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

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

WARNING!!! READ, RECITE, COMMENT,
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.

Poetry
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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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

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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 6 The 6th Season of Shiny Throats, In Search of the maSwati Epic Poem In The Valley Of Reads Swaziland 10th January 2017

Posted in Uncategorized on January 15, 2017 by johnewordslinger

 

CHAPTER 6

The 6th Season of Shiny Throats, In Search of the maSwati Epic Poem In The Valley Of Reads

Swaziland

10th January 2017

The valley of the Reeds had a feeling that came with the place, and being on high alert was necessary. A stray dog was running in the opposite way Red, Andy and Scratch were walking, and they heard a older person whistling and calling out “Hector, Hector” come here boy, we must go home, but the man could not be seen. The bugs were louder then they ever heard anywhere, the southern states in the U.S.A. have no amplification like these insect singers here is Swaziland. The land smelled of blood. Crocodile tracks were everywhere along with ant hills. Red and Andy and Scratch were tired, but they had to move on and bad vibes were felt. They have not felt this vibe in along time. Andy knew what it was too, white racism. Andy knew it anywhere. They were in the land where they say, there is an old woman with long teeth, and eats white men. There was no wonder as to why, it was about to be evident. The Rietvlei River was beautiful but staying clear of it became mutual intuition between them, but something caught their attention ahead of them. There were three children making clay toys. One white boy, a black boy and white girl, and they were getting a long fine. Red looked at Andy and smiled, because they were innocent and not a sight of racism was between them. They moved on to not disturb the kids. This was a beautiful thing to witness. The path ahead was not good, thorn trees were everywhere, but there was a cut path, so they walked on it, it was the only way to move onward and forward. The thickness of thorn trees kept out the light. Scratch walked ahead of them, and stopped, ghostly orbs moved through the trees, and it seemed to be a ghost horse and rider walking ahead of them. Andy whispered we must follow the horse and rider. This was cool they thought, ghosts, finally they seen one, and a ghost horse too.

They came to an opening and it was not a pretty sight, dead bodies were everywhere, women and children and the elderly. Their wagons were destroyed too, looted through it looked like. This was a massacre. This was a terrible thing they both thought, and decided to pick up their pace to find a safe place. They came upon a empty sawmill in this well wooded area, and this was not a place to be or rest so they moved through the woods. They heard the horse but could not see them. Scratch lead the way, his instincts were better because shock was upon Red and Andy from the carnage they just seen. This was a ferocious campaign, and buzzards could be heard in a nearby cave, and they thought where people hid, and never made it back out alive. They both cried, and Scratch rubbed his body against Red and Andys’ legs. Scratch too was sad about this. What a shame they tele-thought.

Scratch picked up on a path that seemed to be army tracks, but what army, the Boers or the British Union Jacks. The tracks were not tribal, they would be invisible they thought. They came upon block houses. They heard life, men working, they were building the Komatipoort Railway Bridge, and it seemed to be patrolled by policemen. Not to far away men were building a hotel too. The bad vibe increased so they went back through the woods, hoping not to see the ghosts again even though it was a magnificent sight. They looked back again to see if they were seen, they noticed men dancing, and drinking tawala, kaffer beer, so it must have been break time for these railroad workers. One person yelled out, ‘Before we blow up more of the ground, and move ore to Japan, that’s the life of us men, the mans’ tole for coal, and complete control.’

A mile or so of walking they heard birds but these were not birds they were the calls of the Dlamini clan. Beautiful and powerful whistles. Red and Andy and Scratch were surrounded by them. They had scars on their foreheads, and this meant how many men they killed, even the women warriors had them too. Their tribal marks were a scary impression. They all wore leopard skinned cloaks, and carried a assegai, a spear, and some had rifles, and they aimed them at Scratch. They made Andy and Red strip naked to see if they had weapons. They kept saying Muzungu, meaning white man. Andy and Red kept their hands up. The King Buno was with them, and spoke, “You may get dressed, and we have un-registered guns” and the King laughed, and so did the clan. “It is a good thing Theophilus ‘Offy’ Shepstone, and his right hand man Rider Haggard, a Union Jack did not find you two. They would have taken you to Robben Island at the Cape, and that is a prison. Old John told us you were coming this way, he is a friend of ours, about the only white man we could trust. Queen Labotisbeni wants to meet you, so lets go to the palace and have a celebration. Relax you are safe with us. Can you interperate the sounds of war and peace? You will have to here. I do wish you two brought some dynamite but I know you are men of peace and poetry.” The King laughs.

Thank you, your majesty the King, said Red, and they both bowed to the King Buno.

“Nkoos” said King Buno, “Nkoos.”

Andy finally spoke, “Zeni mini andine bandeen, you are the grandest Chief I’ve seen.”

“Thank you Andy,” King Buno replied. “Take the rifles off of the cat. The cat Scratch is the muse, and he’s such a beautiful Mountain Lion. I’ am glad you brought the muse.” The King looks at Red as they begin to walk to the royal home and says, “Red it is great Andy has never thrown you to the wolves, like white men do here, and they would throw us in blood river if they could. It is also a good thing the old woman with the long teeth did not find you too, you’d be dung in a day or two.”

Red and Andy looked at each other, and swallowed their spit.

King Buno looked at them and said, “Never be alone, never. This way you can fight together, and have a witness, without a witness the white men will take all they can from you, even your soul.”

You do what you can with a kind heart, said Red, You get a liar, a damn liar and the whole train is on fire.

“Humdrum sort of life on the farms after the live wire,” said the King laughing, “Trying poetry, not to bad. I like it, I like it. When we get there you must drink our miraculous water it will cleanse you of the fever. You don’t want the fever.” The King looks at Andy and Red and said, “In case you are wondering, and I ‘am sure red-boned Red can see the differences but you Andy may not know, but we do have features that tell us apart from each other.”

The clan walked with them, but boxed them as they walked, this was to protect them from Danger, Doom and Dreads sister, and Whitemen. This type of marching told them why wild animals do not do harm, because no one was alone.

The King spoke as they walked. Tutsis tend to be tall, and thin. They have long noses, high pitch voices, and relatively clear skin. Hutu tend to be short, strong and have relatively broader features. They have big noses, and low pitch voices. Tutsis and Hutus have been living together for many years. Although some families don’t like it, there has been many inter-ethnic marriages. Some are known, others are not. None of the differences justifies mass killing or discrimination of either group or another. The conflicts are mainly due to the pursuit of political power through propaganda. Although they have slight cultural differences, I can tell you that morally speaking no ethnic group is better than the other. I say this because someone once told me that Hutus are killers and Tutsis liars. Don’t buy into that. So Andy we have issues too within our race like white-men. Cultures are the only differences we have.”

The village was huge, and many people looked at them as they made their way to the palace. This was epic Red and Andy thought. Queen Labotisbeni was amazing, tall and her smile was beautiful. Her spirit was very powerful. She looked at Red and Andy and Scratch and said, “Your throats shine!”

King Buno laughs and says “You two never let society or critics stand in your way. You are the Renegades of Poetry.”

“Red and Andy you are not cowards,” said the Queen, “You two have not abandoned poetry with all that you two have been through over the last six years, and being here signifies this. The battle fields of poetry and the royal courts need you.”

Thank you your majesty said Red and Andy, and bowed.

Red spoke, The words ‘upsurge, and eschewing,’ are shackling the art of poetry here too, and the turf of poetry. The maSwati & siSwati, ‘Tibongo’ heroic poetry and ‘Temdzabu’ traditional literature is important to us.

King Buno spoke, “Let us celebrate in full costume with a great fire and a great feast. We will speak with you about our mother tongue, and folk tales. The lore of the land and our people, wisdom, and animals. Our Impi. Ways of the Rhino.”

Andy and Red awoke and Andy came to Red and said, “We forgot to chant, sing a Imbongi to the King and Queen,” and Red laughed, and said, I can barely remember but I do remember some.

Andy laughed and spoke “Here is what’s up. Even though we already knew this. Red, Children, the children of Poets, need to know what is our own, their own, meaning Poets that do not sugar coat their lives or their Poetry, their Poetic culture for the status quo, the street or the academics, and the Poets who fight for Poetry and the Poetry audience. Poets of all lands, including Swaziland Poets need to break the vicious circle, and create their own culture based poetry, new forms and all, regardless of some market or assume to be market for Poetry. Educators can’t do diddly squat if the world is brain washed, sleep walking in some form or the other. Ink and Paper, ink and paper. What kind of Poetry is in demand? No one knows, because it is assumed it has all been done before, why is that? Because they are following leaders from the past, and can’t get a grip on their own beat and tune. Poetic forms, Critics, Panels, Want-A-Bes, Annalists, all that bla bla bla. Poets must become snake charmers with words, they will freaking love it. Blend languages, create a new language, to be a no fear pioneer.”

Red laughed and said, Alright I ‘am just waking up. Where’s Boet?

“Oh ya, he’s in the dinning car, where else would he be. He is like us you know,” Andy replied. “He left us a letter, saying Mathias left us high and dry.”

I sort of figured that, when he mentioned unity can’t be done, said Red, Hey I found a visionary Poet named Teddy Fikre and he’s in the states, and he’s originally from Ethiopia.

Andy laughed, “We had fun at the palace… Ha ha ha ha, come on Red. We have to catch a train soon, and some mambas, ha ha ha ha. This is getting good Red.”

Alright wait until you read Teddy Fikres poetry and story, Red proclaimed, You will love it, and he’s helping.

Boet and the waitress were talking about the crocodile clan, and mamba snakes, black or blue, they are all the same, and the drought is bringing them out and about, furthermore electric snakes too forcing globalization.

Good Morning fellas, said Boet as Andy and Red sat down, and he had much to tell them. “I received a phone call from the Ministers of Tourism. They have made an unreserved apology about matters and has informed me that the policemen have been identified and action will be taken. He also mentioned starting a campaign to stamp out this behavior out, and educate officials and locals alike on the value of tourism.”

“The world is haunted by ghosts, because of murder and war. The police, good lawmen anyway are stuck in the middle, or proclaim to be.” said Andy. “Animals too, and all the slaughter. Why are people suffering from the disease of hate and racism and not the outcasts? Why are we the Poets outcasts? It’s getting on my nerves.”

“Maybe because love is out numbered right now, and the scorn is at large.” Boet proclaimed. “I was watching a show on the history channel and news in the U.S.A. and racism from all sides has gotten bad there.”

Andy and Red shook their heads, and tele-thought we tried to help, but what can we do, when people choose to lose that way, so Red began to read Enongene Mirabeau Sones’ Swazi Oral Literature Studies essay. Red and Andy knew how important birds are, to be of signals from the afterlife, and the invisible realm, and they tele-thought people suffering from these issues look at humans as not important as birds, life not regarded, and it’s all there too, the birds appear and sing and migrate for reasons. Buzzards, and vultures love the remains of scorn too.

“The big drum is going to roll one day, and down by the deep river, the good of the world is going to make the bad come out and play,” said Andy.

Red laughed and said, You mean the 99% is finally going to take back true life against this so called 1%?

“Hopefully in our lifetime,” Andy proclaimed.

“And all the birds will sing, and be merry more once again,” said Boet.

Animals too, along with seven hundred plus species of birds facing extinction, said Red. I was talking to my cousin the other night and he’s mad too about animals being vulnerable to extinction because of humanity. Take for instance the Giraffes now, and guess what, they call it the red-list!

“I hear that Red, disgusting is what it is,” said Andy. “Lust, porn must be killed! Something wired and evil is happening like Human Okapi or some shit. Unbelievable man, unbelievable, the sad kind of unbelievable. There’s way to many chicken shits in this world. We all need to fight, and put a stop to this. And who cares what societies think, seems to me they don’t think!”

Boet was feeling the same as they did, but he was already scoping out Poets and their wisdom from the place, Swaziland, to go over the days work.

Poets need to stop being like Zebras and come out, and stop being difficult to count, Red proclaimed, When we get to Tanzania we need to find wildlife biologist Tim Caro, and meet him, and this way the Poetic audience can eat Poets alive like flies do other animals, and Red laughed, It’s a great analogy.

Red got to thinking about his past, when he was a teenager in Chicago, but Boet interrupted his train of thought.

“You two are affiliated with BMI.com correct?” Boet asked.

“Yes,” Andy replied, and memories came back to him when him and McMurty were there and they were treated with royalty, back in 2003, then in 2014 Andy felt a cold presence, like the world had changed there, but the place was going through renovations in Nashville, TN.

Andy, Red and Boet ordered coffee and peach pie, and thought and spoke about “The whole poetry pie online spectrum, in how all Poets are getting screwed outside the Poet Igloo. Poet fees are missing completely.” Andy then laughed and spoke, “The bars and clubs that bands play cover songs, and they are getting away with it too.” Andy and Red always thought about this, and brought this to the passengers attention, and it’s been there but promoting these Poets has been more important. “Mechanical Society needs in place for the Poets society, the Poets Jukebox and Igloo. It is their trade, their passion not a hobby, so get off your asses and lobby, bobby. What about Bob alright! Ge whiz fizz, it’s a word biz.”

Many people have, and are leaving their Poetry futures up to chance, Red proclaimed.

Boet spoke, “Something and one has to be made with power about this and technology is there, as you all proved.”

It’s finding the right people with time to work, said Red. Most Poets like literary grouping orgies Boet. They are scared so they get in where they fit in, and most get rejected. Red laughs, ‘Then there are ones you spend weeks and months preparing their work for free because you believe in them, and they leave you hanging. It makes you wonder what they are up to, and it forces other Poets to just think and do things for themselves, this is what causes Poets not to unite. Chicken heads, and history will repeat itself for the Poets not yet born.

“The Poets Igloo is alive!” said Boet.

“Skippy, yep, true that” said Andy.

“So who are the top 40 Poets of this planet, does anyone know?” Boet asked.

Red and Andy laughed, and Red said, We have an idea, and they use the train and bail out and give no thoughts to the Poetry passengers, the audience or the Poets just below their status.

Andy and Red thought about Geo Thompson, the Great Poet from Canada, and every time they hear ‘Jump’ by Van Halen, the Canadian journey will come to mind. Still waiting for the world to awake, and shake to Poetry Jukebox. Geo passed away from cancer, he was a great support during the Poetry Train Canada journey.

Andy spoke, “The mission of all Poets, of color or faith is to love one another, as the great Poet Jesus spoke, and to show the world how beautiful we all can be, and the only way to do this is to stop all sorts of evil in its tracks, furthermore teach people ways to stop and recognize scorn, and for Gods LOVE, stop killing animals. We are at war for no reason amongst ourselves. Stop dethroning one another. Respect one anothers skills and inclinations, and there is no I in the word Team, can people get that through their thick skull bone? Death is nothing to be afraid so stop antagonizing people with death and scorn. Decade after decade of this non-sense! Look real good at the past, as stop repeating it all.”

The waitress returned with coffee and peach pie, and spoke, “I believe cooperative peace can be,”

What is your name? Red asked.

“Swanda,” she replied.

Thank you, Red replied and introduced her to some of the Poetry Train Team.

Swanda spoke, “I read Poetry and from everywhere too, and every Poet writes about Peace, and Peace is only in Poetry not in the world, so Peace is there. Poets need to be magicians maybe, but not bad ones or cheesy ones. They need to show the world how beautiful it can be. Maybe they don’t know how. Who does, and that’s why politicians get away with things. Money and media are the problems. We don’t need it. We need to go back to farming and horse and buggy.”

Andy smiled.

Red replied, Poets need to touch the world wide conscious of this world, we call it the realm that should be.

“Yes,” Swanda replied. “The world is frightening for no reason, because miracles are everywhere. Suffering is un-called for. People of the past allowed this to fall on our laps! Poets must remind the world of so many things, and implant a new world of beauty, not this new world order death machine. Poetry is not bankrupted, because it never had a bank and currency, never.”

“Who is one of your favorite Poets?” Andy asked.

“Jacob Glatstein, a Yiddish Poet.” Swanda replied. “He knew oppression and what kind of tongue a Poet should have in these contemporary times, and they must move forward and unfortunately look backwards. Not because of accomplishments and competition, but to find the safe paths. As he said, Poets have a frightening career and work to do, frightening.”

“Found one!” Boet spoke loudly, “The Poet Bernard Fonlon and hear ye! As Noam Chomsky wrote, “The responsibility of the intellectual as a moral agent,” I add the Poet’ is to try to reveal the truth to interlocutors who are able to intervene. Fonlon symbolized what Fabien Eboussi calls ‘exotic intellectual’ in a universe where ventriloquists triumph. Also I found Poet Stephen Neba-Fuh.”

“I will return soon with more coffee,” said Swanda, “Remember Poets should never surrender their intellectual domination to the world, never!”

Boet looks at Red and Andy and seen the great cost they have given themselves to the Poetry Train.

They were indeed true friends of Poetry and Poets world-wide, past, present and future. Boet also knew that they could not stand flattering and flatterers, it was not necessary. They were masters of Poetry Faith & Patriotism, powerful as water.

Andy started laughing, and said, “We have rope, the longest rope in this globalization world, ya ya.”

Great for traveling for sure, Red replied laughing. We do have a spare too. Giants toes or their shoulders did and do not matter. We are going to rope Danger!

Andy looked out the window, and watched people get on the train. They all looked fierce, or what they wanted people to believe anyway. The train wasn’t moving until loads of bananas, and other fruits were loaded onto the train.

Swanda returned with coffee but gave them each a bottle of Menjunga, red wine, and assured them, everything was fine. “This is for you, you three are genuine Poetologists. True wisdom collectors through time.”

Swanda spoke as she walked away, “He who fights and runs away, May live to fight another day, But he who is in battle slain, May never rise to fight again. By Oliver Goldsmith.”

Andy laughed, “Poetologists, also maybe Poetry Specialists Boet. We also love Railroad folklore galore. The E-Train wants some more. So European predecessors made errors with Poets and Poetry here on the continent they call Africa too along with all the other crap inc.. Into which Scipio Africanus fought Hannible during the Punic wars and defeated him, the Romans subdued the continent and renamed it Africa, and tell Teddy Fikre thanks Red.”

You are welcome, I will, Red replies and he says, the whole continent was called…. ETHIOPIA!

And everyone on train yelled out YA YA!

“Red I told you,” Andy replied, “ It all comes down to those Romans, how many times have I told people through the years. Romans, I see the Judas kiss too. A double mindset world killing machine.”

Andy thought about all his wasted time over love with nearly two handful of people in the U.S.A. In his life time, not divine love, but human love, and how precious time was, and is, and the new iz. He always felt his heart and intellectual mind was smothered, and thought stick to the guns, another day is coming, so it was unique in synchronicity with Swanda, and Red knew too, and as Charlie told them in Poetry Train America, silence. Home to them was Poetry and the Poetry E Train. And Freedom was from God and the Angels not some un-hand cuffing motion notion.

Red thought and his thinking had to come out. He thought about his youth in Chicago and what is still happening in Chicago with his kinfolk and people there. My father left me, us. My mother had to have a new man, who knows why. He had to be the center of attention, and he hated the truth no matter what she said and done or me, he could not stand the truth of it all. Home was no place for me so what is left, the streets. I was beat up many times. See this scar on my ear? Grown men robbed me, and tried to kill me, but I ran away. The police at the hospital asked me if they tried to cut my ear off. I said no, but they did not believe me. They thought I was lying because I was scared for my life and I was, but it was because I ran away, and fell into debris in the alley I ran down to the hospital. That life went on for years. Until I found writing and Poetry. A white man in jail told me to keep writing, so I have since, and I collect Poetry books, and I do this for many reasons but the main one is for my grandchildren. I want them to hold and see how beautiful and genuine through time these books at home I have are. It has been and is a struggle to keep them safe for them to own one day, and say, Grandpa fought for Poetry and these books.

“Red we shall prevail, even though Red we are going to need some Poets big as Elephants here,” Andy proclaimed.

We are going to have to be like comets again too Andy, Red replied.

Boet felt the pain Red has been hiding all this time.

Andy thought about the previous Rising Realms on these e-railways!

“Red man, Red-bone, Red blood, Red-List, Red-dress, and Rediscover,” said Boet as he read about historian Eric Rosenthal. “You two, Red and Andy are not two thumb sucks but two thumbs up, never forget this!” Boet read to Red, “Rosenthal was too clever and too successful for his own good or for the good of his legacy as a writer, so think about all the failure to build your Odyssey gentlemen, with a capital O’.”

Andy laughed, and thought about the the law of the straw up by Poetry and Divine law!

Red, Andy and Boet were learning new things about Poetry Here, with a capital H.

Andy says, “As in the beginning and so it shall be in the end, Poetry will out live Sciences, because it was and always will be the breath of humanity.”

The Train was ready to move, and a postal man brought Red, Andy and Boet, all of Olive Schrieners books they ordered from Amazon.com. It took awhile.

“May the Great Spirit bless you, and we all thank you,” Andy told the man, “You are appreciated and we are charm’d.” Andy looked at Boet and said, “Yes, I know we should have sent them home, and we will, but these books we had to see with our own eyes. All of the hard work, and brilliant heart it took to create them.”

Boet smiled.

Andy and Boet lets spend this day and the next on the wisdom of Djelloul Marbrook, and the body language of Poetry, Cursive Writing, Signatures, furthermore Banking Technology online. Red proclaimed.

“Also the fear of why people are afraid to buy things online,” said Boet.

The Train was moving again, and the conductor spoke like an American, trying to be funny, using Railroad slang from the U.S.A. And Swanda gave them a note saying the Mambas are watching and listening, and they looked at her, and she knew they already knew.

Boet spoke, “Welcome to globalization, the whole world is a spy, can we have some more peach pie please.”

Andy spoke, “To gesticulate in poetry or gesticulation in poetry. I can’t recall to many poets we have read and listened to in poetry from USA or Canada. Spoken Word Artists do, but not sure what to say about it, other then, deriving from rap and hard-rock metal and &c. This study is based from Djelloul Marbrook: The Body Language of Poetry: I do recall us telling Charlie in Poetry Train America how important this is in poetry and historical writing so we studied the ying and yang out of it. And they say Presidents are taught too to learn the art of body language. Break dancing is still the bomb, and yes this is the school of traveling poetry, the one and only poetry e train. I love the aggressive Toxic Waltz song by Exodus. Mr. Smooth Fred Astaire, he says he has a dance patch, love that, and some of his body language is a finger snap, and pull forward the ear.”

In break dancing you have to define the dance, and no fronting, said Red, in negative times do positive things. The movement got no love in breaking down the beat by clapping your hands and stomping your feet. The lock n pop, every move has a definition, and they say break dancing was created by God

B-Boy, B-Girl and oh ya, on the Windmill Move there was only eight penny moves done the most. That is where you grab your groin during the windmill move and how many turns you can do with no hands.

 

Posted in Uncategorized on January 12, 2017 by johnewordslinger

wordsocean

paix17

SHADES OF PEACE

( John E Wordslinger & Nassira Nezzar)

I look at that horizon ..
Billions of stars were thrown on the dark..
I look at the brilliance of moon ..
Many promises were thrown between later and soon …
I look at you in the thronged silence,
In the rebellion of wars
In thirst of peace
and the vibration of existence
Your whispers were there sitting
at the brink of dreams, in
in the mid of screens infested with
the sternest images …
I take my breath while searching
the scent of the withering flowers,
while searching for peace
in the bins of powers …
In my shades of peace
I want to ride the sun
The first sight of you
My intuition told me
You do things differently
Photos of you with your two thumbs
Tells me my intuition is correct
As always, as always
I feel…

View original post 230 more words

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

CHAPTER 5

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

Lesotho

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’….
WE MUST PREVENT IT.”

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

https://johnewordslinger.wordpress.com/2015/11/23/poetry-train-africa-chapter-1-the-arrival-by-the-sea-of-darkness/

Chapter 2

South Africa, Meteorite Night

https://johnewordslinger.wordpress.com/2016/05/07/poetry-train-africa-chapter-2-south-africa-meteorite-night/

Chapter 3

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

https://johnewordslinger.wordpress.com/2016/05/30/poetfeldt-and-regions-beyond-the-cave-of-prolificity/

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)

https://johnewordslinger.wordpress.com/2016/07/04/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/

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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

http://www.amazon.com/Mr-John-E-WordSlinger/e/B01AF3E55M
https://www.facebook.com/John-E-WordSlinger-875794729144160

all acknowledgments and &c &c here so join us on the journey:
http://poetrytrain.com/2015/02/17/poetrytrain
a PoetryTrain.com webcast