We ambled the streets of Harare Meandering aimlessly Fleeting past wide-eyes scanning us enviously Hand in hand we walked into the restaurant Leisurely on Second Street Our hunger awakened Our appetites heightened At almost closing time With no one in overtime mode A signal that here we could only dine on another day
Joina City was our next stop Up the lift right to the top 'Closed' it read at the coffee shop Into the nearest chair I went flop! Though hungry, we gabbed non-stop By and by we regarded the clock It chimed 8 o'clock And sadly, it was time to go home
Busy and noisy Were the streets of Harare Jabbering crowds, kombis hooting Hawkers, vendors or is it hustlers now - Calling for buyers or just huddled to pass time No chill in Harare Picturesque like a dream Surreal… Hand in hand we dawdled In despair for a hot meal
In the shimmering distance Like a mirage in the desert The neon lights read 'Creamy Inn' Something to calm our rambling bellies At last… Nippy evening air hit our souls 'Ice-cream tastes better at night' I said 'I can't believe I'm having ice-cream' He said We frolicked Hand in hand we danced past faces painted with adoration 'What a handsome lover!' They probably thought: My delectable younger brother
Wrote this after one of my visits to Harare, Zimbabwe in 2017.
Sunday sermons are spilling on the inner city streets through the green heaps and brown bags through the downtown whisperers and sage solitude souls
Army bands prepare for march their trench members filling packs with canister and cane the high command and tricked militia head pinned quick on the look for splinter, lorry and skuttle
Traffic patterns change at the COP connect camouflage bearers break formal stride battle men slip between colorful floats unsuspecting slumlords (vein pricked and weary) grin in their second suite dying rooms
Twitching men and rubbernecks sit discreetly on the corner wall JJ and the chief revere a 21 gun salute holy rollers raise cheer (in a moment of silence) chess men hold steady with ivory cues
Flames belt from the distant sanatorium streets are alive with crackle and dust members of the attic group glance down from their glorified perch an elderly man in a straight jacket (happy in the now) sits solemnly in a cold reflective stare
It’s not far from the steely mud holes from the flying fragments and pierced broken dreams from the arsenal digs and madmen (who quietly turned the *****) the ivy trellis and flowing white gown is a nocturne fit for this elevated rolling highland
I grew up in the loneliness of one hundred streets The more poems I wrote the more I'd get beat The rare times were few but I wrote them down Poetry as confession in a lonely town
I'm no Leonard Cohen, I am no Rod McKuen And so far any talent remains unproven But from those streets I have lived my Rhyme A Journeyman Poet stride by stride
In the World streets have doubled now, in number and size But I hope Poetry is no stranger in our lives It's the 21st Century, let's put our Art on the breeze Giving voice to the vow in our words there is Unity
My Town is about 240 streets now (2018) but back in the 1950's it was only just 100 (give or take a few). A small-minded small town on the North East Coast of England where being 'different' wasn't always a good thing to be... especially for a young lad who wrote poetry.
These days have ebbed as Love's swell was checked: the waters in some places - all but dammed!
But now at last I sense the rising tide and thank Temese for the current's turn; now following that great writhing snake to where its pulsing head will rake; over the mucky soiled watery beds of Woolwich Greenwich Limehouse - and under - Tower Bridge
To that great gloating sight A crown of a billion lights Blazing day and night: And somewhere within In the slick oily warmth Our flood tides mesh, As over each other we wash.
Hard thrusts wicked deep cuts given and received are recorded in that great mirror smoked! where with a tug and a shove on the banks in the streets through the loopy twists everything prospers in the glow as the decades decaying flow; each ***** bud red with new blood one after t'other flowers before their purple petals scatter.
Let's on the luck o' the dice (you 'n' me!) ride out on the flotsam and jetsom that has carried us this far and as pleases merge.
London, a city with a rhythm, the Thames, which I sailed upon one Saturday morning - not a soul at this end of this magestic river, this city, in which I have lived for forty years...And love - a wonderful woman - and how I desire us to pull at each other as tides do, tugging at each other, two flows running over reeds and muddy shelves searching for each other in the cool green depth.
Now I walk a lonely path where before my wife a similar path I'd walked I've slept on park benches In field over looking the sea, bus stations railway too even slept In a zoo I've lived 6 weeks alone on the street but nothing even comes close to lose one wife but now for me Its a only a lonely path now that lays ahead
To walk alone In life where once this was nothing nrw
The head fuckery of societies rules. The indoctrination in our schools has led to the homeless on our streets while politicians count their seats. The privileged few, too rich to mention fail to reveal their true intention.
The NHS setup to break by psychopaths all on the take. Big business stripped of all its gold, no pension funds left for the old. Big pharma, they don't miss a trick, they're making you & I feel sick. They push the pills that ring the tills even though they know it kills.
With the best advice and greatest will our kids are on **** & fentanyl. While drinking water turns a son into a daughter, it's Atrazine that makes a King a Queen.
While we're divided black & white, we'd never stand up to their might So take your neighbour, hold their hand and together we'll reclaim our land.
Poetry by Kaydee.
Utopia is a planet with no borders & free movement of a free people.