Half mast

Half the time, they fly at half mast

oh beautiful, amazing colours,

waving solemnly their giant arms

clinging precariously to thin posts,

sobbing, fondling, caressing and kissing the whistling wind –

half the time; half the year

filling up mammoth gulleys with a deluge of tears

saluting beautiful bodies gone to dust

accompanying souls – somersaulting and hovering past,

hunting for nests to perch on, seeking rest at last –

half the time; half the year.

Half the time, they coil, recoil and uncoil,

gaily hugging their beautiful bodies onto thin posts,

as if their sweet lives depend on it

hugging tightly, swearing never to quit,

declaring quietly, never ever to let go –

half the time; half the year

vowing to forever protect delicate souls,

revolting, refusing boldly to be set at half mast

so these beautiful bodies would live forever,

swearing never to let these amazing colours

fly again at half mast

paying empathy to dear souls gone past.

© CM diary-of-a-poet 26062013  

http://whenpoetsspeak.blogspot.com/

On Mothers' Day

Locked up

in solitary confinement

where I regard your beautiful visage

through foggy but indelible imageries -

can’t bend the bars!

can’t break the law, not again!

on Mothers’ Day.

Locked up

in gory battles

with fellow political punters

on which pundit to bet my electoral dollar on

have lost the locus -

can’t focus!

on Mother’s Day.

Locked up

in hectic engagements

at the factory -

can’t straighten up!

can’t sleep a wink!

on Mothers’ Day.

Locked up

in street fights and clubs, gallivanting -

can’t think!

can’t blink!

on Mothers’ Day.

Locked up

in matrimonial feuds –

while you till the fields

can’t inhale! can’t exhale!

can’t bat an eyelid!

on Mothers’ Day.

Locked up

in perennial, financial woes -

can’t buy a monthly roof!

can’t buy a daily morsel!

on Mothers’ Day.

Locked up

in academic pages

hairs hackling at the thought of the (dead) philosophers’ laws –

can’t deliver meaning

can’t give a clue

on Mothers’ Day.

Locked up

in mental debacles

inside my head

whether to remit to you my warm regards

or not?

this Mother’s Day.

Can I defy the odds…

Happy mother’s day still, dear mom

my love for you is all bottled-up,

simmering to the cork, like a hot furnace

but I have it under close guard…

wish I could ferry it to you in person this winter

on this Big Day, on Mothers’ Day…

© Conarth Macheka – 11 May 2013

My Fairy Queen

Today, I saw a mannequin

dressed in golden shoes, chain and apparel

looked like a fairy queen

only lacked crown

yet donned fair hair

I fell for her

but spouse got pregnant with jealous,

threw a tantrum, and made a real fuss

broke my heart and fled away

not without a wring on my neck

and a slam on my back

she didn’t want to get real!

There she lay, ravishing and cute

crystal eyes piercing through clear glass,

glued at my masculine frame

mine gazing at her heart-stopping beauty

I gave her a wink and a smile, at last

drooling from the mouth with lust

at the jeweler’s I booked a ring for her

she deserves it, for she is just but fair…

Hey Mr Vendor, name your bribe price

not for the golden shoes, chain or apparel

but for my bride, my mannequin –

my new queen with fair hair

for my broken heart now belongs to her

if you don’t offer her to me

your glass I shall break, with glee

to free and elope with my fairy queen,

my mannequin,

and heal my broken heart.

© Conarth Macheka – Diary of a Poet (May 2013)

In the Castle of my Black skin

In the castle of my black skin

not thick as hide

but equally thin

I “bling” with black pride

feel neither pain,

hunger nor remorse –

I feel no thing!

besides enrichment

and fulfillment

in the comfort of my black skin…

In the castle of my black skin

which you term “hide”

yet equally thin

I shine so bright

yes, you are right

 that is where I reside:

dance, write and sing

all done with black acumen and black pride

in the comfort of my black skin…

In the castle of my black skin

you regard as hide

I glimmer with hope

and shall never stop

while I do my thing –

daytime I toil

nightfall I recoil

in the comfort of my black skin…

In the castle of my black skin

which looks like hide

I shimmer with love

inside my perennial shelter, my first love

my black pride

my comfort, my castle, my black skin…

© Conarth Macheka – Diary of a Poet (May 2013)

SILENCE!

Boring, deafening, old silence –

Boring like a love-letter in shreds;

Deafening like the misty, distant, resonating mountains in sight,

but beyond human reach;

old like the dark, toothless wizard next door…

A lone heartbeat pelting so fast,

my sole hope –

going with haste and gait faster than wind-speed.

Thick, heavy silence –

Thicker than three darknesses conjoined;

Heavy as the black sorrows of sordid earth.

Joy, sanity and slumber eludes me.

Can’t bat an eyelid. Bloodshot eyes remain wide shut.

And at the break of dawn,

SILENCE! remains my soulmate,

my strange bedfellow - forever by my side.

© Conarth Macheka - 02/8/2012