mushrooming monster,
Exploding exponentially outward.
And at its calloused feet
Are porcelain painted zebras
And soft clay elephants,
Who reshape themselves in the gray murk
Of the water hole-
Which is sometimes blue,
And sometimes sheeted mica shimmering.
Watching quietly, the prince.
Who is still,
(But not exempt!)
Unable to be, but becoming.
Exhausted and exhausting,
Around his furrowed face is a mane
Of technicolor flames.
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 6:00 PM UTC
you needed me beneath your baobab tree
fruit left us muted marbles rolled picaresque
through varying estates of decay
with the dawn you extricated
and as the sun you replicated
abruptly sweat shimmered
to cover your soured silk skin
turned to stone
I collapsed
smiling smoke as you died again
Goddess of this Deus ex Machina
relentlessly relieving me of anything I need to be
beneath milkshake shades of pastel plasma sky
we died
smiled together
watched eternity pass us by
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 11:24 PM UTC
I'm a black man , I'm the essence of toughness
My roots are deep like the mighty baobab tree
Once a chained slave, today I stand in greatness
I'm a black man , I'm a proud man and I'm free .
I'm a black man , once the master's possession
I have scars stamped to my soul but I'm free
Once a cotton picker , I now have a profession
I'm a black man , a very proud man and I'm here.
I m a black man , the first born of mama Ebone
The black Goddess , the true mother of humanity
Once upon a time in jubaru, I sat upon a throne
Where my queens and warriors all lived in unity.
I'm a black man, I will always be the best runner
Shoot me if you will but my black soul fears no guns
Once like Garvey, today like Usine and Obama , I'm a winner
I'm a free black man and my soul hosts a thousand suns .
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 11:06 AM UTC
Whenever I fall out of harmony with the uni-verse, I cloister at my mother's home. It's full of three things; books, paintings, and kids, yet the walls have more to offer..
I can hear her opening doors
I still remember how she shortened every single one of her galabeyas, and how the space between her ankles and her feet is exactly what infinity looks like.
I still remember the six gold ghawayesh that turned into four then turned into two, and I still remember thinking maybe one day they covered her whole arm like a shiny armor but she kept on falling defenseless because time is a cruel thief. I also remember how she robbed time of its powers by keeping her ancient wise soul an adventurous young one until the very last day; the skill she wanted to learn at the age of seventy was driving, because knitting is obviously for the young.
I still remember her taking pride in her roots, like a baobab tree, and I still remember how it was this that taught to stand my ground, balanced and rooted.
I still remember how people called her house "the mother of Egyptians' house" because that's the name of the neighborhood where it was. I still remember learning at the age of nine that the neighborhood was named so in the honor of the revolutionary Safia Zaghloul, and I still remember thinking that they named Safia Zaghloul so in the honor of her, because she was 'the mother', the source, the one more push, the spring, the lens, the revolution and beyond.
I still remember how her hair looked like moonlight, and how her skin felt like flower petals.
She wasn't an angel; she wasn't made out of light. She was made of water and fertile soil; she was a complete human being in all its glory, molded by the hands of Atum, and Minerva.
And if she was not only in my memories, I'd make a pilgrimage to her; kneel under her feet so she can braid my hair, and offer warmth and bedtime stories in treasure boxes adorned with her favorite poetry lines. And I remind myself instead to take a good look at the night sky; those who follow the stars can never be lost.
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 8:23 PM UTC
Grazin’ in the grass was mellow indeed
when you blew into your trumpet
blaring sounds of peace. What a trip!
Just watchin' as the world goes past,
you used to say playing notes of jazz.
Music of resistance for a tortured land
imbued in the blood of its natives bashed,
by the impudent high-handed little white man.
As your grandmother cared for you and miners
in illegal bars, piano keys enticed dreams of hope
for second class citizens silenced by oppression,
while the chaplain gave you your first instrument.
Little did you know the melodies you’d pour
on the rampant fires of blatant injustice.
Little did you know the strength you would instil
embodying possibilities, shedding light on the obscure.
Soweto blues you composed as Miriam gave
her voice to screaming mothers to cry out,
atrocities in town. Bring Him Back Home
you sang from afar until they did, and you
returned to see the prisoner walk free,
down the streets hand in hand with Winnie.
Only afterwards I heard your words and will
to show the people just how
wonderful and excellent they are.
A message I cherish and the reason why
many will remember you, your tune your smile,
as he who kept the torch of freedom alive.
A baobab tree has fallen indeed.
Jan 25, 2018
Jan 25, 2018 at 5:59 AM UTC
Mtu mweusi mweusi, katika mwezi mkali wa moto,
ameketi katika kivuli cha mti wa Baobab.
Majani yaliyomo mara moja
walikuwa kavu na ukame,
waathirika wa upepo wa mabadiliko.
"Wazee, wananiita zamani." Alidhani,
"Majira ya joto ya sabini yanigeuka kijivu,
lakini mti huu wa Baobab ulikua mrefu na wenye nguvu
Wakati majeshi ya Kirumi yalipitia njia hii. "
Mzee huyo alitafuta matunda ya baobab
na akaingia kwenye hali kama hali.
Alikuwa katika hali ya akili;
Sio usingizi, sio macho kabisa.
Aliposikia sauti: "Nina kiu." Ilisema,
Ingawa alikuwa na uhakika alikuwa peke yake.
Ilionekana si sauti ya binadamu:
monotone kavu ya ubongo.
"Kwa vizazi, wanaume kama wewe
Walitaka makazi yangu kutoka kwenye jua,
Lakini sasa imekamilika; nchi imeharibika
Na mimi nina kufa, mdogo. "
Mtu mzee alilia kusikia maneno haya
Kwa maana miti hizi zinapokufa, kama lazima,
Wao huanguka juu ya ardhi yenye ubongo
Hivyo haraka kurudi kwenye Vumbi.
"Dunia imebadilika kwa wewe na mimi,
Upepo ni kavu chini ya jua.
Ninasamehe ulimwengu wa wanadamu
Kwa maana hawajui waliyofanya. "
Mtu mzee aliamka na mwanzo
na akainua na miwa yake.
Alilia kwa kufikiri mti huu utafa
lakini machozi hawezi kuchukua nafasi ya mvua.
Jun 21, 2018
Jun 21, 2018 at 7:50 AM UTC
Women, bearers of warriors' marks,
You're the tough layers of the baobab's barks,
Best of the portraits that nature paints,
and Catwalk models of baggy pants.
You have been misled and misused
Your bodies and souls have been abused,
Yet, like a rose planted in a concrete
You majestically rose on your feet.
Women, flawless skins, lipsticks queens.
Fresh like shades of master's greens.
Big bones babes, skinny jeans chicks,
Gorgeous women, with kitchen tricks.
You are every woman, universal mama,
Rest in peace to the mother of Obama.
God bless every woman from Uganda
to the outskirts of the land of Wakanda.
African woman, Mother of humanity,
Thou are endowed with enviable beauty.
Eternal goddesses, brides of great kings
Multitasks babes, doers of great things.
Oh, Woman, givers of selfless love,
Sent to us from the great man above.
Oh, Woman thou are blessed,
You shall slay, was long prophesied.
This is a tribute to Maya Angelo's mammy.
Bless your lyrically poetic womb.
a solemn tribute to Mother of LeBron,
The NBA GOAT, King James of Akron.
Curvy Women work your gorgeous hips,
Smile with your Luscious rogue lips,
Thou are the pollen grains of biology,
and the specimen of perfect anatomy.
Eve of Eden, the apple of God's own eyes,
You gave every woman bedroom eyes
that pierces to the core of diamonds,
Like hardened bejeweled armors.
Woman, thou are truly nature's bounty.
Showcase your freaks and sexuality,
For which your petals toast monthly...
Slay dear queen, slay perpetually.
You came from Adams's ribs to give life
Woe unto any man who mistreats a wife,
Thou are indeed a blessed assurance,
Behold your grace, strides, and elegance.
For Sarah Brooks, my deceased mother,
and Sarah Ivana Brooks, my daughter,
For white, yellow and Brown women,
and all beautiful black African women.
This poetry, I penned for women is a tribute to everything.
For those nights you stayed up to sing,
Those prayerful songs only God heard,
Lying on tears soaked pillows in bed.
#IvanBrookdpoetry© Bassapoet©
August 16-2019
Aug 20, 2019
Aug 20, 2019 at 7:01 PM UTC
Es tanzt im Kreis das Schwergewicht
herauf und schaukelt gerne,
Nester aneinander liegen dicht,
streuen Licht und Wärme.
Führt vom Stamm bis Zweige
Bewohner durch die grüne Schicht,
gerührt vom Licht der Bleibe,
ein Lächeln im Leben, das Gewicht
des Baumes schönen Leibe.
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 4:33 PM UTC
Storing up the blessing of sky;
Dry arid season is here,
A drought of love; nature's harshest,
5,000 years of stories,
Silhouette of a rural African experience,
you cover the vastness of her land.
"Tree of life"
Whereas the breath of man was origin,
Folklore; stories of our elders and tomorrow's wisdom,
We are all children of the sun,
Bright skinned under the cooling shade of time,
Time as long as a tree has lived, and lives on.
Lest we be wise to store up our stories,
What will our generations remember of us,
Baobab trunk; store up the provisions, love, stories,
Time, blessings, and fruits of our labour at heart.
Baobab tree; blowing the wind,
A symbol of life in harshest of times,
We adapt to our environment; people all to thrive.
It is our nature.
Jun 11, 2022
Jun 11, 2022 at 11:32 AM UTC