"dialects" poems
Who Am I?
Well,
I must be
that ******
the one
in the black hoodie
***** sweatpants
and an uncombed eye,
that's always wooly
scratchy,
bloodshot
with searching for
my stash spot,
that ******
in your peripherals
that you keep your eye on
because he's
not
in a polo
looking nice,
talking
"well-spoken"
and
not
a threat
to your beautiful
lily-white daughter.
Because I grew up
fixing myself
ramen noodles
and
lifting the welcome mat
after school,
I must also be
that ******
whose father wasn't
in the same house
until he was age 13,
and when I tell you that,
you weren't expecting it
because "you're not a racist."
but
you weren't surprised.
You see,
I must be
that ******
a stand-in
for all other *******
I must be that ******
who represents
all *******
not because you are racist,
but because I'm the only
******
you've met
who doesn't talk like
dis, y'know whatmsayin,
and i talk like
this, do you know what I'm saying?
I must be that ******
In order for you
to feel okay
being around me
I must be that ******
who goes to college
does the right
thing
the white thing
and gets a job
a nice little house,
a nice black wife
with a nice
new england
clear
dialect,
(what I was
trying to get at
earlier
is that ****** dialects,
by their mere intonation,
denote stupidity,
right?)
and doesn't say a word
when his white friends
make ****** jokes
or talk in a ****** dialect
mocking some Aunt Jemima
they heard at Walmart.
But,
I also must be that ******
who doesn't step out of line
and say
"WHY IS IT
THAT IN EVERY SINGLE
ENGLISH CLASS
WE READ
ONLY
TWO
BLACK AUTHORS
A SEMESTER,
AND THAT'S
ENOUGH,
JUST ENOUGH
TO KEEP THE
****** PARENTS
HAPPY."
And If I happen to be a ******
I,
by all means,
must not be that ******
who had a white girlfriend,
and
this girlfriend
after dating
a ******
tried to date a white guy
she liked,
and when she told him
that she had dated,
loved,
and yes,
******
a ******
he had said back:
"I can't believe
you ****** a ******
Then again,
I must be that ******
with the big swinging ****
able to destroy
a white girl's ******
with its pulverizing
power.
And,
please,
If I am going to be a ******
don't be the one
who writes a poem
about
having to be
that ******
because those
kinds of *******
are being
over-sensitive,
those dashiki-wearing-motherfuckers
who think
"Da white man dis."
and "Da white man dat."
Because
I am not one of those *******
descended from the first people on earth,
your brother,
not in the ****** way,
but the familial,
species way.
Why am I even writing
this, ****** isn't a main operative
word anymore.
Search and find ******
and
replace with
"Black Guy." That way it becomes
a joke.
Nov 30, 2011
Nov 30, 2011 at 7:22 AM UTC
Once I undertook a journey,
upon the very face of our entire world.
To view for myself the many pictures,
and written descriptions in all the geography
books and History Classes, National
Geographic magazines and movies seen.
A Quest to see with my own eyes what
I had only experienced second hand.
In my mid twenties, like a dream,
one foot in front of the other,
I went about exploring.
I sniffed and tasted the scents of foreign lands,
Incense, Sage and Frankincense, fish curry,
fried snake and even monkey brains.
Walked in lush Jungle Bush and Desert sands,
Along the shores of Islands and the coasts
of many lands.
Heard the voices of 30 divergent Dialects
and cultures, smiling and laughing with
the families and children of all of them.
Set beside the fires of primitive tribal men,
heard their chants to their gods above, the
moon, stars and the sun, the ocean, the land.
Clapped my hands and moved my feet in
their ancient mystic dances.
Drank their tea, Kava or whatever they shared
grateful for their offered unselfish brotherhood.
Stood on the flanks of the tallest Mountains
in the world, on my toe tips, to try to see the
face of the God of my youthful teachings,
disappointed when I did not see him, or Her.
Found instead an inner tranquility, imparted
to me by Red robbed Monks from within their
chants of Peace and wise earthly enlightenments.
Strolled the cobbled streets of two thousand year
old Cities. Walked among the ruined remnants of
nearly forgotten once great Civilizations.
Explored Modern European Citadels' of wealth and learning.
Over time rode on planes, ships, buses, backs of open trucks,
Horse pulled carts and human drawn rickshaws, taxis, subways,
rented motorcycles and cars. Walked perhaps 1000 miles.
In all a journey of the mind and heart lasting three years.
And why you might ask, "What qualifies you as a pilgrim
of any kind, to travel so far, and wide?"
"What was I looking for, what did I hope to find?"
All indeed, fare questions.
When a boy, I read a simple five word line,
“Seek and thee shall find". Curiosity and
Horizon Lust compelled me.
The next obvious question you might
ask is, after all that; “What did you find?”
That answer is very simple,
I found myself.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 7:14 PM UTC
It seems as though we all live in separate worlds..
In that case I'm hitchhiking through the galaxy, won't you come with me?
Hitchhike through this galaxy with me!
We'll see new and old worlds, hear some odd dialects, remember to bring your guide and babel fish and if we are lost we musn't panic!
We'd all love to be hitchhiking through the galaxy, so come on!
Hitchhike through the galaxy with me!!
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 2:38 AM UTC
porch talk, simmering in a Bud light sauce
everyone chair-rocking, even the boxer dog,
in his self-propelled 360 degree swiveling chair
eavesdropping and spy eyeballing the farm for
strangers and any creatures as of yet, unsmelled
get done with weather, the crops,
the neighbors,
the weird, and the truly neighborly,
grandkids escapades, hopes and desires, comparative literature and regional dialects and philosophical dialecticals tickling,
bs’ing and tall tale telling, breathing the windy geography of the air over the land that dictates the how we live,
open another Bud for the buds,
did I forget to mention
farm equipment?
skirt politics cause nobody wants any
nothing-to-be-done-damn-aggravation,
leaves nothing mo’ to ramble on about ‘cept the
absent women
no worries all above board no secrets uncouthed,
but the mood softens as the pale daylight wisps come rarer
as now
nearer to nine pm, obvious saved the best for last,
a very manly-way of ordering things,
big silent pauses in the converso conversation,
guy-sighs many,
as the last essay of the day is being jointly authored,
denotating the generalized listings of
how they drive us crazy,
listing the repetition of ever changing instructions,
which doesn't recognize bi-coastal mannerisms, non-differentiating
just humanism-isms
and the peculiarities of each (a list kept)
in a compare and contrast,
an end of the day summation,
and the boasting-outbesting,
of each of their
specialisms
which is sadly now forgotten and which haven’t been
brain-recorded so cannot be disclosed
other than it’s now ten
and all that’s left is
to sleep, perchance, to dream,
of private things
and bigger and better
John Deere tractors
Jun 9, 2018
Jun 9, 2018 at 2:13 PM UTC
Shabash
Shābāsh (Hindi: शाबाश, Urdu: شاباش, Punjabi: ਸ਼ਾਬਾਸ਼, Bengali: শাবাশ, Telugu: శబాష్) is a term used in the Indian subcontinent to signal commendation for an achievement, similar in meaning to
bravo and kudos.
……………………………………………
a poem writ sometimes, oft,
snaps back,
I was surprising recipient
of a commendation in language
I knew not
the poem spoke well
of broken boundaries,
between in this instance,
Jew and Muslim,
capturing a momentary parting
of the seaways and
walls of misbelief
and mischief,
normally employed
to keep our divisions,
parted perpetually
I’ve decided to begin to
use shabash now,
my ‘go to’ word
from now on,
a small quiet way
to say
well done
it starts with one word,
a stretching hand across
the face fence,
imagining John Lennon’s
imagine-world,
who lay dying when I was
a young father of thirty,
me residing less than a
mile away from each other
little could I imagine then that
poetry would pick me at all,
especially to write of words
in dialects I don’t speak,
but imaging their pastel colorations
flying by in gentle breezes,
eager to be grabbed,
plucked from the air,
tongued and loved
so!
when I say to you,
in the softest spoke,
shabash!
to all of us,
for choosing this path,
using your words in
every dialect,
to spread the imagination
of good will
8-4-2019
10:10 am
S.I.
Aug 4, 2019
Aug 4, 2019 at 10:28 AM UTC
The finest singer in the sea
I heard upon this morn
And in that strange sonorous tone
A universe was born
The low melodic wailing touched
And roused me from my sleep
As the humpback lithe and languid
Made a turn and sounded deep
And as my mind awakes it turns
To whales large and small
To the snowy white beluga
The canary of them all
The clicking bursts of ***** whales
And the California grey
The fin whale speaks across the sea
To those a world away
The short and longfinned pilot whales
With whistles quite complex
The striking graceful orcas
Speak in different dialects
But it is the great blue whale
That makes the loudest cry
Though it is far too rare today
With such an awful why
But on this wondrous morning I
Am filled with joyous glee
That God has given life to whales
And gave to them the sea
Cori MacNaughton
24Oct2000
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 2:20 PM UTC
Against the rubber tongues of cows and the hoeing hands of men
Thistles spike the summer air
And crackle open under a blue-black pressure.
Every one a revengeful burst
Of resurrection, a grasphed fistful
Of splintered weapons and Icelandic frost ****** up
From the underground stain of a decayed Viking.
They are like pale hair and the gutturals of dialects.
Every one manages a plume of blood.
Then they grow grey like men.
Mown down, it is a feud. Their sons appear
Stiff with weapons, fighting back over the same ground.
7.5k
I believe in one church.
I believe in an inter-racial and unbiased church of many nations.
I believe in one church of many traditions.
I believe in one church not hemmed in by history or by man-made borders.
I believe in a God for whom his pallet of skin colours reflects his love of diversity.
I believe in God-given racial difference.
I believe in one creator God who made all humankind equal.
I believe in Christ’s one church that reflects our maker's love of difference.
I do not believe in uniformity.
I believe in the Christ’s common language of love for one another, for neighbours and for enemies that transcends local dialects.
I believe in one sundry collection of priests who are called by Christ to serve one God together, saved by His one sacrifice once and for all time.
I believe in the promise of one resurrected church drawn from all nations, from every generation to meet her bridegroom, Jesus Christ.
I believe in one eternal wedding feast at a table prepared by God which features everything from the finest vegetable samosas to the richest steam puddings.
I believe in one extravagant Father who has built one massive mansion with many rooms so all his people can come and dwell together.
I believe in God's Kingdom come.
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 8:23 AM UTC
The beloved country Africana can boast of is Ghana. The manana of Africana black star is Ghana A nation rich in culture and natural pasture.
Its nature reflects the creatures’ caricature
We are black reflecting our true beauty.
And we are packed with captivating ability. The typicality of our nationality brings unity. Who knows whether our safety lies in our variety?
This unity amidst our diversity is our reportage. About twenty-four million are surviving in our age. Over sixty ethnic groups and fifty-two major languages. There are hundreds of dialects which are to our advantages.
In W/A, Ghana records the highest percentage of Christianity… Yet the modernity of our sanity portrays minds of malignity. But the fraternity of our humanity builds our community. The variety of our morality and privity builds our society
Who said Ghana cannot be capaciously superfluous? We have the very illustrious and exuberant resources. The elites and the voracity are harnessing the recourses. The destitute remains poor and the gentry linger the forces
Our democratic government is an African paradigm. Our peaceful political regime is of no pantomime. Who of course would help us measure corruption? The whole nation would have tensed up to eruption.
If not the gargantuan wayomelogy of the wayometer. Who knows whether the next tool would be attameter? Who wouldn’t love to be a proud Ghanaian to enjoy our hilarious fila and jargons tongue can employ
Mar 22, 2012
Mar 22, 2012 at 7:52 PM UTC
Diaspora
From the Greek
When I heard the word I felt it
And I looked it up
In my old red dictionary
I could have used the Internet,
I suppose
But I like to run my forefinger down pages
Of words
I read the definition
And I felt it
Oh
Oh
We are diaspora.
Am I using it correctly?
We are a diaspora.
Diaspora
From the Greek
From the green valley of Ottawa
From Scotland
From Ireland on wooden boats
From the French village thirteen children
From the mines in the North
From Poland and from Germany
From the churches and
From the Blueberry patches
From the Island Manitoulin
From the dark lake Kagawong
From Kinburn and Arnprior
From Markstay and from Sudbury
From Waterloo
From Kitchener, Michener
From the Suburbs
Oh
From the Suburbs
From the red bricks, red currants
And geraniums
From green island cabins
From the desert
Oh
From the desert
From the potholes and pipes
From the salty wind
Cracked Caspian Sea
From the middle of the east of nowhere.
From the mountains
Oh
From the mountains
From the crystal water fountains
From the tram bells
On the cobblestone streets
From the torrents of the Rhein
From the white cross
Oh
From the white cross
On the green hill
From the river Laurence
From the French and from the English
Plains of Abraham
We are diaspora
We are a diaspora
Diaspora
From the Greek
How did it end up here on my tongue?
It is diaspora.
It is a diaspora
Diaspora is a diaspora
And I wonder if it misses its other pieces
The way that I miss mine
Ours
There is no
Roping us back together now
There is no
Home to go back to
There is no
Point of meeting
Of reunion
No
White steeple in our old town
No
Yellow slide in our backyard
No
Old folks on an old farm
No
Walled house on a hill
No
Luzernerring 93
No
Familiar riverwater
There is no
Ancient Greek anymore
Diaspora
Only fragments of fragments
Of roots of stems of words
In different dialects
There is no
Place for you to belong,
Diaspora
You’ve been sliced to pieces
And scattered
Into the wind
But
When people ask you
Where you are from
You say simply
From the Greek
Oh
From the Greek
And
When people ask me
Where I am from
I say simply
From the diaspora.
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 10:50 AM UTC
Thank you, tourists
For pausing.
For capturing
Every moment.
Your cameras draped,
Quivering below your necks
Your necks rosy
with sun.
Sunscreen scents
Swarm the air
But the air bursts
Diverse Dialects,
Dogmas,
and Dreams.
Thank you
From a resident,
A student,
A visitor,
A wanderer.
Thank you
For immobilizing
Glorious minutes
For impeding time
Just for a moment.
For acknowledging-
So that those who neglect to notice,
Once again realize their riches.
Thank you
For your quiet grins
As you regard
The world.
Thank you, travelers.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 6:08 AM UTC
my mist expires in your atmosphere
linen sheets adhere
around my throat, no fear
smell pheromones in the air
it's crystal clear, my dear
i am amiss without you near
self-controlled
white-knuckle hold
now conquered
cold and longing to spy a songbird
if only for a single moment
and nothing longer
i am somber but mighty fond of her
strong enough to say it still
and stronger now to do
smart enough to ponder it here
but dumb enough to squander it too
red hearts are lies
beating blood flows blue
it is true, did you hear?
i'm amiss without you near
i thought we were musketeers
turns out you're the puppeteer
pulling my strings, was as I feared
another way to ingratiate and endear
while I'm tied here waiting to hear a footstep
to take the next step
another level for this intimate project
but from this aspect with all due disrespect
you subject me to intense neglect
you're a ****** architect speaking scintillating dialects
only I can connect but I am a bad girl... so I guess I deserve it
my favorite show now that you mention
is when you are standing at attention
you brighten your eyes and your voice changes inflection
my indiscretion becomes your intention
but I digress, and bite through, throughout this blissful rendezvous
as we float like a feather into the bedroom together
past dawn until noon
it must be true
i am amiss without you
Jul 16, 2025
Jul 16, 2025 at 11:16 AM UTC
SHIVA
(Bijoylakshmi Das)
The silence of night scares you
With its eerie thoughts
Ever azar with doors wide open
To give vent to unrestrained dreams,
Never letting you to rise above
The mundane laws of existence.
Do you ever think of SHIVA
The eternal principle of the Sublime?
Sitting alone on the peaks of the Himalayan silence,
Speaking to you in His divine muse-
Of ineffable ecstasy.
The body is not all.
That obeys the physical laws,
The mind is not all.
That listens to odd yearnings.
And the spirit too is not your limit.
You have to go beyond
Far beyond life's petty limitations
To reach Truth, Consciousness and Bliss.
SHIVA, the enlightened.
Which translates human dialects
Into an indefinable divine hieroglyphic.
SHIVA, the Supreme
Creates the Universe,
Rules it too,
Annihilates when Harmony loses its identity.
The universal principle of Love
Gets bewildered in empirical rules of earthly existence,
And Spirit fails to rise above,
SHIVA opens His Third Eye,
In its piercing gaze
All lights fade and
The fugitive human mind finds no sojourn
He warns you.
Arise, awake
To reach your goal
Beyond the earthly ken.
(Bijoylakshmi Das Haridwar)
Jan 13, 2020
Jan 13, 2020 at 7:31 PM UTC
Spanish Guitars
A few years ago, in 2011, I went to a concert of young classical guitarists. Just before or after, I don't recall, I saw an exhibition of Picasso's guitars at the Museum of Modern Art in NYC (http://www.moma.org/visit/calendar/exhibitions/1101).
This poem ensued. This is one of the lost poems I mentioned, recently rediscovered on an archaeological dig.
Spanish Guitars
two weeks pass.
I have seen
two guitars
one of wood,
one of sheet metal.
both were alive,
both were inanimate
both birthed for display,
useful for granting pleasure and
heating up le jus d'creation
products of a tradesman's craft,
animated to pierce my brain and
pleasure me with the realization
that when you see
what I see
When you,
you hear,
What I see
we all perforce speak but one language,
an alphabet of music, art and love
A young,
oh so most beautiful
Croat guitarist girl,
Ana, coaxes an urgency
from her love, the blonde wood,
she takes Piazzola's notes,
as if they were Picasso's thoughts
and set them within so
days later, the resonance plucks
at my temples
Picasso, like a little boy,
collects collaged bits and pieces of
life's stuff most ordinary,
postage stamps, playing cards,
wallpaper, pieces of cardboard,
cutouts from Le Journal,
and with fingers delicate
sticks and glues discrete notes,
individually nothing
but pieces of this and that,
bits and bobs
superimposed on faux woodwork,
presenting an instrument tooled to
conjures up a milonga^,
the sounds of angels dying,
a fandango of trembling tones
a sonnet of sounds,
celebrating human touch
upon animal, strings taut,
feasts both, a banquet,
a triomphe of sounds
that tutors my senses
to hear sheet metal guitars
imprisoned in museum glass
gush sounds of parallel lines
and delicate contrasts,
A duet of animate, inanimate
Virtuosity
All is clarified.
One language.
Many dialects.
Both, Spanish guitars.
^ a milonga has many meanings, but here, refers to a Argentine tango dance party
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC
it started with tea and amber eyes.
we watched as the rain fell, pattering against the window as the trees swayed under the direction of the wind.
just relaxing together against the pillows and breathing in chai and petrichor in kind.
they didn’t speak my words, nor i theirs.
but for a while, we were happy.
when they left, I didn’t cry.
__________________________________________________________
it started with a bus and eyes like whiskey.
we cuddled on the drive while watching the antics of our friends, laughing as they teased us.
just enjoying each others presence and smiling together.
we knew we spoke different words, but that was fine.
they found someone else's words to breathe.
they had their sky and engines.
i had my books and stars.
we parted as friends, having beautifully, briefly, shared a world.
you cannot grieve what you did not cherish, and my eyes stayed dry.
___________________________________________________________
it started with music and eyes like the sea when it's clear.
we talked til we were hoarse and learned about our hopes and dreams, the things we love.
just learned and learned until we couldn’t hold anymore in our heads.
i spoke their words and they spoke mine.
but our dialects were different, and the accents of our thoughts made it difficult to understand.
in the end, the language barrier was too much, and we could no longer talk.
this time the tears fell, this time it hurt.
but eventually, peaceably, the heart moved on.
Apr 20, 2018
Apr 20, 2018 at 11:32 AM UTC
Green fatigue smothers the mind as purple smoke drifts in the breeze. The earth comforts with shimmering grass, but these illusions never last.
Time begins its chaotic spin. Voices call out. Many languages and dialects I hear.
A dragonfly hovers, my eyes become hers.
The green fatigue fades, the smoke fragments, the voices so far below. Slowly we rise, leaving everything behind.
Freedom on a wingtip,
together we fly.
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 4:36 AM UTC
The Summer Alphabet of Woman
Every summer, I learn a new language.
Every winter, it departs for warmer climes,
And its charms and naked arms, its own alphabet,
clean forgot.
Multi-lingual in the summer's peculiar
One language, one aleph bet,
But mega-millions of dialects,
Know them all cold, know them all, hot.
I speak Woman.
Summer is soft, shapely, sweet,
Clean, bare, lush in a sparse way,
And Woman is spoken thusly.
There are no harsh sounds,
Guttural exclamations, nein!
I speak Woman.
There is no ugly in the summer.
Ugly being an ugly word.
It cannot exist in an atmosphere of
Sun, greenery, sand, carefree days, vacations, no school.
There are no ugly women in the summer.
I could take this writ many places,
But if you are sputtering sexist or other labeling words,
Could not give a good god **** because in the summer,
There is no ugly, there is no prejudice.
And I still speak
Woman with an almost perfect fluency,
au naturel.
Gym clothes, short shorts, A-line skirts swishing in the breeze,
High, god, so high the heels, flats clip clopping, flip flopping
all over my heart,
But, it is the bare arms and the hints of summer
Cleavage, the short skirts, body hugging one piece fabrics
stretching from here to down there that does not
Hint,
the shoulder strap of the underthings that asks,
that commands me,
to wonder where it leads too...
Even the light wrap at night mocks me,
Like gift wrapping with a smile demure...a teasing blindfold...
All these say:
Write us poetry in our very own tongue,
Woman.
Will oblige.
I curve with curve of the ***** and
invert with S arc of the waist,
Mystifying, how it is the designed place
For my hands to grasp, and never fails.
The crayola colors of flesh variations,
Boggle the senses... How can tan and pale,
Dark and Light
Have so many
Symphonic variations?
Adagio, slow and leisurely, a pas de deux
For two eyes, then a
Timpani crash and thunder, as
Byron wrote,
"music arose with its voluptuous swell,"
Yes, swell...swell...swell
Enough.
My eloquence, no match for my
Fluency.
Late August, and my vocabulary is already
Diminishing.
I forget how to say in
Woman
*Without you I am nothing,
With you, I am more than everything,*
Tho I can no longer say it,
It is is still true and
Beyond belief.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 12:36 PM UTC
***perhaps if you are
one of the few
multiyear variates,
still here, still seeking
solutions
to the
equations of
human formulation,
one of the veterans of the
early word wars,
when the line between fellow poet
and human being was full of
invitational openings,
tween those dots and dashes,
we all eagerly entered those places,
crossing over into
those human openings,
making poets into friends***^
yes,
we were social for the humanity
patented in the very word
social
we encouraged,
we critiqued wearing a flag
made from the fine fabric of fellowship,
crossing global borders and time zones,
even planets,
with only a hand-made
poetry passport
constructed from the
tissues of our hearts
each one of us,
A Little Prince,
lost
from other worlds,
but all
found
ourselves together in a
hospitable desert
so strange,
we found companionship,
genuine in ways that
make me weep when I recall it,
so many aviators,
flying low, neath the radar screen,
speaking one language of a thousand dialects
the networking was spontaneous,
friendships formulated,
real hugs exchanged,
no ulterior purpose, no quantity of glory sought,
no favors traded,
there were friends,
not followers,
just sharers
we valued the first amendment of our lives,
the right to speak freely in poetry
***I wish you had been there,
here,
back then***
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 8:21 AM UTC
I found a staircase carved into thunder
Each step a tooth pulled from sleeping beasts
The air tasted of copper
And half-remembered hymns
I climbed until my name fell off my shoulders
And rolled back into the darkness like a coin
Mirrors waited
Cracked and sighing with old weather
And when I reached for one
It bit my hand
A lantern swung from the jawbone of a tree
Older than remorse
Moths gathered like ash in my mouth
And taught me to speak
In vanished dialects
Even the silence had a pulse
I tried to pray once
But the sky folded its arms
Every word transformed into wolves
Who wouldn't approach me
The horizon was a wound stitched with lightning
Far below
Cities slept in the stomachs of drowned bells
Their windows flickering with dreams left unclaimed
I wanted to wake them
But my hands resembled rivers
And everything I touched forgot its shape
By dawn
I had grown antlers made of frost
And a mouth full of rain
The staircase ended in nothing
Except the sound of wings
Turning to glass
Aug 1, 2025
Aug 1, 2025 at 4:57 AM UTC
In the hard and cold city
There were no
Two a.m. train whistles…
Sometimes
Window rattling hip-hop woofers…
The occasional
Tequila soaked domestic dispute… and the like…
Leaving me now
Laying in the darkened silence feeling
Vintage…
Imaginary whispers of Brook Benton
“…feel like it’s rainin all ova the world”
Subliminal theme music
Setting the ambiance for
Trying to think of something
Not cliché to say about the
Two a.m. train whistle in the distance...
Cuz I still
Often wake to the
Absences of
Warbling sirens of high speed chases … and
Fusion of passing dialects beneath my window
That I never really heard…until I didn’t hear them …
Replaced with
Fat plops
Of nocturnal rain drops…
Far away clack-a-lack of iron wheel on rail…
Silence…
...and that lonely
Two a.m. train whistle in the distance…
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 12:34 PM UTC
The face of South Africa
is a multicoloured face
hair of various ethnicities
eyes from blue to black
many languages,dialects and slang
customs and culture a kaleidoscope
What is a South African?
Can one really define?
Except by the beat in the heart
of the one birthed in this nation
or adopted this as home
White, Black,Coloured, Indian, Chinese...
the list goes on and on...
I am a South African
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 6:46 AM UTC
Outside I have no influence
People are born where they shouldn't be
Objects of consumption end up in gutters
Chemicals that will slowly erode me
Are put in the drinking water
A handshake seals the fate of some low lying town
Which is to be flooded for hydroelectricity
The chaos creates a fjord with a great variety of fish
Until catfish take over and an algae that wasn't meant to leave a laboratory in Italy takes over and makes the water toxic
People wrestle with notions that no one else will understand and that none of the many world dialects can express
Dogs **** where they shouldn't
And it is only a dim reprieve in a cavernous darkness that I know the order of my shampoo bottles
Or that a weeks worth of muesli lies in one of my cupboards
Or that my scarf hangs on that chair by the door
And yet the landlord
Is a vulture
That is trying to take
This last scrap of rotting meat
Away from me
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 5:25 PM UTC
Crick crack, crick crack
the Grey pebble starts to fall
it starts to fall into the darkness
the magnetizing darkness of loss, hatred, selfishness, and confusion
when the pebble hits the ground nobody knows
It doesn't make a sound
because nobody dares to hear
but it does in fact makes a sound
but whose is around to travel with the pebble
to hear it's crying sound of desire
a desire to be known
to be sought after
to be discover....
A tear drop on the pebble
it drip from my eyes
as I look into the Grey skies
I close my eyes and took a deep breath
I felt hands pushing me. Different sizes and ethnicities,
voices of different tones, language and dialects
all telling me the same thing
To Jump...
I DID, I ****** DID ALRIGHT?
and I did...
It wasn't graceful, it only survive for 3 seconds
by then I already hit the ground
my body is an unrecognizable trash with splatter compressed blood
But the pebble didn't get mark
At least the pebble was heard
**** I committed suicide”
All because they have forgotten to attach the rope....
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 12:15 PM UTC
I walked all alone
a small city
sometimes
it dialects into
three districts
other times
I am lost
like a baby born
who has been put to live
they say we have free will
I laugh
with misery in me
my heart pounding
and I question why
I was born at all
I spent my lifetime
reading,
books are gentle friends
it is a give and take game
you isolate hours
and fall
with no consent
into another brain
whether it is dead or alive
you fall
you say you do not care
but you read and read
you feel less lonely
even though, you spend
your nights in your room
candles lit, your demons
are awake and they
are next to you
haunting you
3 AM and you are
still holding that book
wondering if you have
ever really existed
do or do not
right and wrong
does it matter?
you fly from your
third dimension
and throw yourself
in Andromeda
loneliness is eating
your insides
they think you are insane
but you are too woke
to stop nourishing your
brain, with whatever seems
boring and useless to the
majority.
But we are the minority,
we see the world the way it is.
May 24, 2019
May 24, 2019 at 2:00 PM UTC
The World Picnic,
8,000,000,000 sisters and brothers,
7,000 languages and dialects,
no borders,
one ocean,
nothing missing
except wars, weapons,
racism and hate,
skins of all colors,
joy and love,
no money, just honey,
all kinds of music and foods and cultures,
dancing through the night,
laughter all day long,
clean water,
fresh air,
caring and sharing,
owning only
a right to be free,
a responsibility to be
kind to all others,
no jails and prisons,
but Love Centers instead,
helping, not hurting,
realizing the sacred in all,
liberty, equality, fraternity,
finally PLANET PEACE.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Dec 11, 2022
Dec 11, 2022 at 11:03 AM UTC