Ogres need Bifocals

Although she'd spied the ogre, she didn't rush.

“I said, this prescription is not correct. The glasses make my eyes blurrier.” She patiently waited as the counter attendant continued to try to bluster her into disappearing.

“No. No, I'm not leaving. I want glasses that correct my vision. I need them ASAP. I have tried these for three days. There is no improvement.”

The ogre was moving toward the designer frames, browsing casually.

“I want to see Dr. Kimball again. I understand he has a patient with him. I'll wait... but I want to see him by four.”

The ogre had gotten much closer, and Lil was startled to hear it grunting a whiffling behind her. She turned and caught it glancing at the clock. 3:30.

It caught her eye and gave her a nod that could have meant, “yo, sistah, I got yer back”, or possibly, “eff you, twerp, that 4 o'clock slot is mine”, or even potentially, “my, you look like quite a yummy morsel.”

She sat down in the waiting area and watched the ogre glare at the service bell. The squirrelly attendant had disappeared into the office. The ogre tapped the bell once, waited a beat and then popped the whole thing in its mouth and roared.

Squirrelly reappeared. “Ms. Lil Watson? Lil?”

Sigh. “I'm RIGHT HERE.”

“You can go right in.”

Lil headed into the office, avoiding the ogre, who was now stomping on the Guess frame selection.

You fed me

I hungered, and you fed me.

Your savoury embrace, and I
salivated like at the smell of bbq

I never felt so safe so sated
So full so
Fed.

You did not offer dessert


But eggs and tea and toast and stirfry and the
warm
companionship
hot
coupling
were enough
then.


Then.


This is strange food
melts away
leaves me hungry 

Now, after my three course meal, from
over my
cheesecake-laden
fork

I look back with
gratitude.
You fed me.

Flames are not tongues

Flames are not tongues
They do not lick
They do not
   wet.

Flames are a virus.
They spread.
They eat.
They take what is and
   wreak change.

They are chaos.
They are catalyst.
They do not form
sweet words
And sing of
       a love that never dies.
Flames die.

Or, if they are tongues,
They are lying tongues
And when they
Speak
Lick
Taste
Swallow
Sing of endless love,
They only feed their own hollow
survival.

But flames, like other liars,
  die.

Roam, Ants.

We can float here, yes, sunny today
At the pool bar, enjoying this grasshopper life
I can curl around your back in the warm night and know
You are there.

But someday those thunder clouds will roll in, and
You have never yet
Offered me an umbrella.

africa, from a white girl

very, very preliminary draft of something I'm working on.


continent of spice, and tigers and mystery
what do I have to do with you?
My white ancestors smell of coal, turnips, seasalty fish, we
Are rumrunners, perhaps mountain folk,
Back far enough.

What have I to do with your sun and dark,
Your riches and rape, your depth and warmth and
Resilience?

I honour you, africa.

How did a continent writ over crossways with famine become
Nell-Carter Mother Africa--Mother Jones, Oprah,  Maya
All voluptuous round chocolate warm curves and strength and love and
Carrying on, carrying the weight, carrying.

Is this a stereotype television has fed me?
Well, duh.


You are rich riot orange-green-yellow-indigo-brown kente cloth,
Swathes, swaddled on waddling hips, with flashing smiles and turbaned hair,
A statement I cannot make, I, who wear blackbecauseitisslimming, as my people do.My people: those I see every day, most of them with that peculiar peachy pink hue we
call 'flesh', we caucasian-centric colour namers.


You are every shade of coffee and chocolate, and
I am milk.


i have never travelled your roads myself, but have
clutched the aura of strangeness that Mary Jane and Magan were
wrapped in on their return, sniffing it like a
strange perfume, like an infusion that restored breath.


They are richer for knowing you, while I am the child trying to
timidly touch Jesus' hem from the edge of the crowd.


Africa, it is your women who draw me, your ragged old-too-young rape
of warfare survivors, your grandmothers raising villages where a morality-fused
disease has decimated your children, and you,
You carry on. Carrying the weight, carrying.


I have studied your seedsavers, your co-operative
founders, your micro-credit mother groups. I
know that the challenges that could slay me are
breakfast in your world. I am soft. You
are strong.

The pretender child disavows his own mother from
Shame, and gets nearer to the mother he wants, to try
To become someone he's not.
I know who I am. I know my heritage, my worth, its worth.
But still, I wish
You were the aunt who visited every holiday and let me see you
Hair down, relaxed. I wish I had learned some of your spiced wisdom,
To complement mine.



Africa, I know my own community may lack
savannahs, lions, tigers, zebras, deserts and
there is no Sphinx, but
It too is full of your children.


Please help me, continent of ancient knowledge,
continent of origin,
Help me understand how to overcome my
ignorance, my lack of connection, my
inability to know how to what to when to say...
Help me embrace my honesty and meet you on my
doorstep,
Help me understand when I am ready
when I am worthy
what I can do.
What can I do.


Carry on. Carry the weight. Carry
you in my heart.

Summer and Love... what else do you write poems about?

Lying in the warm honeyed lazy bee buzzing afternoon
Entangled in gold, the sun and your hair
Combine to entrap me, tie me to this moment.

Chained to wanting to stay here and wanting more
Too drowsy with happiness and complacency to
Really make an effort to leave.

Not that I want to leave, I don't, this
Prison of warmth and velvet suits me just
Fine. I will rest here, and glow

Compete with the golden sun overhead and the
Amber wave of your embrace, tangled in blonde
And blue, blue eyes, and blue tinged mood.

Tumour

This is the dark tumour that lies inside,
Once it takes hold, it never
Dies.

It waits for the days to pile up enough
Working-late, fatigued-and-hormonal days
That it can grip and
Squeeze out
Joy

It takes you to a grey place
Where you seek your hurt cave,
Lie down to lick your wounds
Hide from others' eyes

Because they might see and pity or
Worse, not see that there's anything wrong
And then, it's just better to be alone.

That's what the dark tumour whispers
In your dreams, and in your moments of doubt,
Better to be alone
Easier not to care
Safer not to try.

And even though you know the thoughts are
Not yours, and not right, the hypnotic
Narcotic lethargic draw is such that
You agree.


I wave from my ice floe as it
Drifts away and you look
Very very small.