This week’s poem, written at a time in my life when I have difficulty answering simple questions like… ‘How are you?’

Contradictions

Surprising to find rivers flowing in both directions,

Rushing downhill to great waters,

But also leaping up-slope – salmon seeking spawning grounds.

Gravity takes all things down,

But energy makes them bounce, occasionally higher and higher,

Until they slip free and rise unhindered upwards.

Time lies heavy and grey as boulders,

Or light as shimmering bubbles floating into sunlight

Capturing rainbows I never knew were there.

Kampala, October 2018

Today’s News

I’ve cut down on News. Today’s headlines are just too hard,

I take the articles further down; analysis, human interest.

And then I thought, maybe I could just write my own.

True news, real news; that last evening was spent by most people,

Not in war or politics, but eating and talking with family or friends.

That most parents hurried home to cook and spend time with kids.

Millions took showers, and felt water refresh their skin.

During the night most people slept, reasonably well-fed, in their own beds

And this morning had coffee or tea and something to eat.

Despite some obvious differences of opinion,

Most people wished most others well.

There were countess siblings who made an effort to meet,

Old friends organizing reunions, cousins sending birthday wishes,

Classmates laughing over group tasks, children making up games,

Acquaintances smiling and nodding as they passed on the street.

There were a surprising number of strangers lending a helping hand.

In numerous places people avoided using plastic straws,

Reused shopping bags, sent items to thrift shops.

White lies were told, but usually to protect feelings.

Most mobile phones and laptops, with all their multiple uses,

Were occupied in sending messages about little events,

Aiding people who like each other, to stay in touch and feel close.

With no written guarantees some people chose to bring new life into the world

And a surprising number of unlikely individuals fell in love,

Ignoring the obvious risks.

All-in-all, despite the headlines,

There was more good news than bad.

Kampala 2018

All the memories you really remember,

Strangely insignificant moments.

They’re all about love.

Its feel and touch, its solidity.

Love of long fingers plaiting hair,

Of laughing childhood on your hip,

Of hugs, of squeezes, human touch.

Smells of breakfast and first rains.

All the things that really matter,

Matter for more than a moment

They’re all about love.

Its shapes and forms, its reincarnations.

Love of sunshine on your winter face,

Of waking to bird song in dewy mornings,

Of shade on heated afternoons.

Sounds of laughter and water.

Kampala 2018

This week’s poem, written as my son takes his first steps back to a normal young man’s life, after nearly two years that have been only about surviving. There isn’t much I can do to help him now, but rely on the goodness in other people.

Return

He has been through so much

Chemotherapy, radiation

Long days in isolation

Coughing phlem, tears, blood

He has lost so much

Hair, muscle, time, bone marrow

Youthful invincibility

He must now face the world

Knowing we enter and depart alone

Cruel, kind world

He embraces again

Frightening, wonderful life

People, please

Be kind to him

Kampala, 2018

This week’s poem is dedicated to life and love, and the things that make us slow down and smell the flowers, conscious of the journey that we live.

One Day

Easy to forget, even when you think yourself older and wiser,

Easy to rush along, getting things done, easy to overlook,

To overbook your afternoons, to let the years pass,

Quietly hoping pain will not last.

But what of joy? Bird outside your morning window

Sings her song, leaves on ancient trees are falling,

Life counts not only in seasons and months,

Even our hours come only once.

What of happiness? Are you always to count and wait?

Low feeling to dominate long blues between highs?

When you sense an opening, are you mad to leap,

Lacking a clear sense of what you seek?

Contentment? Transcending events, emotions, space,

Keeps its own pace, balance of chemistry in cells.

Without pause to sense your own energy  

How will you know its memory?

And what of love? That ever-changing thing of mad youth,

With its own colours for truth, and many disguises.

Dare you turn your head when you recognize its voice?

Dare you reaffirm that choice?

Kampala 2018

This week’s poem, about the strange things that happen in life, and how hard it can be to see our own role in them, how different things appear when looking backwards, and how we make up stories to explain events once we have the advantage of hindsight.

Fate

In the end it’s chance and energy

With their intertwining chemistry

All the rest is just my human search for sense

How the wind blows, who is where

What’s when, all the whys are something I invent

Time moves forward while my truths flail far behind

When my understanding has no base

Just the fantasies of our human race

Made-up truths and convoluted fairy-tales

Can be hard to face the randomness

With our cortex tuned to making sense

So I write some narrative I understand

Hawkins holes, big bangs in empty space

May be truths we find it hard to face

But belief in magic will not set me free

Kampala 2018

Today’s poem celebrates that one year has passed since my son went through a bone-marrow transplant. A long and trying year, that gradually got better, and though the journey is far from over, today marks a vital mile-stone.

To the Bone

Bone marrow one year old today!

A lot to be grateful for.

Here’s thanks to doctors and nurses,

Scientists and hygienists, researchers,

Generations of tax payers,

Politicians who took risks,

Radiologists and oncologists

Pushing boundaries.

Nature and humankind,

Stunning capacities of blood,

Science that developed drugs

To treat errors in genes.

To the young man who donated,

To the brave one who lived through it.

Today I celebrate you all.

Kampala 2018

This week’s poem, a musing on sleepless nights and the thoughts we keep at bay.

What if?

Awake when I would have been sleeping

You’re pale at foot-end of my bed

I snub you, cling tight to my pillow

Hoping dream signal’s misread

Dark, dull drone of night in far distance

Offers no shelter, no lies

Sleepless blankets no comfort

Can’t keep out the glow of your eyes

I know chants, I’ve learnt meditation

Beautiful memories shared

A shake of your head sends them fleeing

This time is your time, you’re prepared

Dread of too late, no way back now

Horror of prices unpaid

Fear of un-trodden pathways

Unfulfilled plans that I laid

Imagine the pigments of difference

Shades of alternative lives

Colours, hidden in daylight

Stand bright in the darkness of night 

Kampala 2018

This week’s poem inspired by the stunning Ankole cattle herds around Lake Mburo area, and the people who have breed these spectacular livestock. Whatever the motivation behind selecting for big horns generation after generation, the result is a sight to see.

Ankole Breeders

Why would you breed for such horns?

Herds resting in African shrub and bush,

Gentle giants in a landscape of thorns,

Hidden in green, marked by

Clean, curved lines,

A leafless forest of horns

I’ve heard they help to keep bodies cool.

Damp-muzzled, calm-featured, deep red hides matching

Raw soil of anthill mounds,

Clear watchful eyes beneath

Clean, curved lines,

A leafless forest of horns

Economists count in kilos, in liters of milk,

Something more than for kids and early morning tea,

Before grazing with zebras

Beneath thorny trees

Clean, curved lines,

A leafless forest of horns

Some other value, some unmeasurable gain,

Breed for status, beauty, unspoken art,

A sense of creation,

Bovine red against green,

Clean, curved lines,

A leafless forest of horns.

Rwakobo Rock, Uganda, 2018

Inspired by a Kampala sunset walk around where I live.

Sunday sunset

Quick

Long-tailed Starlings argue and mimic at the power-line crossing

Testosterone-deep hum as an over-powered engine moves up hill

To where the big villas hide.

Smell newly lit wood-fires and green scents off the golf greens.

Near the storm drain passionate Hammerkops trill loud and love-absorbed  

While early bats flash in fading light above dark hills.

Traffic is a steady hum, building-sites quiet

Air fresh-washed from earlier rain.

Afternoon thunder threats have rolled past, heat relinquished its grip

Though concrete surfaces radiate its memory.

I’m still taking it in – all that life, all that growth.

City lights against the blackness,

Sun has set.

Kampala 2018