Waiting for the Soil to Warm

Fostered cabin culture

normally hosts waxed

moustached patrons
sup-slurping on artisan

brewed brown ale;

a vast industrial space

filled with neutral

woodland shades.

Tonight though, outside

the street is a funnel;

the weird wait to be distilled

into the furnace.

Reverberating music will replace

smoked malt wheat that has

been sweetened with honey

free from elitist pesticides –
the International Festival of Psychedelia

beckons us.

We are like the cicada that waits for

the perfect soil temperature before

surfacing into the world…a world

where musical priests stand with

straightened backs and proclaim

their vision is cocaine.  Where

South American women glide past

their shoulders, with a rhythm that

is steeped in ancient mystique

and seek a sermon that is not

forthcoming. 

Their eyes state

detached lunacy

that transcends

understanding.

Unable to see Austin-inked arms

lock for a moment’s memory;

they miss the union between

the beautiful and the veteran –

both seasoned with wisdom

that cannot be taught. 

They await a

higher purpose.

Subterranean excitement pulsates

until contact is lost with external reality.

 

Cigarette skins and kaleidoscope glasses

bring magic into our life,

Cicada psychosis in segments;

the soil now warm

enough to burst free.

Tomas Bird - Hot Moon 2015

Diary of The Zambezi

He breaks away from the herd,

brave young bull.

The matriarch bellows goodbye;

perhaps to her only son.

I feel his splash-thump steps,

before he trunks me

over his parched-leather hide;

I’m too shallow to swim in you see.

Part of me ripples

towards the scorched shore,

and there I see them:

khaki-killing machines,

crouched-aiming cruelty;

takers of life.

Bright sunlight catches

the white one’s Rolex;

a blood-tourist.

The poor hearing herbivore

paddles and grunts,

blind to the bead drawn on him,

as I do my best to cool his feet.

“Good munee in dem tusks, Sabib”,

the Mahout turned traitor whispers.

More paddling.  More grunts;

just an oblivious silhouette

on my blue

till the shot

and the final splash.

Tomas Bird - Hot Moon 2015

Another Day in the Office

No quiet respite for me today,

instead the pressures crept

into my spine of servitude;

my brow bled beads of sweat.

With no mentor I can turn to,

my inner strength has left.

Now days seem vast as oceans;

my problems fill their depths.

No sweet relief for my tired eyes

from sluggish, heavy air.

I sit upon his well-worn seat,

and fight the urge to care

‘Bout never ending work-streams,

and what my colleagues think

of past actions soaked in whiskey;

my dark side’s favourite drink.

But all things change, they do not last;

this cycle never ends.

Fourteen years I’ve lived like this,

lived like this my friend.

No stopping now, it’s all I know;

a life of constant toil.

I praise the "what’s" and curse the "how’s"

then chill my blood that’s boiled.

And so I leave to travel home,

my mode of transport’s train.

No turning back to face my day,

the hours have turned to rain.

And so I leave to travel home,

I’m soaking from the rain.

Retreat towards an early start,

then wake, repeat again.

Retreat towards an early start,

then wake, repeat again.

Tomas Bird - Hot Moon 2015