Language lessons, part I

Wake up at the crack of dawn,
shoot the rooster, mow the lawn,
wash you face and shake your head,
eat some porridge, back to bed.

Rise again and write a letter,
now you should be feeling better,
brush your teeth and comb your hair,
peek through the boards and watch them stare.

Make your way to the shade and say
you’ve got to study every day.
under scrutiny of countless childern,
seems like there’s a hunnert million.

Can’t think straight with all the noise,
it’s pretty tough maintaining poise,
books won’t work, they’ll have to wait,
close your eyes and concentrate . . .

. . . wake up just in time for lunch,
or woken by an errant punch?
studying’s important shit, but
you’ve got to eat–keep the body fit.

After lunch it’s just too hot,
if you studied now it would all be forgot.
Better rest and build your strength
For study periods of greater length . . .

. . . The sun has reached the end of its arc.
No use reading in the dark.
But I’ll go to bed early, wake up strong,
and tomorrow I’ll study twice as long.

Language lessons, part II

Can I have that hat of yours?
Okay, I’ll take the t-shirt instead,
What’s that book he’s writing in?
Where’s he going and where’s he been?

Is there lots of money there?
Will you take me when you go?
When are you going, anyway?
And what does he mean he’s here to stay?

Why don’t you dance? Why won’t you talk?
Why don’t you eat? What’s wrong with our food?
Aren’t you going to wash before dinner?
Why won’t he eat? He keeps getting thinner.

Are you going to read? Are you going to study?
Give him some peanuts he looks like he’s hungry.
This is your nose. This is your head.
What did he say? Did you hear what he said?

You learned our language you know how to greet,
when we call you to eat you come and you eat.
But where do you go when the ground meets the sun
with those thoughts in your head that won’t roll off your tongue?

Rejoice and be glad

Rivers of life pass by,
will they return?
Some have doubts,
think a lot about
trying to live without
and not getting burned.

Waves of life slap shores,
only to recede.
Their gentle breeze
blows to tease
the wilting leaves
of fruitless deed.

Orange-brown pools, sunstunned,
til children jump in.
Where parasites wait
in rain-fed bait,
a life cycle’s fate
on youth depends.

Small bodies of water,
vulnerable to attack.
An unseen knave
in what can save
the life it gave
can take it back.

Clouds of life overhead,
bring only shade.
Some will say
(as they fill the ice tray)
that this is the day
the Lord hath made.

Cradle robbers (a mother’s lament)

We work the fields
and cook the meals
with water that we drew.
We pray for rain
and pound the grain
and get to eat it, too.
And wash the clothes
and pinch the snot from baby’s nose,
where flies are hard to shoo.

We scrape and hoe
til sun gets low
and backs won’t straighten out.
The air is still
at least until
a hungry voice cries out.
Walk home to chores
and maybe bathe ourselves before
we bring the dinner out.

The bowls all washed
I check the cloth
that covers baby’s face.
The flies moved on
but when they’ve gone
mosquitoes take their place.
Their whirring roar
alerts us they’ve returned for more,
bare skin won’t go to waste.

When huts cool off
or babies cough,
it’s time to go inside.
The husbands rest
in beds with nets,
like veils around a bride.
They chew on me,
can’t make them let the baby be,
though Allah knows I’ve tried.

The water brings
a lot of things,
not all of them are good.
Some kill the young
and when they’re done
they go back to the wood.
Without a net
just try to sleep and not regret,
I only wish I could.