Welcome to John E. WordSlingers’ Nudged Sketches of Flighty Things

Posted in Animal Poetry, Art Poetry, Beautifire, Begets of Autumn, bluebellbooks, Bullet Train Poetry, Cento, Charles C Gragg, Childrens Poetry, Christmas Poetry, Collaboration, Craft Poetry, Dark Poetry, De Nocturno Series, Epic Poetry, Erotic Poetry, Essay, Faith Poetry, Family Poetry, Fantasy Poetry, French Eroticopter Series, Friend Poets, Goth Poetry, History Poetry, Horror Poetry, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=09rHDabBQfA, Humor Poetry, Interactive Poetry, Jingle Poetry At The Gooseberry Garden Picnic, John E WordSlinger, Kreativ Blogger Award, Language Octane: My French Eroticopter Series, Light Poetry, Love Poetry, Madelynn, Nature Poetry, Oratorio, Pantoum, Poetry, Poetry E Train, Poetry Promotion, Poetry Train, Poets of Blood, Positive Poems, Prose, Proverbe's de' les Roses, Romance Poetry, School of Poetry, Sestina, Short Story, Slingtionarious, Sonnet, Speech, Spiritual Poetry, Stream Conscious, The Art of Selena Howard, The Emily Dickinson Dash, The Phantom Series, Thursday Poets Rally, Time Travel Poetry, Tuanortsa, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 24, 2011 by johnewordslinger

Photo by: https://www.facebook.com/twoangelsdesignprinceton

is a poet with 4 wheel drive, so lets go for a ride…..
\,,/_(-.-)_\,,/ ~ WordSlingers’ NUDGED SKETCHES OF FLIGHTY THINGS

and most of all CRITIQUE
@ YOUR OWN RISK !!! ….
-smiles and blessings….. lol…

John E. WordSlinger/PoetryTrain/dot/com is affiliated and a member of the following companies, and organizations.

My Internet Writing Life Motto is-
Keep it Poetry and Poetry Shall Keep You:,
Short Bio:Hazard…

I have to take the road that Bruce Lee
took towards the Martial Arts, as an
Analogy here. Like Water;
I take the Literature Arts of Poetry.
In the beginning I used free verse,
swift rhyming, lyrical, metal-rap-groove verse.
With definition and aggression.
Now I try different systems,
in all genres, as always,
And put them to my personal use,
furthermore put to use what is useful
when needed,  and reject what I don’t need
at the time for a specific write.
Using no specific way is the way,
I am the way I write, but keeping in mind,
the tools at hand. No limitations as the limitation.
With all poetry styles ( trapping, and grabbing)-
(Mind locks-Heart locks-Spiritual locks-)
Honestly expressing ones self is difficult to do:
The Poet, the creating individual is always
more important than any style or system.
Absorb what is useful, discard what is useless,
And add to what is your own.
I write my own interpretation of poetry.
Concepts behind concepts.
Dedicating to creating
creative new-original thoughts, and poetry.
Like I write with one hand,
but if I could write with the other,
at the same time, a different poem,
that would be to break boundaries.
As asking multi-tasking: Poetry styles separate poets.
Style is a continuous growth.
Poetry skills/tools are weapons and you have
to use all of them, to incorporate all styles.
(Move all parts of your poetry)
Put everything into it, all energy.
Rest then progress.
A true poet is constantly growing,
and when he or she are bound by a set of styles,
or a way of doing things, that’s when he,
or she stops growing.
To reach a reader you have to move
to them, advance, and retreat- advance retreat,
furthermore slide and step back, push,
and push back, circle them
( put the reader on defense),
and close them in, and hit them
with the best closure.
Poetry is like water, flexible, it has to go somewhere.

Photo Credit

 I  love making  love to the alphabet.

I believe in her, and I believe she can be anything she wants to be.


Treacherous urges steadily spur
on this dreadful adventure of what we lure!-Poem Madversity…
In the Poets’ hood keep the Poets’ eye-
For a good Poet shall never die! Poets of Blood &c &c

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All poems All Rights Reserved:
Embedded in Sap
Begets of Autumn LLC.

Psalms 35

My Good (confidence) Luck Charm

I strictly use Flairs for my poetry journals

John E. WordSlingers Poetry Journals

Link to Photos to these Journals: https://www.facebook.com/poetrytrain/media_set?set=a.875249025883840.1073741888.100001962511437

I strictly use Flairs for my journals

Click On Art Work to go Directly to Creations:

John E. WordSlingers’ Poetry Train Currently on an E-Journey in e-Africa.

Art by Selena Howard

Poetry Train.com is
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John E. WordSlingers’ School of Poetry (School House by Stefy Janeva)

“Surely in vain the net is spread in the sight of any bird” (Proverbs 1:17)

CHAPTER 5 Way Upon the Kingdom in the Sky, Where the Sun Sat on Poetry Lesotho 10th November 2016

Posted in Uncategorized on November 12, 2016 by johnewordslinger


Way Upon the Kingdom in the Sky, Where the Sun Sat on Poetry


10th November 2016

The Mountains looked to be shrinking as Red, Scratch and Andy rode horse back to find Poets, Readers, and Railroaders, furthermore Wisdom in this sector of the realm in the beautiful country of Lesotho. A Saxicola Castor was following them and chirping away. They smiled too, because it sounded as though the bird was laughing at them. They heard singing too far away. The Basuto Horses were amazing, fearless, and they knew where any dinosaur foot print was on their path, and the Horses made sure they stepped in each one on their trek.

Andy pointed at some round houses off in the distance and said “Bam! We need to find a watering hole,” said Andy, “This land looks like the west in the states and west Canada Red.”

Yes, Red replied, The Grand Canyon too, and we need to get to the village, and talk to a Chief first, so we have permission at a watering hole. Red pointed at rock formations, they were circles, and he then smiled, and Andy knew why, it was the wisdom of the straw, down by the poetry realms law.

A lady came up to them smiling, and asked to groom the horses. They could tell by her eyes, and the movements of her hands. She spoke either isiXhosa, Sesotho or Setswana, the language of the clans by King Moshoeshoe. We agreed, and stepped down to stretch ourselves. A boy from a distance was calling her “Mantsopa, Mantsopa.” The woman was the Prophetess of Power, Anna Makhetha Mantsopa, and the King of Lesotho Moshoeshoe whom she protected, feared her over her vision that came true, and he sent her into exile. The King feared her. ‘Imagine that Andy & Red thought to each other, in time travel tele-thought mode from study, those who love get the shaft, even back in the 19th Century, but hey, we must love on anyway.’

“Katsi come here,” said the Prophetess of Power, Anna Makhetha Mantsopa. She motioned that the boy was blind, so she kept saying his name Katsi until he came close to them. He was nervous, and explaining things to her, and it seemed danger was coming. Danger; Doom and Dreads’ sister. She looked at Andy and Red, and pointed to the low areas in the valley.

“Red I think she is telling us many things, said Andy, “There are spirits walking on the road to Heaven, and an army is on the way, and we need to get out of sight. And the circles of stones.”

I feel that she wants to show us too, what she’s about to do, said Red.

She reached out with her walking stick, and made a turtle on the dry land.

Andy blurted out, “Heaven yes, the magic of the rain turtle.”

Red tele-thought to Andy, about the seventh game of the 2016 world series, and it’s effect and power of change. Something was about to change, in a drastic way.

The boy, Katsi spoke, ‘The gate of mud’ also known as Lekhalong la Bo Tau or ‘The Pass of the Lions.” He spoke English, and they thanked him. He looked at them and said, “We all must go know, storms will be coming, and this will slow down the army that is passing here. The waters get high and can be dangerous. We must go, and sing Izibongos, praise songs and poems.”

Anna Makhetha Mantsopa looked at Andy and laughed. She then spoke, “Ke ‘na thabela ho kopana le bobeli ba lōna ka bobeli. Lets ea ‘me ba bang lithoko le tlohela ea bona nakong e tlang … Re lokela ho potlaka, lipula li tlang.”

Red deciphered most of what she said, I am pleased to meet the both of you both. Lets go and do some poetry, and lets go see the future… We must hurry, the rains are coming.

As they all walked to the cave, there were people singing, and dancing. Some held sticks as high up as they could. Andy thought about lightning, and thunder could be heard. This was legendary, the struggle for peace was happening. Everyone, the women, the men, and their dances were impressive. The women wore top clothing that looked like five white inner tube looking blouses with white furry skirts. They also wore white chalk on their skin, except for their hands. They were chanting Lithothokiso, aka praise poems.

The Prophetess, Anna Makhetha Mantsopa brought them water, fresh water from the scared spring. A healing kind of water. She looked at Scratch, and gave him water, then at and Andy and Red, and smiled. The Mountain Lion of the Americas, had come here, to the Pass of Lions. She took their horses to drink and rest.

Red, and Andy knew they had to listen to this celebration. Scratch was entertained by the blind boy Katsi or vise to the verse. This too alone was a sight to see. Scratch was cat playing, and the boy loved it. Everyone else loved it too, as they smiled, and danced. They were singing, poetry up on; people should not be killed, bring the key to peace, bring the key to peace. Break the sticks of politics, break them, break them, all they do is make us sick, a deep sickness. The scent of burning filled the air, as the sky darkened.

As everyone celebrated, Andy and Red noticed an oriental woman sitting on the ground. She looked out of place. Red motioned for Andy to go talk to her. Andy walked over to her and introduced himself, and sat down. She was nervous, and Andy asked her about her name why she was so nervous, and she replied, “My name is Mika Kalati and I ‘am nervous of the British army coming to get me. I escaped their harem, their so called private sector for sin, for their dark and nasty imperialistic behavior. They raped me, and others, from China, Indonesia, Japan, Korea, Taiwan, and the Philippines. They also pimp us out to Railroaders, and you would think they would take us away from these sins, but no, but I did manage one to get me this far, but I ‘am sure he is paying a price.

Andy looked at Red, and they remember the poem “Trinity Lane.”

The rain appeared and so did the Poet Edith Louisa Mary King, so everyone went inside the cave, and Edith Louisa Mary King spoke, “I have brought us all twigs, and I ‘am going to teach everyone rhythm and rhyme, and lets create our own play, as Poetry hunters and gatherers. Our own, poetry from history. In all due respect, Shakespeare we won’t need you this time.”

The wind, and the wind of un-recorded time of the storm outside was blowing in the future, furthermore the vision, the vision was that, the heart of man must embrace peace, do it within, near to family and friends, they must, or we all will be dust, no more existence. Fear God, but do not neglect them. Heap of love, heap love. They all seen, and felt this vision within the cave, love one another. Red looked at Andy, and they knew what was happening. Danger was causing the nightmare, the sister of Doom and Dread.

Andy began to have a nightmare, and a fever appeared, and he tossed and turned in his roomette asking, “Have the climbing pegs to heaven been removed? Is the noise from earth to loud for the creator? Why did the great worm of the earth ever come to surface? Will River Gods have remorse for mankind, and keep giving us a little bit of wisdom at a time? Will the great Hippopotamus return with children so their mothers can adore them again? How many bracelets would be returned from the underworld? Will the rains wash the world away?”

Andy awakes in a very sick state, and Red had to stop the train, and take Andy to a soul doctor.

Red hoped to the heavens Andy did not get malaria, because Red knew it was no mild illness. Boet and Mathias knew they had to bring Andy to the nearest Doctor, who has saved many from insect, snake and animal bites. Red knew Andy had to go under the microscope, and not some Obama care x-ray, and here you go, take these, and get to your regular Dr, back in the United States as soon as possible, that was just not going to happen. They were in Lesotho, for poetry’s sake.

Andy had a swollen throat too, and he wrote a note to Red, saying, I have had unfamiliar tastes in my mouth yesterday. Red, I think Angels have been feeding me things from eternity. Reds eyebrows arose.

Mathias looked at them, and said, “I shall return, I must go, and gag the press.”

Andy while in pain, was thinking of the intellectual sketch of all of this.

“Wait, Mathias,” proclaimed Boet, “We need to find a Healer, because we don’t want to red flag. Because you know as well as I do, they may think Red and Andy as like the English whom leeched, and stuck its hooks into the black bowels of a black country inhabited by a black folk. We need to be, and remain discreet about this.”

“Boet, where are we going to find one that won’t cook Andy?” Mathias replied.

“Well we are going to have to find one,” Boet replied.

Mathias and Boet knew these kind of malevolent Doctors kill with a wound to the neck, but did not say anything about this to Red or Andy.

“Mathias, go and find a healer, and we will take Andy to the church across the road, come back soon, and we will catch you there,” said Boet.

Once they got the the church, a missionary there spoke, and knew right away, “This is the work of the devil, come inside. Lets get this man cooled down.”

“Thank you,” said Red, “We need to bathe him.”

“He is sweating, he is already showering,” said the missionary, and then recited a Poem by the Poet Jack Mapanje “Skipping Without Rope.”

Boets cell phone rang and his ring tone is the horn, from the Stimela’ The Coal Train song by Hugh Masekela. He answers and it is Mathias, and he is one his way back with a healer.

Andy opened his eyes, and spoke, “Everyone, I had a dream where I drove around my old neighborhood in Chicago, and every park I passed, there were people playing football, and I thought, this is great, this is tradition, of football, so I thought, Poetry, Poetry anthologies by many publishers all trying to have fun and achieve the same goal. The experience, the audience, the memories and &c. This is what it’s like, isn’t it beautiful, the tradition of poetry? All races, playing for the love.”

Red smiled and said, Yes it is Andy, Andy rest, a healer is on the way, rest Andy. Red took Andy’s cell phone, a basic phone, not no high-tech smart phone, that changes the world into taking app naps, similar to texting while driving. Texting kills, Andy always thought, but since him being sick, family in the U.S.A. Texted Andy concerned about his health. Once Red got a bit of privacy outside the church Red browsed the text messages, and one of the them was about Andys’ mother who passed away in April, and Andy told no one. Red held down the phone, cupped his mouth, and thought, such pain must be building up in Andy, he must have worried him self sick too.

Boet and Mathias joined Red outside, and Red told them about Andys’ mother, and that Andy and he have been on these poetry journeys for a long time now, and it’s been a long time since they first left Chicago, and seen any member of family or friend.

Andy is tired of the racism in America, and the decline of empathy and fellowship, said Red, Furthermore the Presidential elections. Andy was furious about that too, but he and Red both seen these issues surfacing in the U.S.A. While during Poetry Train America, and looking back from Poetry Train Canada too. Red thought of Native American wisdom, Only when they poison the last drop of water will they understand the value of life.

I want to ask the missionaries for a local map, or atlas of this area, said Red, I want to see the difference between a map from here than compared to internet radar, because of the satellite crash, and this was a loss for Facebook, and Poetry Train Africa because their mission was to connect people from Africa to the internet. I wonder if the space station is stocked with poetry, Red remarked, and Boet and Mathias laughed.

“Maybe,” Boet replied, “Poetry goes well with asteroid-chasing and sampling spacecraft. Andy is a gem Red, he’s unlike others.

Yes, Red replied, He takes reading comprehension seriously as we do. He knows how analogies work, and he cares. He cares about Poets status and the status of Poetry. He did say though to me, maybe Poets should simply disengage from the internet all together. Or let them have their little circles and comment sections. Poets need to stop because, in the end, they aren’t invested like we are. They aren’t paying attention to these stories, their lives and the lives of their children, and future Poets. Some are only tuned in out of contempt. This is trivial to some. It’s all a pissing contest to see who can be the most smug and condescending and ultimately dismissive. When we debate these issues, we do so passionately, but we always come from a place of genuine heart for Poetry. When most Poets debate the very same issues from an opposing stance, they do so from a place of perpetual obtuseness and indifference and their arguments always pretty much boil down to “If it isn’t my experience it couldn’t possibly be yours.” Even “well meaning” some Poets tend to center them-selves in the discussion. The facts are both figuratively and literally, have no skin in the world. We are seeing maybe Poets should start practicing in self care. And if that means completely disengaging with the internet altogether, then so be it. Same thing with race issues in the U.S.A., and we know if they band together, they would be a stronger America the world has never seen. We thought about going back and starting an America Love Challenge, between races and law enforcement, but we would be jailed our selves, and what attorneys would care for what we feel. We are even thinking about going to copyright law school. But here we are doing what we love.

A missionary gave Red an Atlas and said, “Andys’ fever is lower and he is sleeping well.”

“Who are these children? Andy asked himself as they gathered around him, shouting “Kwe Kwe.”
They took turns speaking to Andy. “Those whom cut and kill these animals are no man and less than an animal,” said a little girl, “They should be shot and their heads cut as trophies.” Andy took notice, and carcasses of the big five animals were laid out seemingly everywhere, and visions of them alive came to Andy, as a boy tugged on Andys’ hand to follow him.

All of this hissed a very strange language to Andy. It was the damages done by Danger, she was loose in this garden of Africa. This was a different calligraphy to the eyes and ears of Andy, so he thought was all of this preparing him for a job that didn’t even exist. A wright of some kind.

“So many species gone, “ said the boy, “When the animals are gone we will be next.”

The girl then spoke again, “As long as they have big houses and fancy cars. The hearts of these people are wicked. “We need to arm and empower the guardians of the earth.”

Andy looked down at her, and smiled. He wanted to say, “These bad people are great at making things happen where, one wanted to move while the other wanted to stay still. Basically, one head didn’t know what the other was doing, and that’s where the great fight can come in. These tactics also stunts imagination. We know what they are doing, but not enough to do anything great about it, just like in North Dakota at the moment Andy thought, and tossed and turned in this strange bed. The impulse, passion, and scorn for all these things present gave Andy desire for the future, so the dream got deeper. The buzz-word ‘memory’ came to Andy as he, and the children looked around at all the dead animals. Andy started to cry, freezing tears, they were, and Andy thought of his mother, and their times at the zoo. “Worthy objectives,” said Andy and thought I can’t cry right now, I need to concentrate of the four c’s; critical thinking; clear communication; collaboration; and creativity.

The children cried too, and they did not know about Andys’ mother, and her recent death. Andy looked at them, and thought these children would not be dangerous and wild, even though this was apocalyptic. In some form it was, it surely was for these innocents animals. It was time for Poetic Olympics, to open the hearts of people by the power of Poetry. Poets must practice relentlessly to perfect their craft, to open the eyes and ears of the world. Something, Andy thought, Nothing can come from nothing. “I blame politicians and teachers for this, and parents too,” Andy proclaimed. “ We need to start a new tradition for animals, just like anything else handed down to safekeeping, better safekeeping.”

The girl wiped her eyes and said, “Only the women have the power to turn their poor excuses for men into real men that will fight at all costs to stop this destruction of our people, and animals, and of all Creation. When this is done, all people and animals will be freed.”

Andy smiled and said, “You have a great point, so we need a new school, and remember, talk is cheap. Time to realize the gravity of the situation. Educating people will help a lot.” Andy thought about this, The incoming administration will no doubt weaken protections for wildlife and the environment. The U.S. has become a vile culture built around greed and money. It’s shameful.

The boy seemingly read Andys’ mind, and spoke, “Why are some such a selfish species?

The girl spoke, “Tell that to Trump and his sons! We cannot accept that ‘truth’….

Andy thought of virtue, and said, “Parents must teach children compassion, empathy and respect for all living things. A must is this, we must create, and make a commitment to a better future to share with courage, justice, prudence, and most of all implement the faith and hope. You children must learn to think about life, social justice, democracy, humanity and yes, empathy, and the foundations of the arts.”

“Also to encourage all types of Poets, right Andy?” The girl asked.

“You are correct,” Andy replied.

“To speak from the heart,” said the boy, “Even if it means losing.”

“Yes,” said Andy, “But we can’t lose when it comes to life, so that is why we need to think, and empower our care, our caring hearts.” Andy had imagery in his head of the falling of Church and State.

The Poet Thomas Mokopu Mofolo came up to them, and said, “You too are an east bound traveler,” and he laughed. Here it is clothed in great darkness, a fearful darkness, in which all things of darkness are done. I always have to protect myself, the people can be cruel. We must be aware of Kgodumvdumo, the evil one. I must go, I have workers to recruit for the gold mines, poetry does not love me, so I must, but I did work at the Sesuto Book Depot. Andy go to the place which the sun comes, Ntswana-tsasti. It is where God lives.”

It began to get dark, and Andy told the Poet Thomas Mokopu Mofolo, “Do not cheat yourself, keep writing, keep writing!”

The howling of wolves came with the darkness.

The girl tugged on Andy’s hand and asked, “What are the earths cancer Andy?”

Andy looked at the girl and awoke.

The missionary ran to Red and said, “Andy is awake, and says, he is feeling good.”

Once all three went to Andys’ bedside, Andy spoke with vigor, “When Poetry is your life, it’s spiritual. You don’t want to go into life or death that feels less then non-instinctual. Favoritism does not enlarge the Poetic Audience, just thought we’d give people a seed, do what they wish with that…”

Red laughed and said, I can tell you are feeling better.

“Ya ya,” said Andy “When a Poet posts about a new published book, it is as if the Poet has given birth from the digital realm, a beautiful tangible creation of love to hold, cherish and adore, ya…. Soulful. Congratulations, but I weep.” and Andy laughed.

I have been busy making videos for the Poet Awotide Oluwaseun Micheal, Red proclaimed. I also got us a new laptop, we burned this one up with e-miles, and we have new tools being sent to us by passengers to make better videos.

“Sweet,” Andy replied, “I need a shower, and then we also need to do some videos about animals, educate the children, and also I have this idea to make a cool video for this journey, but we need a miniature train with tracks.”

Boet and Mathias smiled and thought, Andy is back to life.

“The jackals are among us,” Andy proclaimed.

They must be looking for inner conflict about reading books, and why is reading books declining, said Red laughing.

“Even books written in mother tongues here.” said Mathias.

“This poetry audience-building project is complicated,” said Boet. “Writing opens thought for the writer, but getting it in the hands or digital tools to people is hard, with out marketing I guess, but then you get it all tainted, right?”

Red looked at Andy and said, They are learning about getting an audience nationally, continental and internationally. They want this anthology.

Andy looked at Mathias and said, “Love this anthology idea Mathias, and this was your idea. Do you think participation from you is vital, like group criticism to assist, to help, to make this a great book of Poetry? Since this was your idea are you going to help with this online workshop?”

Boet was still working, thinking and questioned, “Maybe we need an illiterate shoemaker like James Lackington and his famous Temple of the Muses book store, or someone who recognizes the value of books.”

We have mentioned this before Boet, a poetry train cafe, for book browsing and lounging in galleries of poetry books and railroad history books, said Red, With railroad currency redeemed in the cafe, book credit. A poets and publishers hang out.

Nightingales were outside flying everywhere, they too came to the Kingdom in the sky to sing.

“I love listening to them,” said Andy, “Pure harmony, unlike humanity. Listen everyone, it is more fitting to judge the quality of us when we are in doubt and danger, and for the world to observe us in adversity.”

“They are singing caterpillar, caterpillar,” said Boet laughing.

“Maybe,” said Andy, “We are Dangers caterpillars, she is here to eat us.”
The world needs to take many steps up, said Red.

“Once people engage in poetry, they will find that it makes you feel good,” Andy proclaimed. “They can teach themselves, there are library’s, the internet, amazon.com, and Poets themselves can educate, educate politicians and teachers, furthermore listening to history.”

Boet adds, “New schools of literature, to regain touch to these literary arts. This would matter grand and great.”

Poets need forge themselves and their poetry self-hood, Red proclaimed, Poets should grow despite restrictions. To survive suppression. No paper and pen, use memory, sing a long, turn it into a song. Be like Paul Celan, a Jewish poet who endured the death camps, wrote, “Only one thing remained reachable, close and secure amid all losses: language. Yes, language. In spite of everything, it remained secure against loss.”

“Poetry gives strength to survive.” said Andy.

“The poet works to save the poem, the poem also works to save the poet.” said Boet.

“Great Poets are rare.” said Mathias “So are great photographs of Poets. This helps reading, readerly intuition and causes fantasy. The photo of the Poet has become an underappreciated accessory to the ritual of modern reading.”

“I have to agree,” says Andy. “It’s like wind to a fire. Photos are mysterious, and they dare the reader. This is important to the poetry audience.” Andy thought about the un-bias poetry contest on O.P. & 21st CenturyPoets.com was great, because poems were judged by the poems vitals, and not by the Poets face or name.

Red added wisdom, Poetry Survivor and show too, aka by Poet Tom Smith aka Bandit changed all of this for new Poets not so long ago… Red laughed, One of the greatest poetry challenges ever.

“We should learn an African language Red,” Andy suggested.

Good idea, also visit some stone circles, Red suggested, Archaeologists and Historians do not want to touch these beauties. That alone tells me too look into them, and study, to dot up, where heaven mated with earth aka the birthplace of the sun.

Mathias looks at Boet, and smiles.

“Yes, why not,” Andy replied, “Poets do cause loud buzzes in courtrooms. Ya Ya, lets get to the ancient giant workshop.”

The grounds keeper of the mission gave them each a crystal. Red tele-thought to Andy here we go, got yours, Yep, dang the ancients were so smart, who and the heck caused massive amnesia, Andy replied in thought to Red, and smiled.

Thank you, Red spoke to the grounds person, Sounds good, you boil my water.
“Don’t let money trip you all up,” said the Groundskeeper.

Andy laughs and says, “It sure does try too,” laughing again speaking of that, this Poetry Train Africa Anthology will happen for and without money, we just need literary bodyguards.”

“Also do not disappear,” said the Groundskeeper.

Red and Andy looked at each other and laughed, and said in sync, “We all ready cocky!”

“Levitate the Poetry World Red and Andy,” said the Groundskeeper.
A little boy came from the mission and said, “Before you leave to Tanzania come eat ice cream in a cone.”

Andy tele-thought to Red, they want us to find Angels and talk to them. Boet picked up on these skills they have, and they picked up on this, and they tried to relay back, count the Poets like a child loves and counts sea shells.

Boet was learning the art of listening beyond being human. He was also learning Danger was Doom, and Dreads big sister, and great at luring nose picking, like gold picking.

Andy tele-thought to Red, he’s getting close, Nostril Boet, blow your nostrils, then beat your ear drums.
“The stones will come, and hold on to them when there are given to you.” said the Groundskeeper.
Andy busted out, “Where’s the Ore, th’Iron Ore?, un-thicken th’Plot. A is for Poets. A is for poetry snacks, come on YAll, we have e-rail to track. Sound off the Alphabet, and where’s is Enrik? Beam us up the Poetry C-Enyo!”

Red thought a poem should fry things, and Andy heard.

Everyone laughed volcanicly.

Andy busted out again, “Swole, I’m talking about high quality waiting, similar to Foreigner. Like, and Urgent, it’s an emergency. We do not own the sun or right, copy?, lets go gather wood, ya ya!”

Once they arrived at the Maseru train station on the late hours of the night. Red, Andy, Boet and Mathias just missed witnessing a woman giving birth by herself to a baby boy on the platform there. She was in great condition. “I called for an ambulance, and paramedics should be on their way,” she said.

Boet looked at them, slightly concerned for many reasons. This station was dangerous.

Mathias spoke, “All will be fine, you do have your tickets? Arrange the Tanzania on top.”

Andy and Red were smiling from ear to ear, and attending the lady until the EMTS arrived and the train to Tanzania. You should name him Katsi Blue, Red suggested. The lady smiled and covered the baby up. The EMTS arrived and so did the train, looking at the time, they both were late.

-… …-

Chapter 1

Poetry Train Africa Chapter 1 Cape Town South Africa, The Arrival by the Sea of Darkness


Chapter 2

South Africa, Meteorite Night


Chapter 3

Botswana, Poetfeldt and Regions Beyond the Cave of Prolificity (Cave of Dreams)


Chapter 4

Zimbabwe Good Day Striking: The Key of Life, Birds of God, Lord of Divine Words and Baboon Games (The Riddle of the Master of Sunshine In The City of Roses)


ya ya the C inside the Circle John E. WordSlinger

Poetry Train Africa is the Third Book of Poetry Train Stories

Poetry Train America and Poetry Train Canada


all acknowledgments and &c &c here so join us on the journey:
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Posted in Uncategorized on October 26, 2016 by johnewordslinger



Table of Contents

























I sat naked on a wooden chair
with thoughts of how I got there
Ya lucky me, swear it’s confidence,
And my intuity duty spoke,
that seventh strike’s going to happen
& still I shall not be or fall like a Roman

poem I

So you like my unlust
You want to see who excites me
Like the hot sweat on my neck
Or as my unprivate poetry
Beware there’s no nincompoop impulse
As the slobbering diagnosis falls from your lips
Make sure you are aware of my contents

Feelings transferring
Waiting for a song
With cake and ice cream,
And a bazooka flute loud enough
To piss off my scorn fanged neighbor

Now back to you, listen-
Come here, let me show you some roots
I like the way she teaches folk how to read
To pay attention to my non-sin-sex syntax
Who am I talking to?
To whom is making this transfer?

Do you know everything in my home is a horse?
Warning-less too

Loving how you have no resistance
As I tell you desire can be dangerous
Like a restaurant burning, and the arson vice reveal
Like six days ago you were coming with transfer gas
You were the kindred governing the red and black
How is my life going to be when I have forgotten?
Forgotten like on the 7th Day I burned you down?

Poem II

She wants to loosen me up
Anthologize me to the markets
Because I Wonnet about life
I told her the dream dictionary
Knows nothing about death
Explain to me why a puppy
With a wounded leg would appear
From out of nowhere
After a jackass dropped a crane,
And it severed a workers head
Furthermore the donkey mouth
Was wounded too, got broken legs
So things that were bothering me died,
And a new secret was going to be revealed
And I ‘am suppose to be wordless?

I exhaled, relaxed, and survived night death
I painted this star spasm with words
Activity two I told her, when I die
Do not let family or friends write about me
Only a sharp innocent chap or chapet
Who can put all the fibers together
And say, I believe who he says he is
Who spoke for himself
With word energy from the back of the soul
I looked at her and said,
We have no idea what my last words will be

She laughed and replied,
You are a mirror, a kind of mirror
That sees peoples true intentions
You are a sweet pass-less thunderstorm

It sure wont be an illusion I said,
Just like this wooden chair

You are master of time, she said

A little bird, I replied
Who’s been lucky-blessed they say
Comes down to confidence,
But truly it’s like break dancing
Grooving in the gaps
Echoes can not be censored!

The Poet never sleeps? she asked

Exactly I spoke, even after loving for me
Also the world is trying to remove every dispatcher
With electronic buzz-fuzz
By this, the world will not be dark black, it will be red!
People feel hopeless

Nice, she said, It’s always been dark black

poem III

Your cursive writing is beautiful, she said

I know, cursive thinks I ‘am but
My poetry in my journals are in hand-print
I ‘am the one who has never left the circle

Your Electric Owl in the Vortex is sly, she proclaimed

It has a voice other then I slash me or me slash I
That has learned how to fly

You believe in God? she asked

We believe in each other,
And you are sensational

Is there a phenomenon going on inside you? she asked

Yes, I replied

Like what? she asked

I ride a fiery horse, I replied
(I look at the sun light on the chair, and glance at the window.)

What do you see? She asked

I see we are made of fire and in a fire
Fire flowers
Love water too

Are we separated? she asked

No, we are timeless, but there is tension
We are carried by grace, by love
We have the choice to fall off

The horse? she asked

Yes somewhat, but your own horse,
of all things, from grace and love
We are constantly crystalizing in spirit-fire
My friends hurt, and it hurts me
They want to be loved
They want to reject the game
Humanity’s game
One hates rude librarians
They overload the world with megalomania bulls
He says, as Jesus says, they know not what they do
Why these motives?
Truth of the soul needs to be liberated
My friend says inject love, and draw love out
Angels take the hinges off doors
They do this if asked
You looked puzzled?

Are you scared? she asked

I use to be, but I learned to find the gaps
In all of the worlds word maps
Angel like alphabet measuring stick
Dowsing the water that sparks the fire inside

I find that beautiful, she said

Remove yourself from the world
And you can hear to be
Affection is heard

Can I have some water?
I’m on fire
Two glasses please

(I know this need, the movement made her perceive.
Like I was blowing my breath down her neck and back.
Faith, making faithful contact.)

poem IV

She returns with water, and different pace in her walk

Appreciated and charm’d, I spoke
Furthermore I apologize, and spoke,
I adore you

(She was graphic, charging cortexs,
and I asked myself was she’being enriched by this?
Although I knew she was counting my movements, and impulse copies.
What books has she read?,I wondered, That built her frame work?)

(As I drank, I wondered about, all the straws to be
in maybe a puddle of piss, that may surface here,
but I knew constrain, but did she?)

She asked to check my pulse,
So she grabbed my wrist, and looked at her watch

Many things can arise I told her
Like for instance, someone wants to build me a Celtic home

She glanced at me

Love cure, I said
Everything of mine, belongs to everyone, you too
I laughed and said, What, the atomic clock got hacked?

She smiled, and thought, What If?
Where does she want to build this home?

Somewhere on my soul, I replied, But on a tall hill
On the shores facing west,
Backwards like on the shore of Nova Scotia
Would be nice right?

I started to play with my hair, and so did she
Root planting is what it was, root planting

The secret is, and needs to be unveiled, I said

What’s the secret? she asked

I replied, The flame of the Beloved,
And the sense of ours begins
Hollowing out, hollowing out the inside

I leaned back into the chair, and reached up high,
And noticed the unchangeable yin and yang
Stretching her voice into a sensual sy
She looked at me and her eyes dilated
The a/c was about to be, seemingly worthless
But I was separated from many, so I kept my cool
She wanted me to break out from my contained self
Into a star, but I fell not to thanatos

I said, I think we know destruction,
And we are trying to remove the spit
From the faces of prophets,
And we are not free from theses issues
These wounds are not ordinary
It’s like our eyes are crossed
Because there seems to be so many
Although there is only one, self
Our own self, we alone are the Moses of our soul

I spoke, You know, I bet, and usually I do not bet,
But I bet, there are many around a terror cell
That are like what the F’n hell
You all are out of your cave

She smiled, and said, Interesting

Angels can’t get to their souls, I replied
As a tiny, tiny tear appeared from my eye but vanished

There is so much Demonic suction happening
We must bring love to everyone, and no pity

She began to feel she was accompanied by cosmic love,
And these moments were creating beautiful

Evil has a better gps then Goodness, you think?
I said, and asked

She looked at me, and the chair
And a cloud outside darkened the light some
And she looked at her watch

I said, Home is where the heart is

She replied, I ‘am hear to witness divine qualities

Love is like baby wipes, I said

And she laughed

poem V

She wanted me to reveal thoughts
The ones of me sowing her with my sewing machine
Tailoring her to feel beautiful

A man walks in, and grabs something from a closet
The only closet I see now
And he leaves, and the door slams
A bit louder than before
Who’s that? I asked

He’s the landlord, she replied

I have seen him before (In a Dream)
He’s young

She laughs, and says, That dumb ass is lucky
All he does is hang out on the roof
He leaves his door wide open all the time,
And he’s never home
You seem to be a master of pain too, she said

Pain is lyrical, it has its way of persuasion, said it not I

Are you a master of pleasure? she asks
I ask because you’re private about that,
Although your poetry seems to offer
A key hole to your private life

I look at the doors key hole, and speak
Let me ask, where do you think my poetry will go
Lets say one hundred years from tomorrow?
Will the worlds tension need it?
Let me see your hand
I want to see, and touch your palm

She lets me

I won’t kiss your palm, but imagine I do, I said

She thinks

Does it do anything to your nipples? I ask

It takes me elsewhere, I can’t say, she replies

I won’t bite your palm, but imagine I do, I said

It takes me elsewhere, she said

The sunshine brightens her hand too, and she replies
With a smile, and replies, A moment in the sun
You are a child of the poor, and you are

Can I write on your palm?
My Papermate Flair?
It’s where ever my clothes be?
You know this is Poetry

She looks into my eyes,
And I see an instinct surfacing

Yes, she replies, I’ll return with your pen

She walks away, and I say
Love the book, it’s paper
And it’ spine

She turns around, and smiles

A world without Books, will be a Nightmare, I proclaimed

Say that again WordSlinger, she says
As she opens the only door out
Because there are only two doors
Other than the window

A world without Books, will be a Nightmare!

I laugh in my mind, and say to myself
Innovation discharge is slightly traumatic
Who has heard of WordSlinger th’Mysterious?
My breathing had no hesitation on my tongue

She returns with my black pen,
And says, It is the book or nothing
Thick paper, not glossy
Glossy paper hurts my eyes

I hear you, I reply
I ‘am about to crack it open,
And I open my Papermate Flair pen

You are surfing the cusp, she says
As she held out her hand, and opens her palm

This will be like a stamp, I said
But first I must look for a few things,
And she smiles as I read, and think

poem VI

I looked for burn marks on her hand,
And the ring, the ring of time
I took my pen, and drew a lightning bolt on her palm

Can you recall? she asked

It was loud and bright
I could hear them searching
I seen the fear in their eyes
It was like being at two places at one time
The sun began to shine
I wasn’t forced to be a Poet
I remember playing one in a race car
I built many

Race cars? she questioned

I guess, they were colorful fast poems, I replied
I repeated this activity
I was forced too, to separate from this too
To go to school, work, pay, pay pay,
But inside I was clear, it was clear to write
Imagine you were a reader of poetry of 1987
You were looking to be you, your voice, raspy
Dancy, fashiony, and sexy
I was a balloon, always about to burst, die inside

Why? she asked

Everyone touching me in some way
Trying to change the course of my soul
And something to my nothing memory
My identity is real, unlike (and I pause awhile)

Unlike what? she asked

An Insult’r, I replied
I isolated myself, I still do
I have to, to harness, the art of these visions
If not it looses its beauty
I have to, to make it see-able

In peoples terms, believable
One time I drove over one foot of water
At ninety miles per hour
Without hydro planing
I try my best to balance pressure back
It’s like triumph over the massive Collapse inc.
That is everywhere, trying to collapse the beauty
(I pause)

Murder, murder is the only karma
Murder is the greatest world changer
And I ask, does a murderer know this fully?
I try to master these threatening situations
I protect my ambition, and others’ ambition
So I was given a fiery horse, from Beloved

(I scoot back my chair, and it sounds-
I hear, echo, and echos below and above)

Tell me about what happened before I found you? she asked

I was looking for burn marks
We lost the trail of dangerous nuclear people
I went down by the river in the city
But also I went looking for love
I get lost doing that though
They are different burn marks

She looks at her palm,
and sweat was smearing the bolt

I could see me trying to find me
I was on a bike riding from street to street
Looking then, I seen the commotion

What commotion? she asked

In how everyone feels powerless, soulless
Everyone is reluctant to unite & fight
And do something about the killers of this planet
A person said that day, I ‘am so tired of these
World leaders destroying our world
This has been haunting me, us

Also I love the photos of Leonardo Dicaprio
With lost Poet Obama
I love the way Dicaprio looks at him
He looks straight into his soul
I have more positive things to do
But Leo maybe wanted to be,
a speed metal shredder, you get me?

Yes, I do, she replied

The police were everywhere,
But there were no blood hounds
They know I ‘am not a killer, so no dogs were required
My other self followed them, because that’s how
I would find me, the other me down by the river

Report says, you were with people, she said

Yes, they were Poets
We tend to do that
We find each other
We know the phenomenon of word color
They are balloons too
And their color decreases from pressures of the world
All of this fright needs to be set on a flight

Did you know once you save a life
You are saved too, it’s Angelic protocol? I ask

No I did not, she replied

We as people need to go to Standing Rock, ND
And stand against & deflate the Vampires of Earth
And also need march to Obama
I ‘am hungry too to watch Before the Flood
We need to double, perhaps triple the single minded
When we found me, I was okay
I went down by the river to have a mega-talk

Where are you at now? she asked

I smile
Let me see your other palm, please

poem VII

I looked at her and spoke

I like this free association stuff

I have to smile, because of your boots

Pirate like, buckling the wind, are ye?

I know water

I have freedom of the seas
In this free-for-all
As I look at your palm, do you feel free handish

As I examine to see how free spoken you have been?

Do you free-style?
I can read, you swim

Do you free think?
I have to take notes, she replied

What’s that sound? she asked
Sounds like after a rain,
and a car is driven slow

in a low water
Exactly, she said

A poem when I was a child came to me

It was a poem that kept me passive
Ah, the threshold of life

The mystery of pleasure

Comes again and again

Everyday is some other day
The invisible depth, she said
Yes, a step into
Poets are lucky, she proclaimed
One can’t fly to early, I know,
Because I was forced into adult reality at twelve years old

So stepping into the next realm, one must be patient
That’s where the scars came from? she questioned
Yes, I replied, and I show her the scars under my stuff too

I remember making bottles for my siblings, I mention

Clearing the blur
I never did read to them, I never read at that age

I just listened; radio, albums, forty fives, and t.v.

Musical instruments fascinated me
And stories,
what the elders talked about
Like in my life time,
this country will fall I was told

Furthermore I had cruel teachers

I remember in intense detail

I used to draw, but I kept away for some reason
Well you are doing fine on me, she said with a cute laugh
I like how you are getting to the head-end to the tail-end

Seeing the worm, to see the holes

I laugh, and say, Yes, that’s the gaps

It’s like eating time, where does the waste go?

Do you know?
Poetry involves us, and the past in troves us, she said
The now, and the future too
Did your mother like your poetry? she asked
She loved them, she went blind after I wrote

She encouraged me to shine, to fly

To master not to deceive myself or others

And I look all around the room
And she too observed the room
We were looking for, a once phenomena

We had a tolerance, to saturate deeper things

In the reservoir, to unwrap, the gift
How long must energy be contained, I ask myself

Many beautiful energies
She looks at my ankle, and how it has healed

She was looking at the miracles of support

My belly called out to her, and she felt this

My belly button became her current spectacle

As I looked at the glow around her head
Nature was swinging in its pendular glamour

She looked at her watch again

I looked at her boots

Ancient Egyptian wisdom came to her mind,

And she looked at my extraterrestrial tattoo

In detail finally

poem VIII

I must ask you this, have you ever thought,
There maybe divine candy, like manna
But something lets say scented and tasty unknown?
Not just fantasy discharge
But epic life changing flavors, said me

Imagination has an important role in reality, said she,
And so does the bardic warrior

I smile

Why the smile? she asked

I have seen the Sky Warrior, replied me
Do you think perhaps,
There’s a switch in our minds or dna that is shut off,
And if switched on there is a whole other reality happening.
Like when we look to the sky, the nights sky and &c?

Yes, I have always thought that, she replied

What is dry and brittle, and not between the eyes? I ask

The expression of love, she replied

I smile

She asks, Do you think Angels would scare people too,
As Demons would?

Of course, their vital presence would supremely spook for sure, I replied

The supernatural is so magnetic, she said

We don’t have to know everything, plot points are nice though,
And I laugh and say, Listening and reading are keys
Taking notes like you do are grand, and memory-
Names that come, phrases, scents, ah scents-
Unknown scents, not man made crap, junk.com stuff

She laughs, and says, Love that you coined junk.com, classic

Intuition and synchronicity to me are beautiful, I said

You are so committed to your craft, she said, adding,
Awareness, and sensitivity fuels mind flight I think
Like your dinosaur sightings, you are lucky

Like poetry, they have been beaten out of existence
Feeling is not shameful so that’s something too, I suggested

Your energy for poetry feeds a great light, she said

The world can glow in ways most do not even know, I replied
Most get to relaxed, although relaxing heals

Also I love that you gave your life to poetry, she proclaimed

Poetry as I went along, the muse some call it,
Has turned into a Mountain Lion, just that
Not male or female, a pure survivor
Visualize it running, hunting, and resting
Furthermore scratching you, and never letting go

So poetry is painful? she asked

Yes, and you better believe it! I proclaimed
But keep in mind though or think
If one gets unknown scents or tastes intangible
It could mean two things maybe more
But there is something happening
We are not seeing or, we are, the lucky ones
Getting mini tastes and scents of the candy or food
From the next realm or life, bits and pieces from the Angels

Wow, you bring a lot to the table, she said

I stretch a bit, and sit Indian style in the chair,
And she looks at her palms, and temps herself
To look at her watch, but does not

I smile and ask, Do you have a train to catch?

She laughs, and says, Well, maybe, and a gorgeous smile appears
I have had a scent come to me, but I blame it on flowers
Now tastes, not sure at the moment

Ever wonder what Angels long for? I ask
Think about that sometime, because I think
There is something important they long for
Besides flying for joy, more than sacredness

Seems to me, Poetry is mind dancing, she suggests

Embracing the boundless Heavens, I said

poem VIIII

Do you think Angels are eavesdropping on us now? she asked

Yes, and have you ever been a voyeur? I asked

Yes, she replied, But?

I hear you, but think about this, they must see
We have them at our beck and call, I said,
And we also have language.
Take for instance the Poet Paul Antschel- Celan
“Only one thing remained reachable,
close and secure amid all losses:
Language. Yes, language.
In spite of everything,
it remained secure against loss.”

She looked out the window and said,
Unimaginable conditions, and they, he,
And she rubbed her cheek
Human beings deprived resorting to creative expression
To language games, poetry
That’s amazing

I don’t know if poetry is game, I said,
But not to me
Why is that? I asked
What else do we have?
A childs’ first words are of calling out
Of some kind

To speak to the Angels, she replied
What is their relationship to them
Or I should, say they want,
A need for?

And time? I add to the question

Flashbacks came to her, and she was silent
She started to smile, and spoke with a little laugh
Johnny Rivers, I think he had a premonition
His song ‘Summer Rain’ speaks of her
Wanting to live in the Rockies
Not sure why the song came to me

And we both laugh

The days when no one gave a thought for tomorrow
Let tomorrow be, she said, lyrics from the song

Imagine that, I proclaimed, And look at what came to be

Oh mythology, is it useless?
Is Time useless?
Questions I ask leaning forward looking down in the chair.

Seems you took all your time to grow wise, she said

Remember the end, and all that was beauty
Beauty fleeting, said I

Report has it you walked through fire
And walked on ice
The Fire dept says, They asked you
How you did it, because they’ve tried for hours,
And you told them,
You roofed all of your life,
And you are in the Jesse James gang

I laugh and ask, Did they tell you
They all laughed too?!
I ‘am cool, I ‘am the breeze
I laugh and say, Those are KISS lyrics

No, she replied. They did not

One has to pay attention to the spiritual
And the times’ vanished
& vanishing billboard signs, I proclaimed

She was silent thinking back,
And thoughts about my embracing with writing
Furthermore the pathway to nature

And I ask, Can I lay on the floor?
I wanted to spread some fire
I had no tendency to die
But to construct per se

I was un-crushing
What was ever crushed in her,
And I laid on my back

The Heart was flushing, blood

She wanted to get to more of the traumatic
Red print of me

The Summer Rain song is stuck in my head now,
She proclaimed, I like the song, but,
Never mind, we know what terrestrial radio is

And I laugh, Exactly I said,
That’s why poetry, and laugh again
Is useful for me

She laughs, and looks at the window

poem X

Let me get us some water, she said,
And she left the room

There is no bathroom in this room
A sink of some kind and it must be out there
This brought back a memory
At the age of seventeen, 1987
It was the last time I looked at me in a mirror
I told myself I was going to be a lyrical star
Ah, to know where one was going, I whispered
Whispering does smooth out the alphabet
Anchored in confidence
During 1999, Y2k, 2012, WW3, and now WW4

She returns with more water

I lay plank on the flooring, and say, I ‘am a line
A line of sheet music, a line of poetry
I stand, and say, I ‘am a stanza, I ‘m a song
And, Thank you, for the water I did long
Heights and love, so many times I did surrender

I take a drink, and say, Tastes so good
Like vowels and consonants
I noticed she was rocking on her heels
She was thinking of those she believes
Who are gone forever

With her head held high
I love seduction poems John E, she proclaimed
Her jaw shown her strength
She looked at the pen on the chair

I don’t believe, I have to many ‘Now Me’ poems
Unless I was thrown into battle mode

Awake the verbs, WordSlinger, she said
Bring light into thee
As a Super Ghost
Like a Super Poet

A piano calls me to bring life to its keys
Shattering sadness by a couplet symphony
Tone colors is what calls out to thee
A poltergeist of a song moves free

Bravery unties all of the knots
The soul levitates and it spots
It is not in rivalry with anyone no more,
And dances happy above the floor

I sit back in the chair
Her eyes revealed her beautiful soul
She was happy like her team had won
A long victory over time,
And she carried a flag
Down the middle of a street
So the whole world could see
That she never abandoned her team
She always pulled them out from
Their false fans who threw them
Under moving trains

She applauded my mini effort to Sling

We do live like we are in a western
You know that right? I asked,
Take away the street lights
I wondered about the presence of night

She laughed, and said, For some reason
I pictured you singing Michael Jacksons’ Beat It’ Song
Where he’s sitting there with his chest heaving while he sung

And I mimicked this, and she smiled, and drank her water

The mirror returned, where I said good bye to me
It was at a movie theater, and where I met a girl,
And I have been blue bellied ever since

poem XI

I wrote a poem once, it is called ‘Swine Celebration’, she said

Nice, I said and asked, Was the body of the poem big and muddy?

She laughed and replied, It was about pigs who pushed themselves
Not to sleep in the mud all day, to be a little more
To have hair and fangs, and to be a wild wild boar
To be gone, and to run a marathon
Furthermore sing a song on a intercom
Besides being known for Ee-I, Ee-I, Oh!
There’s more then being hungry, Arooo. You know!
Because they too search, oink, oink, reeeeeee!
I guess you would have to be a pig to see
You do have to watch when their lips smack
Barking and such means as always an attack
They also want to surf a slapping wave
He-hon, he-hon, and to love is to be brave
When they smile, it’s more than a silly grin of a fool
They proclaim responsibility and that they are cool
They were and are good pigs
Even when their old and big
Also they do not like being associated with war
And bitterness has never had its presence before
So imagine a pig, speaking poetry, and slamming if you will
Because they too do not like anything that makes the world ill

Applause, applause, what is your name? I ask
She replied, My name is Dany Starkill

Nice, killing stars are ye?
So you are the one who has been shooting the stars?

I don’t mean to, she replied

I know because the Sky Warrior still does ride, said I

And we both laugh, and became even more loose
Even the nights coming sky enjoyed even Zeus

Pigs too, look at the other side of the shore and how to get there
And the void is nothing, and was nothing when wisdom is shared
Said, Starkill
Bad circumstances can change for the good
But resistances from these experiences stood

Priceless, I said, I love your poetic solid snack
Who agrees with the pigs, they’re not a pigiac?
One would have to agree and know what they mean
Because like us, who know the soul, we know our dream

Starkill laid down on the floor
Looking at the ceiling
And I thought about the next request
That would arise in a feeling
And I said, You know I was told a line should never end in i n g
But resorting to the i n g is showing they too are celebrating

poem XII

Have you ever awoken in a cold room,
And the dream you had was a blur
But you know well, it was a nightmare
So you get up, knowing-
You make good and evil nervous? I asked

Maybe, Starkill replied and asked,
Do you think it’s because it’s their way of knowing
They are spiritually declining?
I have to admit your bond to other poetry,
And poets is beyond unique, and I imagine some
Even notice your bond, and love
Is mutual with other poets of other races
This must be driving some crazy

It’s intuition & synchronicity
We are aware of the bad bad dog catchers
We know language is the house of being,
And we know that living together is a blessing
So have you investigated me through my poetry?

She breathed out, and got up off of the floor
She senses I ‘am aware of bounds
Past, present, and future, explicit period

A little bit, Starkill replied

I ask a lot, a lot I thought, to be, not begot,
What does unmasking smash?
When I said, You were appreciated
I apologize, and adore you
Did it make a hopeless feeling into
A hopeful score and strength?
I ‘am armor-less since I found myself here
Some people have seen up close
The fearless spirit that only fears
The well of the spirit in the woods
The mill upon the hill

Your ability to love is too, impressive, she said

It started when I burnt my voters card
For I do love my neighbors
But I would like to wake them
With a bass guitar
They’d love me back by the end of the day,
And best of all, sleep better that night
To add, I don’t mind paying taxes
I better be paid what I deserve
And I deserve nothing from humanity
But once they throw me into their voids
I’d rather stick to my guns and be Poetry employed,
And let me bass slide this in there too –
It will or can not be the death of me
Furthermore as I turn off the amp
I love smart asses, they may need me one day,
And then again maybe they won’t
That is what stripes are all about
Inspired by Blum, Golberg, and Winger
Hard-luck cabbies I used to know

I pause for a few seconds and say,
The higher-planes of sacredness
The fountain and the woods

You do not stutter, you hesitate I notice, Starkill said

Ya ya, similar to parking a semi in between desks
In a small kindergarten
Or should I say now, a teacher-less romp-a-room?
Brakes were invented for one not to kill
I ‘am not a bastard suffering from heartless amnesia
Currently hell-less I know that at most

I never hear about the importance of sharing,
Sharing the passages of wisdom
From the oracles of the wisest poets,
she proclaimed

I laugh and say, I guess I ‘am guilty of this
With internet tagging tools, and I laugh again
Gabriela told me to tag everyone,
And I never do

Maybe because I know they are suffering from
Psychological warfare and they’re born with free will
Just to throw this out there-
You can’t have a worm farm on rocky ground
All in all nothing grand and true can be rejected
Some one is gathering
I have not cried in a long time, it turns to icy tears
Can I ask you for a massage?
This wooden chair reminds me of an antique
Emergency room bed
Hard and not even close to the ground
But very close to Heaven for sure

Yes, sure, Starkill replied, and eased the time being
John E, I picture you on that horse you mention
And a posse of evil is all around you

Ya ya, they are around all of us, I replied
Maybe the horse belongs to us all
And this one is hard and stable

poem XIII

Who is Gabriela? Starkill asked
As I sat in the chair Fonze style
(sitting backwards in it)
And her work upon my back was victorious
Over a heating pad and ice

Poetry is like making love
It calls upon the senses
Also Poetry is like time travel
Poems are worlds, She thought
Will they find us? she questioned to herself
Will they feel our affection, mine
Will they open their noses, and smell the beauty?

She is a Poet friend that admires, I replied
The Poetry Train I created online
She is like some others of wisdom
Have grounded me in love
No matter how one treats you
I laugh, and say, It’s a challenge
To me this ugliness
Does not know how to escape us

Oh these days, these early days
Of the 21st Century, I sung

John E your erotic character
To me is totally alive, said Starkill
It’s like you thrown down the flowers
And arise from a casket
And want to live, love, and cherish
And you do, I admire this about you too
There is no lid to your beauty John E
You are like taking a walk in the woods

You are making me glad, I replied

Starkill came around to the front
To look me in the eyes
Her undo blouse button skills where engaged
I looked at here eyes, cheeks
As she fed me her breasts
This was a cusp moment
Of life, a richly scent
My tongue knew what to do
As my lips followed suit
I had to look into her eyes
My ambidextrous hands
Hand to feel her flamage
In detail, it was Poetry Class
And school was in session
We began to glow and grow

poem XV

Like Poetry, somethings needs to be read aloud
Where is that young landlord, he needs to read us our vows?
He’s seems like a happy naturist

She laughed, Okay should I go, and get him?

Yes please, I replied, Tell him to bring that bible
And I said Bible as a Mexican would, bib-lee
Musicality, like Latin poetry, it’s important to me
So we can get to the ground, for that rhythm sound
Ordained in the name of love by the landlord above
Love knows best, eliminating conflict, to true explicit
This was the only way to be free from the Demon-Lust

The young man comes, and I say,
Excuse me, she has all of my clothes,
She will not give them back to me, until
( I wanted her blouse undone again)
You know about the subject as much as we do
Marry us young man!
Starkill removed all of her clothes

It was as he spoke in tongues
You may kiss the bride, said the young man

You make poetry come alive, Starkill replied
Capital the letters of my first lines
Keep the flow going with kissable rhymes
Deepen our personalities as we inherit our love rites
Read me my love, my body aloud, love me epically
I do not want to feel any less
We have expelled demons of the flesh

poem XVI

Peace, we wanted peace
We wanted people from hundreds of years from now to know
That love and spirituality are the things ones must have close
Mentors, so the earth gets felt again below humanitys’ feet

Starkill became a moving mountain, tireless
Comfortable I was, a new comfortable
Transcendence, unlimitless,
Warm breasts, wing flight, joy
The moon was about to rejoice
The world felt our union, preserving love
Jointed, and climbing the mountain of marriage

poem XVII

We laid there on the floor for a while,
And a memory appeared in her with a smile
She said, I remember over hearing ladies talk on a train
They were creative writing teachers with empathy pain
They spoke about the worlds’ crisis, from America to the Jews
But the main thing was they couldn’t teach students Poetry dues
No matter what they asked, to read, to speak, to listen, to assign
Poetry seems not to be taught, it was something from the heart & mind
One had tears in her eyes because it was her job to teach value
But people today are taking an app nap, and have no clue

I laid there listening, and Starkill said,
John E you are one of the lucky few
I said, Poetry radio would do
24/7 different eras, and Who’s who
You have to make it catchy, and stick like glue
It can be done, just need a foundation to put it through

I thought of an old abandoned school
Turn it into Poetry High, that would be cool
I said, I bet they cried about presses and zines
She said, Why yes John E, you see what dreams mean

It could be a calling, I was called back 1987,
And I have been nurturing, backing it up ever since
Except for lying on this wooden floor
Laying on my side makes my blood rush more

I notice you keep your head up and forward, she said,
Like you are reaching out to the world

I bruise differently, my bruises show upon my soul, I said

I remember your poem ‘Hollowspine’ said Starkill
That was a poem you read, and know this man has skill
John E you have won my admiration and affection
Kiss me, John E, it can’t be that hard to start an FM/AM Poetry show

I hear you and the drumming mania
I’ll kiss you, it drives me insania
We need to teach people to poetry dance,
And not to be afraid to take a poetry stance

Poetry is the ruler, as so it should be
Poetry the all important one, the world should see
That’s why that Lady on the train was crying
She knew the world without poetry was dying
We must install esteem, bubbles must burst,
And we Poets must fulfill the worlds’ thirst

I agree, replied Starkill,
We need to create a shoulder for all the tears,
That has been held in by all of us for years

My heart has been broke for a long time
I see word-zillions deprived of rhythm and rhyme
We must un-tie these awful forgotten knots
And we must no matter what, un-tie a lot

We held each other, and looked at the moon
Smiling its life into our eyes in the room

poem XVIII


For those who are up there
For those who are down there
There were book markers everywhere
There were apartments meant to be apart
Secure like leg securing insuring sure
But all in all Poetry was the stem to the cure
There is bitter and there is ripe
Look all around you for these types

There were legs that could sprint and sprint
There were legs that stood there in their print
There is one substitute for a mothers’ love
But we are looking for favorable environments

Legs, lets do exercises with our legs
Heads, lets do exercises with our heads
Then tell me what you are feeling?
But never tell each other we love thee until we are through
We must do this to root, and not drift away in what we do

The picture becomes clearer
We are building light houses in groove growl oceans,
And I ‘am calling you beautiful

I just came up with this poem
It is to keep you grounded, and uplifted in this world
They call and make mad, I told her

poem XIX


Cuddling began to be seen, like studying a poem for cuddling the poems sake. We looked for umbrella terms, and the purpose, the backbone. Gratifications were in every image in the mysteriouses of somethings. There were adaptions to enemy tactics in order to defeat the enemy at the choice of game. Love radiation, God radiation, and Eros radiation. We smiled, and in small increments patted with our fingers, and petted with our toes. The outside universe listened to our hearts, and we kissed each others cheeks. Love flowed inward and outward. Life instinct was alive and well.

Containment of emotions, events ,and experiences in a display that sounds pleasant to the ear and mind, reaching furthermore to the heart. The purpose was to love with a pure foundation that defines satisfaction. This should relay pleasant existence to those tuned and tuning into one of lifes most beautiful things. Matrimony and understanding. The exploration of love. With love we neglect nothing.

We were as free verse, cherishing stanzas, creating sonnet like moments with the seconds that were scaffolding for us. We played verse wordplay. We created imagery that could be dug and mantled.

There was a man who saved the life of a fish, and as time went by the fish grown old and passed away. The man grown too and was in good health physically but he went to the lake day by day as in many days before, hoping the fish would come back someday. The day never came, and so did the words to tell the man things will not be the same, Said I

Maybe the fish was and is the man, and the man is and was the fish
A deep empathy on the importance of life and importance of a wish,
Said Starkill

Beautiful, I proclaimed, just like you. I had a dream about this man

Beautiful, she proclaimed, just like you. I had a dream about you.
It is amazing how great stories stick to the mind, and come to life

Yes, what sucks is Tim Burtons’ Big Fish comes to mind,
But this man was, one could say,
Calm and peaceful, stuck in some kind of bliss

Starkill smiled and said, You are so brilliant, give me a kiss
I ‘am sticking us to be stuck in some kind of bliss

(I thought about benefactors and their smiles, they smile
Where they knew we were, and are living the dream
Love intended for.)

poem XX


Life does throw people off balance, and it’s time to dance
But it is many people who throw people from harmony
It drone bombs my mind in how nasty people can be
They have a romance with the death instinct, I see
They fuse to defuse people with gorilla strength
They like to round over a compassionate neck
And stretch out what good they have to great length
And make everything beautiful a beautiful wreck

Blood-bound? Starkill asked

Yes, demonic goofy if you ask me, I replied

Lucifers’ pliers bent the heavens out hospitality, said Starkill

I guess goodness was never complimented enough through time, I said,
Good people were not rewarded in respectable ways

And this seriously is a problem, Starkill added

Yes it is, I stated, As bad people were punished in forced respectable methods

And now private prisons are wide open, and no longer private, Starkill wondered out loud

Prisoners with no emptiness
Mamma and Papa didn’t know nature and spiritual best
Failure at concern, protectiveness, and watchfulness
Good love deprivation was laid down to rest

So we need massive floodlights to burn through these gremlin like activities, Starkill suggested

Star powered fireworks, I stated

So this is where I come in? Starkill asked

Hmm, how to make evil vomit evil? I asked

Force feed goodness, Starkill replied

Killing with kindness died out when do you think? I asked

Evil to cry! Starkill proclaimed, They will have to let go! Everyday and now at a massive level

Yeah, something, burying people alive is not a good thing, I said

Maybe it is? Starkill suggested, they have been doing it to good people

Beatings do not work, it is the tear ducts in flow mode that does, I said

I picture you on your horse riding through the cold blowing winter snow, said Starkill

Through the blizzard like world as it is today
They work in packs because they fear being alone
Vulgarity, laziness dress code slander’d mouth say
They’re material to make a home out of their bone. Hey!

We must be glacier breakers John E, said Starkill

Cave people with technology, that’s great,
That is really sexual great now isn’t?
They are deaf leopards and love maybe to late
Lets take their beating fantasy out of reality

Frozen and mobile evil here we come! Starkill spoke

The after math must be restless, no relaxation for those found guilty, I said

Reminds me of biblical prisons, said Starkill

Whole lot better then human-demonic ones, Said I

Inner evil castration, said Starkill

Fantasies of fire put out! I proclaimed

Shatter the vicious necklace of hate, Starkill proclaimed

We must not get caught up in it’s lasso, I demanded

John you are probably thinking, but rest assure I have a chainsaw for the crude female version of the scrotum totem pole, said Starkill

Ha Ha,  You are amazing, kiss me, said I


poem XXI


I hear the milk person, love the mail person,
Extremely love the telephone pole person
Ravens are taking a seat
Searching the hurt in the street
Also the ones who do a bigger effort
But the situations are more hopeless
Those who distrust the world
Dares not to be released
Because they are use to crashing to the ground
Deeper the effort, the deeper the sink

Truly it is understandable but think
The heart needs to be put to work
Look to your spirit, and fire it’s jailer
Free yourself, give the key to be free
Stop the whining, and start refining
Burn the burden, burn the burden
Strengthen knowledge, fly the faith
Find the means to face the pain
Stop denying satisfaction at the expense of gratification
Stop crying deeply to feel anguish keenly
Release its frozen point upon your back

Let me hear you say ‘I Will!’
Faith is there, here!
Joy is there, here!
Freedom is there, here!
You are the captor, disarm yourself
Escape interference to your independence

Let me hear you say ‘I Can!”
You can be a Super Poet
From and for future generations
Poetry crosses borders and unites nations

Nice one, said Starkill, What made you create this poem?

Well, demons move swifter in the darkness
And they sleep at dawn, then the send out their sky fawns

I like them and all, but their fly-cry gets on my nerves
I ‘am just giving a superstition back to the underworld
That is pulling people down, and giving them a sword
This is so when they think they are okay but they are not
This is master trickery that needs to be known but not forgot

This isn’t 21st Century satire, these are blessing lines
Un-stress thyself to create I am bic fiery- rhymes
Da da dumb da da dumb, get up upon your horse
Join us in the battle field, we have cut the course

Bring your heavy stick, some call a limerick
Walk silently, silence the refrain to master the trick
Together we march alone, and alone we march together
Appreciate the seasons and get use to every weather
“I will, I can” be adhesive and make it stick

Soul Jabber!

poem XXII


I can be dangerous, Starkill proclaimed, Because I like danger
And then there are times I am not and don’t like it,
I also think danger likes me

I hear that, I replied, Let me add a word of caution,
Murder of any type of action disgusts me
Don’t look so frightened, loosen up more,
Reach to me with your lips, and let me soften you more

I used my poetic eye to see the beauty of our kiss,
And Starkill spoke after,

I seen a dog killed with a pitchfork before
My brother choked me before,
And held me under water in my bath
My cousin taught me vice and insanity
And my mother tried to commit suicide
My neighborhood was rough and tough
And how I made it this far puzzles me

I look at her with compassion and say,
Lay on your back, it’s time for my hands to sow
Let me see your eyes first
Do not be afraid, we have caught each other
From the turbulent turbo water

Her eyes smiled, and she spoke again,
I ‘am no longer afraid,
I have wanted someone like you
All of my life, all risks are gone
I want to live, and fight back with you
For and to the living tendency of love
The fight uphill calls us
The force of love
The force no one recons with
I ‘am no longer little and brittle
I ‘am no longer made of glass
I feel full of life, to swim freely

Do you feel it in your stomach? I asked

Yes, all over me, Starkill replied,
You are epic-drama-lyrical, all combined
Earth traditional non-lofty riff’d & rhym’d

I smiled and spoke,
The country side & kind, not country of the pecked wood
But the panorama of beauty defining the word wide
Country life’s a sonnet, enlightenment setting mood
You are key, I can see you un-locking things that hides

I would love to make love outdoors, Starkill replied

It is where we belong, earth was made that way for us, said I,
My mind is a camera taking photographs of you
Albums of your lifes beauty will be upon my heart and soul
This first one here will always be the foundation of all of them

An expression of deep comfort came upon Starkills face and eyes
I sensed expansion overlaying aliveness of her facial expressions
A radiant joy I have never seen before bloomed and glowed upon her
This pointed the way to the future

The Universe ~ expanded no longer without us
Culture factor waste-
Revolution, Law and Order mean nothing
When Love is not, I repeat, not, anchored
Anchored to self and the corrosion of Lust

When love attacks
Tenderness and sensuality fix what is broken






(work in progress aka to be continued)

ya ya th’C inside th’Circle John E. WordSlinger
_Book Wishlist:

photo source:

Chapter 4 Zimbabwe Good Day Striking: The Key of Life, Birds of God, Lord of Divine Words and Baboon Games (The Riddle of the Master of Sunshine In The City of Roses)

Posted in Poetry E Train, Poetry Train with tags , on July 4, 2016 by johnewordslinger

 Frank and Frances Carpenter Collection black and white photographs of AfricaZimbabwe/ The_Great_Zimbabwe,_ancient_ruins_LCCN89714067.jpg ‎

Photo Source: https://www.pinterest.com/vandergraaf/zimbabwe


Good Day Striking: The Key of Life, Birds of God,

Lord of Divine Words and Baboon Games,

(The Riddle of the Master of Sunshine In The City of Roses)


July 4th 2016

Red heard hissing, but this sound was accompanied by another kind of hissing, or more hissing other then from steam of the train. This train Red and Scratch unboarded was painted blue, grey and brown, the Rhodesian Railways colours. The train was massive with sheer brute strength and size. The train had flags on it, something Red has not seen since being in the south of the United States, but this flag was not a Confederate flag it was a Union Jack Flag, a Union flag that represents respect for individuality within a closely knit community, so this was something Red hoped to see. The land was on a ridge, and the hill was covered with serpents, and Red could not believe his ears or eyes. There were so many pythons. Black smoke, a black train, black snakes and a blackish foggy sky. Red knew too, it was the vibrations of the train that awoke the pythons. He recalled snakes were called a train, and a train a snake, a long black snake. Red watched the train swing into the turn leaving instead of lurching outward like the string on a bow.

Red drew a breath and thought, Land of Riddle, he sensed the place of was of slaughter, a place of suffering and rejection. Red remembered this was koBulawayo, Bulawayo, in the Zimbabwe Kingdom from reading a map.

The surrounding landscape was screaming with telltale symbolism. Red could smell water too in the air, from a lake or river. Red seen far away, people walking single file, and Red felt alone with strangers, so Red sat down, he began to have a sad feeling come over him, a feeling of Danger, and he thought of so many things. Was this the place of terror for black men to be examined and shipped out to be a slave? Along with so many other dark things. Was these stone walls of this enormous place not a house but a place for human corralling? The land rock was red, and this place was no joke, Red thought, and these walls were constructed without mortar. This place felt out of bounds, or was he out of bounds. Red imagined the policing that must have happened. The horrors and &c, and no one actually knows Red remembered from studies, if this was in fact, the place of the Queen of Sheba, in the Great Zimbabwe Kingdom… Red then thought, This place was behind the times if it was not a slavery hub, and all it needed was a railroad. So many years apart, Red thought. Red got up, and ran to and up the stone stairs, to get inside, the stairs had other climbers too, geckos. Scratch sniffed at them, and moved onward and upward.

He thought of a song as he walked, and that a song needed to sound so good to change the world, and singers. Red wanting to hear songs sung in this day, now. Music of the lands. A chorus. Prehistoric wasn’t even a good term for this place. This place was of Godly proportions. The doorways or corridors in this house or houses were small and narrow compared to today. People ignored Red like he was a ghost, or they feared Scratch. This place was just amazing to Red. Biblical. Then it got comical. Was this Ospir? Red asked himself. Monkeys then appeared, looking at Red and Scratch. Where was the tribe of this fortress? Red thought. Were they all dead, or did they to flee with time? These people were different, and Red felt something. These people he is seeing are leaving. There must have been more people, have they all have moved away?

Red heard thunder, but it sounded like drumming. Scratch then noticed an Eagle, a Bateleur Eagle rolling through the sky. Red seen a man, and he was making coffee. Red introduced himself, and the man looked up at Red, then Scratch and at the Eagle, and said, “Will be victorious in battle if the Eagle flies over the enemy!”

He looked sad, and Red replied, Who is the enemy?

“Many.” replied the man, looking at an Elephant corpse laid out in the field and said, “It’s tough to argue with a corpse, and they are everywhere. I ‘am a foreman, and excellent at keeping things on track.” He then pointed north and said, “The violent ivory path. Ivory chopsticks for salt, sugar, and arms. No more, slaves, the Tovakare.” The man pointed to the Bateleur Eagle and said, “The Shiri ya Mwari bird is the alpha and the omega. They are leaving too, and peace will not return until they do return here.”

What does Shiri ya Mwari mean? Red asked.

“The bird of God links to heaven.” The man replied. “It is up there beating its wings, and it sings, Sjweee, Sjweee, and that is not good.”

There are more, look, said Red pointing to where they where.

“If they land on the walls, and spread their wings at sunset, the world will end!” The man proclaimed.

An Bateleur Eagle flew to the ground so they could get a close look. The bird had an orange pinkish beak marked to its eyes. A color Red has seen on buzzards in Tennessee. This Eagle was beautiful, its blue back wings were impressive, and so was its silver feathers, and Red thought of the silver back Gorilla.

“They know the dzimba dza mabwe and means house of stone.” said the man, and he pointed at a section of the wall, “The great enclosure is mumbahuru, means the house of the great woman.”

So who is this great woman? Red asked.

He did not reply. The man went to chopping wood to make coffee. He then stopped and asked Red if he was a gariempero, a gold seeker.

Red replied, No, a wisdom seeker. Well let me say this along the lines of wisdom from Chief Isapo Muxika of the Blackfoot tribe, Land is more valuable then money, and the land, waters do not belong to us, they belong to the Great Spirit.

“Nothing but pain and tragedy to those that read secrets of the gods themselves and all that is hidden in the stars.” the man replied.

Red laughed, maybe so but to me money and gold do the same thing, and Red laughed again. I ‘am enchanted by this place. Seems like I have lived or have been here before, a feeling similar to Déjà vu.

“Which is a characteristic of healthy people and psychological phenomena.” The man replied.

Yes, Red replied and thought of Andy.

“Thoth the Scribe, wrote the story of our reality then placed it into grids for us to experience and learn through the alchemy of time and consciousness.” said the man.

So Baboons know how to tell time? Red asked.

The man laughed and got two cups for the coffee. “That maybe so. We find them the Nyani to be evil.”

Speak of the, said Red but did not finish the cliche phrase. A lone grown Baboon came up to them, and he stopped in front of Red and made a large X in the dirt in front of him. The man looked at Red and said, “That means above and below. He is telling you that Thoth taught writing to mankind.”

Red was impressed by this and moved forward, and squatted down to converse with this beautiful Baboon.

The man threw little bag in front of Red and said, “There are dice in there, see if he likes to play dice.”

Okay, I am feeling something here, I ‘am feeling that he feels left out, somehow, said Red. Red opened the bag, and rolled the dice, and it was a two and a three. The Baboon smiled it seemed and picked them up, sniffed them and chattered. He then placed them in his mouth and spit them out, and they were of a two and three. Red laughed, and looked back at Scratch. Scratch was being lazy and lying down. There seemed to be no conflict, Red thought.

“He maybe, and such be so, as I have said, True, without falsehood, certain and most true, that which is above is the same as that which is below, and that which is below is the same as that which is above, for the performance of miracles of the One Thing. The man spoke, and something sunk into Red, but remained silent.

The Baboon began to draw pictures in the dirt.

“Medu neter,” said the man smiling, “They are words of the gods.”

Red asked the man his name. “Cosmu,” replied the man. Red turned around to look at him, and he was no longer there. Red stood there looking about, and asked the Baboon while looking for the man, Why is sense called common when it is so rare? It was silent so Red turned around and the Baboon too was no longer there. Red looked at the Baboons symbol and he thought of Chinese writing but it wasn’t. Red then thought of the royal libraries that were in Alexandria. Red then got a bit nervous, and looked for the Eagles and they too were gone. Red sat down, and thought, Capturing human emotion is so difficult, and the more difficult humans act makes them emotionless, or heart blocking. We associate words and ideas with emotions and memories and often think of the future. Red laughed and thought, Don’t look for any Gorilla Shakespeare to come around, but then again, this Baboon just drew

some kind of petroglyph that looked like the Bateleur Eagle. The dice were rolled too, and there were each of one. Did the Baboon roll this or was it a message, signaling mankind was of treachery and betrayal? Red then remembered so it is above so it is below. Red asked Scratch where the Baboon went and Scratch let out a roar. Ah Red said, and awoke. He laid there laughing a bit, and remembered one worked on a railroad in South Africa. There is a lot to learn here, so Red got out of bed, and it was to early to meet the team, so he decided to study.

Andy was sleeping in his roomette and in his dream he heard singing, a chorus, and a cling and a clang, sounds he knows well, sounds of hammers and spades bang. Andy realized something was mirroring, and there was thunder. The place he came to had no entrances, no windows, the birds flew above them and the wind moved through the place. It was like an outdoors church because of the alter he noticed. Andy heard a man talking, “The only way to pray before battle is for its failure. To pray any other way isn’t a prayer at all, but a petition for murder.” The man walked from behind some trees with a black boy riding piggy back.

The trees were beautiful and big but not like the Bay-Tree the Laurel of North America and the south of Europe but the Msasa trees of Africa and they were retina taking, caused by their red leaves. Andy remembered the bay tree wreath, the symbolical crown of Poets and warriors. The man spoke again, “We are making a Kraal, a traditional African village of huts, typically enclosed by a fence.” The person he was talking to was the boy on his back, and the man seen Andy. Andy introduced himself, and the man said, “I ‘am Arthur Shearly Cripps, the Shona call me Baba Mpandi, or ‘the man who walks like thunder.’ Also they call me ‘Francis of Assisi of the African countryside, Chapepa he who cares for people.”

Andy felt this person, and thought about the thunder, and looked around a bit and seen there were no clouds. “So you are a man of God?” Andy asked.

“Yes and a Poet.” said Arthur Shearly Cripps. “You are a Mufambi, the Wanderer Poet from America, and here in Rhodesia they are going to look at you like you are not like them, and they will, and you will have to prove different. You and your friends.”

Andy laughs and says, “This is grand, a chance of a life time.” Andy then thought, “I ‘am human, but I ‘am not, we are one blood.”

Arthur Shearly Cripps crouched down, and let the boy off of his back and laughed, “Andy doesn’t this give you the sense of having been here before, of having come back to this country?”

‘Oh my God.’ Andy thought. ‘This was the City of Roses, where the Master of Sunshine goes.’ “Yes,” Andy replied. “Man do I, a day ja ja like vu” Andy almost broke time code because he wanted to tell Cripps about the Poet Tammy Jo Ricci and her poem, “Farewell; To The Weeping Rose.” so Andy just smiled and lived in the moment.

“So your path was immune from crocodiles?” Cripps asked. “Andy this is Raphah and he is good child.” Cripps pulled out calabash pipe. “Transvaal tobacco is my favorite. Did you come by the morning train? The slow down-train I call it. You look damp.”

Andy thought for a moment and replied “Yes, they Crocs ate all the woodpecker pie I brought.” Andy laughed, and replied to Cripps second question. “Yes, and it was a pleasant ride.”

“I was just teaching Rapha how one could use watery roots like crayons,” said Cripps, “Woodpecker pie, that’s funny.”

Raphah was occupied by drawing and coloring.

“Andy are you here too about the theory of Ophir, and Solomon’s gold?” Cripps asked and talked more. “I ask them all, and the script; where is it? And the graves; where are they? If they were Semites, why didn’t they write? If they were Semites, why didn’t they bury?”

Andy replies, “Many folks feel confused about the world. They would like to believe in miracles, and to answer your question, maybe, but not the gold. I already know where Jesse James gold is!” and Andy laughed.

Cripps looks at Andy with a curious expression, and then says, “I have heard of the Jesse James. Its been days of of All Hallows and All Souls here so you must demonstrate one’s principle of barring out the color-bar. Miracles are alive and well, with grace. We are in Danger now, she is here. And her fire seems so inevitable, why not warn about her prospective fuel? That perfect love casteth out fear, but what has racialism to do with such a perfect love as will banish the fear of God?”

Andy replied with a question, “Did Danger start the nightmare? Seems to me she is the master of ignorance. Maybe she’s Poetry evil twin?”

Cripps eyes got big with insight and replied, “She started a nightmare. I wish we could help you to better dreams. I’d like to see what you see now. Lets go for a walk. I want to show you some beautiful things, and introduce you to some great people.”

Raphah quickly gathered up his art and natural root crayons.

They all three walked and beyond a few railway sheds Cripps shown Andy some bushes of wild cherry-blossom, flaunting a true white under the sky’s true blue. Spring colors dressed the woodland behind them, red and bronze, the two famous colors of Faeryland. Behind that, again, the view was spread out widely diverse, hills standing up very delicately. Near foreground some people were driving their flock between the white-blossomed bushes.

“This is the wilder country of the central tableland,” said Cripps. “Lets take a break here.”

Cripps began to chant in a chorus tone. He pulled out from his back pocket a copy of Theocritus, he sat down, and spoke “They all call thee a gipsy, gracious Africa, lean and sunburnt, tis only I that call thee honey-pale. Yea, and the violet is swart, and swart the lettered hyacinth, but yet these flowers are chosen the first in garlands. Ah, gracious Africa, thy feet are fashioned like carven ivory, thy voice is drowsy sweet, and thy ways, I cannot tell of them.”

A train engine whistled, stopping at the nearby station. Cripps reached for his wallet, and brought out a mini Oxford anthology. He turned over the pages and began to read rather sadly, Elizabeth Barret Brownings’ poem “The Great God Pan – A Musical Instrument”

Yet half a beast is the great god Pan,
To laugh as he sits by the river,
Making a poet out of a man:
The true gods sigh for the cost and the pain
For the reed which grows nevermore again
As a reed with the reeds in the river.

A man came to them from the train, and Andy was in deep thought.

Cripps smiled, stood up, and spoke, “Andy this is Johannes, my own right hand at home. I solemnly entrusted the strangers and their steeds to his keeping. Johannes you look like you had really gone without blankets or food?”

“You are right Arthur, but I made it back home,” said Johannes, and he looked at Andy, and Cripps introduced each other.

Andy was intrigued and asked, “So this theory of Ophir, remains from what we know from the Old Testament, can we talk about that? You also seem to be, but I have not seen of yet, to be friends of animals.”

Cripps laughed and said, “Follow your intuition for it has brought you here.”

Andy smiled and thought about his grandfather, and that humans are more dangerous then wild animals. “I think Moses and Solomon were Masters of diversion as well, the gold is spiritual wisdom, and the arc of the covenant was the goose, or goose egg putting everyone into a chase for it.”

Cripps smiled and said, “I love the way you think. So you know where the gold is of the Jesse James?”

Andy laughed and replied, “Yes, but that is material gold, not spiritual, and not important.”

“Fascinating.” Cripps replied.

Andy got a bit nervous, thinking, “Is she, the muse of Poetry, claiming he for her only, and bade him never have to do with mortal woman ? And what if Danger was Poetries’ sister?” Andy shook off the questions for awhile, but smiled, smiled to be chosen, “But how many others, and beyond death, were they with her? Although, although.

Drayton, a friend of Cripps came too, and sat down and said, “It’s good to see you all again, and I have a new poem.”

‘I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful a faery’s child;
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.’


‘I set her on my pacing steed,

And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she lean,

and sing A faery’s song.


‘She found me roots of relish sweet,

And honey wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange

she said I love thee true.’


‘She took me to her elfin grot,

And there she wept, and sighed full sore,

And there I shut her wild,

sad eyes with kisses four.


‘And there she lulled me asleep,

And there I dream’d Ah woe betide!

The latest dream I ever dream’d

On the cold hill’s side.’


‘I saw pale kings and princes, too;

Pale warriors death-pale were they all.

They cried, “La Belle Dame sans Merci”

hath thee in thrall.


‘I saw their starved lips in the gloom

With horrid warning gaped wide,

And I awoke and found me here

On the cold hill’s side.’

Andy was tripping, thinking, The Sorceress.” Andy then looked at the ground, and ants were everywhere.

Cripps laughed and said, “Those are Matabele ants of the veld.”

‘Ah’ Andy thought, ‘Ants like the whiteman, and was this a sign, and analogy from the Umlimo Prophecies he has read about?’

A white man came from behind them on foot and he had a walking stick, but a horse followed him loaded with bags, and he was the Elephant hunter Frederick Courteney Selous aka The Mighty Nimrod.

“Excuse me,” He said and introduced himself. He asked for some paper, because he was writing his novel ‘Sunshine and Storm in Rhodesia.’

They are were back offish, because he had a similar Indian Jones slash Ramboish feel to him, and they all knew white mans trickery. Cripps stood up and said, “Have a seat. Johannes please go to our kraal and bring us back things to write with, paper, pencils, ink and feathers, furthermore more roots for Raphah. Oh tea, bring us plenty of tea, please.”

“Thank you,” said Frederick C. Selous smiling because he loved tea, “I heard you all reciting poetry, so I was like yes, here we have folks I can relate to. My mother is a Poet. Ann Holgate Sherborn.” Frederick C. Selous looked at Andy and said, “My mother wrote a poem ‘The Prophetic Dream’ and for some reason, you have brought it back to my memory. The poem is about love coming from over the blue sea, for poetry.”

Andy gave Selous and catchy look and smiled, furthermore Andy thought, ‘Selous did not know Andy, why?’

Selous said, “I have an imagination strongly fueled by African exploration and hunting literature, Dr. David Livingstone and William Charles Baldwin. We are heros Andy, fictional character or not.”

Andy contemplated time and memory, and smiled in his mind. Honesty.

Johannes was on the way to get supplies, tea, and munchies. He was stopped by Nehanda Charwe Nyakasikana a svikiro-spirit medium of the Zezuru Shona people, and she looked deeply into his eyes, and Johannes looked shocked and Nehanda said, “Don’t be afraid.” She wore a robe like garment with a skirt, her head was shaved, and she wore ankle bracelets. She walked away saying, “Seize the gun and liberate yourselves.” Johannes did not know what to think, but asked to himself, ‘How can we save our skins?’

Meanwhile back at the resting place Andy was thinking that Selous would kill Scratch if he was here. Andy thought about Red and tossed and turned in his bed, talking in his sleep, “Thou shall not kill.” This deepened the dream, and they wonder why animals seem to have a bad temper.

Andy looked at the horse and wondered what was in the bags? He noticed the horses hooves, like the horse had walked through ashes. Andy thought about the British empire and what it is and the Poet William Langlands’ dream, and Jack Cades’ rebellion, furthermore the anonymous Pearl-Poet?

Cripps caught Andy thinking into a distant realm. Eagles could be heard but not seen, and the focus became on the boy Raphah because he sat aside his art and looked at Andy and said, “Let me shake you like a train, Touch your nose, Touch your mouth, Touch your eyes, Touch your ears, Touch your paper and root, And let me hear that whistle about & smile.”

Andy smiled and said, “Oh I love that, great poem, so you know what goes on in between our ears don’t you.” Andy applauded the boy, and everyone fell into suit and applauded Raphah. Raphah smiled and whistled like a train. Andy looked at them and said, “Dowel (“Do-Well”), Dobet (“Do-Better”), and Dobest (“Do-Best”) that’s how I came to be here, Poetry has called me. The intense quest and intention of Poetic will. Andy then thought back in his time, everyone does not get to read or desire Poetry because they are glued to a television screen or a smart phone, and video games in all forms, we need to create films about Poets, and that is the truth of the matter.

Frederick Courteney Selous aka The Mighty Nimrod looked at Andy and asked, “Where is your Poetic license?”

Andy laughed and replied, “In my heart, but the thing is where did you get yours from, a cracker jack box?” This was about to fire up a deadly sin in The Mighty Nimrod, and Andy. “Hey, love, where’s the love? Your mother loved poetry without murder. I ‘am just using my inwit here are you with me?”

The Eagles could be heard again, and they all looked up, and the moon was in the days’ sky, and this resemble a finger to Andy poking us alive. Humility and Grace came over them along with an eclipse.

Andy started to cry inside, because if Poetry was claiming Andy for hers, then he must face the fact, that a true love on earth was not happening unless he abandoned Poetry and Red altogether, and that was not happening. Andy knew his love was on the other side of the globe, like the song from Led Zeppelin ‘The Rover.’

“Never under estimate the Poets forces, once they unite in full!” said Andy “You see everyone, I ‘am welding and grinding, time within time, within in dream time, within my inwit life time. The only reason why Poetry is not popular is because know this, we’d mentally kick some tail bone.”

The Mighty Nimrod was silent but thought, ‘Andy was a human being, with a spiritual nature superadded which enabled the unseen Deity-Poetry that pervades space to commune with Andy furthermore communicate the wishes or commands of the invisible spirit to the up and coming Poets.’

Raphah created art, a tower, and said, “Look, there is no curfew for Poetry.”

Everyone laughed except The Mighty Nimrod, he scoffed laughed and spoke, “The world Andy will turn your Poetry Train turn upside-down, and your character will became a symbol for a movement which the world regard as an evil.”

Poetry th’Diety then spoke to Andy, “Be gentle on th’wind, recall when I spoke to you before, be patient.”

Cripps looked at Andy, and they knew that The Mighty Nimrod was a master bad Wolf who robs the world of spiritual food, but they had compassion for him, and they were ready to show the blade of forgiveness.

A train could be heard in the distance, was it a train, a cattle stampede, or was it a Zulu tribe on a pathe to war?

Raphah looked at The Mighty Nimrod and cried and in his whimper he spoke, “You are killing us, do not kill.”

The Mighty Nimrod replied, “Well, aren’t you jolly, ol boy, just jolly.”

Raphah replied, “We don’t care about your Cat, the Queen, we are her nightmare in this dream.”

At this time Johannes returned with supplies and the artist Gwelo Goodman, ‘th’Master of Sunshine.’ Gwelo Goodman unpacked his art tools and spoke, “Look here, I was a clerk for the Railroad, and my father British Railways worker and I want to paint a picture for you.”

Gwelo Goodman moved quickly and swiftly and created a masterpiece like none before. It was a storm, and lightning and thunder storm. It was magical plunging them again and again into the unknown, one brave stroke of paint followed by another.

Cripps and Andy knew Danger was here, unseen, but she could be felt, and the days time went by into the night with discussions of Poetry.

Cripps spoke to Andy, “You can sleep here for the night under the many eyes of the heavens. You just keep to your fire.”

From behind Nimrod came Nehanda Charwe Nyakasikana, the svikiro-spirit medium of the Zezuru Shona people and reached for his rifle, and Andy awoke.

‘Sing Rad’ Poetry Train Africa by Boet Fritz & music by Ticha Muzavazi.


aye, ay-

ya ya way

em em, em em way

Love today

We’re only miles away,

and this Poetry Train Africa

Here we go, ya ya

this Poetry Train Africa

Poem offspring,

Poet refugees

Poem liberties,

Poet bold and free


aye, ay-

ya ya way

and this Poetry Train Africa

Love today

We’re only miles away,

and this Poetry Train Africa

Here we go, ya ya

this Poetry Train Africa



Boet was in correspondence with Ticha Muzavazi who is a Poet, Author and Teacher for the Blind, to make a book trailer for Poetry Train Africa with his MaJairos PaJairos melody, and all was good. Red was silent reading things online when Andy came to join them.

Beautiful melody and words, said Red.

“It was, play it again for me Boet.” said Andy waking up, and poured himself some coffee.

A woman and a man walked by to have a seat in the dining car, and they all heard what they we talking about as they came in.

“You have obviously not lived in Africa… I was born in Rhodesia, a thriving and beautiful nation called Eden and the bread basket of the world. It had such robust agriculture and an amazing economy. Then It became Zimbabwe, over 300% inflation, that is 300%. Starvation abounds, Aids is rampant. Blacks believe if you rape a baby or virgin, it will cure you- Charlize Theron did an ad about it and the Thugament banned it. Cities crumble, whites hunted and kicked off their land, shot for their color. My god father was one. No food, mines taken over by Thugabwe airline, newspapers, farms, elections, businesses, everything that could profit him and his elite thugs. He does not care about black lives, black nations, black anything other than his black thug culture screaming about slavery. He has taken a beautiful nation, this nation and raped her of all her bounty. He has left the nation barren and starving. I could go on and on across the continent, example after example. Obama said, Zimbabwe was a shining example and he wanted America to be like her- well he has it, shoot the officers, kill and blame whitey for all your woes, wide spread government corruption, elite group of cronies getting wealthy. Look at America since he took over, we sat behind black people at an event last night, they were the only ones I could see that did not sing the national anthem. My advice if you think Africa is so great and your Mother land, Come here and see life under black dictator rule, Come! Live in a slum made out of tin scraps, with no running water and toilet paper that takes a wheelbarrow of printed money to purchase. My best friend is black just for your information is living this hell. Wake up and learn beyond your hate for white people. I raised my children colorblind. My son was choked for it, my sister had her nose broken by blacks for coming from Africa, my husband was treated horridly from the moment his black boss found out I was from Africa, we have lost black friends over and over because of it. Tell me who are the racists? I hate ignorance. Most black slaves brought to America over 200 years ago! They were sold by other blacks who had conquered their tribes! What happened to them here was horrible, but it is not an excuse for people to use as a crutch for their hatred of white people 200 years later! Most would be found not to even be ancestors of slaves.” The lady yelled out, “HATE IS TAUGHT” and it starts in the home and hearts of parents too busy being jealous of others to do their job and earn their own way. We don’t drive Cadillac’s, my daughter is paying for her med school despite being and honor student by cleaning peoples’ houses. That pesky affirmative action-you know where kids get in just because of their skin color not because they earned it by working hard, she is not going to Harvard on tax dollars that is for sure, just another elite school Obama is sending his darlings to, to keep from the riff raff out here in real America. Go see reality before sounding off so ignorantly on Africa and America and what has happened there and here because of class and color warfare.

The man this lady was with replied, “Yes, it is bigotry to target white people, same as targeting people because they are of a particular race or religion or gender or orientation. Yes, it’s wrong for govt officials, cops or anyone else to target based on those things too, it is wrong to target govt employees too, be they agents trying to collect grazing fees, or wildlife refuge care takers or cops trying to do their jobs. They are all govt employees, some federal, some local, which means they are working for us, and they are us, as in We, the People. An attack on one is an attack on all of us, whether it’s these shootings or those unjustified shootings by cops. It is not one or the other, it’s both.

The train conductor came in and spoke to them, “They say in the U.S.A. the lethal injection is not humane, go figure, remember when they buried people up to our necks and stoned them to death, please. I say hang em high. I understand the grief you all feel, but please keep the volume and tempers down please. I ask that from you both.”

Andy looked at Red, and tele-thought… “Thank God we are friends, living examples, where we forget one not, out of friendship, respect and love, furthermore Poetry.

“So where are we today in wisdom Poets?” Andy asked.

Chenjerai Hove, Red replied, Shall we say if you want to know about the history of a country, do not go to the history books, go to the Poetry & Fiction. It has clues and is the substance and heartbeat of a people’s life, here, now, and in the past. Not just politics but about love and death. Messages of hope.

“Thanks, place the wisdom Red, while I read and listen to Charlize Theron,” said Andy.

10/4, Red answered and said, Chenjerai Hove, has died last year in Norway at the age of 59. You are going to love his wisdom.

“Already, in studying Chenjerai Hove speeches, comments make me sick,” said Andy. “We are already fighting megalomania and racism. We are not wisdom armed to fight this, but it comes to me any way, one of the 10 commandments, and wisdom centuries ago, not taken seriously. We or I’ll have to just soak this in.”

Post it anyway Andy, leave the deciphering to the passengers. Red proclaimed.

“Okay,” Andy replied, “I have phone calls to make after that. Then we will study Poet Chenjerai Hove.” Andy was tired, dream beaten, need to return he thought, ‘Maybe a nap later.’

Andy recalled a dream from last night, bits and pieces, and he thought, ‘If the modern day Queen of Poetry knows the wisdom of roses, and so much more, why was she so reluctant to move forward with her beautiful Poetry, as she is, and allowing Andy & Red and Poet John E. WordSlinger to bring her divine Poetry to this beautiful planet, beautiful Poetry for sure Andy thought as he looked out the window of the train. I must be patient with this Poetry of hers, in bloom time, not mans’ time, because she hates mans’ time. She loves water, for sure, but unlike roses, she does not crave the sun, but she asks, “Can you hear the sunshine?” Andy could, can…

Red knew what and who Andy was thinking, and said, Play some Beethoven. Tell her to eat bananas, they will make her feel better.

“Red if something happens, it will do me in.” said Andy. “She thinks I ‘am selfish Red, not knowing in full, what we go through so far away, and I know she’s going though way more then we are, Red.”

She knows you care Andy, Red proclaimed. We have work to do. Chenjerai Hove says, Poetry is for everyone. Each of us are unique, once we discover ourselves through Poetry. New voices, new styles.

“Another Poet forced to exile, I read.” says Andy.

Red replied, He is a fighting Poet which insists, through both content and form, Poetry should be revolutionary and popular. Poetry must spring from life’s struggles and not from back-sitting imagination and fantasies, so again we hear this.

“He passed like we shall Red, with being rich in wisdom, soul and conscience.” said Andy.

Red wrote on a piece of paper and slid it to Andy, and it read, International Parliament of Writers and International Cities of Refuge Network.

Andy looked at Red and said, “Serious Poetry is not about private and personal indulgence or about personal lamentations, but about ‘the pain and pleasure of people in struggle’ as they traverse different epochs in history. For sure also Red but personal lamentations or poems, or notes are used against sincere Poets.”

What are you seeing Andy? Red asked.

“They call them scorpions here in Africa, as we call human snakes,” Andy replied. “We never meant to drop a house in the literary river. But I have to admit, It was and is grand to watch the water snakes emerge… Or scorpions. All in all boys in girls, don’t look for a rainbow when you are the rainbow.”

Andy turned over the paper and wrote. ‘We have one or a few amongst us, shhh.’

Andy then poured some more coffee and said, “The good news is Constantine Enyo is now Vice President of poetrytrain.com and you know as well as I do, he will make a great spirit to all we have done, as he told us, ‘Due to the vision of this art and our relentless dedication that astounds me and makes me proud to be a part of it. Castalia Press will soon become entirely dedicated to the Poetry Train and our vision.’

Boet laughed and says, “Hold that cup. No, I got your clown make up. Yall better get your bozo asses to my roomette, like now.”

Boet knew it was time to get them away from what society there was at the moment.

Andy poured coffee anyways, stood up, took a sip, and laughed spit it out all over the trains’ window. Andy looked at Boet and says, “You have got to be kidding me.” Andy looks at Red, and Red gave Andy that look. Andy then sat down, and said, “Hell no, none of you megalamaniacs, prejudice, gonna hem me up.” Momma blind or dead, not, none of you Un-united folk ever going to slow me, or Red down.”

Red spoke, “Down.”

Andy replied “No. We aint bringing bugs, make up, here, we are Poetry Promoters, ya hear.”

“Okay.” says Boet “I shall return with make up. It is that time.” And Boet laughs.

“No you’re not.” says Andy. “You are going to sit your ass down, and mind-fight, just like I do, we do.”

Red sat down, looked at Boet and says, Yall have to do it with out us, carry on.

“There is enough make up on this world.” says Andy…

Red, relax everyone Andy is in full blown taking out megalomania and racism mode.

“Andy, you have to stick with the game plan.” Boet proclaimed as he stood up. “Reds’ life is easy to pass off as Zimbabwean, you on the other hand will not. You life is a stake, so stick to the plan, you know, remember last night, when you decided to look like John Adams instead of Buckwheat?

Andy looks at Red and laughs, smircks and says, “ I need those circus gloves, those circus shoes too, you got them?”

“Yes.” Boet replied.

“I need them, since we are on the train, and in these circumstances,” says Andy laughing, “No man can pass as Santa Claus, with out gloves, and shoes, a circus clown has to have them, or they aint no circus clown. So we going to copyright this face art right, as me as the new John Adams of the Library of Congress, and meme stuff? Where and the train tar nations is Mathias?”

Red laughed… Ya ya get the eggs, we don’t have much time. Trademark Andy asap.

And that’s what Boet done.

“Each and every human face is different, as in each Poet.” said Andy as Boet applied Andys’ new clown make up. “Black, white, red, come on give me some blue!”

Red laughed and spoke, “I am typing away Andy at the International Circus Clowns Club, International Parliament of Writers and the International Cities of Refuge Network.”

Andy could see the alterations in the refelection on the trains window, and spoke “Red Poetry Train aint no Vegas.”

I got this Andy, hush! said Red.

Andy laughs and says, “You have to love the 20th Century BS! 18th Century too, look at me, John Adams, Copyrights are governed by the Copyright Act of 1976 contained in title 17 of the U.S. Code. The Act protects published or unpublished works that are fixed in a tangible medium of expression from which they can be perceived. The Act does not protect matters such as an idea, process, system, or discovery. Protection under the Act extends for the life of the creator of the work plus fifty years after his or her death. The exclusive right to make copies, license, and otherwise exploit a literary, musical, or artistic work, whether printed, audio, video, etc.: works granted such right by law on or after January 1, 1978, are protected. This is hilariious. What do they think we, we are slepping? One Day Red we will get to see the Queens egg collection, royal and all, ha ha ha ha. Red, trains station attenstant was a white man back there, and he stoled my coffee cup! Mathias should we call, the Zimbabwe Authorities or Poetry Trains Axel F, ha ha ha ha.”

Five minutes later the Trains Conductor and two other men walk through the train. Red and Andy both knew these two men were lawmen. Boet finished the face art for Andy, and Andy just put on his last glove as they looked at them as they walked by. The other two people, the lady and man arguing over American politics, looked more nervous then they did, so this helped.

Andy laughed and says, “I ‘am the clown as is, but I think wearing a cowboy hat is not suffice, maybe some kind of snake skin head band or something?” Andy laughs harder. He then looks at Red and says, “Mathias must be chasing women and poetry contests.” Andy laughs and says, “He did hear us when we said, good luck with dealing with ghosts.”

Red looked at Andy and says, This has become the train of hunger, lets have breakfast, and discuss Poets Charles William Dambudzo Marechera and Ignatius T. Mabasa.

“Okay, and I ‘am still reading Chenjerai Hove and Thomas Bvuma,” says Andy, “I think I will have this sugar bush breakfast special.”

Sounds good to me too, Red replied, When you order this pancake breakfast a dollar goes to Cedar Rail Camp, humanitarian project for Zimbabweans.

“Maybe we should just eat some poetry, like Charles William Dambudzo Marechera did.” said Andy. “Come eat Poetry, Masses come and rise to power.”

Red laughs, looks at Boet and says, Andy’s suffering from intellectual overflow. You see, he knows now he is part of the Zimbabwes’ underground railroad.

Andys’ clown make up was smearing below his eyes. Tears were falling as he thought in sadness, ‘Because of stupidity, a wind of non-respect blew over the planet earth. He seen a parallel between the ignored facts on Animals and Poets, a majority of people were killers by nature… The political and religious platforms spawned this, money dependency too, and true Historians and Poets seem not able to stop the downward spiral of mankind. Only the true need for Gods love can awaken the world to do better.’

They did not know what to say to Andy so Andy spoke, “I ‘am just being smokey, I ‘am okay, when this happens I write poetry I wrote in to my journals. I ‘am good. By the way, reading here something by Poet Dan Wylie, ‘We don’t study humans to gain a better understanding of animals, but we do study animals, and very effectively too, to gain a better understanding of humans. Instinct is becoming submerged,’ he says and so my instinct to cry shall not.” Andy played the song ‘Tears Of A Clown’ by Smokey Robinson.

Boet looked around before he spoke, “The reason why African nations are in disaster and lead by bad leaders and dictators is because those leaders have been set in power by the west to serve western interests that’s why almost always when there is a good African leader who lead the country to prosperity and who is not a puppet of the west he is killed, think! Now that they don’t directly colonize Africa like during the colonialism era, now the west colonizes Africa, the neo colonization because the west is rich due to all African resources that they pillaged for decades. Aids is also present in Europe and America and don’t forget that HIV has been created by Europeans in a laboratory for to reduction of the African population.”

Red replied, You’re speaking the truth and nothing but the truth for who are willing to look with a honest mind.


Boet smiled and said, “This train will become the shadow train, where people will leave Zimbabwe illegally. People jump off of trains and face death, rather then face the regime here in Zimbabwe.”

Andy looked out the window and seen cars were on roads abandoned, stalled or out of fuel.

Andy said looking, “Reading and listening to you Boet to what has happened to Zimbabwe this last decade of history reminds me of America is about to go through in a major way but in a next to higher gear. So most white people here only care about themselves?”

Boet replies, “Yes, you are thinking.”

Andy spoke, “Red I want to go and talk to the other passengers, they won’t know I ‘am white.

We are not banned like journalists, to be beaten and killed. Glad we made a fake passport right. We are inked for this”

Andy got up and asks, “So how do I look, jestorish?”

Red laughs and says, Ya Ya.

Andy opened up a bag and got handfuls of Poetry Train flyers and chapbooks to pass out to passengers on the train, furthermore paper and papermate flairs. This was online linkage too so Poets can unite online. “Boet can we go to this Queens club, where Hove and others played pool and recited poetry?” Andy asked. “These chapbooks and ebooks are made by us, paid for by us, and handed out by us.”

Boet laughed and says “You are pushing it.”

Andy replies, “We can’t have loss combined with a flair for rhyme, when we are traveling through poetry train time! Unlike others, I want to be laughed at, get me. Let those without laughter throat the first laugh, and may it be contagious, outrageous and gorgeous, and clash. Also maybe I’ll find Mathias, with hmm, with us, ha ha ha ha.”

Boet laughs and spoke, “Andy you are going to have to have more of a Afrikaans dialect, your all the way U.S.A., we can’t have that. Mathias is with the passengers, schooling up!”

“Come on Boet, I ‘am the un-identied clown who came from a UFO,” Andy proclaimed as he stood up. “It’s reading Poetry time, stanza by stanza. Reading very slowy, everyone, no racing. Read, remember everything of the poems. Being under rule should not be frightful. Also Mathias wants more protest Poetry!”

Red laughs, and says, Write Poetry too, maybe about the Africa fauna like John Eppel, and teaching ESL. The good stuff you know. Red laughs again, and says, from a UFO, nice one.

“Hear that noise, sounds like a flute.” says Andy. “Poems about looking after the earth properly.”

We don’t want to scare people Andy, says Red laughing.

“I know, people need to know Poetry is everywhere,” Andy replies.

“Should one stand up when they read?” Boet asks as he Andy got up to go to a train car of people trying to escape Zimbabwe.

“Yes there are Poets in this universe, and we must ask, is there a cave or a train to write Poetry in or on? Says Andy laughing, “Ha ha Ha ha, I ‘am a Jestor you all, for you all. Yes there are Poets in this universe, with Poems like orbs, like spinning suns, and like shadows in the sun. There are witnesses, and now you are too. Poets and Poetry are very much alive in Zimbabwe and the world is sleeping, sleeping deeply, beyond the African sleeping disease. Everywhere sleeping, it is time to wake up the world. So what we are going to do today is write Poetry too, flawed structure, and that’s okay, and it is okay for verses not knowing where the story will end. Despite discipline, or lines that are scan-less, we have a plan so join us. The word and skill of asymmetrical, no worries, do not let that bother you. Laugh at a current inability to find a rhyme, and if the poem isn’t right, leaves it be, or add a footnote to draw attention to the point. Get me? Ha ha Ha ha.”

Red laughs and says, Smoken’ train’ so many poems to read by Poet John Randal Bradburne, well, relax yall, we got this, kickn’ it in th’20th Century Poetry Train Africa Zimbabwe… While Mathias Safari is gathering the class, the Poetry Train is about to bring some folks back down to the grass… ya ya, love this, Boo!

Andy stretched out and said, “It’s so good to be in Zimbabwe, riding and writing in Africa. A dream within a triple dream.”

Red smiled and said, Okay, you all do what is planned and I’ll be right here reading’ Robin Walkers’ ‘When We Ruled’ and by PD Lawtons’ “African Agenda” furthermore reading to Poets of Zimbabwe. Induce some Poetry gentlemen. Oh ya I’ll be making videos for Poets, Awotide Oluwaseun Micheal, Pusetso Palesa, Patrick Walsh, Chummy Chuu Madulanyane, and Grant Steward, furthermore Mathias wants us to help him with his book of Poetry.

Boet spoke, “Also Walter Rodney who wrote the book “How Europe Underdeveloped Africa.” Oh yes, and “African Cities and Towns Before the European Conquest by Richard W. Hull.”

“Nice,” Andy replied, “Fill me in later. What, Mathias does, well, wait until I see him.”

Andy was dressed in fine silk and velvet, he looked blingish without bling as a Jestor in John Adams clown fashion, and spoke to the passengers who wanted to leave Zimbabwe, “I ‘am understanding why you are feeling binded up. I myself can’t stand being binded up, with an unrested spirit. I say though, we have to climb. Allow life to please us when life chooses to. You all have gifts, use them to the best of your ability, furthermore allow them to grow. Learn to trust. Walk into the sun, crawl if you have to, and the same with night. Talk on with what can be done. Bells, build bells, bells of steel, and iron. Compassion, build compassion of heart and soul against woe, penetrate against anything against aglow. Tribal up! Poetry is caught and not taught or bought, imagine that?” and Andy laughed. “Poetry maybe like prayer, and you all have been prayed for, so never give up. Think Immortality.”

Andy looked at everyone stooping in their seats, and on the floors, and spoke again to them, “I ‘am completely convinced that people against you and as you do feel in your spirit, they only engage in conversations or your life, and have zero intention of understanding or listening to you. Their whole purpose is to disprove and reject anything you say. I have no idea why you still feel such a deep need to make them understand or care. You don’t need to be understood, because you can do amazing things, and sometimes, too strange for the conservative mind. As Poet Julius Chingono would say, they be Zhin Zhan, don’t let them make you go Zhin Zhan too!”

Andy looks around and finds the Poet Africa Makakane and they be like talking, and they talk about Jumpers and Staffriders and &c, And they talk about effort and respect, and Poet Africa Makakane recites his poem Africa, Where Art Thou?

Andy talks to the jumpers, “Ever since South Africa, from Botswana and here, through Zimbabwe you see no staffriders, just jumpers. Did you know racism is suicide. Megalomania is suicide. Life is precious you all. Poetry about Zimbabwes’ nature is what we need.”

Red went to make sure things did not get out of hand from the start for Andy and Boet. As he entered the car he heard what Andy said to the passengers and spoke too, Racism is murder, and so is Megalomania.

-… …-

Chapter 1

Poetry Train Africa Chapter 1 Cape Town South Africa, The Arrival by the Sea of Darkness


Chapter 2

South Africa, Meteorite Night


Chapter 3

Botswana, Poetfeldt and Regions Beyond the Cave of Prolificity (Cave of Dreams)


ya ya the C inside the Circle John E. WordSlinger

Poetry Train Africa is the Third Book of Poetry Train Stories

Poetry Train America and Poetry Train Canada


all acknowledgments and &c &c here so join us on the journey:
a PoetryTrain.com webcast