5 | 31 Poems for August 2017

I’ve become well-acquainted with these streets – from University Road all the way down to Park Street.
My heart skips a beat when my words touch hearts like Alex Panttiere and that’s why these hands keep writing.
You left without saying goodbye, you could’ve at least told me why.
You easily detached yourself like there were no feelings between us.
Like I didn’t love you hard enough, soft enough or even warm enough.
For weeks on end, I began hating you for leaving me the way you did.
Yet here I am writing all these words and somehow still missing you.
I’m slowly finding my way back to myself again no matter how severe the pain.
I’ll pick myself up and finally find the strength and courage to love again.
Maybe in your quiet time at exactly the right time, I can be your true valentine.
Sometimes jacarandas fall with no intention of lighting up the streets with their purple blooms again.

Dreams are made of chocolate huts
With burgundy windows, cherry **** doors
Sweet icing on cream layered roofs
Almond -walnut -caramel floors

Dreams are made of iris and jasmine 
Jacarandas lined in purple rows
Tree blossoms in clustered cobs
Petals that dance like a ballerina's toes

Dreams are made of fern green forests
Oakwood trees  that cast a spell 
A  gossamer web of magic and charm
The music of clinking coins in a wishing well

Dreams are made of cerulean skies
Contrails of clouds in ivory snow
Violet mystic misty mountains
A  tangerine orb riding a rainbow

Dreams are made of romance laced nights
A golden peach vanilla moon
Venus lighting, igniting,love's fire
The silhouette  of love in rain soaked June

Dreams are made of turquoise seas
Calm waters stroked by gentle waves
Or enticed by the charm of a midsummer night
Waters that heavenly Cynthia craves

Dreams are made of silk and satin
Dappled with reds, greens and blues
But the dreams that I love to dream the most
Are all the dreams made of you

1976:
black boy, black boy,
we shot you --
nothing left
in your small, shiny black shoes;
your tidy school uniform

2013:
white boy, white boy,
we will not shoot you --
nothing right
in your big, broken black shoes;
your untidy school-form --

instead, we will not teach you

white boy, we will not teach you:
English is for black schools --

Madiba, Madiba:
the jacarandas of Pretoria are dying;
the mimosas in the bushveld
have taken the Acacia tree's name
and beneath the soil,
the roots of South Africa are still
growing, exactly the same?

Along the far wall
beneath the outstretched
limbs of jacarandas
I see him walking
each morning at
his constant time
even when the sun still
half asleep hides behind
overburdened clouds

Sometimes he
waves and
sometimes he
smiles but
mostly he just
walks on looking
down the road to
where I wonder

And I only
watch him briefly
now and again
on days when
I am able and
on days when
I am not I know
that he is there

Until the day when
I look out and see
that he has reached
his destination traced
by constant footsteps
beneath the outstretched
limbs of jacarandas
along the far wall

Te he comparado con un golpe de suerte porque llegas sin avisar y eres una bonita casualidad; con la goma de mascar en un salón de clase porque te mantengo en secreto y te quiero en silencio. He llamado a tus manos una cornisa porque me aferro a ellas para no caer al acantilado; a tus labios les he dicho océano porque me provocas unas ganas inmensas de ahogarme.

Te llamo arte porque aún no te conozco del todo y cuando creo conocerte te encuentro más gamas de colores, porque siempre tendrás algo nuevo que enseñarme.  Voy a empezar a decir que eres mi mar muerto porque evitas que me ahogue y sé que nunca me hundiré cuando estoy contigo.

He hablado del color de tus ojos refiriendo al color de la tierra donde quiero echar raíces y yo ya he comparado al amor con las jacarandas porque haces que todos mis cimientos se estremezcan y que mi primavera quiera pintarse de colores bonitos. Soy alérgica a las flores pero podría aguantar este jardín tan bonito que estás haciendo crecer en mis pulmones y todas estas mariposas caníbales que me revolotean en el estomago.

Terminaré por compararte con la ciencia ficción y con la magia porque aún no me puedo creer que seas real; y sí, la magia existe, pero tú no puedes verla porque nunca te has visto los ojos brillar cuando hablas de algo que te gusta, ni reír a carcajadas hasta que sólo quede silencio y lagrimas de alegría en tus mejillas.

Me estoy proclamando funambulista porque estoy haciendo equilibrio en tus cuerdas vocales y en tu mirada que siempre tiende al infinito, pero ya no tengo miedo de caer porque me has enseñado que tengo unas alas muy grandes.

Verte es como desayunar jugo de naranja, la mejor forma de empezar el día, un agridulce "Te quiero". Eres esa cucharada de más en el café que nadie se atreve a pedir, pero que espera recibir. Eres esa canción que nunca salto en aleatorio y tengo que escuchar dos veces porque la primera no podía parar de sonreír. Eres la piedra más bonita con la que quise tropezar.

No sé si tengo una arritmia en el corazón o sólo es que ahora es más locomotora y menos órgano, corazón coraza, corazón correcaminos... Ojalá tú sepas escucharlo porque cuando estás cerca me grita en los oídos pero no es mi idioma, es el tuyo.

Ojalá ahora puedan entender que cuando hablo de ti hablo de esa mañana de sábado cuando puedes respirar y dejar la mente en blanco durante el desayuno; de esa canción de La Habitación Roja que suena cuando voy camino a casa y el trafico me hace pensar que estoy en el mundo ideal. Hablo de los días lluviosos y grises, de los libros de poesía, de los lapices de colores.

Ojalá algún día me entiendan que cuando hablo de ti sólo quiero hablar de ti y de lo bonito que es que te saquen una sonrisa cuando lo único que quieres hacer es llorar.

Do not abandon me,
No do not leave me,
To the wilderness of my mind:
A veritable tundra, a savannah,
Cold and dry and arid.
My soul pants and thirsts for a cool tall drink of somebody.
Give me a man,
Tall, strong, beautiful,
Let him hold me in his arms and croon to me
and sing of star-song and moon dreams
under the blanket of a velvet night.
Let the warm winds come with the salty whisper of sea,
of jungle-scent and overblown jacaranda flowers,
or snatches of arctic breeze
and the high keening cry of the albatross.
Only,
Do not leave me to myself,
For the scent of jungle then fades to mud,
and the jacarandas wilt,
and the arctic spaces chill me to my bones,
And I drown in the unfathomable darkness of emotion
In the lullaby-rocking motion of the sea.
And I cannot see you,
And I cannot find you,
And the night becomes a terrible blackness
And the stars intimidate
And the moon remains impassive.
No, do not abandon me.

The godless set fire to the redwoods
before marching us to the hills.

Black birds wake on jacarandas
without wings.

Their caws raise Lazarus once again.
A young girl's skin wrinkles into birch,

and suddenly trees surround me.
The eyes in the bark

denounce my flesh and limbs.
The mulch tries to swallow my feet,

but my wings lift me.
I'm dancing among fiery ashes

above the boulevards of igneous rock.
Particles of light halt into white heat,

cleansing me of flesh.
All that is left is spirit,

quiet and unknowing,
lost in whatever's between the stars.

♪♫♫♪♫

running fluid, flowing
like love, like life, like blood, like knowing
the living waters from the  throne of God –
it starts slow and it builds
equatorial storms, tropical sadness
as the guitars take you home
in reverberations of eternity
through endless repetitions of longing
through palm-branched alleys and red-dirt gullies
breeze caressing guavas and passion-fruit
past dictators’ mansions
past rusting shantytowns
over ditches running with sewage
into colors too intense to bear
colors to make you cry:
greens unseen in cold climates,
red earth, flowering jacarandas
women walking wrapped in rainbows
huge baskets on their heads
in the blare of traffic
in the madness of African cities
through the Congolese night that calls your name
and the smell of poor people’s food over cook fires
carried on the musical breeze
children smile and beggars crawl in the dust of the street
obscure wars are fought,  false peace proclaimed
while the bones are exhumed
as the Congo jazz rolls on, flows on
like silver sorrow dancing gold in the heart of darkness
past liter bottles of beer sweating cold
on the bar table by the flower’s starkness
lighting up the midday – when those horns come in
on the boat from Cuba, by way of Bruxelles and Paris
blaring triumphant and strong
like a shipment of diamonds and uranium
glittering in the drunken afternoon of a song with no end.

Through this monumental city
a troubled river runs under an ancient bridge.
It's hardly flowing.
There's just enough depth to reflect
the accumulation of discarded waste -
the sum of man's detritus.

At its edge, a man stretches his legs
over long shadows
cast by a line of Jacarandas.
These are his invisible boundaries.
He believes if he stepped out of their shade
he would sink back into the quicksand of his past.

It was easy for him to give up.
He just slipped through a gap to where
the source of an old torment was quite forgotten.

This is where he spends his day.
On the hour precisely, with a regular bell for measure
absorbed in silent calculations,
counting and recounting the length of his existence-
a short span between life and certain death.

He's too busy to notice a sanctimonious world
taunting from its own
'He's not all there' it whispers,
'he's in a foreign place.'

But it doesn't put him off his stride.
He's miles away on a carpet of heavenly blue
tethered to a dream,
where mocking birds fly over his head,
and his dog, streets ahead, barks urgently
waiting for him to catch up.


copyright © Caroline Grace 2014

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.

Home is calling
I hear it's voice
It's arms wide open
An African embrace

I smell the grass
Feel the soil on my feet
My focus on home
Runs so so deep

The warmth, the freedom
The people, the trees,
Africa is calling
Like a song in the breeze

My roots are grounded
So firmly planted
A long time before
Colonialism started

I see jacarandas
I hear hyenas
Joyful singing
Dancing till morning

The wide smiles
Cheerful eyes
Ubuntu is everything
Under these skies

The sun is glowing
On a wide African sky
Insects chirping
As the sun says goodbye

From all over Africa
Came my people
To my tiny land
Of my heritage

I'm there in spirit
I dream every night
Ask ancestors to guide me
Back home when the time is right

To sit with the baobab
To feel the connection
Something so deep
In my soul, a protection

To go back in time
At mighty Magelies
Sit in silence
In the area of our birthplace

The cradle of humankind
Is not just a name
It's real, still there
A place from where we all came

As old as the hills
An English saying
Well here you can feel it
These hills have seen everything

The warmth
The safety
The love
The humility

And my motherland
Isolated, alone,
A jewel in the ocean
Where few of us call home

I feel the longing
To be back
With my brothers and sisters
My soul is black

Nothing fills the void
Of our heritage calling
Africa, St Helena,
Calling and calling

Africa is ours
St Helena is mine
Those not visited
Won't understand

My roots are firm......

Nomkhumbhulwa 🍀

mauve and red on azure hue
jacarandas, flame trees and summer blue
that time again of heat
and inappropriate rituals

we grew here
and santa clause flew here!
who does he think he is?

roast dinners while paul kelly
asks who will make the gravy

bush fire victims needy of funding
while millions are spent on fireworks
as though there wasn’t enough smoke
or air pollution

families who avoid each other
through the year
gather with cheap coloured paper hats
and pull the ritual bonbon
and tell bad puns
to fill the gaps in conversation
and the cicadas sing out
the banality, the ennui

while cashed up families
tow caravans up and down the coast
to camping area suburbias
and celebrate their right
to overeat and drink beer
their god given entitlement
to be strayan
and talk about queue jumpers

that’s why i make my own ritual
based on the good things
of that time ...

respite from daily routine
time for quiet reflection
on the worth
of who you are
and who you’ve helped

When I seen the purple blooming tree from a distance,
It attracted me to have a look with no distance..

And that sight was of immense pleasure,
Which filled my heart with full of love treasure...

That tropical trees are known as jacarandas,
And also the tree world’s spring stars...

That breath taking flowers are pretty enough to describe in word dilemma,
And that magnificent purple blue blooms resembles as an elegant umbrella...

And the fallen petals makes way for a dazzling display of unimpeded purple haze,
Which looks like a lavender carpet at a quick gaze...

As flowers are regarded as a symbol of love, beauty and a gift of nature,
Are thus used to provoke love and happiness with its power to make us cheer....

Let us all love this nature’s blessings forever,
To make it a never ending full bloom ever....

the leaves fall off the jacarandas and summer ends
between this one and last
i'm not quite sure if I recognise myself.
the passing of time passes me by
and i'm not quite sure at what point
I became not the same person
as the one who spends time making witches potions in the summer sun
with mud and lawn clippings and myself.
i'm not quite sure when i started put myself away
leaving sums of myself out
for days, weeks, years on end
for others to dust off and try out as they will
somehow the world tricked me into thinking
that i'm a bound note-book in a misused part of the library
with no words
waiting for someone to write me so I could come back to life
I momentarily forget that my hands can go in other peoples pockets
as i soak in the afternoon sun
when did I forget that i'm my own best friend
and other people, as bright as they are
are passing comets in my orbit
I never really needed anyone else
I could always play in the summer by myself

My home, my beautiful home!
Seated amidst a pulsating city,
Gulmohars, jacarandas rendering gaiety
Serene heaven visible from my window
Blue umbrella germinating thoughts mellow
Caressing sunshine with whispering breeze...that’s my zone
My benefactor, my saviour, that’s home, my beautiful home!



My home, my beautiful home!
Bestower of benedictions and adulations
Spectator of trials and tribulations
Echoer of rapturous laughters
Embracer of pains and tears
Preserver of memories, builder of healthy morrows... that’s my zone
My introduction, my story, that’s home, my beautiful home!



My home, my beautiful home!
Welcoming friends, sharing, caring lots
Nourishing dreams, cleansing thoughts
Elevating spirits, multiplying happiness
Balm for sorrow, therapy for sickness,
Healer for injury, haven for peace...that’s my zone
My temple, my sanctuary, that’s home, my beautiful home!



My home, my beautiful home!
Epicenter of love where blooming hearts reside
Foundation of self-worth and pride,
Dispeller of fear
Creator of my magical sphere
Reservoir of serenity and sanctity...that’s my zone
My harbinger, my comforter, that’s home, my beautiful home!

An ambulance mourns and wails
Someone down in this town

Church bells chime at all times
Weddings, masses, memorials

“BRRROUOOGH! GAS! OAXACA!”
On every street on every morning

Smaller, stiller sounds; listen:
Cooing doves in jacarandas

Silent dogs on rounds;
Stealthy, not needing us

Squeals, peals of children
Skating, biking in the park

Schnack-fwack brush
Of shoeshiners

Twhick—shwick—thwick
Of fastidious street sweepers

Traffic, thrumming always
The humming of Oaxaca

Not a doomsday
O hardened life, I cannot
read you like a Rosetta stone.

You walk under
Jacarandas to become purplish
blue without moony touch.

The scented air
brings meltdown, I rise
the candle to count the tears.

A trembling prayer
dries on your lips. A university
of love burns in eyes.

An orange color
abducts the clouds for a forced
marriage with sun.

I touch the timber
and smell my hands. Jacarandas
have solemnity.

Will walk on the blue
trumpets, to start talkathon
with soul of the tree.

Why we are born to die?
Can you stop this cycle? Tell me
the truth of the road.