He wrote of the light of the world,
a testament, a lamp to illuminate
the place from which he came —

    I saw his lighthouse coalesce
    out of the cloaking mist, its blade
    shearing the sheath of darkness.

    I inhaled the dusk bloom scent
    - Four O’Clock Flower, Poinsettia, Frangipani -
    beguiled by a road, undeterred
    by calls in the night, the rain, the unknown way.

    I sang with one thousand night-drunk tree frogs
    proclaiming an equatorial cycle to the stars,
    choristers intoning a chant of existence.

    I rode balanced between
    the cycling engine's torque and the
    reflective cast of my foreign skin.

    I felt the grip of ignominy constrict the stir
    of my drink, amongst hands toasting
    the crush of entitlement’s bearing.

    I walked where people dwell, and stop
    to greet and tell news of the market
    or of their nets, bearing the sea’s returns.

    I savored the song in his speech,
    a seasoned stew, unshackling the tongue
    to ring like the steel of a drum —

a tapestry unfurled: a world
paced by sirens of wind and wave,
embroidered on the earthbound side
of heaven's abiding blanket.

Copyright © 2017 Gary Brocks

Boring and rude?
That's a rich call, coming from you!
But rude I'll concede,
Given the circumstances -
You pester me with calls and texts,
And invade my private domain,
And won't listen when I say, "No" -
What would you expect?
That I'd be grateful towards
A drunken lush intruding my peace?
That I'd be receptive to a needy egoism
More entrenched than Catholic Dogma?
No, that is not my way - No!
You can get f**ked! And I told you -
I had to spend an hour
Convincing you I wasn't interested;
That your infatuation wasn't reciprocated;
That, when you're drunk, you're not worth knowing;
That I've heard of your glory days
And your present travails a million times;
That you can't offer me what I need -
A decent conversation, nor a decent *******.

And I told you - I didn't pull punches;
I didn't lie - I wasn't playing games.
I told you in no uncertain terms
And you didn't like my Truths -
Perhaps they touched a nerve?
Rude? Sure, maybe I was,
But there was no other way
To sink these facts through your alcoholic haze.

As for boring - I'll not concede boring.
I may not lead an exciting life,
But boring? No - anything ****.
You've a hide, when every conversation
Begins with an "I", "Me" or "My";
Anyone would think the World revolves around you!
You take egocentricism to a new level;
So self-involved and hard-done-by,
You feel the need to inflict yourself on others.

Adios, me amiga!
And, Hola, me Amigos!

I’ve never received a rose,
Cuz I think I am a rose.
In reality, I'm a frangipani.
Grow up in a grave.
planted by a liar.

Really? Thanks for being there
even when I
cannot cling to you, even when I
am nowhere,
alone while having stomachaches
and trying to claim a heart
attack.

The thought of a cutter
making a hole
on my throat
is better
than you kissing me on the lips.

I tried to binge eat and forget
what you told
me to forget,
because I cannot
cut, I cannot lose any
more blood; I
don't think I
have enough.

Really? I kept you awake;
I keep you awake,
or asleep with tons of nightmares,
every single night even
when I
am gone, completely
gone.

When ever I touch the ground that’s hot
With the sole of my foot that’s bare,
I never fail to recall a time,
And the memories lingering there,
Of a day when I was just a boy,
Beneath equatorial skies,
And the tactic used to keep me indoors
While the missionaries rested their eyes.

My mother was sick with malaria
The curse of the tropic zone,
And while my dad was away on the hunt
Their station became our home.
And after lunch when the sky was hot
And the morning’s work was done
They took my shoes away from me
To keep me out of the sun.

The veranda air was still as a grave,
Not a sound to could be heard outside
Save the click-click-click from the beetles
And the grasshoppers jumping to hide.
Or the scratching scaly slither,
Of a snake on the flowerbed verge,
Or the distant cry of the crested crane,
These are the sounds that merge.

The sight of the distant Koru hills
Shimmering in the haze
Beyond the frangipani trees
Return once more to my gaze,
And the prickly spiky Crown of Thorns
That lined the garden ways,
These are the sights that ribbon back
From my early Kenyan days.

The smell of the room was a mixture
Of scents on the garden air,
And creosote coming up through the floor
From the pilings under there,
And paraffin from the pressure lamps
Which hissed as they gave us light.
With the hint of oil of pyrethrum
Sprayed round the eves at night.

The step to my door should I venture
At noon was as hot as a stove,
The soil on the paths and driveway
Would burn if ever I strove.
And the thorns in the earth would pr ick me
As I cautiously picked my way through
To the shade of the frangipani tree,
From there I took in the view.

So, when ever I touch the ground that’s hot
With the sole of my foot that’s bare,
I never fail to recall a time,
And the memory lingering there,
Of a day when I was just a boy,
Where the images I find,
Set smells and sights and sounds of
Africa sizzling in my mind.

Redding, California July 4th 2005 temperature 105° Fahrenheit

if it were to be,
my last day on earth.

i would wish it to be like
this....
gray flannel clouds,
set against a blue,blue sky.

puddles, glassiene,
on the ground
and water dripping,
an unsteady rhythm,
from leaf to leaf,
to ground...

there is a...
soft edged feel
to the world,
newly cleaned,
full of promise and hope
and the scent of frangipani.

if it were my time,  
i would love to leave
on a promise,
of hope and frangipani...
wouldn't you?

At Vernal equinox, the Sun crosses
over the plane of the Earth’s equator
and equalises the night and the day.
Then will the Emerald Dragon awaken
from his hibernation beneath the earth.
Rising in the jade forests of Ghizhou,
this yin creature transforms the cold, dead land.
Primal and powerful, he gathers the Qi;
melts the mountain snows to ribbons of fire
igniting the frosty hillsides to growth,
fuses each thing with verdant energy,
revives again the seed, renews the bulb,
sprouting tender shoots juice-rich and sap-full
Shy blossoms set to bloom and burst with fruit
Fresh scented breezes ruffle foliage
maiden ferns shiver with their thrill and ******
Grasses and reeds bedewed and beryline,
murmuring and humming low and dulcet,
dancing and swaying at the river’s edge.
Roots of every tree draw deep from the earth
Magnolia and Frangipani breathe
and pant out fragrant honeyed lusciousness
Spring sparks and quickens, kicks and is alive.

© M.L.Emmett

“Ethnic cleansing” is an hygienic phrase
Which could have rolled off Joseph Goebbels' tongue.
That Balkan soil from which the Great War sprung
Still yields the crop of hatred neighbours raise.
A Pole who twists the ******* in praise
Swept Hani from the Boksburg social rung
And still the scent of frangipani hung
And clung like power while the townships blaze.

Was Nietzsche right when he said God was dead?
Now whose redemption song can Marley sing?
Why won't we see the hater suffers too?
“Love” was the word Christ-Buddha-Allah said.
Love fuelled the dream of Martin Luther King.
God, forgive them, they know well what they do.

The cheerleader,
Hearts goes to the highest bidder,
An encapsulation of beauty,
She has the license of beauty,
She elucidated my vague and indistinct dreams,
Her voice is mellifluous in my dreams.

Cheerleader is unaccustomed to mundane.
Her admiration full of gains,
Bloomleader is unprofane damsel,
She is immaculate even in tunnels.

Cheerleader is like an epiphany,
Enternity with her? Not still many,
The charm in her face us very potent,
My reasons are arrantly cogent,
Her presence chastise dolor,
Laughter with charismatic colour,
And as the emotion creeps on me,
Making me a sycophants to her knee,

The Cheerleader,
Her love is not a treacherous swine,
Her lips is exquisite than any wine,
Though is infatuation sound very lame,
My heart adores her with fame,
A pragmatic way to study her frangipani face,
I want to be the first in this race,

The cheerleader,
She with crystal teeth
And blue eye *****,
I see her climbing on walls,
Auspicious love without any wit,
I realize I was only in a dream.

A frangipani candle,
Sandalwood perfume
The shimmer of the shadows,
That light up the room

A hard covered book
With a silver inscription,
Warm jasmine tea,
Baklava from the kitchen

Soft red lipstick
And a robe of white silk
Dark lash rimmed eyes,
A bath of rose petals, floating in milk

Sweet drifting music
From the balmy outside,
The chirping of cicadas
And the whisper of the tide

Gentle gold jewellery
Which can carry you away
A feather pillow on the wooden floor,
The start
                          To the end
                                                       Of the day

there are some things,
that just smell so good:
corn freshly shucked, potatoes roasted in campfire coals, carrots fresh from the ground, then washed   and stovetop roasted
basted with butter
and lavender honey.

the nape of my toddlers neck,
that clean fresh hopeful little boy smell.
coffee, straight up, freshly brewed
caramel warming,

passionfruit, strawberries, citrus any type, zested. freshly planed fennel curls, mint crushed for a mojito, roast lamb and rosemary gravy.

the smell of planed wood in the palms of my man's hands as i kiss them. frangipani, coconut tanning oil,
earth newly rained upon. popcorn popping, chocolate melting,
jasmine, orange blossoms,
a grove of pine trees.
warm gingerbread and mulled wine.

salt tang on the morning breeze.
the smell that lingers after the lovin.
garlic and ginger in a hot wok.
salt tang on the evening breeze.
prawns all sea salty and
a crisp cold beer.

sandlewood and citrus aftershave lotion on your smoothed cheek.

nectarines, apricots,
a yellow juicy peach,
freshly bitten.

apple scented shampoo daphne & lilac my nana's smell,
bay *** newspaper print and palmolive soap,
my pop's study.

rose petals crushed.
earl grey tea,
toast just before burning damper and cocky's joy
crisp fresh linen warm from the sun.

so many scents, so many smells...
these are my favourites please feel free to add your's, as long as it's clean
and above board.

The rarest bloom is my woman
The most beautiful petal coming from behind the leaves
Unblemished
Permeating the air with her scent
Stronger than any of the world’s top ten
Pleasant smelling flowers of;
Rose,
Jasmine,
Lily of the Valley,
Gardenia,
Chocolate Cosmos,
Four O’clock,
Sweet Pea,
Sweet Alyssum,
Frangipani, and
Wisteria

She is my rarest bloom
Planted only on the garden bed of true love
A possession so thankful I have.

At Vernal equinox, the Sun crosses
over the plane of the Earth’s equator
and equalises the night and the day.
Then will the Emerald Dragon awaken
from his hibernation beneath the earth.
Rising in the jade forests of Ghizhou,
this yin creature transforms the cold, dead land.
Primal and powerful, he gathers the Qi;
melts the mountain snows to ribbons of fire
igniting the frosty hillsides to growth,
fuses each thing with verdant energy,
revives again the seed, renews the bulb,
sprouting tender shoots juice-rich and sap-full
Shy blossoms set to bloom and burst with fruit
Fresh scented breezes ruffle foliage
maiden ferns shiver with their thrill and ******
Grasses and reeds bedewed and beryline,
murmuring and humming low and dulcet,
dancing and swaying at the river’s edge.
Roots of every tree draw deep from the earth
Magnolia and Frangipani breathe
and pant out fragrant honeyed lusciousness
Spring sparks and quickens, kicks and is alive.

© M.L.Emmett

You blossomed me to life
Blushed me shades of rose and cerise
Oh dear let me brush my care
but promise me I won't pale
to the crescent moon and
leave me to bloom

You came from The Cape of Good Hope
the land of proteas, frangipani and antelope
I was there but not in the seventeenth century
rather, I waited for you to arrive from history

Your dark violet blue flowers looked my way
as though they had something special to say
they said that you will deny me three times
whe you arrive in these wonderful climes

But there I was amongst beautiful flowers
amazing in the place where Shaw said:
that, 'They have no scent and the birds have
no song,' even great men err - he was wrong

I t was a time of transition, bright light
not only dark magical blooms but pure white

You ignite the papaya scent
of Zanzibar romances
spiced woods behind ears
seducing the body's non-senses
like kisses enticed from hints
formed in a humid land
kneading your cat pad toes
into my kicked off sandals

soft sinking
warm as sand spreading
on golden embers
smoking like a slow glowing dhow
sailing wine tumblers
spilling Matemwe beach rays
of crystal rain in sunshine
tinkling against my skin
like the random meditation
in wind chimes

tuned by the slight twitch
of Mnemba Atoll frangipani
to unwind my fire
into an isle of leaves
singing sunny
somewhere mysterious
through winding alleyways
we kissed on shady curves
sprung open
on to Stone Town seas

your weather
beaten hair
waving in Forodhani Gardens
showered into labyrinthine storms
travelled blue-black horizons
infused with times
of thunder roaming
lost in alluring plans
mindful I look back to check
your coral stone directions

we swept into an unclipped tent
of Salamah **** Saïd's
eating hot shwarma
like I was the Sultan and you princess
your attractions slipping a cargo off
of precious unguent wet essentials
drying to flow a silken scarf
around Darajani Market thrills

floating in a dark continent
on each kiss to my needy neck
leaning in the white wake
of Zani-bar dreams
which seek
to push the boat out
on your shoulder
once you're moored
on to my arms

longing for you
swaying now
under sweating hot
Gizenga road palms

on the opposite side of
the world
the green budded fingernails
of the frangipani unfurl
to their lush full verdancy

all the flowers stand tall
to see the sun
and open coloured arms
for a full-scented hug

the birds are all a twitter
with nursery nests
and sqeaking chirking beaks
and in the pond small rafts of gelatinous eggs are watched over by frogs

there is that wonderful
tang of warm salt and
eucalypt wafting inthe breeze

autumn for us down
under just a pleasant
memory...
here we now look forward
to the summer sun..

Kalanchoë, finally you bloom!
Welcome little foreigner,
To the corner of my room.
With frangipani flame
And crocus-gold effulgent.
Strains past succulent skin
Joyous, ebullient!
Though your petals grow
Just to hold it in,
Fiery blood escapes
Past watery blocks of ester-swell
And you exult with me
In a wintry cell.

i see today,
the first glimmering
of summer,
in the curl of green nails,
on the deadman fingers
of the frangipani.

i see today,
the last sighs of winter
in the dessicatted, crumbling, leaves being,
blown ever which way
by the gusting, September winds.

i see today spring,
coming up,
in shoots of green,
sprung from the rain softened soil.
all different hues,
of potential and expectation
rising from the ground.

i see today, the the last glimpse of autumn,
in that pallette of a leaf,
stubborn throughout the winter now finally,
come to grief and floating, serene in silent submission, on the pond of koi.
the oranges and browns
blending into the watered background.

i see today,
all the seasons,
in the sky
and all around me,
time moves forward
and every moment,
counted as precious
and noted by this poets eye...

Mama, I do not want to eat
and I don't want you to know it.

I am glad you do so well without me
but too bad, fears aren't what stay like rocks.
They breathe like fire and grow like children.
I lost them once and they never come back,
o my poor lost children I still love them!

Mama, I just took a proper shower.
I know I should not be so proud, but
the water was black and so cold and the soap and shampoo were mocking my filthy skin.
I was strong. I am strong.
I am glad you do so well without me.

I was Mother Mary once, you did not know it.
You have lots of grandchildren but I lost all of them so I cannot show you how they have grown like haunted trees and abandoned churches.
You taught me motherly love, Mama,
not how to prove it.

I became a garden but the minerals kept falling from
the pores and eyes. I could not be good soil.
The hibiscus and jasmine and frangipani I wanted to grow
are now as dead and confused as my chest.

My head is one native tomb.
How could I not find a name?

I am doing very well, Mama.

Just that I kept thinking I am at home.

you are in the middle of things,
insisting importance – you would feel
shivering in the distant blue
of another girdled spark and there,
in the not-so-distant sky,
I reach for damp perimeters

and have your face conclusive
with whiteness, sure of its glare,
  crossing the frangipani outside
  my home; silence leapt borders
and now an incident. uninterrupted.
resolute. absolved.

although so suddenly moving away
kiting around and perhaps death
will deal its part when love’s done
with its tedious labor – and it will all be

moments of bliss, two people renaming
necessary haunts, laughing
  in the dense air, keeping an ear for
the spring of yourself.

you are the last of
this years frangipani bloom's
the wide green leaves
of your tree,  are already curling
grey brown upon themselves
to drop dry and rattling to the path
leaving the wrinkle of dead man's fingers
to winter alone

but you are the tree's
final salutation, one last hurrah
waxed cream and butter beauties
that you are....

summers kiss, happiness in
one bloom,  your esscense
fills the room with sunshine and grace.

now you scant few are the last
of the frangipani bliss
you are as the night grows cold.
as the days grow shorter
the last zephyrs  of  fragrance
whispering fond farewells

you are summer's last kiss
one of  gentle memories
blown about by summer's breathe

Waiting in Barbados,
For him to come to his senses.
The heat makes fools of us all,
Save for those used to its
Fiery caress,
Not much cooled
By the lukewarm sea.

Under the palm trees I can wait,
An eternity it seems,
Sipping *** straight from the bottle
Refusing the beads and conch shells
From the beach boys
By the turquoise sea.

Only when the sun sets, quick, surprising,
Its luminous frangipani
Red, thrown down from peach-colored clouds
And night falls soft.
Music from old Bridgetown,
I can go out and forget.

Then I dance to familiar, foreign beats,
Offered to the passing ear,
Pulling me further away from the northern frost
I begin to lose perception,
The moon and stars realign,
Washing away care for possible pasts.

But, waking up on the cooling sand,
Full moon, like an old woman scolding,
Silver-crowned waves roll in,
Irreverent, laughing at me
And I see I am such a stranger
To the land,
To the absence of him.

One last swim in the sand-bottomed pool,
Beneath the cliff, walls sheltering,
Limpid water caressing and
Crystal sun trying to blind me.
I must arise before I forget,
Leave here before it claims me
And rush back home to wait.

September 22, 2002

I might be able to connect to you
In you yoga,
But I must confess my love for you
Is mega.

I might not be able to sine the world,
But can the sun even shine your world?
Believe me my love will,
It can make your dreams real.

I might not be able to give life,
But even knows you're mine,
Devil fathom you're my wife.

I might not be able to protect you
Like superman,
But your love has made me the batman,
It gives me wings to protect you.

Poverty is vulnerable around us,
I will make you ride on the best horse,
Life is auspicious with us.

I might not be able to take you around the
World,
But you will always have my word.

I promise never to make you cry,
No tears except that of joy,
Will come from your frangipani face,
I know we are many in this race.

I promise to keep my promises,
No blemish on you, from head
To toes,
Dying for you is greatest luxury,
Please accept my manifestos.

Crouched beneath empty blocks of office
Two wrinkled hands formed of clay,
open the closed sky with gnarled fingers
eyes as beautiful as a Christmas girl's, without gifting, sob
Sometimes i really miss being a kid
Kids know no stress
Kids have no worries
Just a smile on our faces soft as petals of the frangipani,
nature enjoys us as much as her simplicity
But now I am stressed
Occupied with enough worries
And sometimes I look back at the past
And wish I was still in kid

Troubadors sing their hearts out
Surround me evermore.
Spirits caught in castled ruins.
Frangipani wait to hark.
Poppy dogs with sheepish eyes
lost in the dark.
Happy as Larry in Lincolnshire fayres.
Dragons Tooth flowering late.
Ordinariness dressed in leitmotifs,
starts to fade

Hallo is it you *****,
I am trying to reach Robert  but his phone is off,
Noah cannot pick either, bet he's still sleeping
Try getting hold of them and tell your brothers Charlie has just died,
His house burned down last with him inside.

The children saw it when they were going to school this morning
I have sent Mama Jane down to see
Wekesa, our house help is here but cannot speak,
That is Mama Jesca wailing,
I don't like screams, off you go Jesca, stop the wailing

Its a sad time son,
Plan and come down here as soon as you can
Quickly tell your brothers,
I want you all here with me,
The family needs each of you.

The askaris have come to take away his body to the mortuary,
They're also investigating the cause of the fire,
I cannot go down there with my swollen feet,
I just hope he did not do it himself with the petrol he was stealing from the generator,
He had gone to take ***** with Turkana the night guard.

My poor Charlie,
I don't know what I feel right now
I am sure Mama Helen is devasted,
It must be so hard to loose a son, I was not ready for this,
I don't know *****.

We will lay him on the left lawn with pink frangipani trees
We will have to chop down a few oleanders and mulberries
We will make him a small house over his grave
After a year I will work on his tombstone with help of you boys
I will write the epitaph myself.

There were stories about frangipani blossoms
and monsoon rains and teatime and English gardens,
the smell of mandarin oranges being pealed.

These beautiful, poetic reminiscences fill my soul
just as the humidity wraps around me, now,
as frog croaks filling the moist night air.

Looking back we tend to forget . . .