Poems Rethabile Likes

White canes bend at two places, like fingers by Rethabile Masilo White canes bend at two places, like fingers Cities through fingertips inebriate me. Everywhere I travel lies this pavement defining the town with a kerb that may or may not curve to where I go. Patient, I like to try and see it with my cane, slightly slanted in the hand. Not a stick, a pen I use to trace my life again as I walk and tap or touch stone or brick or granite at my feet. No need to prove God or splendour. If you don’t listen well to night you may miss the bat that moves with rubber wing, and flickers round walls in a feeding frenzy. For the glory of everything belongs truly to the night, which holds day as dead retinas carry light, to watch life with previous sight. Poet: Rethabile Masilo Source: @Flash Frontier Books: @AbeBook...

If This Life Is All We Have by Dennis Brutus If This Life Is All We Have if in fact it is all we shall know as indeed may be most probable and if, as is reasonably certain we shall have no more on earth then it is wrong to lament — wrong to wish for the end of life wrong to feel one must drag somehow through and surely one must do whatever one can fill each day with as much as can be done while we live, we must fill each day with living and do each day as much as we can of what seems to us worthwhile; all that is good, as we understand it all that stirs us with a sense of joy and this we must do each day as much as we can while we are living since this may be the only life and certainly the only one we shall know here it is sensible to make it full and alive and rich and satisfying and filled with all that seems good t...

Sardinia by Bruce Hunter Sardinia (as told by Margaret) Ours was a Cold War love. Stationed on the Pine Tree, second defence to the DEW Line, south of Saskatoon in the grassy hills, a stretch of radar domes, like igloos across the near north. We lived in the officers' compound, I went back there once, just to see. Nothing left now but loops of asphalt where the trailers butted into the hillsides. My husband in those long Saskatchewan nights, told of Sardinia, his first posting. And those Mediterranean girls with their darker skin. Names he called out as he reached for me in his sleep. And we played cards: kitchens and living rooms full of smoke. With other couples, always officers and their wives, none of us unmatched, as we bowled in the two lane alley next to the officers' mess. All the codes of dress and decorum. And I never s...