Sweet Vibrations In The Air
let the plot thicken in quest for their centres
she was looking for her heart, low and high
he had just sent her a little morning message
“I hope your day is off to an enchanting start”
she read the note over and over, and never got
enough of the text and its texture and tastiness
her heart had vanished into his, and his into hers
in a powerful paroxysm of gravitation and fusion
Madam
Towels with silky hands sweaty
hills and marshy logs. The reaction
is the same phlegmatic snorting.
It’s her sweat against his antics
He neither titters nor simpers
Her bill labours under a plethora of cakes
Anytime cards, toiletries, air time cards,
exotic designer wear and video cassettes.
Foggy and muzzy is the road to titillation.
Flighty and Frisky.
Bongi feels marooned and invisible.
She sings him praises, but he rarely
smithers a smile. And verily he acts the
squirming way.
A coterie of critics find her fulsome.
She feels the hill and bill of betrayal.
Dashes to the glaring mirror.
Loathes a sight of a dear silly billy.
Does he take her for a silhouette of a scum?
Her island’s qualms plunge
into a series of recollections. Halcyon days were
courting days. Her phraseology was at variance
with a piece of platitude.
Qhawe smothered smiles and remarked of an astute
jester who took after his father.
Bongi foots the bill as demands her heart.
Coldness floods her. Has it not come full circle?
Will it ever take off the ground?
Uneasiness unhinges the mind. With an air of
frigidity and rigidity he greets her the following days.
She feels dazed and dumped. Is it not to fritter away
time for a fisherman to keep on hurling the rod
into a fishless pool?
The smoldering war of reasoning rages:
To stay put or to steer out?
But the heart is steeped in love unyielding.
She recalls the jocular piece from a friend:
Grandma to grandpa, ‘The preacher said touch
the troublesome body parts that need some healing.
He didn’t say the prayer will bring to life
what departed long back! So remove your hand
before someone sees what a laughing stock you are!`
Grandpa yelps, `Oh ye of little faith!’
Sweet Ntombana`s Safe Habour
Ntombana…
this sweet sixteen self should not dare sail away from the safe habour
no matter how sweet-talking boys are or archaic parents sound
it has dumped dollies for ‘fun’ boys and has privileges and rights
but one day it has to unlearn the habit of turning on lights for
romantic rather than economic reasons when other sixteens’
ballooning bellies heave in sight because of boys` menacing
lethal guns or when their bodies lose their natural radiance
because debauchery has ruthlessly ravaged them and turned
their age absolutely upside-down
with moderation and vision and honesty l have to enjoy life
because time flies faster than a silhouetted butterfly
Shimmering With The Moon And The Stars
The king of the jungle listened to the quietude
Of the night, the sleepiness of the woodland
An airiness issued, pampering his eardrums
There was an air of expansiveness and mystery
The royal animal was mesmerised and blown away
By the sweetness and fruitfulness of the melody
It breathed genuinely aromatic buds into his nostrils
And planted a peace of mind that paced through eyes
Here his ears were heir to a lyrical and likable calmness
There was something cool, curative about the experience
The king of the jungle moseyed, marvelled at the elegance
And beauty of the moon, a moon whose remoteness was nigh
He was in the glare of the galaxies` deep dimples and smiles
There was a reappearance and impermanence of moments
The lioness and the cubs were fast asleep, maybe, he thought–
Just re-contextualising peace and the pace of nature and night…
