Sweet Vibrations In The Air 

let the plot thicken in quest for their centres

she was looking for her heart, low and high

he had just sent her a little  morning message

“I hope your day is off to an enchanting start”

she read the note over and over, and never got

enough of the text and its texture and tastiness

her heart had  vanished into his, and his into hers

in a powerful paroxysm of gravitation and fusion

 

Madam

Towels with silky hands sweaty

hills and marshy logs. The reaction

is the same phlegmatic snorting.

It’s her sweat against his antics

He neither titters nor simpers

Her bill labours under a plethora of cakes

Anytime cards, toiletries, air time cards,

exotic designer wear and video cassettes.

Foggy and muzzy is the road to titillation.

Flighty and Frisky.

Bongi feels marooned and invisible.

She sings him praises, but he rarely

smithers a smile. And verily he acts the

squirming way.

A coterie of critics find her fulsome.

She feels the hill and bill of betrayal.

Dashes to the glaring mirror.

Loathes a sight of a dear silly billy.

Does he take her for a silhouette of a scum?

Her island’s qualms plunge

into a series of recollections. Halcyon days were

courting days. Her phraseology was at variance

with a piece of platitude.

Qhawe smothered smiles and remarked of an astute

jester who took after his father.

Bongi foots the bill as demands her heart.

Coldness floods her. Has it not come full circle?

Will it ever take off the ground?

Uneasiness unhinges the mind. With an air of

frigidity and rigidity he greets her the following days.

She feels dazed and dumped. Is it not to fritter away

time for a fisherman to keep on hurling the rod

into a fishless pool?

The smoldering war of reasoning rages:

To stay put or to steer out?

But the heart is steeped in love unyielding.

She recalls the jocular piece from a friend:

Grandma to grandpa, ‘The preacher said touch

the troublesome body parts that need some healing.

He didn’t say the prayer will bring to life

what departed long back! So remove your hand

before someone sees what a laughing stock you are!`

Grandpa yelps, `Oh ye of little faith!’

 

Sweet Ntombana`s Safe Habour

Ntombana…

this sweet sixteen self should not dare sail  away from the safe habour

no matter how sweet-talking boys are or archaic parents sound

it has dumped dollies for ‘fun’ boys  and has privileges and rights

but one day it has to unlearn the habit of turning on lights for

romantic rather than economic reasons  when  other sixteens’

ballooning bellies  heave in sight because of boys` menacing

lethal guns or when their bodies lose their natural radiance

because debauchery has ruthlessly ravaged them and turned

their age absolutely upside-down

 

with moderation and vision  and honesty l have to enjoy  life

because time flies faster than a silhouetted butterfly

 

Shimmering With The Moon And The Stars

The king of the jungle listened to the quietude

Of the night, the sleepiness of the woodland

An airiness issued, pampering his eardrums

There was an air of expansiveness and mystery

The royal animal was mesmerised and blown away

By the sweetness and fruitfulness of the melody

It breathed genuinely aromatic buds into his nostrils

And planted a peace of mind that paced through eyes

Here his ears were heir to a lyrical and likable calmness

There was something cool, curative about the experience

The king of the jungle moseyed, marvelled at the elegance

And beauty of the moon, a moon whose remoteness was nigh

He was in the glare of the galaxies` deep dimples and smiles

There was a reappearance and impermanence of moments

The lioness and the cubs were fast asleep, maybe, he thought–

Just re-contextualising peace and the pace of nature and night…