ON THE SCREEN

On the screen,

I saw famine stricken lands

And a girl dying –

Not from food famine

But from family famine:

No family member was there

To open the door…

And then on the screen,

I saw war-stricken lands

And the boy soldier dying

Not from gun shot wounds

But from wounds of a heart

That would not part with a father

Whose grave was too raw…

Yet still on the screen,

The great killer breeze, in one clenched call,

Sent thousands to hell:

For being too slow,

Too slow for the heavenly chariot;

And they managed to pray,

“God, why do you forsake ...”

And we all sat there,

Double-breasted,

With snobbish teeth and tears,

And the question,

“who would go for us?”

Was received with enthusiasm,

‘The Seventh World Saviours!’

PAPA’S HAT PAPA’S HAT PAPA’S HAT

Papa wore his hats in shades:

Black hat on black suit,

Brown hat on brown suit;

You name the suit,

And I name the hat.

Under his hat,

Stick in hand,

Papa matched

Like a Yankee;

In spite of heat.

I used to wonder:

When he wore his first hat,

Why he wore it,

Where he wore it,

And who saw it.

Did he grow tall,

Or did he grow old,

Under his first hat;

Wearing it over his heart,

In style for the file.

Red hats, white hats,

Green hats, yellow hats,

Felt hats, straw hats,

Bowler hats, top hats,

Panama hats, peaked hats;

Orange hats and Stetsons.

Papa saw them all,

But did not wear them all;

He only wore what matched,

The colours of his heart.

Maybe to Church

On a sunny day:

Black for black,

Brown for brown,

He wore them all to match.

I have seen hats,

I have won hats,

But the gait is unique;

And Papa had his gait

With his head up.

With shoulders up,

From time to time,

And stick in hand;

He saw them all

And prayed a prayer.

I have an idea,

To put on Papa’s hat

And walk the streets:

For fame and favours

Papa scored.

I cannot wear a woman’s hat,

Since that should go with women’s dress

And fake license to the ladies’.

No, Papa had none of that

And I must be me:

Papa’s son in Papa’s hat;

I shall grow tall,

And smile tall,

And speak tall,

And wave my hat above hearts.

I MARRIED A SHEEP

I married a sheep

After my wolfish tricks

I taught the sheep some leaping

Who never would obey

Me too I walked the sheep way

Though a hard gait to play

The day began with a wolfish sheepish laughter

And yet would end

With a sheepish wolfish cry

Right now the sheep a wolfish sheep

Beside me a sheepish wolf

For us both a gentle gait would find

              To spite the shying mind

I CAN FEEL YOUR PULSE FROM HERE

I can feel your pulse from here:

The watchman for Flee-Town.

I sat in the pinnacle

And saw the ants (black and white)

Streaming towards the city.

Here too I am my nation:

A piece of your earthly dream,

The necklace for poor neighbours,

And they say, “Come on boy,

A piece of you will feed us”.

O they won’t care to know you,

Where they don’t care to see you:

They say your streets are too red,

With sexless ageless lifeblood;

I can feel your pulse from here.

Here in the tower I stand,

Standby being my daily bread:

No omolankays, it seems,

Salute me as a chieftain;

But I feel your pulse from here.

Peace has been my shuffled shot:

My teeth know no stream of tears,

Though my eyes keep pouring rains,

And nameless drops anoint my heart,

Leaving there th’emotion drops.

Before me the projects rise:

Before me the poor are sliced,

I am butchered left and right,

For the sake of jewelry,

That lies so close to my heart.

Let someone hear my dreaming,

For caring gents and ladies:

That each may bear the nation,

In the watchto’er for Flee-Town,

As I feel your pulse from here.

My tears are named as naked,

Each time each drops on me;

They wet my heart with stories,

Untold where God has ground;

But I feel your pulse from here.

I AM A CHILD

I am that child—Papa’s child.

With no home—Papa’s good as dead.

On bare feet—the only shoes I know,

And bare back—Mama’s gift of clothes.

When I play the child—I’m naughty.

When I don’t play—I’m too dull.

They just police me—everywhere.

My body can smell the cane—and the street.

I fend for myself—So I can shout!

I tread on them—that’s the big boy.

They tread on me—that’s the small boy.

Whoever cares if I’m pitched—or impeached?

Your sun did shine—as a child

And made you a star—for listing stars

I must step out—to stand in the sun

And I will shine—to light up my base.