Gobble Funking Around With Words

Wild, untended spaces, Enclosed. Or open. Brushwood and leaf litter, Thorny. Tree canopy overhead, Welcome shade. Not far away Well-tended villas, Manicured lawns behind High walls. Clean lines, lush green Bright and showy. Beauty is everywhere. We find it, We make it. The best kind of beauty Is the kind we share with others Easily, generously. Like sitting in sunlight Under a tree Content to be ourselves.

Dry Thirsty for something new, refreshing. Gritty Impatient to be rinsed. The dust of the years Residue of salty tears Clings, distracts. Tightness to movement Restricting Debris accumulated in the creases Irritation. Thirsty for something new, Impatient to be rinsed.

Let there be depth Let there be calm and stillness A sort of enveloping That embraces That allows the noise and busyness The clamour, to damp down That makes room for  All that is That opens a path for What is true What is true in the midst of All of this? Let there be depth Let truth be heard A sort of enveloping

I  think of the poem I wrote, That I wanted to read to you. I think of the way I wanted To ask you to pray with me. And yet my words are stuck In my throat, I can't afford to need you this much. I can't risk the disappointment o f disinterest, The disillusionment of good intentions Fallen flat. They say hope disappointed makes  The heart sick, and my heart is sick. And fragile, and full of shadows. But the risk of sharing that with you Is too great. I cannot be the needy one, Am tired of being one thing Instead of many things. I want to claim my strength and perseverance, My resilience and fortitude. But all you see is this sadness And so, I keep silent.

The places I've lived Live inside me Like so many Russian dolls. Their different faces Appear, with a certain scent, A particular quality of light And air. The smell of freshly cut grass Brings England out to greet me. Tennis on a hot afternoon; Cold beer beside a canal; School uniforms; the BBC news; Christmas carols with the smell of Hot cloves. Crashing waves on a wintry beach And Cape Town grabs my hand. The smell of ozone on damp air; A certain vibe, somewhere  Between vintage and cool; Sundowners on the  stoop, and I'm there. Fresh fish roasting on open coals, Mozambique makes an appearance. A drumbeat heard outdoors; The smell of candle wax Or kerosene; bumping over a pothole; Sleeping under a mosquito net; still Getting bitten. All these places are inside me. Not part of history but Part of my soul. Time is not a straight line of Consecutive events So much as a kaleidoscope, Concertinaed within. And I am all these...

Leaves falling Branches sighing Grasses blowing The world lifts and moves Shifts and resettles Everything the same But all is different See the still centre Around which everything turns Mark the tree’s trunk Its boughs bending Yet still, unmoving The leaves blow and drift around a rock Stick fast against its permanence Where is my steadfast place? What holds firm in me  When all is moving? The world lifts Moves, shifts and resettles What stays the same  When all is different?