Thursday, 25 October 2012

The man with the white flag

There is a train and it's running through my heart.
Past the hinterlands, down into the deep dark valleys.
Past the brooks and the bees.

There is a train running through my heart.
The whistle of the conductor: shrill and drill, cuts through the air still.
Across the fields a sparrow sits with bow and arrow.
Across the track, poor cock robin lies.

There is a train speeding through my heart.
A first class package, for the queen's eyes only,
tucked far, in the belly of the iron snake.

There is a train cruising through my heart.
We sat in the quiet section. She never said a word.
I had never breathed so quietly.
Poor cock robin, the dove mourns for her lost love.
I took the white flag. I wrote with my eyes. I never said a word.

The conductor's whistle; a distant din; still shrill and drill.
The bells toll. All the birds a - sobbing for poor cock robin.
The man with the white flag steps out onto the platform.
She wouldn't be moved.

There is a train and its tearing through my heart.

D E Wasake
17 August 2012

Freedom (Oh Captain! My Captain!)

Oh Captain! My Captain!
When will we be free?
Free to return to the land of our birth
Mafudu in Sironko district,
You land who birthed us, let us run in your brown soils,
You land who gave us the dreams of our fathers, now carrying the graves of our ancestors,
Salutations from these nether lands.
I walk alone upon Jersey's shore
It's winter and so the Warbler sleeps
It's winter and the flowers rest
My soul won't rest
I cradle the girl child in my heart
Let her shed a tear for her poor daddy
He toils all the days of life
So she will feast on ambrosia and nectar
The young captain turns the final stretch, home is sighted.
A slight smile forms,
And then a tear, A flood, a heart break.
Whose graves are these?
Oh Captain! My Captain!
When will we be free?

D E Wasake
17 Feb 2012

Cocktail waitress (part 3)

Across the room I looked
And gyrated
Across the room she winked
And gyrated.
Steamy windows
From the body heat
Steamy windows
The crowd screams
The tempo rises and falls,
The rain falls.
Jolante just had a baby
She needed to get away
What's she gonna tell her mama now?
Another man to break her heart?
Another man to lose his life tonight?

The wind blows,
The cold and rain wrestle for the throne.
When I was younger I would have offered my coat.
We shared a smoke.
She calls me Mr Mr Poet man
(I like that she added)
But she won't see me again
I am just like all of them:
"....Staying a moment or two,
Staying a week or two,
And what about a lifetime?
Put a ring on it m**fker!"

Jolante run off
The waiting taxi sped off
Mr poet man sauntered off
The tears and rain freely mixing
A deadly cocktail to sip from
To slip from.
The cocktail waitresses' ring lies in the mud.

D E Wasake
4 Feb 2012

Saturday, 29 October 2011

Rivers of blood

Oh captain! my captain!
We smoked hemp and cannabis and all forms of grass,
We drifted off to nether lands and grass lands,
But still the pain in our bellies remained,
the angry rumblings of our no longer satiate bellies woke our now hazy galaxies.
We walk through death's valley,
We behold hades gates,
Behind it the fat of our cattle,
The richness of our soils.

They far off people whisper;
"And why can they not revolt and spill their blood one more time,
Revolt until they eat the spoils of revolution
and their bellies burst open in the pleasure of gluttony,
Savages they always are after all."

Hardly had they spoken than,
Out of the book of Words,
The pale rider burst forth;
I heard a voice booming behind;
"Do not harm the wine and oil."


And then we picked up sticks,
And then returned to the forests,
And swung from the trees.


We were merciless,
they were buried where they fell,
we slew the zombies,
our lights shone upon the vampires,
the Banshees fled,
the minotaurs begged for mercy.
We were merciless.

New beginnings.

The blood filled rivers are clean,
The barren ground quenched,
The gods of our fathers assuaged,
We returned to build Rome.
We planted the vine yards,
The lamb walks with the lion,
We are the children of the revolution.

D e Wasake
29 October 2011

Wednesday, 24 August 2011

Manjeri: persistence of memory

When silence breathes her sorrow
and still winds carry men's sad sorrows,
I pull the singing bird to my bosom
and weep into her bosom.

When we love so deep
and then miss so deep
I pull the naive girl to my self,
we love a moment or two
and then cuddle till the break of dawn.

memories fade,
sorrows fade,
time blunts everything,
time blunts nothing.
I didn't ever forget you,
but i carry the cross always,
the cross of changes,
the persistence of memory.

Do you remember, do you?
Manjeri Manjeri, I wear you like a tattoo.

When silence breathes her unholy breath
and minstrels and muses skip along distant paths,
sadness fades, time fades,
I plant upon your neck a million kisses.

D E Wasake
9 May 2011

Sunday, 6 March 2011

Blinding lights

In the city of blinding lights;
all the black guys with the white girls,
colour blind, love blind....

there too goes my baby,
and also into the leaking roof church,
where they go down to the river to pray,
singing negro spiritual songs,
after their fat bellies are satiate with rice and peas,
or was it peas and rice?

Down to the river to pray,
to lay down their burdens upon invisible Lord,
after burdening visible poor,
with offertory for church fund, prayer fund and rapture fund.

In the city of blinding lights;
all the black people, devoid of the culture of who they are,
all the white people, devoid of the memory of where they are....

there too goes my baby,
and also into the reality television screen,
where they sacrifice the dignity of their childhood,
and onto Jersey's shore,
they gyrate and player hate,
or perhaps did they play upon hate,
while gyrating upon the beautiful stranger?

Into the reality television screen,
where the parents become the children,
and the children the parents,
and we are no longer sure which is which or who begat who.

In the city of blinding(not blinging) lights,
I was a man, walking into the light, crow perched upon shoulder.
We were fully alive and yet fully dead,
we went down to the river to pray;
with our white women(there too goes my baby),
singing negro spiritual songs,
but in the white man's language,
our fat bellies satiate,
from the rapture fund and the prayer fund and the church fund.

Down by the river,
water turned into wine,
sister light gone, brother darkness here,
and we too became devoid;
not only of the memory of who we were
but also of the memory of where we were.

Colour oh colour,
where is your difference now?

Dickson E Wasake
5 March 2011

Saturday, 15 January 2011

Deep end of the ocean(part III)

Boogie nights swiftly go by me,
As quickly as the man friday welcomed to crusoe island,
The bearded man awaits little miss mermaid,
Who with a pout and a swish of her fin
comes and goes,
As shyly as this island's tidal waters
So far in and just as soon so far out!

The silence of this unholy night
Broken by the shrill scream of the device,
The cautious voice on the other end
Tiptoes around the boogie night blues,
And clutches upon the life buoy;
They have afterall made it to 8 moons,
(And not a penny more I daresay)
Only more footprints
In the sands of time
In the sands of this desert island's shores.

The little miss mermaid,
With a pout and a swish of her fin,
And in her place,
What angelic creature is this!
Could it be as the phoenix of old,
Rising on twillight moon,
From the ashes of her tears?
What angelic creature is this,
With a pout and a swish of her fin,
Luring me into cravens and crags,
To the deep end of the ocean,
Still waters running deep,
Deep emotions to stir, for which to weep,
And to the bottom of the sea,
We drink sea teas and shell sea peas,
We tell sea tales and ride upon sea snails,
(Of course we dreamed sea dreams).

The little miss mermaid,
With a pout and a swish of her fin,
Love me forever.
The bearded man,
With a growl in his voice,
With the pearl of her heart in his palm,
Whispered(in a growl of course),
Always, love always.

At the deep end of the ocean,
At the two ends of the hearing device,
deep emotions stir,
for these we weep,
For these we hope to keep,
Another 8 moons

D E Wasake
14 January 2011
"Twilight; phoenix"

Sent from my BlackBerry® device from Cable & Wireless