Poems

A Place Called Home

Volume 13, Issue 3  | 
Published 05/04/2017
  |

Shacks without roofs

Roofs without walls

Walls without doors

Doors without locks

Locks without keys

Beds without mattresses

Rooms without floors

Floors without walls

Walls without roofs

Roofs without cover

Doors without a hinge

Without hinges or latches

Sway and creak to and fro 

 

Sprawling ramshackles of

Hand-made structures

Recycled and panel-beaten to meet

Every pocket

Randomly huddled together

Feel the way the match sticks

Must feel squeezed inside a matchbox

 

Sheets of iron are firmly glued

together

Oxygen comes at an extra fee

Stick, mud and soot are mashed into

Pulp

Moulded, baked and plastered tight

Light is a luxury, still decades out of

sight

Cardboard and ragcloth

Are intricately sewn and held

On pegs and thumbtacks

Windows hung on the outside of the

Clothesline

 

Visitors, uninvited come calling:

A regular downpour pounds the roof

Inwards

Carries away the shreds

A nasty whirlwind slams the door

Shattering it to the other side

A sour flood, rushes in, on piggy-back 

Ferries the loose floor to another 

Location

 

A truant flame

Still smouldering from a neglected

cigarette butt

is playfully tossed around by a breeze

an insensitive gush of wind picks it

up

spark flares

lights up the gloom of the night

up goes one fiery, smoking inferno

of iron-sheet, cardboard, wooden and

plastic pegs

 

In a month, or thereabouts

The imprints of the makeshift

Earthenware

Ragcloth and thumbtacks are back

As it has always been, for those who

call this home

 

The oxygen, the light and the

Windows

Would you believe it 

Still hung on the outside of the

clothesline.

 

Hajaambi Kang’ara

Last modified on Wednesday, 05 April 2017 00:39

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