Archives for May 21, 2013

Ode to myself

No words will ever describe,
Your beautiful description.
Your image pierces an unexpected distraction.
My God, you are beautiful!
How are you able to deny that?!
Muhle intombazane, Aḻakāṉa

Golden glow, more than a suns kiss
Soft smooth stretched bronze
Scents of cocoa, sweetness and spices
Decorated with strips and stripes
Cautious to a hands touch,

Belowing black mass of mess
Fingers run in unrefined silk
Staining pillows with flower smells
A crown on a boredroom princess
Enthrall, entangle, ebony

Brown eyes and big smiles
Full cheeks n dimpled sides
Dimpled everything.
Unprecedented voluptuousness
Filling, struggling, tugging, squeezing
Mocked and worshiped

Small hands, worked feet
Deep voiced and bright mind

You are a beautiful woman.
Believe it.

Sons of the invisible

“He is safe with us…” She stood there, anchored to earth by two concrete pillars of skin and blood. This hollow assurance meant nothing.

“Please, do like all the others have and just leave.” It took her decision mere seconds to become fully fledged, stripped of all doubt. “Give my boy back to me, right now! I’m not going anywhere!”

The haze of her tears obscured his response. The barrel arose, pointing up at her face. His mind fixated on one thought. “MY mother couldn’t get ME back…” This magnificent boy with his toy gun; and then his gun spoke…

The Whisperer

She had an affinity for the pronunciation of names. No matter the language or dialect, her tongue snapped around its intricacies and held fast, until names blossomed from her lips like butterflies escaping their cocoons. There was the croak of a sleepy frog in her susurrant “Mbembe”, the crack of a breaking bough in “Cormac”.

It was only her own name that flapped from her lips and fell, flaccid, to the floor. She did not speak it often in the village. She spoke her name so seldom that it was forgotten after some years.
She fashioned a new one through hints and nudges, never uttering it until its being was roughly fashioned through the tongues of others. They struggled, lips clawing over syllables, chipping them jaggedly until at once the name took off, exploded into the air like a spout of water. She caught it, and in her mouth the malleable sounds were softly smoothed into a gentle stream, a rush of water over cobbled stones.

She was The Whisperer.