Ch. 13. General services officer, Embassy Bissau, the second year.
1994-1995. Bissau, Guinea-Bissau – the second year
Note 1. Yes, Guinea-Bissau requires two posts. A country small in geographical size, it is gigantic in historical significance, in spiritual force, and in wealth potential.
A whole chapter is required to report on my journeys to Caliquisse and meetings with the Homem Grande. “Homem Grande” in Portuguese means great man. But in Guinea-Bissau, Homem Grande means the big voodoo/spiritual/mystic guy, and Caliquisse is the capital of the spirit world. Now I was not particularly a believer in this stuff, though I did read a book on Santeria as an undergraduate that led me to make a pilgrimage to the above ground crypt of Marie Laveau in pre-Katrina New Orleans. Glad I made that pilgrimage then, because I doubt those sites still exist!
Anyway, returning to the original subject, a warehouse theft that we couldn’t solve resulted in my boss’s decision to consult with the Homem Grande to find out who was ripping us off. My boss was a very religion guy, very observant, but he had this obsession with, how can I say it, “local culture.” So one Saturday, five or six of us piled into two vans and headed to Caliquisse to visit with the local oracle.
After a huge midday feast at the home of a local merchant, Silvestre was his name, I think, we picked up gifts for the Homem Grande, rice, live chickens, a baby pig (leitao), and several bottles of cana (a Cape Verdean sugar cane liquor) and started on a trek into the bush. When the road ended, we continued driving until we reached a clearing, then the guide took us by foot several hundred yards to a wooded area where we found a large tree with a hollowed out base, one of those ugly trees that grows the delicious cabaceira, a white tangy powder in a large green pod. There, we awaited the arrival of the spirit man.
The spirit man arrived, greeted us and offered us a sip of cana, a distilled spirit made from sugar cane, from what appeared to me to be a very questionable container. I very politely declined. Through a translator, we explained that we needed to know who was robbing our warehouse. My boss believed our warehouse employees were guilty, but I maintained they were innocent and that it was clearly an “outside” job. The spirit man nodded, took another sip of cana and pulled a long rusted knife from a sheath. I thought to myself, “Oh shit, he’s gonna kill us!” But the knife wasn’t for us, it was for the hen we brought, the galinha de terra, the reading of whose entrails were to provide the answers we traveled to Caliquisse to seek.
With a quick snap of the wrist, he decapitated the chicken, while holding its still twitching body in his left hand. Then, with a smaller knife, he cut open the chicken’s underside. Here, he began the close reading. Looking carefully at the chicken’s ovaries (I found that out later), he revealed to us that bandits were entering the warehouse through the roof, and that it was definitely an outside job. I took a deep breath of relief; my staff was not involved at all! Then he asked us if we wanted to know anything else! My boss and the OBO project director asked if they would have sons. He said yes, sons for both. But in exchange, both would be required to bring their sons back to Caliquisse for a visit.
He looked my way, but I kept my mouth shut! (I had attended a lecture earlier given by a lady named Eve Crowley on the practice of making deals with the Spirit world. To break a promise is very bad ju-ju. Better not to make it.) The translator advised us that once we uncovered the plot and learned the truth of the robberies, we would be required to return to the Homem Grande and bring more rice, more cana, and more chickens. Satisfied, we piled into the vehicles and returned to Bissau. Little did I know, this would not be my final encounter with the Guinea-Bissau spirit world!
The locals, employees and contacts, adopted me as one of their own. They exposed me, through weddings, funerals, and late night parties, to the full cultural panorama of life in Guinea-Bissau. My favorites were the baby-naming ceremonies and the end of Ramadan Eid al-Fitra celebrations. The Peace Corps volunteers who came around on weekends from the interior of the country became lifelong friends as, after their service in Bissau, they navigated their way through life transitions, careers, family, etc.
Eid at the Bomba (Firestation). Bissau, 1995
We transitioned from the horrid location downtown to the new Embassy compound in Bairro de Penha. We managed to preserve the cashew trees on the compound, guaranteeing a supply of delicious cashew fruit and nuts. We also managed to preserve a supply of poisonous black mambas on the compound lawn.
It is worth mentioning here some Guinea-Bissau folklore. Going back to around the 13th century, the march of Islam across the Sahara and the Sahel saw the emergence of the Malian Empires of Sundiata Keita and Mansa Musa. The legend goes that the Malian Empire stopped its spread at the Kingdom of Kaabu, allowing that distinct people to preserve their non-Islamic culture. Kaabu later became present day Gabu in eastern Guinea-Bissau. Oral tradition and family records indicate that Kaabu was allowed trade and co-existence with Mali via Mandinka traders. It would explain the pride in culture displayed by the Guinean people. Over time, the leadership of Kaabu moved west to Bissau and Bolama.
There is also a legend that a ruler of the Kaabu Kingdom, upon the arrival of the Portuguese, took a large amount of gold and buried it underground inside a boat. No one can locate the boat now because the land underneath the surface has shifted and moved around. Finally, and I heard this from a young finance student vacationing in Bubaque, during the colonial period, Portuguese Guinea had its own currency, paper money and coins, backed by gold reserves in Lisbon. When the freedom fighters defeated the Portuguese to become the first Portuguese colony to achieve independence, several Portuguese families who had lived in Bissau for generations withdrew to Portugal and other countries. But the gold reserves never “transferred” back to Bissau and allegedly hundreds of millions of escudos of gold at present value sit in a Portuguese bank somewhere if not in the Central Bank of Portugal.
In July, 1994, shortly after the move to the new embassy compound, we got a call about trouble in a neighboring country. Well, sort of “neighboring.” When Gambian troops returned home to Banjul, Gambia, after a peacekeeping stint in Liberia, the troops, led by a then unknown Lt Jammeh, ran into a bit of “disrespect” from airport officials. In response to the airport slight, Jammeh and his crew plotted and carried out a coup d’etat.
The Wikipedia article says “In July 1994, the Armed Forces Provisional Ruling Council (AFPRC) seized power in a military coup d’etat, deposing the government of Sir Dawda Jawara. Lieutenant Yahya A.J.J. Jammeh, chairman of the AFPRC, became head of state.” When the coup occurred, the deposed president was out taking a maiden voyage on a navy patrol craft the United States had provided to the Gambians. We maintained VHF radio contact with the president’s party from Bissau. Sir Dawda Jawara didn’t return to Banjul until several years later, when a more enlightened President Jammeh decreed that all former presidents would be maintained and taken care of by the State for life.
I almost left out the account of the time I biked out with our resident Fulbright scholar, Walter Hawthorne, to the lighthouse at Biombo at Prabis? We knew it was going to be a long, tough trek, so we packed lunch, almost like a picnic! God only knows how we knew when to leave the paved road and take back trails to our destination. Walter’s crioulo was better that mine and maybe he asked for directions along the way. We both had bicycles with off-road capability (although folks at the Embassy advised against it). We made it to the lighthouse and and when we returned I jotted down notes about it for a future poem which I posted here (along with an ancient photo of the remains of a once majestic lighthouse): https://thisismypoetryblog.wordpress.com/2017/12/23/from-the-archives-prabis-guinea-bissau-memories/.
When the time came, my CAO, Nick Williams, asked me where I wanted to go next. His predecessor, Kathy Peterson, who suggested I consider bidding Bissau in A-100, promised me a good follow-on assignment if I did well in Bissau. I thought, “Go for it now! It’s your only chance.” I asked for the London, CON/POL rotation. My second choice was GSO in Nassau. Rumor had it that the ambassador in Nassau heard of my work in Bissau and wanted me to join his team. His wife and my then mother-in-law allegedly cooked this whole thing up at their weekly hairdresser appointment (Ambassador Sidney Williams, Embassy Nassau chief of mission, former pro football player and big time Friend of Bill (FOB) was married to Congressman Maxine Waters). It went to panel and the deciders discussed (so I was later told) that the ambassador wanted me in Nassau and it was my #2 choice. But Nick intervened and reminded them that I had been promised my #1 choice after agreeing to Bissau. Nick promised he’d take care of me. He said he would work on it. I got the London assignment.
We can, frankly, end the whole story of my foreign service career here and it would be quite complete. Everything after Bissau is pretty much a footnote to be truthful. But let us continue.
Farewell Party, Bissau. 1995.
p.s. Addendum 1
Our private security company (a model well-to-do neighborhoods and gated communities are likely to turn increasingly to as we take steps to defund public police departments) found car batteries for sale in a local market, traced them back to our embassy and to the band of thieves, who when pressed (spare us the details, please!), confessed they were entering the roof at night across the tops of several adjacent buildings.
As fate would have it, the owner of our security company is in 2021 the country’s Minister of Interior. But back then he was just a guy with a security company.
And yes we went back to Caliquisse. Well, you know Americans, after getting what we wanted there was no great motivation to return and actually pay the price. But towards the end of my stay I kept remembering that lady’s lecture about making deals with the Spirit World (She is still around, I think in Europe with FAO, Eve Crowley). With three weeks left and my boss having left post in disgrace, I got a driver to take me out to Canchungo where Silvestre lived, and he made the arrangements. We took a box of several bottles of Cape Verdean cana, aka grog, along with a couple of baby pigs and full grown chickens and paid a final visit to the spirit man.
Of course he wanted to do the whole thing again and give me a reading. I very politely declined.
Addendum 2. December 2018.
I learned some interesting factoids over dinner tonight with the GB Ambassador to the UN.
1. Secret back channel communications between Jonas Savimbi and GB President “Nino” Vieira attempted to resolve the almost 30-year conflict in Angola. The will of international arms dealers to prolong the conflict was just too strong in the end.
2. Portugal revised its constitution in 1951, identifying its overseas colonies as provinces before signing on to the UN Charter in 1955, to avoid any UN requirements to decolonize. Lots of ramifications here for a whole generation of several nationalities of people.
3. Reasonable people disagree on the political and philosophical legacy of Guine-Bissau native and Pan-African thinker and strategist, Amilcar Cabral. I have my own thoughts, but perhaps I need to do further research.
How did I not include poems from the period?
My Return to Mother Africa
I return to Mother Africa an alien,
my African blood thinned
through generations of race-mixing
with the Cherokee, and the Blackfoot,
and the Scots and Irish of North Carolina and Virginia . . . .
I go to the discotheques but the rhythms
are far too complex for my sensibilities,
too difficult for me to even imagine trying
to dance to; but I fake it, trying to stay in step,
consoling myself in the knowledge that,
at least, I know . . . .
With the women I find myself at a loss for words,
not necessarily because they’d laugh
at my broken Crioulo
(or even at my flawed Portuguese),
nor even because I know they know
I can’t promise them a way out when I leave . . . .
No, I’m awed by them because of their courage,
because their mere existence is a triumph,
a remarkable overcoming,
an achievement that stands them alone,
at least from we,
who have known neither true poverty nor deprivation,
who have always had access to clean hospitals,
and uninterrupted electricity, and drinking water,
the best of schools with well-stocked libraries,
and, lest we forget, to the latest
in high-tech running shoes . . . .
Yes, I’m awed by their courage,
by their resilience,
by their hope,
by their optimism . . . .
I return to Mother Africa an alien,
my natural senses dulled, my skin bleached,
my hair relaxed, my own African blood thinned
through generations of Americanization.
Natural Forces, or, Notes to a Former Lover
Guine-Bissau is a land of sudden change:
High tide rolls in and out within minutes;
There is no dusk, no reflective moments
between daylight and darkness;
The dry dusty season follows quickly
on the heels of the rains and floods,
as if one can't wait for the other to get out of town;
The calm coolness of winter begins
while the heat and humidity of summer
are still there with us......
When you leave, roll out like high tide,
dramatically, instantaneously,
leaving my beach bare, exposed and muddy;
May your departure be as brief an interlude
as the fleeting dusky twilight between
afternoon and nightfall;
Let the rains of tears you brought me
evaporate, instantly,
in the rapidly approaching,
dry sun-scorching drought
and the coolness of dawn,
The temperature of my passion
slowly dissipating while the heat
of your madness yet remains.
Bafata
I know that tree in Bafata,
I know her well -
as a child I watched the old men
meet with her and harbor in her shade,
and whisper in dark, low tones –
we ran circles around her
year in and year out,
and the women took her fruit
and drew a chalky powder
from her brown-green pods
to make a tarty drink – cabaceira!
The memory of its taste
still lingers, still soothes me.
Ah! Cabaceira!
And the ju-ju men in Bafata
worked magic in her shade,
shaking the bones and reading
the eggs and guts of chickens slain,
sacrificed to foretell the future.
That tree has seen generations
come and go. Mostly go.
She keeps giving up her fruit,
and witnesses everything.
Airport
A thousand thoughts flood my thinking space.
The physical diversity of people flying to the same country,
The events that caused their permanent departure
Draw them all back home for the holidays.
I am a part of them.
My ancestors kidnapped so their African sweat
Could raise America’s crops, build her roads and cities,
So their African sons and daughters could fight their wars
And fill their prisons in their wayward wandering wanderings.
I am a part of them.
Their hopes, their dreams,
Returning to the motherland fulfills –
It is the winter solstice – The shortest day of the year,
And so many things to do that require the light of day –
But it is also the longest night, where hidden things
Remain hidden in the darkness.
The war twenty years ago and subsequent political events
Decimated the population through mass migration
To avoid a fate just as bad as death itself.
Many lucky ones crossed the Atlantic.
I am a part of them.
—————-
A facebook status update
By a shipmate reminded me
Of some crazy shit we did in our youth.
I have no regrets – it was all
For God and country.
But it was stuff I never talked about.
And now the whole world knows.
Finally underway. 2008 GMT.
—————-
Hotel
The hotel is adequate
But all the books in the bookstore
Are either old from dust
Or damaged by water.
There is a sadness –
Too much drinking,
Always under pressure
To hold back the tide,
The flood that will surely
envelop us and swallow all our hopes.
Mango trees lining the street
Are hermaphrodites.
—————
Bissau Velho (Old Town)
Dust from the street
making me wheeze
When I breathe
Fine particulate –
centuries of accumulated bat shit
Falls from every attic
every time a soft breeze blows –
Black mold on the walls
And very likely in our lungs
Certainly in our brains –
Clouds our vision.
There is still time
And space for a
yet-to-be-accomplished
Great work –
Heavy loads to lift –
miles to go.
—————–
Wednesday Haiku
Death’s shadow stalks us
Lurking in the crevices
Between the silence
Sleepless in Lisbon
Jet lagged from Ultramar flight
Eyes red and blinking
Not a single bite
From the mosquitoes that halt
The empire’s army.
suitcase living sucks
But some Fado Sunday night
Makes it all worthwhile.
—————-
Mar Atlantico
How many souls
have spent months, years,
lives in your embrace?
The beach is calm, placid.
Waves, incoming,
Lightly kiss the shore
And repeat.
Light kisses that please,
Hypnotize, and deceive.
In the distance,
in the far distance,
You already know the sound
Of the roar and crash
Of waves that break
—————-
Rains of Bissau
I miss the rains of Bissau –
the soft pitter-patter at dawn –
the heavy downpour, like clockwork,
in mid-afternoon – as chuvas veem –
(the rains come) the lightning and the thunder
at sunset, raging against the end of days –
I wish we had some postcards
from that magical place –
we have a painting of Joao Landing
before the Chinese built the bridge –
and statuettes from the Bijagos.
Manjaco cloth draps the sofa,
and music CD’s from the Tabanka
are on the shelf – but postcards não ha.
—————-
Tree from Bafata
I know that tree from Bafata,
I know her well –
as a child I watched the old men
meet with her and harbor in her shade,
and whisper in dark, low tones –
We ran circles around her
in Bafata, year in and year out,
and the women took her fruit
and drew a chalky powder
from her brown-green pods
to make a tarty drink – cabaceira!
The memory of the taste of it
still lingers, still soothes me.
Ah! Cabaceira!
And the ju-ju men in Bafata
worked magic in her shade,
shaking the bones and reading
eggs and guts of chickens slain,
sacrificed to foretell the future.
This tree has seen generations
come and go. Mostly go.
She continues giving up her fruit,
in season, and witnesses everything.
—————–
the lady from Gabu
I watched, mesmerized, as she danced,
the lady from Gabu, her lips
moving slowly to the English lyrics.
Our lines of vision crossed.
She looked surprised.
and came over and offered to dance.
Dusky brown, light of step,
smiling. I said, rather sheepishly,
“I´ll try to keep up.” She said
“You´ll do just fine.”
“You are a good dancer,” she said.
“but how is your Crioulu?”
“You are a good liar,” I replied,
“but it´s ok. My Crioulu is limited
to bu misti & ca tang.”
I want and I don´t have.
“That´s a good start,” she said.
“Spend 7 days and 7 nights with me
in Gabu and you will speak
um bom Crioulu.”
It seemed her feet
never touched the dance floor.
& I, I never returned to Gabu.
—————-
Back in Bissau velho
Ah, back in Bissau velho!
the smell of mold and of years
of accumulated bat droppings
fills the urban air!
Ah, back in Bissau velho!
The night air is smokey brown.
My cunhado has blocked off the road
in front of his restaurant.
All the brothers & sisters
and nieces & nephews
and old friends are gathered.
Ah, back in Bissau velho!
I take a sip of red wine
and in memory of the ancestors
& pour a bit on the ground
for their spirits to enjoy.
Ah, back in Bissau velho!
One more verse before the end.
The fragrance of bat droppings
fills the air. Love, pure love
is true. False faces quickly
fade from memory.
—————-
facing an uncertain future
The future approached me & reached for my hand,
wrapping his tiny fingers around my thumb.
He was dark and skinny, maybe a bit malnourished,
his eyelids puffed from infection.
But his pupils were wide and round
and full and deep dark. Foreboding maybe.
Full of information. Full of warning.
The future approached me and held out his arms.
I reciprocated and lifted him to my lap.
He didn’t speak, but his eyes spoke volumes
of pain and hope. His lips remained still.
Reaching back to inform us, to warn us
that it is coming and it won’t be long.
We have every reason to prepare, to be ready.
—————-
visiting my embassy
my embassy
representation of my country:
closed, burned down,
cannibalized, sacrificed
on the altar of the new world order
hands off, but still stirring the pot
from afar – by default
and by omission
a country’s progress halted
by internal entropies –
we watch and wait.
—————-
Return to Africa again
my wife brought me here for healing –
“the African sun will do you good.”
And here I am, bathed in family
and tribal love. My village
surrounds me. The ladies bring
fresh fruit and warm bread
and no part of it
is genetically modified.
Flesh still a bit tender from the cut,
but the stitches are beginning to dissolve.
I boil some bottled water for tea –
then watch the housekeeper top it off
with water from the tap – they say
once you have tasted from the waters
of Pindjiguiti – waters made sweet
by the blood of the martyrs,
their bitter sweat, their salty tears –
you will always remember Bissau.
The old man in Caliquisse
told me returning was part
of the spiritual deal we struck.
—————–
Prabis memories (12/21/2015)
last night we dined in Prabis –
oysters from the mangrove swamps,
grilled fish from the green sea,
galinha de terra, ice cold Sagres.
I remember the marineiros –
the old men who smoked too much,
and their stories, their memories –
we once hooked a huge serra,
must have weighed 40 pounds – too big
to bring aboard our tiny boat.
We let it drag us up and down the river,
almost to the sea, and hoped the line
would hold. The fish got tired before we did
and we hauled it alongside. Then took it
to my future father-in-law’s house
(who knew?) for cleaning and division.
There is an ancient lighthouse in Biombo –
at the far end of Prabis beach,
built by the Portuguese explorers
to help them navigate unknown terrain –
right where the river meets the sea –
an invisible line they needed light to see.
Prabis lives long in our collective memories –
the mangrove swamps, the river, the sea.
—————–
Bissau city notes
the call to prayer awoke me,
aroused me from my slumber –
20 years ago inside the walled compound –
inside the isolated international zone –
twice separated from reality –
we never heard the call.
But now, inside the city,
we hear it, and it calls us to reflect,
to contemplate, to consider
our course of action.
There are more people in the city:
more languages being spoken,
more cultures mixing,
more women in hijab, more buying
& selling in Bandim Market.
I hear people are immigrating here,
traders from Conakry and Senegal,
refugees from Mali and Niger.
The state apparatus is small & weak
so opportunities are many.
—————–
Feira Africana (and rambling thoughts)
Tuesday was laundry day
but there was no water running in the city –
electricity was on the blink
for most of the afternoon.
Man, we are roughing it!
WiFi didn’t connect in the Feira,
but there was plenty of real shopping to be done.
Spent a few hours with my cunhado
at the Pindjiguiti memorial –
remembering the dockworkers
who were martyred there –
remembering their noble intentions of non-violence –
remembering the armed struggle decision –
remembering the glorious revolution
that overthrew the jugo estranjeiro –
its successes, its failures.
Reading about Amilcar Cabral
during my youth drew me to this place:
Norfolk Journal & Guide & Baltimore Afro-American
came to the house every week
(along with the Future Outlook) –
later I’d buy Muhammad Speaks,
The African World, and Black Panther
newspapers off the streets.
My earliest African heroes, though,
were distance runners: Mirus Iftar and Kip Keino,
& Dona Juliana who taught me my first
Amilcar Cabral poem.
—————–
Bandim, or, to someone I should have loved
Bandim, Bissau’s principal market
is both larger and more dense
than 20 years ago. But it still
has the same heartbeat & pulse,
the same rhythm and baseline;
it is the same living organism,
the same tessellation –
just spread out wider.
Memories crowd
the reflective space – informing,
seeking effect. But I learned
last night the past has no life,
only rest & peace in an unkept
cemetery. A garbage dump is just outside
the walls where pigs and buzzards
co-habitate, picking through the trash –
and people drinking beer nearby,
without a care on a warm December night.
*
The market was too thick, too dense,
so I contented myself to shop on the edges.
Panos de pente were lovely, but nothing
caught my eye – same traditional stuff.
At the far edge I saw something familiar:
stacks of bags of cabeceira!
The lady behind the table, hoping I’d spend
the whole 2K CFA, offered me veludo and faroba
and said I should mix the three.
Sounded reasonable. She gave me back 500 CFA.
*
How could I have paid more attention?
Too busy at work, mastering the craft –
too busy on the weekends partying
until the wee hours –
too busy traveling, south to Cacine,
north to Farim, west to Gabu…
too busy plotting a future perfect.
I should have known better –
I should have paid more attention.
—————-
Boxing day in Bissau
I hit a bump on the poetry road –
too much to eat, too much conversation
left no time or space to write. Catching up
now that the day has passed –
memories of old mythologies:
A boat that was buried
the time of the giants
confusion among the petite bourgeoisie
the “state” is a massive mythology
whose political parties play a football game
that can go either way as long as it all
self-preserves – the mechanics of administration
a curiosity that captures our best minds –
time better spent in education & poetry.
—————–
observations of the voyage
every voyage has some disappointment,
missed communications, money change failures,
shopping opportunities lost,
transportation misfires –
The mango seeds sound like
rain falling,
spoiling my last Monday.
I know how to go,
but I know how to stay
and avoid unknown risks in the streets.
*
a soft rain fell on a cloudy yesterday
both uncommon in the dry season
more wigs, more weaves, more straightened hair
in the market – the French influence
more Fula & Mandinga traders, immigrants
at the bank – the Muslim influence
buyers, money traders, information seekers –
bankers accept dollars – reject American passports
for our account transactions.
*
The cooperative class & the petite bourgeoisie
are too closely linked, by blood, by culture,
to carry out effectively the goodwill intentions
of the ruling class. Something has to give here,
to relieve the pressure of the expanding gas.
Class suicide is required by both, together,
and both need to consider anew their re-Africanization.
—————–
Walking about thoughts
It is not easy to walk these broken streets,
and not become incensed, radicalized
by all the obvious asymmetries
one sees. Women on each corner selling
fruit & shrimp & peanuts & cashews.
Men in big cars with big, bald, shaven heads.
The table spread. Each outlaw seated.
The chiefs and the youngest of the 3rd generation
The chiefs and youngest of the 4th. All gathered.
The imams have arrived from Guinea &
Sierra Leone, from Morocco and Mauritania,
from Niger and Mali, from Senegal and Gambia.
Unguarded frontier & porous borders equals
weak state. Everything is ripe for the picking.
—————–
Departure: Bissau
Finally. At the airport. Our voyage almost complete.
As GSO I spent so many days here,
so many late nights meeting visitors,
crews, teams supporting our new building project.
Half all caught up in a series of local dramas.
I remain detached, aloof, aware
of the inconsequentiality
of fleeting trouble phantoms that soon fade.
Goodbye for now, Mama Africa!
We have your hopes & dreams in our baggage –
cross-stitched with our own –
your cabeceira, veludo, and farola
from Bandim market, your malagueta
spice and honey, triple-wrapped for the journey –
the sweetened waters of Pindjiguiti,
the reddened stain of palm oil on our lips.
—————-
empire sunset
at the end of time
sunset will seem
to last forever
a thin red strip
on the horizon,
thinning, flickering
in its futile attempt
to stay, to widen
to reverse time itself –
but we all know
that time only reverses
itself in poetry –
and in Superman movies
when Lois Lane dies
and the Man of Steel
reverses Earth’s rotation
to forestall, reverse
her death’s circumstance.
At the end one might
even be persuaded
that that sunset is itself
a beginning –
a dawn, not a dusk –
but that would be
a deception.
—————–
A benediction in haiku
Poesia-me.
Romance me. Make me a rhyme.
Let me be the poem.
Things still remain wrapped
up – that want to be unwound –
thoughts and worlds unformed.
Can I stop it now?
Is there ink still in my pen?
A pulse in my veins?