So he could leave and live in the sky.

There’s the old man who sits on the shelf,

Says he’s losing his wealth,

And he could really care about his health,

And he couldn’t really care about his health,

Just wealth . . .

There’s the young boy who sits on the fence,

Says sitting on the fence don’t make no sense,

Says he’s going to have a child by a wife,

Cut the fraction with a knife.

There’s always enough, but no one will explore

The shadow behind the door,

So near and yet so far . . .

As Is Life

As Is Life

The kingfisher plummets into the river

And captures the winding fish.

As is life . . .

The birdwatcher slowly gropes the ground for his binoculars,

Not daring to move his eyes from what he sees.

It could be fear in his eyes, it could be compassion.

His hands begin to get agitated

And so does he.

His eyes cringe as he cautiously looks for his binoculars,

His head turns to his binoculars, and he slowly reaches for them.

And a rustle of wings, a shimmer in the silent air,

The kingfisher in full flight,

Sinks into the silence of the mere.

The birdwatcher cocks his head to the side in an angry but what

Could have been a mellow moment.

As is life . . .

From Tender Fingers in a Clenched Fist (1988)

TENDER FINGERS IN A CLENCHED FIST

African Metaphor

African Metaphor

You can’t sweep dust under the rug any more.

You can’t keep hiding bodies under the boards of the floor.

You can’t sanction the hearts of an African race.

You can’t hide a man from his very own face.

You can never be a king if you elect yourself the crown.

You cannot perceive the suffering if you’ve never been down.

You’re on the great white colonial ego trip,

But soon you will be penned into your own township.

Your tables of justice will be turned until they fall upon your knees.

Our cries of injustice will drown your pathetic pleas.

You can’t remember the Sharpeville massacre.

Do you remember the exploitation of Namibia?

You can’t remember Mangaliso Sobukwe.

Do you remember the name Azania?

You can’t sweep dust under the rug any more.

You can’t keep hiding bodies under the boards of the floor.

You can’t hear the trickle of blood that will stick your lips together.

You can close the curtains but you can’t hide the weather.

You cannot smell the smoke while it is twisting in the air.

You can’t feel the fire though it is singeing your hair.

You can’t arrest the soul of an African revolutionary.

You can’t meter the reaction of a reactionary.

You cannot hold an African metaphor.

You can’t sweep dust under the rug any more.

You can’t keep hiding bodies under the boards of the floor.