poetry

poetry

Navigating Botswana

Posted on

Navigating Botswana

we sniff out water
like all the other animals:
moist must of algae and clay
true reflection of sky
(not just mirage)
dark sepia of saturated soil
bright green of a drinking plant

they lead us to our rendezvous
with stork and zebra
elephant and giraffe
impala and kudu
even vultures gulping what’s left
in this dried-out land

we search out
the flush toilets and working sinks
cold fizzies and St. Louis cans
hot showers and cold swimming pools
coffee tea delta panhandle Boteti
our veins pulled to whatever else still flows
through these deepest of dry sands

poetry

who owns the rain?

Posted on

who owns the rain?

in a thousand villages
in a hundred towns
in a dozen cities
people argue right now:
who owns the rain?

in a western water court
old men hear cases
weigh the rights of farmers and fish
consider the adage
first in time first in line
gauge what use is beneficial
collect money to buy life
decide with finality
who owns the rain?

in Botswana
money = pula
and pula = rain
the earth’s heart is carved
into mountains of tailings
to exhume sparkling rocks
while some drink salt
hoping for a new borehole
weathering drought wondering
who exactly owns the pula?

in Colorado
you had to be a renegade
to steal the water off your roof
every ounce of the rivers
already over-allocated
bought and paid for
by who knows who
you had to be brave to rebel
to catch that daily liquid thunder
and defiantly say
I claim this rain

poetry

Showers: Two Perspectives

Posted on

Showers: Two Perspectives

water courses over my limbs
making me my own river network
braiding and unbraiding
carrying away the salt and dust and weariness
the road laid down
opening my pores
letting my eyes see without clayed corners
unmatting my hair
unclogging my nails
leaving the clean damp sheen
of a free-breathing body
until I sigh and smile

and the boys cry
don’t make me do it!

poetry

desert sunset

Posted on

desert sunset

in the desert
the sun rises and sets
in great pink sheets
laden with rosewood and incense
ushering a red-violet orb
to the dark side of day

poetry

Makgadikgadi Pans Bedtime Story

Posted on

Makgadikgadi Pans Bedtime Story

we lay ourselves down
on a flat white board
under an amber smile of newish moon
and saltspray of star and spiral arm
far from the reach of everything
breathing in the last breath
of expired ocean
letting the cations
melt negativity away
becoming a simple body
sleeping sound
back hugging ancient earth
under a baobab’s silent steady watch
good night

poetry

Tswapong Hills

Posted on

Tswapong Hills

o my ancestors
I pray for you I called by name every night
and you catch me unawares
slipping into my in-between states
not quite awake
not quite knowing what to do
reminding me
how you managed to live
long enough for
me to appear
now how may I best
honor your time?
offer you a cool drink of clear water
a shady canyon to rest your head
a wheel of vultures to look after you
a surprise in the deepest pool?
I ask humbly
knowing cured/cursed
are nearly one

poetry

dark days in South Africa

Posted on

The Serowe Museum has an exhibit on writer Bessie Head. She was born in South Africa to a white mother and black father, which was illegal. Our guide said it was lucky that the authorities hadn’t broken her neck. I had not heard of mixed race children being killed under apartheid, and I asked our main guide if that was true, which he confirmed. I wrote this poem reflecting on that. Now that we’re back in wifi, I have been Googling a bit and have not been able to substantiate that. Here is an account of what it was like to be an illegal mixed race child under apartheid, though. Trevor Noah’s autobiography, Born a Crime, also addresses this.

dark days in South Africa

there was a time
when black + white
equaled a little wrung neck
born babies accorded
no right to be
by some misguided man
dead sure of his
righteousness
stealing little whispers of breath
all to keep the world
less colored

poetry

yes people/no people

Posted on

yes people/no people

no people
stiffen
push their palms away
start shaking their head before you’ve finished
shut down their synapses
until all that’s left is
no
it’s not possible
they like to say
ensuring your fate’s in
someone else’s hands

yes people
smile
wave you in
squint one eye and purse their lips
searching for a way through
wrack their brains for a workaround
their only thought is
you’re fine
it’s no problem
they like to say
clasping your hand on this journey
we’re all making around the sun

poetry

khatim sulayman

Posted on

The eight-pointed star is an important part of Muslim iconography. It is also know as khatim sulayman – “the seal of the prophets.” When tessellated, the negative space can create a four-pointed star. The pattern of intersecting 4- and 8-pointed stars is also known as “the breath of the compassionate”, signifying the rhythm of expansion and contraction. Lots of other things come in 8s, and this star may also evoke the compass rose. I used the first letter of each traditional wind’s name to start each of the 8 lines in this poem. We’re also reading Bill Bryson’s A Brief History of Nearly Everything at bedtime these days, and we’re learning about inflation theory and singularity.

khatim sulayman

The universe expands while the
Globe contracts.
Listening to Uptown Funk and the call to prayer
Simultaneously is a singular experience,
One step in our family’s eastward pilgrimage to
Learn other ways of being, to be
Purposeful in our conduct,
Mindful of the many forms compassion takes.

poetry

niqab

Posted on

niqab

a black shape glides past
folds of cloth sway
tick tock like a pendulum
darker, more severe
than the nuns my parents knew
all that we may meet
are two eyes
set in a thin band of openness
leaving so much of our sameness
cloaked, obscured