Poetry

Less Ordinary

 

An ordinary sunny day, working day for me

I passed this house. Just an ordinary square

with an ordinary fence – made of ordinary wire

with a keen desire to help me see this…

Old woman, sitting staring at the distance

further down the street… Where she left her mind

6 months now: less ordinary if you think

 

I turned, and said hello! First time in 6 months

first time in 6 months she found my eyes

I rescued her from the distance just for a second though

The longest second I’ve ever been bestowed with

and in this little time I saw something more.

I felt something more…

I am convinced cause my jaw almost touched the dusty road

less ordinary – if you think

 

An ordinary sunny day, working day for me

but I couldn’t pass this house. I had a keen desire

to step behind the fence made of ordinary wire

to say more than hello to this…

Old woman, sitting staring at the distance

hoping that maybe she’d help me see

what was further down the street…

 

I found the gate, my behind found an empty drum

My hand shamelessly found her shoulder –

an ordinary gesture

Again she found my eyes and this time I had a smile

but not as old as hers not as warm as hers

“He’s coming home,” she said. “They say the heroes have

all come home. Not all true, because he’s still coming.

The 21st of March has not yet reached him.”

She seemed convinced ‘cause her eyes danced with hope

 

She spoke of how war mirrored raw

and how he had to leave with the heroes in search of peace

I knew the salt had left my eyes, when her hand tried to soak

it up. Then and there I knew too that my 19 years of peace

in this land of the brave had not yet begun for this old woman,

sitting starring at the distance further down the street.

Her hero had not yet returned. but “he’s coming home,”

she said.

 

An ordinary sunny day, no working day for me

I passed this house. Just an ordinary square

with an ordinary fence – made of ordinary wire

which helped me see the reality of this…

Old woman, sitting staring at the distance

further down the street… 14 years now:

still waiting for her war to end in this land with no war

 

© Christi Warner ( published in:  “In Search of Questions” 2005 BAB & Namibian Sun 2008)

Her wish…

 Once upon a time, you made a wish…

A wish to be innocent, until you find the one

The owner of the rib you carry

You’d join the circle of love as one

And now we’ll know if it ever came true

 

She too made this wish

She was happy, very happy this one day she met him

In his eyes she saw her future

Felt quite safe when he asked her to dance

Oh, they danced the night away

Soon it was time to go, but he wouldn’t let go

He wouldn’t let go. No, he wouldn’t let go

 

Now here’s a little twist.

To him she would like to say…

“Be me and I’ll be you for a second

Feel my hands loosing you from gravity”

But definitely no soft landing

Cuts and bruises all over her skin

Take 2; see these hands tear what covers her skin

Pushing her legs apart.

Forcing silence to escape her lips.

See these eyes, enjoying every moment of pain in hers

 

Now you know the truth

Pain and fear rent a room in her heart

Stalking her everyday, ‘cause she knows…

My wish was vain

 

© Christi Warner

 

First published: In search of Questions - 2005


Untitled You

 

Stand in line

Make sure you can prove your eminence

Oh and don’t forget proof of past suffering…

Where’s your marks, your pain?

Do you have a story to tell?

Does it involve guns, rubber bullets, and teargas?

What about ‘dik Damara’ stones?

Or was exile your fate?

Nothing?

I’m sure you know the tune

to some political song?

No?

If not, sorry because…

Your suffering has just begun.

 

©             Christi Warner                      

Son of the Soil

 

Son of the soil

Your tale has been told

Captured in the hearts and minds of many

Your tale swims oceans of books

Remains still in statue mode for tomorrow’s faces

 

Son of the soil

You played a tune so sad

It danced through the bars of your prison window

Touched the hearts of many

Yesterday you reached out hoping to salute a hand

But no free hand could find yours

 

Son of the soil

You were robbed

You stood trial

But you took the Lion’s throne

 

©          Christi Warner