In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gustBringing rain ~ the elementsplay we thinkof the plagueas ourcatastrophe putall our emotional energy worry grief dismay distress anger blame fear allinto thoughtsof the scourge butnever forgetthe elementshave been herelong have ruledbefore us remain ~ the stormwas a brief thing two hoursof light showand agitationragingthrough the heavens … Continue reading perspective comes (the morning after)
https://frankprem.files.wordpress.com/2017/01/sunshine-bucket.jpg Plums - a couple of seasons ago Above is an image of the plums I wrote about in yesterday's poem. Sadly, we struggle to get good quantity nowadays - cockatoos!
Just back from a couple of nights camping atop Mt Buffalo, Victoria (Australia). Organised by Leanne, it was a hiking and singing weekend, complete with a brand new song written for the occasion and for all us hikers to learn on our rest stops as we walked. We camped at Lake Catani. The boulder in … Continue reading Mt Buffalo singing weekend
I'm delighted to share a new review of Waiting For Frank-Bear written by D. G. (Debby) Kaye as her latest Sunday Book Review. Debby is a wonderful author and blogger in her own right and has written a lovely review for the Bears. I am pleased to encourage any visitor here to pop over and … Continue reading D. G Kaye’s review of Waiting For Frank-Bear
Wonderful South African poetry shared by Robbie Cheadle.
The Woman at the Till by Tatamkhulu Afrika
She had a plain, hard face,
A head thrusted forward like a hawk’s.
Impossible brass triangles,
Improbable steel manacles
Cluttered her thin arms.
Clearly, she had little love for the world:
She had learned, though,
That she would not win,
So she did not throw your change at you,
Nor did she press it in your palm,
But placed it, sullenly,
On the counter in between.
She would wrap your purchase languidly,
Yet fast enough to cut off an complaint,
And when she had her punch-up with the till,
It was an exercise in ferocity,
She was what we call “Maboer”,
A low white trash,
AWB most probably,
Slouching barefoot in Boksburg or Mayfair West.
I did not feel any particular hate for her,
Perhaps because I was what
She would call a low black trash,
Which made us quits.
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