Threshold

Here I stand at the brink of betterment,
At the edge of a long night,
It is almost morning,
Here I stand with absolute resolve,
To let go of weakness of thought,
To let go of lack of purpose,
To live not like I did,
To search for the truths,
To live my dreams,
To have a larger than life purpose,
To associate myself with greater souls,
To be displined beyond reproach,
Not to practice partiality,
To be a soldier in resolve,
To win the battle against sleep,
To be obedient to a greater cause,
To abstain from the lure,
Of short term pleasures,
To follow and be subject,
To sound instruction,
To be led by the far star

Safari Walk

Dry twigs, brown leaves

This forest of hedge wood

Dead wooden sticks

Covered by earth

Home to the Safari ant

African termites that call out

Srrt srrt srrt as if mimicking

The singing costicolas

Birds who though shy by the day

Flit by as if envious

Of the lovers who sit still,

On the park bench.

Still

Years on

You still make me lose my breath

I still blush when you look me in the eye

I still get myself staring at you

You still make me smile when I want to frown

Still make me laugh when I want to cry

I still mumble lost for speech at such beauty

I still have butterflies when we meet

You still remain the first thought when I awake

And when I sleep I still think of you

At times I wonder why this still happens

And I think it’s because its still you

Years on.

Lost Time

But o’er the twilight groves, dusky coral caves
The serrated edges of the mainland isles
Black melancholy sits, and round her throws
A death like silence and dead repose
Her gloomy presence sadness all the scene
Shades every flower and darkness every green
Deepens the murmur of the falling tide
And breathes a darker horror to the night
The stale air suffocating a sepulchre
The moon’s charm dissolving apace
It hangs impotent, frigid
As seen through the turbid fluctuating air
Wearing a wan circle round her blunted horns
The stars emit a shivering ray
Or frequently seem to athwart the gloom
And long behind them trail the whitening blaze
Snatched in short eddies, plays the withered leaf
On the rocky beach lies a broken hourglass

The trophy

Smooth panpipe melodies play still
Satiated notes mellow and idyll
Surreal artistry painted on the background
Variegated with shadows of objects around
Images doing the tango with the light
A close up then they move to the right
Animatedly then dangerously like dueling knights
Upholstered seats shod in brass toe caps
Tables done in an indigenous oak
The atmosphere cold
Save for the warm Persian rug beneath
The tune playing persistently
Painstakingly dissecting the veneers morose
An old classic brick fireplace
Overlooking an array of trophies
Some with an authentic golden finish
Others done in pure silver
One old and musty
The most prized of all
A shotgun; it was given by
The District Commissioner

Mirror

Behind these expressionless eyes
Beneath this dark skinned cabin
Far different from what you see
The depths not what you think
The soul that lay beneath
Between the bones, sinews, flesh
Enmeshed together now devoid
Of rational, emotional
Vain flutterings of the brain
Here lies a man

Memoirs

Silhouettes of my yester follow close,
An enigma crawling from the inside,
Gnawing to the very core,
Rippling an effervescence,
Encroaching in an abyss,
Of a wanting, a desire, a craving,
A gaping emptiness inside,
Crackling,
Suffocating them,
Killing them,
Carnations on top of the grave,
Exhuming skeletons,
To haunt them forever.