Photo by Cor Lems @ Flickr.com
Out of Africa
Some names seem writ in water
Their presence barely felt
Little puffs of wind that swiftly die upon the veldt
Whether thousands dead in Darfur
Millions starving cross the main
Those succumbing to the virus
Poor so plagued by reckless reigns
The news from out of Africa
In steady, mournful tones,
Form long and lonely drumbeats
For the souls there marching home.
While these, the great forgotten,
Seem to vanish in the mist,
Some say a Lion's stalking still
For times just such as this.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
I'm eeking out a sibilant subsistence
A transient I am
Between scepter and sepulchre
The spectre-like hissing
Swirls mid the blissing
The one sounding sweet
With scents of freshly washed feet,
The other, sour, but what power!
I'm stuck twixt the quick and the dead.
I much prefer rock
I wish, Oh! how I wish,
I'd learned to roll my "R"s.