Poetry Bulawayo

Things we regret most are the chances we never took, Those we love most are those that we forsook. I don’t believe in living in regret, So since I am not dead yet When we meet again There will be rain… I will gaze deep into your bewildering eyes, Then to relinquish my heart’s silent cries I will tell you how I truly feel. As an oath that the words are real I will kiss your soft sweet lips Where sacred water sleeps...

The two weeks I spent in that small town on assignment, I saw no blacks except for two older women regal in every way, hair coifed in silver gray, working in the Country Cafeteria. They walked like pastors’ wives as they worked their 20 tables. White badges on their uniforms announced in red their names, their years of service. They never said a word, not even to each other. They just took the cups and plates away and wiped oil tablecloths pristine. I took three meals a day in silence there, the only place in town to eat. I was the stranger in a suit and tie, a city weed among stout farmers in old coveralls who came to town each day to note  “no rain yet” and “the corn is dyin’.” Before each meal instead of saying Grace, I wanted to stand and ask these ladies as they bowed before the clutter on their tables: If you have worked here all these years, and lived in this town also, where in the Name of God, other than at home...

As I lie here paralyzed by this disease that's claiming my life. Clasping on to the hand of the woman who for the last forty years I've called my wife. Poker faced I look into her eyes Tears well up as I think of all the lies. Through each one we stood by each other This is not the love I was told of by my mother. Yet I met this woman when I was a boy My childhood sweetheart who brought me such joy. The love of my life who said I'm her one and only Death would rob us of this bliss And leave her lonely... When she was twenty-four I was twenty-five That’s when we wed the bliss we shared made me know I was alive When she was thirty-three I was thirty-four Five children she had bore Could any man ask for more? Our lives revolved around our family Our last child whose name is Emily Has graduated from university And now faces the prospect of life in the city We gave them all the best money could buy And taught them the all values and virtues to live b...

Photo by Mgcini Nyoni The winding rivers  have thrust me on callous banks of merciless nature  of no familiar  men nor land no colour Just bleak and dark and silent and archaic. of freeways penis enlargement ads in public of skyscrapers I long for   home. Till we meet again in a democratic home the winding rivers shushed raging relentless and calm she waits.