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:
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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

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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)


Posted in Uncategorized on October 26, 2016 by johnewordslinger

I sat naked on a wooded 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 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

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


Chapter 3 Botswana, Poetfeldt and Regions Beyond the Cave of Prolificity (Cave of Dreams)

Posted in Uncategorized on May 30, 2016 by johnewordslinger

Photo Source: Desert of the Skeletons:



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


Africana Poetry Collectanea

30th of May 2016

Andy heard dogs barking, as he walked over big rocks in the middle of a creek. Rocks were many, and Andy was surrounded by mountains of rock, reminding him of Kentucky. Beautiful erosion on these massive sandstone cliffs. He heard singing and drumming. A path ahead of him caught his attention too, and he went that way. Andy noticed a long stick with a white flag half staffed blowing in the wind. Andy received the feeling of admiration but from whom? Ah he was at ease, and looked up and seen a man sitting next to a fire. The man was wrapped in a blanket, and wore a winter hat with a pointy knitted knot on top. Andy felt right away this place was full of spirits. Roosters could be heard too, making him recall biblical films he has seen, and betrayal he has known. Andy loved gaps, and he seen one, and the wall of this caves’ gap was huge and smooth, so he walked that way, and it was beyond magnificent to him. The way through was a pathway of fine sand looking soil. A woman sat on a stone spoke to Andy and said, “This is Motouleng, Grotte, the place that heals, the place where ancestral drums keep beating.” The woman lit up herbs on fire, and raised them up to the spirits. A man next to her spoke and said, “Dreams bring me here, Dreams,” Andy smiled and thought, ‘Many dreams have brought me here too.‘ People were in prayer next to the cave walls. Others were chanting, and beating drums. Many people were there to be healed. Andy heard one person say, “The Ancestors will tell you what to do.” Andy also was very observant and quite, his heart was in full respect. Andy loved the huts and the roofs of them. Singing became louder, and Andy smiled.

Andy walked into a cave to see if there were art on the cave walls, and once inside he heard bats, and he heard voices of ghosts of Boer women and children, and a child ghost said, “We are hiding from British soldiers.” The drums sounded like thunder, and the singing sounded like wind. Andy was in the boundary between the human and the divine. Andy felt in thought, the paradox, ‘Death is not the final horizon, it is the real beginning, because it is where remains are finally absolutely in the hands, and at the mercy of the other.’ Andy felt centuries of rain and wind was going to take him away as all before. He felt and thought, ‘He doesn’t know how he, and Reds great achievements were, and that’s why there was silence on the train. They were at the helm where all great Poets and Prophets helm from, the Realm of Dreams and Memory.’ Andy and Red were tasting the secret. They earned this by the love for humanity, poetry and using the art of listening, and here Andy was at the sacred cave.

Water could be heard now, and Andy loves the sound of water. Water was like poetry, water has to go somewhere, as Bruce Lee taught them. Andy was living outside of time, and this was only the beginning, and this has been underway for quite some time.

Andy heard a Facebook notification, and this woke him up from this sublime dream. He got up fast, not thinking not to, to stay, to stay in the cave, the cave of dreams. Andy looked, and it was Train Marshall Charlie, he has joined the PoetryTrain.com members group on Facebook. This made Andy smile, and to top it all off, it was memorial day. Oh the power of memory Andy thought, and he went back to sleep happy.

A Phantom appeared to Andy in the cave, and spoke, “You are unlike the other historians, they like to look at history as an autopsy, killing it even more, but, you and your friend, bring the past to life. Listen to them talk to you Andy, they feel comfortable with you, because you understand Natures’ sense of justice.”

Andy replies, “We do our best, even if we are Poetry Nomads, and on the run.” Andy then heard that sound like he heard in Utah in Poetry Train America, and it sounded like grasshoppers everywhere. Andy then remembered how dark it got, and it was the opposite, it was already dark, they were in a cave.

The Phantom spoke again, “They laughed at you because they didn’t understand the power of being, the intermediary luxury like you have, that’s why you hesitate when you speak. You are like how I once was, you go into the heart of the things you have created, originated, or what you have brought into being. You have the mark.”

Andy asked without fear, “What is your name?”

The Phantom replied, “Cosa.”

“I know you don’t I?” Andy asked.

“Yes you do, You have written about me in your epic love poems.” Cosa the Phantom replied.

“I should recite the poem to you then.” said Andy.

“Yes, make your mark again, here, make your mark once more.” said Cosa.

The Phantom of Original Innovative Literature

The New Phantom
Came to me, and said
Seeds fall on the
top of snails, and echo
The sound makes pops
It is desire, be in touch
for ample food in
ones stomach, and reply
Overflow by this flood

Poets de blood
Seeds fall more and more

The future the period
Do not look to the past
The road was path-ethic
Shun with a smile
Yes learn then turn
If you want to be read 200 years from now
Boldness, to smash obstacles
No middle
Give a fiddle
A lesson
For expression
As Elms trees fall to mulch;
named to honor a new street

Seeds, hear them?
Sounds like a revolution
Said the Phantom


The Phantom I
(Please Create your own Whistle While I Work)

Come out of the shadows` my friends, you are
about to witness the end
Our life-ship has seen there last days
I’m setting you into your maze

We have caused many painful tears; Affairs
of the world interfere;
And vandalized my innocence
Loved ones have built a chain link fence-

to keep from further damages on, and
out of my premises
She loves the old house, my being; but dark-
ness is all I’m seeing

There is a deadline to restore, She wants
me like I was before
Beauty is now my sole province
Clean myself with light, and rinse

Watch me gut myself before you, it’s a
dangerous job to do
A spiritual first aid kit is a
must, to see this job fit

11:27 pm, the dark
starts to speak, and says I’m alone:
I start taking out the windows;
So I can breath free, and rescind

Steal toe boots for this rusty nail infested
world of mine, so dusty and frail
The sound of the pounding hammer-
puts my brain into a slammer

What charms am I going to salvage, from these
broken, and re-glued ravages?
I need an oasis to keep
my sanity in peaceful sleep

I can’t go to sleep with no kiss, prayers
for the foundation of this
These afflictions are mental mold
Toxic addictions worth no gold

Strip myself down to my bare wires, down to
my soul, it burns like fire
Watch me gut myself for outer beauty
I need a crowbar, bit stouter

Relocating washer/dryer hookups
I’ am sure new stains will appear
All of my goals I’ve been after-
are down here right to the rafters

Here love, in my kitchen of ell, gutted
down to my very shell,
My appetite is deep bleeding,
Oh love light, for you, I ‘m pleading

Pound after pound, pound pound pound, keeping
in mind of surround sound
Shackled chandeliers, ceiling joists
Love moist me up to you, I hoist

All by myself so phenomenal, I’m some-
thing after all
Break, to kneel a spiritual
thought, forward back, perpetual

I’m here living, breathing, changing
Watch me gut myself, arranging
Witness me becoming so free,
Free from negative memories

Yes, the new phantom, says to me
‘No one shall bring you to your knees
You’re in the company of light
Shadows fall back into the night’

‘The ones you love dear, hold so near, for your
new light is to appear
Caress it, whisper something love
You are about to rise above’

I hear the music, glass trumpets, pledging
Souldom’ Souldom, Souldom!
Yes, my love dear, I see some light
The colors you picked out are so right

Phantom smiles, says, ‘love the chorus’, ‘me too’,
‘Love what you have wrote us
You’re about to create a web,
That no darkness shall ever ebb’

‘You have been kissed by sweet grace, how does
it feel to with this new place?
You have fired yourself; to now hire
a better you, the in, inspire

I hear them again, glass trumpets, pledging
Souldom’ Souldom, Souldom!
The whispering whistle of wit
Conjuring up spider wire knit

The Phantom says. ‘guests should only be, by your
invitation only,
Because you know how they disown thee
Your Kingdom is one and only’

‘Call out to your Queen, call her out; Shout out
your everlasting shout
You heart is of many great things,
Cherish what the creator brings;

”Phantom, I’m honored by your call; for you
I’d be nothing at all
For you I’ve created a den
There for eternity we’ll spend’

‘Countless times of laughing my friend, singing
songs of methods of mend
I’ve conducted every code
The new power is on my road’


The Phan†om II Octobers‘ Embrace

Outside, aware like a young child, for I
forgot old reality
A mist covers me very close
with its eternal hands of mystery

As I walk admiring forests; shelter
calls me, I must enter-
I hear a whisper that echoes’,
“Welcome, I’ve been waiting here”

This small voice is from my new dreams, as I
approach the den; it seams
what once was known; memories
of me gone as the shade once flowed

The Phantom sits alone, shallow
Only the beat of my heart sounds
Not hollow. I look at it’s face,
it says, ’ remember her embrace’

Her words were peaceful in my ears, Her eyes
were everything so near
A beauty I can not describe
She’s like a music box inside

It’s a song that touches my soul, a song
that I can not let go;
And it cries melodic movements
in memories of our moments

It reels pictures of our kisses, and these
vast scenes touching her lips
The grasping hands upon my face
The song is Octobers’ Embrace

She is all I do remember, why do
I cry deep down inside?
It seeps, feels like a warm ember
A beauty I can not describe

I remember the days in her
illuminations, and the tree
of many souls. I remember,
her farewell to the weeping rose

I bared witness to these chosen, and she
gave me her flesh to kiss
A beauty I can not describe;
And this is love I feel inside

Her voice is honey, my Phantom, her voice
tastes like her poetry
I will take your advice, and vise
I shall hold, and cherish my choice

I feel the vines of light, they wrap, pulling
into infinities drips
My thoughts whisper out romantics;
Our lighter passion in our breaths

Like kisses her hands dripped of light as a
carnival carbons a
childs’ sight, with begotten candy
An eatable toy to enjoy

My beautiful gift I gasp for your lips
Spill all your beauty on my mind
Water my skin from now, kiss me
with beauty I can not describe

The light is slow, its only fast when it
goes away, I ask why
Is this light Gods greatest poem?
And her light on the paper sky

reflects every moment in my mind
of her beauty I can’t describe
This is who, and what I’ve chosen
And here is where my time resides

To whom do I belong Phantom, to whom
Do you remember the faces;
And remember their names: she must
be the one that showed me the way??

Her smile flickers, like slow strobes, she is
addicted to my kiss
“You’re attempting to be her light”
“Yes, it’s something I need to learn”

“I knew of light before I met her, but now
yes now, it’s all I yearn”
“Do you still have the fear of death?
Sometimes, but I think of her words

Her stories, is our privacy, wisdom
passed to me, in promise
I have prayed for such a person
to love me as me, and callus

Do you think of her calluses, her fears,
her pains, her dreams, her trust?
Do you think you have transformed-now?
With out her I wouldn’t know how

‘We have a similar old dream, when we
were young we dreamt the same
I felt it in her words and tongue
Mainly her eyes then it became’

‘I think now it was a warning, a world
that I had to go to
A world so great and forced to face
I have one regret to tell you’

‘It will never happen again, I’ve failed
to recognize; over
looked her spirit calling to me
Did you bring to me my lover?’

‘Not just love for humanity, for me-
Did you single me out for her?
No one has ever clung to me
Phantom, she is my true answer’


The Phan†om III Chasten in Battery~

My cello, I hear you with your bellow-
sweet breeze, kissing my skin
It’s your bellow; and for the light
You are my sweet breeze in this night

Phantom, life feels so beautiful, complete
depth, she is my cello
Rare delicacy durable
I ‘am like her piano -full

of interesting keys to sing, I have
searched so long for this song
It’s again like life creating
Love is made, not in the making

Phantom, the light I created in my
sons, I ask, keep them oiled
When you do take me native,
keep my creations creative

I still have vast wars unsettled, fired on
my heart, and deep mind
I need you to come to battle
Chasten in battery, chattel

I must question the quest of doubt, answer
Doubt, look into my eyes
Why are you lurking here about,
Listen to me, or are you in doubt??

When I hear your voice, I hear hell, be gone
I can’t convey your presence
Tell me something good, come on tell
Listen, my light shadows your spell

To love some times I must distance, just to
let love be the ruling
For my soul truly will advance
Our hearts surely again, shall dance

This lifes jargon jar is now full, disposed
on an art show display
And they are old bandages pulled
Heavy, and sharp, so tightly spooled

We must be like the Angels tend because
like old tradition
They have risen, and not fallen
We shall rise up fast like great men

It is now snowing, war sickles, stabbing
music, with much sustain
Step on light, I ‘am your pedal
For a while I’ll let you meddle

The drummer beating in my chest, is like
great David Lambardo
playing Shalom, his very best
Truly alive is my promise

The Phantom with warning labels, shows me
his weapons, blades of truth
Very much like sharp clean scalpels
We sit at Honesty’s table

We are training for my new start, I’m a
disciple of the watch
Obedience with my new heart
For all of my missing the mark

Pride, the great lurking earth monster, I’ll fight
face to face in the dark
Abundantly I shall smother
Suffocate you like no other

True light shall never be like ash, the word
Pitiful is not deep
There’s no bottom for one to crash
I want to laugh as I mass thrash

Chasten with me in battery, chasten
now, and speak battery
I ‘am now whole, no more scattering
Blood of darkness is splattering

Splattering, splattering, gossip lips are
shattering, shattering
Chasten with me in battery
Kiss the light; it is flattering!

Fawkin, fawkin, like falcon, I eye
the false intents, so bent
Brawlin, brawlin, come darling
Souldom, Souldom, our Kingdom

I look for these modern Trojan horses,
and the henchmen that ride
New specs in light- is my engine
Endurance insurance, Phantom-

tell me the secrets of water, tell me
the secrets of the dam
Show me the way of the otter
Webbing the way like a trotter-

on the Ivy horse of true light; I’ll ride
the fields of enlightment;
Into the battle field for trite
I shall return, and reunite

“If I could put time in your hands, you would
see that you are times pet
Your mind may truly understand;
And may master yet on command”

“You’ve learned the true definition of what
your soul truly desires
You were born with fullest gumption
A fire with no assumption

My cello, I hear you with your bellow-
sweet breeze, kissing my skin
It’s your bellow; and for the light
You are my sweet breeze in this night


The Phantom IV Cause and Respect

The Phantom poet-geist, an apostle
to the envy ivy of ashes. Read
me by the light, like fire so bright. Words
of their romance that crashes like night
An original man is rare, lust him
with care, for he loves to share, that’s only fair.

Magnify his needs, on the light he feeds,
then you can kill his proceeds. “I’ m a man
of the Midwest, very blest, in wisdom.
The great invisible chest“. Relieving
to be prolific, not the deceiving.
A one, and only in a vast region

“You like touching a little life, don’t ya?”
“Pretty much , feels brittle, but love it all,
I tell ya”. “The Phantom says, ‘I find all
these rumors, much in humor, do not thee?’
‘Phantom, let them speak, they’re only taking
away from there own time, you see’

They spit their mouths, with little terror to me
My lips laugh out, and that’s horror set free
As of now, I can here them yell; tell me
is that a bit of hell? I can not dwell;
or relate to sadness in their short fate.
Madness is not my weight. Gladness I make

I would love to install a big skylight
over this closet drama. From above,
pour vials of light on the garden of lies
Love’s the most plagiarized word in time
But even the word hate, has sweet, sour rhymes
“Oh just pour more light on the garden of lies”

“We actually do hate the pulpit,
don’t we?” “ Only for the artificial
veins of bullshit” “Sure, why not, make them scratch
their gross rubber~ superstitions. Biong! Biong!
It’s funny, and bouncy, tears of laughter
by the ounce. “What are we studying, counts?

No, lets talk about the new vintage fire.
We can’t let them escape what is now prior
Tomorrow, the Miseries of the Dammed


The Phan†om V Movements From The Unseen
(ambient collaboration of unknown origin)

Phaos phaos phanos phaos
Come, words to the wise
Use your spiritual compass
Take my hand and vise

Uno epi the Reich
Come love and lay beside
Show forth, come forth
Sum up the math inside

Count the endless days
I think of you, and twice
Because of dreams’ ways
There I’ am hot in ice

Your presence, a gift
Touch me, touch my life
You are a divine gift
Take my hand before life

My Phantom who are they?
Do they live in invisible glass?
Can they see me everyday?
Do they use the staring-glass?

My Phantom I have to ask
Do they talk to you, but you pass
When will they scribe out a task
Just me, so knowledge is past

Walking are you, not,
you are crawling on cosmic waves.
Talking thunder, yes,
you are facing numbered days

You can say I’m a big baby
when she reads to me, new ones
I ask, she says ‘maybe’

Her verse, really does make me think
I sure do go crazy
over her words in ink
I hear you say, for me to sing

Phaos phaos phanos phaos
Come, words to the wise
Use your spiritual compass
Take my hand and vise


The Phan†om VI She is the Spring Horizon

An earth shaking break through
Much justice and joy in what I do
I pay my tuition for my intuition
I can easily reach, and remove the leech

I am waiting for the critical moment to move
I find the cobra playful joy to me, the mongoose
I am fortunate to have you my Phantom burst
As in Shelly’s final couplet in his royal verse

Anger, and hatred is something I refuse
She, my foreign country I find my refuge
I was made for love, and leaves can’t hide the light
And no where is just a leap year, an extra night

There is a contrast between poetry and war
The erosion of empathy on sensitivity’s shore
You can not understand if you do not try
I’m about to live while you follow and die

I did not build the bridge of difference
I sit upon the ridge of faith in balance
I hold the powerful gun of apologize
It is not cocked and loaded for your eyes

I wrote this for the combatants in conflict
I study a better life through faith, and lit
I focus on you, the breathing reader
The spiritual realm is also a bleeder

Kiss God For Me

His reflection is stain’d on your finger nails.
Burn’d there by the passion of your eyes.
Shh, the Angels whisper secret things,
And kiss God for me, for a surprise.

His addiction is nam’d on your frolic heart.
Sitting there is a memory from your lips.
Yes, the Angels recall spoken words,
And kiss God from me, as truth worships.

The shadow that hides your intentions
has fail’d; drawn weak and dismay’d.
Shh, the light celebrates the truth,
And the kisses on Gods face are paid.

The answers are clear to those betray’d hearts.
The rushing rain cleans the mud so divine.
The Angels are more wick’d than the wick’d,
And kissing God replenishes our time.

In the realm of Angels time is like Valentines
And pink is the color of their eyes, and the vines
they are clothed in, whisper melodic rhymes
Because God is a lover thyself, a lover’s mind

For she, my love is a horizon to the eye
Where the land meets the eternal sky
Charging me like a saint fire, burning high
For the voice of the poet, and his love in rite


The Phan†om VII 24 Carat Sarcasm

We took a cloverish journey
To have fun, and do some learning
Since I am Irish
And love gibberish
Able, the tables turning

There’s a place with curves and islands
The City is never silenced
Won’t you come to Limerick
And play games folkloric
She walks in beauty said Lord Byron

There once was some poets from the net
That would attempt a challenge and bet
They said it was for fun
To inspire and run ones gums
But I have not read one praised high yet

There is a young poet named Spendo
Whose speed was much fast and crescendo
He departed one day
In a relative way
And returned to his hearts defendo

You can hear his cosmic trigger
blasting through nights barrel, bigger
A cento will go far
yes she’s his brightest star
‘Come here’ said his index finger

I bought everyone a round of beer
Because I know they all so damm fear
I even bought them two
so their night won’t go blue
A little love and thanks giving cheer

Spendo the poet took a pen
And broke some rules, and he just grinned
Mocking propaganda
And rocking chastuska
Prosperity came and spent

The Phantom is a spiritual whiz
And said, ‘Put your pen where your paper is”
‘Travel a little time
Truly never un-wind’
‘You’ll may not know when there’ll be a pop quiz’

‘Spendo now you are going to Japan
And spend some time with Basho the man
You’ll taste some sweet hokku
And bathe in lilly woo
The old pond, in the dangerous land’

‘I guess I’ll meet you in the spirit world’
‘That one that you’ve been talking about girl’
The Phantom just smiled,
‘Awe, your sweet Churchild’
They went up the spiral, and down the curl

And met the big wise ol hole named Black
that plays cosmic strings behind your back
He’s like to create
And loves to rotate
He was an enigma maniac

Andy recited the poem series and awoke, and he thought of Train Marshall Charlie, he got up quickly and checked the group and the dream was real, Andy was sleep walking in the land of healing.

Red was sleeping, and when Red was a boy his mother read to him the story ‘How the Elephant got his Trunk’ by Rudyard Kipling, and many others, and her reading was poetry to his ears. His vocabulary of animals, their imagery impacted his heart, and the events about to take place in his dream he was dreaming now, was going to devastate him. Red loved animals. The Pula, their name for rain in Botswana was separating with the thunder clouds, but Red could see they were falling down far away. The ground shook behind Red, and a cold breeze blew around his body. He turned around and there was a giant cloud of ice that crashed to the ground. This was a hailstorm like no other. ‘What new beginning was generating?’ Red thought. The Limpopo River was flowing with super power, the waters were fast, reaching high and were dangerous, and Red noticed people swimming for their lives. Red walked to the river to help and the banks of the river were steep and slippery. Red heard a man yelling to the east. He looked, and there were men, and it seemed their wagon was stuck in mud. Their Oxen were half way buried deep in it. Red made his way to them, and an odd looking man with an appearance that was magnificent was saying, “Myfooty, Slangfeldt, wo ha, you Vhitfoot, you duivel, lets move.” His hair was curly, dark and long. He wore a hat with a feather, and he carried guns. The man yelled at a trader who was marching a herd of cows to assist them out of the mud. This odd man was the hunter Roualeyn Gordon Cumming, and he finally spotted Red, and called out to Red to help them. Red got there, and seen that the Oxen were in a hole.

Roualeyn snickered and said, “What, haven’t you seen a hole excavated by an Elephant before? That’s how they drink. They have water now, and it hasn’t rained in months” Roualeyn gave Red a double look and said, “You are no native.”

Red laughed inside and thought, Hmm, he doesn’t know my name.

Roualeyns’ assistants named Murphy and Mhyner Stinkum were too in awe of Red, but Mhyner spoke right away, “Klow” and pointed to his eyes.

This, Red guessed was for them all to follow him. They followed Mhyner Stinkum for about ten yards, and Roualeyn let out an un-earthly yell. Everyone looked behind them, and a herd of Elephants were running at them. Cumming opening confessed as they ran as fast as they could to the wooded area behind them by the river, “Instead of me being a man of fourteen stone weight, nature had formed me of the most Lilliputian dimensions.”

They all ran through an area of wait-a-bit thorns, and this was to hope the Elephants did not follow them through this part of the land. They got about thirty yards and did not hear the Elephants follow. They all stopped, and reached for their rifles, and snapped ten to twenty rounds into the Elephants shoulders. Roualeyn yelled “Aim for the heart.” They all did, and every Elephant cried out as they fell to the ground dead. Roualeyn reached for his canteen, and everyone else did the same, and they drank. Red did not have one. Murphy gave Red some water, and Roualeyn said, “ Murphy is the most kind hearted person that breathes.”

Red felt a disgust, and he couldn’t stop looking at the Elephants. ‘Bad omens were going to fall upon these men,’ Red thought, and hopefully not he.

A secretary bird walked by walking all crazy, and Red laughed. Roualeyn spoke as they walked by the river, “Let us camp here,” and he ordered some natives that came back from scouting more animals to butcher, to get the heads of the Elephants and their 100 lb tusks, and this made Red angry.

Sea cows, river horses, the hippopotamuses maybe something else to worry about, but we will set up here for the night,” said Roualeyn. He looked at Red, and said, “Make your self useful, like catch us some salmon. Did you attend one of those Andries Pretorius mind slaughters?” Roualeyn reached into a pouch and spoke again, “Do you have any cotton? Do you have a tonteldoos, you look puzzled, it’s a tenderbox to build a fire.”

A male ostrich made further up the river bank, and alerted all the other animals of danger.

Red spoke, Yes they are warning of us of the hycome days.

Roualeyn replied “You mean the bygone days.”

No, said Red.

Mhyner Stinkum looked at Red and said, “He acts like the foam of the sea.”

Roualeyn replied, “Well he is not a Abelungu.” and that meant a Whitie. “They are coming to get you like they did Solomon T. Plaatje.” Roualeyn reached in a bag and said “I ‘am a Berg Scot, let me brim your glass, Lets toast to the English the Conquers,” and he laughed. “Who are you?”

Red replied “Poetry.”

Roualeyn laughed and said, “Poetry, I have never been jolly well licked by poetry?”

Murphy brought them their horses, and said, “They are saddled and ready for the mornings bright star.”

I ‘am no hunter and want no part of it, said Red, It was nice to meet you but I must be going. Red walked away and he came to an open prairie, and he walked on and skulls of animals were everywhere, animals of all kinds. This dream was to dark for Red, but he thought and asks, ‘Are we forgiven for thinking you’ve traveled back in time when they travel here.’ Red found a village and went there. Children came up to him, smiling and singing. This made Red happy and he asked if they taught Poetry in their school, and they replied, yes, so this made Red even happier. Red was suddenly transported into an alternative universe. He was in a garden and a dog was on a roof top barking at him.

Roualeyn spoke, “You need to get up off of that cardell, you will rot on that cot. Where did you get a golden Puma from?”

Red was in awe, how did he get back to camp with them? Red awoke from this scary dream.

After Red awoke, gathered his thoughts, and he was happy that Scratch was not harmed. Red joined Andy, Mathias and Boet at the office on the train. The team was talking about how the Europeans divided Africa, and the deaths of the people whom built the railroads there.

At least no one has died building the Poetry Train, once again,” Andy proclaimed, “Poetry saves lives.”

Boet spoke with sadness, “I found you all some more wisdom, but with sadness though. Ingrid Jonkers and the Sestigers. I watched a movie about her too, entitled ‘Black Butterflies.’

Andy sadly asked, “I wonder if Poets who’ve committed suicide would not have if there was the internet for them back then? Where they could be even slightly affiliated with people like them, or with similar issues that Poets go through? Because looking here online there are many.”

Andy post about it in the members group, Red suggested, Maybe it’s something needed to be talked about, maybe a Poet is hurting and we don’t know.

Okay,” said Andy, “But before I read her poem, ‘The Child Who Was Shot Dead By Soldiers in Nyanga.’ Keep in mind Red we are no mind Doctor and you know how I feel about things like that, but whatever comfort we can do, we can try.”

I understand Andy, and I’ll read this list here too, Red replied. It maybe hard to cope with things like that in an open forum circle, but hey, it is a Poetry group, and as you say Andy, Poetry saves lives!

Boet took a deep breath and said, “I’ll look into the Sestigers.”

I believe everyone, we are at the heart of life here in Africa as I was telling Soetik Rebah Motsumi our love for animals is large, and I believe all creation started here, and I have felt that since being a child, and you all know me, I go with my gut, but we Poets are crazy,” and Andy laughs.

Andy found information on the Sylvia Plath Effect, and he looked out the window, and thought about eternity, and how shitty people can be too, not thinking the death clock is ticking, and respect. Odd it is that is too. In how some Poets tag onto attractive opposites of sex and &c. He and Red see this happening all of the time. Depending on what’s taken place in private, but things like that just seem ‘not right, when the internet is vastly open with other avenues. Dating sites and &c. ‘Just a bit eyebrow’d Andy thought, and he wondered if other Poetry folk notice this too. Andy laughed, and read out-loud what he was reading, “Valuing such external factors may harm Poets’ mental health, they speculate, because high levels of creativity require people to ‘defy the crowd’ and ignore what other people think. That means eminent writing could produce more stress leading to a higher incidence of mental illness. Poets may not garner the same benefits from writing that other writers do because Poems seldom form a narrative. Poetry climbing ranks,” Andy then laughed and said, “Poets are like roofers. They are important when needed.” Andy read this too from the rest of Deborah Smith Baileys’ article on The ‘Sylvia Plath’ effect on apa.org. It’s very possible that writing Poetry may have kept Sylvia Plath alive longer than she would have… No really, ya think?” Andy laughed and said, “They be killing me. Respect, like in marriage, key, it’s the key, there must be respect for Poetry!”

Boet was researching too, and spoke, “ Your American Poet Edgar Allan Poe says, “Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence-whether much that is glorious-whether all that is profound does not spring from disease of thought from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect. They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. In their gray vision they obtain glimpses of eternity…. They penetrate, however rudderless or compassless, into the vast ocean of the light affable.”

Red laughed and said, Ya and I seen you looking into eternity.

You know it Red, and th’Wicked Papoose Caboose, where true appreciation will stand, and maybe that’s when say for instance Poets from America would give Charlie more respect,” Andy stated, “Excuse me everyone, I ‘am going to get us some coffee.”

Red, Boet and Mathias was reading, and using the art of listening as the train rolled through Botswana.

Andy came back, and said, “Regardless of praise, folks be tripping without just. Respect is key to success, just a little bit of showing respect, just a little bit, that’s not to hard, the no effort to me, comes down to, as I mentioned before, how one is raised, or ones own respect for life and others. Trueness baby, trueness, so Poet on up, even if you are down, be that Poet even if you are the only one in your town, or country. You got me. In other words, Don’t let anyone punk you out.”

Boet spoke, “Sounds to me that most of America is nothing but a bunch of spoiled brats locked up to a video game or a dumb phone, but anyways, I love this here by Marcel Proust, “Everything great in the world is created by neurotics. They have composed our masterpieces, but we don’t consider what they have cost their creators in sleepless nights, and worst of all, fear of death.” So with that said, games and apps are what disturbances?”

Red laughed and replied, Ya especially when they are junk. Oh we don’t stress it, but we are tired of it all making us look bad, we picked up on the disgruntling in Poetry Train America, but we do have proof, look at all of the 2016 presidential debates and statements, enough said.

Andy spoke, “Let me add Red, like Beethoven, isolation, I wont say Despair, but Doom we have too,” and Andy laughed, “Genius possession, a life of hell, abuse, heartbreak, let the Poetry play on, because the passion can save ones life. Even if ones world, country is about to collapse. Pass on the Poetry, love your Poetry!”

Okay this Poet Diederik Johannes Opperman, best known as Dirk lead us to consider Rock Art as Literature,” said Boet.

Like we do cave art, acceptable.” Andy replied.

These Sestigers, they have powerful messages to say,” Boet adds, “This Chris Barnard may have written about you two clowns.” Boet laughs, “Just kidding, his movie, Paljas is about a station masters family in a remote town, and gets the opportunity to work through their problems when a circus clown enters their lives.”

Red mentioned too about the film, A family’s life in the Karoo, in a semi-desert area in South Africa is changed when a traveling circus leaves behind a clown. Yes, that’s us.

Mathias laughs, and says, “Yes, you see, protest Poetry stands the test of time.”

Andy laughed, and said, “My oh my, this land is beautiful, so beautiful. Nice, we have two more fine movies to promote, such talented actors and actresses. Thanks Boet, you are doing a great job, appreciated & charm’d… It says here that some one said Christiaan Johan Chris Barnard couldn’t write, well his movie proved different. I love that, just takes time, and all falls into place. E-railroad tetris.”

“Well in this case we are going to steal you two from America & Canada ya ya as you say,” says Boet and laughs.

From all read and heard, I don’t think the Sestigers’ manifesto was naïve regardless of opposition, Red proclaimed. Chris Barnard pulled it off with his screenplay Paljas, when he used the brute with the guns, and my heart was pounding, because I thought he was going to shot Willem. Red looked at Andy and said, and Willem reminds me of Andy.

“Good call Red on both.” Andy replied.

“The Sestigers were like us,” Boet spoke out-loud reading, “Or us like them because they gather together at Jan Sebastian Rabie and his wife Marjorie’s house in Onrus, and spent hours in intellectual debate.”

Red and Andy were silent and using the art of listening as Boet read, and Boet was a great new member to the PoetryTrain.com team they felt.

Boet spoke as he read, “Uys Krige inspired a whole generation, including himself says Albert Louis Sac. Andy he wrote for the screen too. He had given lectures on Lorca and Neruda, linking the intimacy of Poetry with the great events of public life. Jan Rabie followed in Uys Kriges’ footsteps with an interest in science fiction, and called him Uys of Space. Uys Krige looked at the Afrikanerdom with a critcal and loving eye from the inside and outside.”

Andy spoke, “Ya Ya, Botswanas Poet Onalethuso Petruss Ntema just sent us a video to promote. I love it when he says oneBlood to us. Touches my heart, Poetry breaking the chains of prejudice. That’s what oneBlood means for me.”

Red and the rest of the team smiled.

I ask him to make a Poem-video, because his book trailer for his book ‘Souls Seeds’ was so impressive,” said Andy. “We talked about place, Poets place and how unique videos are that show this to the viewer, is just impressive.”

Red smiled and said, I got the ‘I ‘am the Voice of a Shadow’ poem-video uploading, launching soon.

Boet spoke, “Going back to the sadness and madness, let put on them same pants again. Love seems to stall things doesn’t?”

Andy looked at Boet, and didn’t say a word.

Ingrid Jonker has inpsired many, but then again she could have more,” said Boet. “I know nothing though, but just thinking. I hope I ‘am strong about things.”

Andy stood up, looked around and said, “Keep being alert Boet, keep being alert! As Andre Brink would say to us Poets.” Andy sat back down. “ Andre never lost his courteous manner, and Ingrid Jonker spoke from the page, and that’s what lovers do. The Gentleman and the Lady. They were the Afrikaans Romeo and Juliet of the Afrikaans literary world.”

“Ingrid wrote her poems on the bus and dreamt of having a study like André did,” said Boet, “They would love the Poetry Train. In Poetry, every day is a physical, spiritual and financial struggle, and is underestimated.”

Red added in, There are many Ingrids around us, and we don’t notice them. Dreams, talents or desire to live a life of dignity without poverty, but that’s what makes us tough, literary Poet tough.

“We are on the Brink of something,” said Boet and laughed. “We have a ‘Flame in the Snow’, the translations of love letters of André Brink and Ingrid Jonker. An article on litnet.co.za by journalist Karin Schimke, and Poet Naomi Meyer.”

“Where’s the snow in Africa, it is winter here?” Andy asks.

Red added in, Yes it is. Reading here, Naomi Meyer says, It is part of the human condition to be trapped inside language, and Andre Brink asks, Can translation help to open up the worlds of other people?

“That’s a great question.” says Andy. “But Andre answers with a question. Where else could it begin?

He also says, Perhaps the simplest place to start is not with translation, but with each person undertaking to learn another language.”

Fascinating, Red says, Naomi Meyer says there is Language Imperialism, and if we don’t learn another language, or try. It is pure laziness, and English wins, and that is so true. English versus Afrikaans language, and yes, I was just thinking this, what about too translate Poetry into Zulu too.

Boet added, “Naomi also mentions the importance of reading to children.”

Andy replied, “Yes to build the foundations of memory and imagery. Love this here too, Reaching across the various abysses that divide us, Poetry the bridge, as in oneBlood. Mambo ya ya is about unity. Mathias wouldn’t you agree?”

Boet added, “Ingrid loved Walt Whitman.”

Mathias had this look on his face looking at Red and Andy and asked, “Are you alert for Danger?”

Red said with a new look on his face, I ‘am always on Red Alert, and Mr. Walklemon Whipagla has come back to join us.

Andys’ facial muscle tightened and said, “It’s okay to be at three places at once, past, present and future. We are good like that.” In a louder tone of voice Andy spoke, “Poetry are rivers that rise and go, and we are marking its existence and it flows, so what do you know Whipagla?” We hear nile Crocodiles are in Florida, have you? They say they go to libraries here, and eat all the books. Do you know anything about this?”

“No on your last question. That maybe so Mr. Sandihands, but then again we have Rhinos that destroy trains too,” said Mr. Walklemon Whipagla with a grim grin on his face.

Red laughed and asked, Me and Andy think you work for the Royal Society of Poetry, so is that a fact?

“I may,” Mr. Walklemon Whipagla replied. “Ivory, horns, skins and bones. Books are pricey too. There are Poet hunters out there.”

“More then that Mr!” Boet adds in, “Zebras, Lions, and Gorillas too. Books build our country, as animals are like us, a part of Africa.”

Andy spoke looking into Whipaglas’ eyes, “As bad as those Trump boys. They lie about giving the left overs of meat to random people in the safari, or the hungry, and they left the elephant hanging.”

Mr. Walklemon Whipagla, “As bad as you Circus Clowns, you are just like them.”

Red, How can you claim that?

“I have my hunting hunch.” Mr. Walklemon Whipagla replied.

“Red, I think he wants us to write a comic novel, he wants tragedy but it will be comical.” said Andy. “We have desire, we have need, unlike success and filth, we will take our own path effect, deffects and all, and please do not claim we are in this together and all messed up, when people like have un-screwed, lets say torn the world apart.”

Andy isn’t clowning around right now is he? Red asked knowing all knew the answer.

“You are not my favorite sit down comedian Andy.” Mr. Walklemon Whipagla stated.

Red laughed and said, This what’s funny, we have more subscribers then you, and we do it with Abraham Lincoln American pennies, try to scratch that one off, and that, this is my, lets say Scratch, Red Alert to you.

“I still can’t get over these Trump boys, they’d have Africa in bad shape if they had political power there, and hey maybe they do, that’s why they kill there.” Andy stated with slight anger. “So tell me about this Royal Poetry Society, are they, well you tell me, bias as we are as Poetry Historians?”

Mr. Walklemon Whipagla looked out the window.

Andy he must be having a flash back, said Red.

“He’s like a novelist Red, making things up.” said Andy.

The train made a sudden stop, and threw Mathias forward disrupting his studies.

Mr. Walklemon Whipagla was still looking out the window, and spoke, “Hmm lets see here, maybe a Rhinoceros is a standing a chance, unlike you all, with your poetry train. Where’s your horn?”

Andy tele-thought to Red, This guys accusations of us poaching Poets is about to, and when Andy told Red this that’s when, Boet stood up to Mr. Whipala, and said, “It really is international heritage worth protecting, like the Rhinos because in the act of protecting Poets Poetry, we also protect ourselves. If you think about all the opportunities their Poet Igloo Bill holds for a whole society, then it should trump the idea of how it can benefit individual people. It will create jobs of many sorts, jobs that are there to protect the Poet like the Rhino, to study the Poet. Reading and listening to bring people in to appreciate the Poet, and much more.”

“It’s not a crisis.” Mr. Whipala replied.

“Well it would be if someone rapped your daughters Poetry,” said Andy, “Did I hit home in how dire the situation is without us, us talking clown heads telling you it is so?”

Red was looking out the window but listening.

Mr. Whipala replied, “I didn’t commit no literary crime.”

Maybe not, but you are obstructing literaty justice. Red proclaimed as he was watching police take down a resisting poucher outside the train. The pouchers had chased a Rhino, and killed it on the railroad tracks.

“Look, there is a baby Rhino. It must be trying to hide.” said Andy, he then sat down, and looked at Mr. Whipala, and thought, ‘Unlike us you fool.’ “We put our lives on the line for Poetry.”

Mr. Walklemon Whipagla fumbled around with papers inside his shirt pocket and said, “Anytime you all like, I have a one-way exit permit for you all. No more Columubus around here, ever hear of Christopher Hope? The way white people and their territoriality and testosterone, as you all do, if you can’t kick, shoot, ride or eat it, what good is it? When I hear the word ‘Africa’, I want to know who’s using it, meaning I don’t want you all using the word Africa.”

Andy argues back, “You are out of your Africa tree. As Christopher Hope was encouraged by his mother. My mother loved my Poetry obsession. We Irish like that.”

Boet stepped in the argument, “Poetry was the major means of protest, says Hope. It was the way to annoy the hell out of the authorities and say something. I’ve spent my entire life looking for something like home. I was homesick, and I found this career with Red and Andy, and we are not changing the world, we are to undermine it.”

“No you’ll always be like a Whiteboy running.” Mr. Walklemon Whipagla stated.

Red stood up and said, Bessie Head was correct when she said, I have observed that people who torture and trouble life is a wide radius around them, do so because they cannot come face to face either with their own errors or the errors of history. I think it’s best if you found a seat on another car.

Boet stood up and spoke, “Alright now Mr. Walklemon Whipagla start walking away. We are done being hospital to you. They have done nothing wrong, so carry on with your bad self.”

Mr. Walklemon Whipagla, “Join the herd, join the herd, and mark my word, mark my word.”

Andy replied, “So you want to sling some words? That’s hilarious. In all do respect Walk Whip, we are already a part of the herd so don’t trip. Red contact Reina-Marie Loader and tell her we want to officially join the herd, and tell her we found a scratch and sniff, trying to be stiff, and we got a whiff and it can be a fresh kill, if thee will. Everyone let him stay, you see what will happen if he leaves. He will fall into machination mode, and killing him with kindness is swift and bold. So Mr. Walklemon Whipagla have a seat welcome to the Project p-r-o as in Professional and ject as in inside so let us roll and ride! Treat us like the Wild Buffalo Bill Show my boy. The weight of history is amazing.”

Mr. Walklemon Whipagla walked away and did not say a word.

Boet laughed and said, “I love this, you two are like a Cousteau with a Poetry Show, ha ha ha ha, love it.”

Lets go see Map Ives about these Rhinos, Red suggested. This is how we challenge ourselves. We shun when we need to. Contemplate forever when have to. Rhinos in the morning. We have to love it.

Mathias smiled and said, “We are at the Okavango Delta, Africas’ wild oasis.”

Boet reads out loud about Map Ives and gives his ops in, “Passion should come from your heart. Map Ives has passion, he’s also revealing his shield against Americanism, ah maybe Mr. Whipagala thinks this too, you two are a foreign balance… We are unique minds Map Ives describes, and calls out for… I say we, because I ‘am apart of the team.” Boet smiles and says, “We don’t care about a large house, but we care about a large train to make the world a better place. He wants us to spark wild life conservation on the train.”

“I love how he says, Lions roam the outskirts of time, and how they ate his mothers roses,” said Andy, “Here is the place where we whisper spirit.”

While they were conversing about Poetry, Map Ives and Rhinos, the Rhino that was killed was air lifted off of the railroad tracks, so the train began to move along.

“Rad! You two are going to have to make your fore, go to the Rhinos well, and carry a pale of water on your head. You must walk with pale on your head and read a book,” said Boet laughing, “Just like her, they call her Unity, Unity Dow, a Poet and a Judge, and that’s what she done when she was a kid. May she read the Poet Igloo Bill, and Operate the Jester.”

Sing Rad’

Boet clapped his hands and chanted his poem, ‘Sing Rad’


aye, ay-

ya ya way

em em, em em way

Poem offspring,

Poet refugees

Poem liberties,

Poet bold and free

It’s not the less you know

the better you are


Strength for the weak

No longer who you know

And you’ll go far

No reserve, see

Wise above

Star destiny

aye, ay-

ya ya way

em em, em em way

Applause Applause, said Red, Hope after hope, dream after dream.

Andy looked at the mountains, and hill after hill, and he applauded too.

They came to their selves, they loved sitting down. Nomads at heart though.

Andy laughed and said, “Seriously, we are going to need clown stuff, you know make up and gym suits.”

And they all laughed.

“Red Alert,” said Mathias, “Unity Dow will make you rethink. All three of you are thinking wrong. Love in a glare, love in the air. The things you can not see, lost time. Time to think, how do you grow? Answered wisdoms, part of the past, part with the future. Take with our future, it the past of the part. What you and me, all of us lost was art. The Star we are. Boet, that was a beautiful poem. The train is good for us, and we will love the journey.”

“Holy River Horse Train man,” said Andy smiling, “I ‘am going to make a Book Well on the Poetry E Train Africa, a Google Book Shelf. Maybe with hash tags, #oneBlood #jointheheard. What do you all think?”

Red replied, On the book cover like graffiti. Yes that is great.

Everyone,” Andy asked everyones attention, “I had to be like that Boet, to break the walls of the 21st Century, my kind of diplomacy. Why was and is there walls in the first place? That’s why the trump of greed has to go, any kind of trump, and yes I ‘am aware of Danger, and she didn’t want to be separated from her brothers Doom, and Dread. What constitutes the good? We are all in great trouble. The Poetry Train is a inter-cultural exchange train. Where anyone can celebrate all culture without supremacy. Language breaks boundaries, most of language travels.”

“Yes Andy we must break down as Mantsetsa Marope tells us, sustainable literary literacy,” says Boet as he reads.”

People who don’t read, don’t enjoy poetry. Red suggested. Language walls.

Styles of expression,” said Andy.

Boet slapped his hands on his legs and said “Ya ya, Poetry is a structure, a defense of Peace that can be created. We should all speak the Will of Peace. Unity through diversity, un-folding the flag of Peace.”

Red and Andy looked at each other and laughed, “This guy is good, he is getting good,” said Andy, and Red finished what had to be said, We are Unity, and we read and listen to diversity. We have been at the helm of his realm for awhile, and each day our mind scope is shall we say, super-sonic expanding. The future must know the walls of Poetrys’ intolerance. Poetry mandate 2110, 100 years of the Poetry Train. It starts with what’s thunkn’ in the brain.

We are digital cave art, digital petroglyphs,” said Mathias, “Bless the Poetry Train.” Mathias pointed outside and said “Divuyu, and her four main Hills, Male Hill, First Wife, Female Hill, and Child. The slippery land of the invisible, where the rock that whispers is.”

The train rolled past the Slippery Hills, known as Tsodilo Hills and they seen the San People rock art on the walls of rock as they passed by. There was a red Rhino, geometrics, maybe cattle too of art work, but there were rain stains. The art was red, and the rocks and land had its natural hues mauve, orange, yellow, turquoise and lavender.

Look I see wild and domestic animals,” said Andy pointing as the train moved. “We are in the bush, and what is next around the corner?”

Boet laughed and said, “Andy’s looking for a Texas armadillo in Tsodilo.”

Wait, wait, we have to stop here,” Andy proclaimed. “I was right I just told you all this, and to first actually in a chat with Canadian Poet Rebecca M. Cuevas, and then as I mentioned to Soetik Rebah Motsumi, here I feel too is the beginnings of the human world, in fact I gut-know this. We have followed the mystery. The Muse of Poetry spoke to us.”

Red scratched his head smiling.

Lets say our Elephant hearing listened as they do or our Rhino hearing too, and Poetry is our horn, or tusk. Although gentlemen as we are Poetry Time Lords, here it is to think, listen to the echo, ‘Memory is key for the day to always be. Where future is past to see, how, now.”

Everyone looked at each other.

Boet was on it, looking online. “It feels like a prayer, and we are dancing inside, and earlier I felt the train was a cave, but a cave that moves.”

Red and Andy looked at each other, and smiled.

Boet was on it again and shook his head and said, “You two, well now we are doing digital or printable cave art, lets say as the San People did back then, when they created the animals they felt most worthy on the rock walls here. We are doing the same thing, the most worthy, Poets, and Trains as they would also with the four elements. Railroad ties are like Poets marching into time.”

Red we must stop here and camp, firelight and all,” Andy suggested with concern. “We need to see this Python sculptured on Male Hill there. You are thinking what I ‘am thinking?”

Yes, Red replied, Can we call you Spearhead Andy, and Red laughed.

Andy replied “Check this out Red, go into Electric Owl mode, and look at the Cape where we arrived, now remember America by New Orleans, the perimeter measuring somewhat, and then Canada, where Sitting Bull and the others escaped, Montanta and Washington, rivers, the escape route. Both places were escape routes, and I get the same feeling about here. Something is here Red.”

You two are what I’d call Poetry Archaeologists.” Boet claimed. “Poets are traditional historians.”

Gentlemen,” Andy claimed, “Poetry is like water, and this place is where water was at the beginning of the world. Joining the Herd of Poets, the herds of animals and listening to Poetry has led us here, to where I believe life began.”

Red asks, So you are saying that art opens here, the inner world and the world-beyond-sight held in common belief by all human cultures? Early conceptions of beauty and the sacred?

Yes,” Andy replied and he thought, ‘We have to go full circle here.’

Ew, this is some good stuff,” said Boet. “I’ll go to the Conductor to stop the Train.”

Andy consider also the other two places here, Blombos and Apollo 11 Cave? Red suggested.

Indeed,” Andy replied, “Soetik Rebah will help.”

Ew, the mind of a Train and Poetry” said Boet. “I’ll go get the Conductor to stop the Train. Oh maybe we can find us each a Lady here.”

Red did you notice the art is red, oneBlood red?” Andy asked. “Red Alert Red, things are blending, a new color, a peaceful color, a new color, called Peace, like blue was new. Everything a new blue.”

Andy we could go there and see fires, and reading here online, we can be never seen again, it is a risk to get off the train, said Red, the Land of the Invisible, so I get your alert, everything blue. Lets go to the slippery Mountains of the Gods, and rock and roll humanitys’ cradle.

They both tele-asked, ‘A Lady here?’

They both looked at each other smiled, and gave each other a high five and said, ‘Great reverse, and a great forward.’ The rock is going to whisper about the sacred life, and tell us why the spirits were angry or are still, and good was no more. Animal killing was why. The power of the landscape, and Poetry.

Boet returned with the Train Conductor, and the Conductor said, “In Botswana, more lions die from human actions of protecting livestock than from trophy hunting. Rhinos too somewhat. The ratio is six for every lion hunting as a sport!

Andy was in awe, the water, the clouds, the birds, and the Elephant he seen walking along the bank near the railroad.

Red was in memory relapse, remembering his dream, and the Elephant cries when they were shot down by the hunters. Red snapped out it and said, There are many hidden treasures here so have no fear of ancestral spirits dwelling on the hills, including hyena, and Red laughed.

“Including Leopard!” said Boet nervously.

They all were wide eyed, and the Train Conductor said, “Bushveld woodlands, There are mean Porcupines here.”

Andy made a scoffing sound because Andy loved Porcupine Poetry. “So like this Leopard is cool?”

The Train Conductor laughed and said, “No, the Leopard is, I would say thirsty, and that is something you four should think about.”

“Well hell there is water right there,” Andy replied. “What’s good for the Elephants are good for us. You see Mr. Train Conductor, we are part of the herd now.”

The Train Conductor laughed and said, “You are, are you?”

Ya ya, said Red, We on time like that, we are family.

“Beware of hunters, Buffalo, and that Leopard, you hope is not being hunted. Baboons are known to hunt them, Lions mainly.” The Train Conductor warned them. “That’s a male Leopard. I’d say he is great at hiding remains too.”

It looks like he’s going away through the trees, said Red.

The train made us private stop for the Poetry Train team.

“Okay, Good luck.” The Train Conductor said as he closed the door to the train.

Andy raised his eyebrows, looked around, and asked, “Wait, wait, wait, where’s the nearest Train Station? And plus we have much luggage.”

“Animals are afraid, and afraid of each other,” said Boet, “Poetry will save us.”

Mathias spoke, “Yes, only we can bog us down, so that’s why we can not walk in the sand and get stuck. The sand roads are deep. Brushveld it is.”

The Train Conductor opened the door, and said, “You can leave your things you don’t want to take on the train. I’ll wait here for an hour four you. Don’t make me wait! What are you waiting on?”

They all looked at each other, left their things on the train, and walked to the Python Cave.

“Man I want to see a Giraffe.” Andy proclaimed.

“We won’t with that Leopard up there looking at everything from through tree leaves.” said Boet.

Like him, lets do what we do best, hunt, hunt the mystery and adapt, said Red. This is the realm of mystery.

“Nature puts things in the oddest of places, said Mathias, “Hopefully it’s every animals holy day, so we wont be hunted.”

“I hear that.” Andy replied. “Oh my, look ah it’s just a baby Elephant.”

A baby Elephant wanted to play hide and seek with a bird, further more swatting them with her truck.

Andy laughed and said, “Yes, this calf is cooling me out. This is better then the zoo, and for sure the news of one slaughtered.”

One about two foot taller came out of nowhere, and went right up to them, and yelled out a Elephants, ‘Roar!’ One could imagine about her mothers’ where abouts, and her mothers’ roar.

“They want to be friends,” said Mathias, “But where is her mother?”

Andy laughed, looked at everyone and said, “You all loving this? This little girl right here can knock us over.”

Andy the Poetry Train has returned us to the wild, Red said laughing.

“I ‘am loving this, living the best I can, and using my senses and memory like never before,” Andy replied.

“I love Elephants,” said Boet, “Chinese for their cruelty and damnation to the poachers. The irony is I don’t suppose ivory and Rhino horn have any medicinal properties.”

“So we are all learning to be with the herd, yall ready lets find this ancient ritual ground, and in the cave,” said Andy, “The shaman is listening in the chamber hiding, and watching us.”

I want to see the giant Snake circle the land for water, Red requested. A mud bath too.

“Maybe the Afrocks lost their mothers in the bushveld,” said Mathias.

“Red from what I learned the giant will be literally squeezing too.” said Andy. “Snakes called Afrocks, hmm Poetrocks.”

The older female let out a roar and a growl kind.

“They are probably hungry,” said Mathias. “We are almost there. We must look for their parents as we walk, these two will follow us.”

The baby calf made a loud snorting sound. The older one wanted to give Red a hug with her trunk, and everyone laughed.

Andy was in awe of the volcano looking small hills, and they were grassy and steep to the point. So what was the wisdom of the four hills, were they like the twin mountains in Canada?

“We are their family now.” Mathias proclaimed. “But we are the endangered ones. We as a humanity has stepped out of nature.”

“Yam yam but we four are here now.” Andy replied, and Andy passed out some yams to all of them and the Elephants from one of his satchels.

“Listen for the muscles of the Rock Python.” Mathias warned. “Even their babies come out of the egg striking.”

“Yes, they have a slick sound to them, slowly constricting. This is a big difference from street stranglers,” said Andy and laughed, he looked around for the Python, and sung, “I ‘m Hot Blooded, I’m Hot Blooded,”

“Shhhh,” Boet jestered and whispers, “We are land fish here.”

“What” Andy asked smiling “I like Foreigner.” and he laughed again.

Boet shook his head.

The birds were the only thing really easing the tension they all four had. Andy put his hand over his mouth and says, “There it is. The Deities welcome us.”

The mysterious rock did resemble a Python.

“Look there is an entrance here.” said Boet, “It has been worn smooth. Lets go inside.”

“Your head first.” Red demanded.

They all looked at each other.

“Just like a Python eats its victims, head first,” said Mathias and laughs.

The giant must be basking, and changing its skin.” said Red.

“Lets look at the art first.” said Andy.

They all agreed to do that before they went into the cave.

These here are Giraffes. Red proclaimed as he observed the art on the rock walls.

“These have to be Rhinos.” Boet proclaimed.

“We are on the Nqoma hill,” said Mathias “Divuyu is right there,” as he pointed to the hills direction. “The children hills are the rest of them we see.”

“Notice there is no fire wood,” said Boet. “Look we found melons.”

Something just walked over them, said Red while looking around for what has walked on the melons.

I never studied tracking and prints of animals, Red said and laughed. Red saw two parrots in a tree, and they were looking at them.

Andy walked up to Red and nudged Reds shoulder, and what they were looking at was a Giraffe.

The tallest one the world has ever seen.

“Man, my heart is beating faster.” said Andy.

“They sure can run fast.” said Boet. “Lets hope they too are not looking for their young.”

Andy is like a Giraffe, Red claimed, With two modes of locomotion, fast and super fast.

Andy laughed and said, “Trained Giraffe would be perfect for our clown show. We’d have to have a ladder. I like its hair, it’s mohawk looking hair, all the way down from the back of its head, down its neck, to its back. This is great everyone, they are taller then the trees. Look birds are all over them.” Andy laughed and sang, “I ‘am what I eat, trees.”

Boet laughed and said, “Lots of metaphors here. You two are like them in many ways. Loyalty to Poetry world wide, seek new things, as in Poets, you are constant, persistent as in constant as in change itself. Steady. You are team players.”

Andy laughed and said, “Well, we are Davids and that there is Goliath.”

“Andy you have always had a higher view of things,” said Mathias. “You two stand tall for Poetry, and you two stick your necks out for Poetry.”

I ‘am having a great time, this is like going back in time, said Red, I love it.

“Me too, this is very spiritual, and it makes me want to dance.” said Andy.

“There are no secrets here, earth holds the memory of everything, of all the creatures which move upon it.” said Mathias.

“How can we ignore this present, moment, into which has no name?” Andy asked.

We can’t clearly see, but faith tells me, Gods rule the world from here, says Red. Maybe we should find this mine for some holy water, because we don’t have much time, not unless we stay.

“These rock paintings are everywhere.” said Boet as they walked around looking at the art.

“This rock with the outline of Africa is just impressive, mind blowing.” said Andy as he sat down. He reached for some sand, held it for a moment, and let it all fall out between his fingers. Andy thought, ‘I don’t know what to think, maybe I shouldn’t think. Time, Andy thought about the times here of long ago, and why so much art. Andy looked at the two Elephants, the Giraffe, and thought okay, where is the Python? Where is our symbol? In every smell, we have smelt?’ “All of the Ladies have gone to town or village Boet, and Cupid is busy somewhere else, doing love bow business.” said Andy. “We should be going back to the train.”

“Andy they are singing somewhere by themselves too.” Boet replied.

Yes, lets get back to the Train, said Red.

“Lets walk like eagles to the train,” said Mathias. “This place and animals do want us to go. They will miss us as friends.”

“I hear that, the baby girl Elephant walking up to us like, is something I’ll never forget.” said Andy. “Heart, imagination, and memory is all we have, and all that remains there, remains there forever. As all here has. Eagles? Lets walk like a Giraffe back, and see as they see.”

As all four of them walked back to the train. Andy walked close to Red and said, “Use your Poet camera eye. Seeds are sown onto our memory eye.”

Once back aboard the train Andy was in talks with Constantine Enyo about the Poetry Train and a Castalia Press… Andy looked at Red and said, “We need to know the San language, or languages nearby too.”

Yes, said Red. I ‘am working on that. We also need to listen to the Poets.

“Yes, that’s what I was thinking too,” Andy replied, “Wished they had Poetry, well an alphabet. Hmm look where the alphabet gets us, back to the 0. Shhh Red,” Andy motioned and said, “No one complained, this part is not real, it’s in a book we write. They have sand-fever if we were real.”

Red laughed and said, Imagine that, Andy I had wifi the whole time and it wasn’t mobile, it was sand jackers trying to shed word-shed, Orgcast and stuff.

Andy laughs and says, “Tried telln’ folks get the heck off their phone, and read a book, if not from a laptop. Ya Ya!”

“Hey, I want to look at Poetry the old way, not the new way,” said Boet laughing, “Just crappin-ing, Hahaha, I’m learning.”

“Mr. Train Conductor, some one left the water running on the sink.” said Mathias.

“You think,” replied the Train Conductor, and it was silent for a moment.

“It has to go somewhere.” said Mathias.

And the train rolled on, as the Train Conductor walked away looking at Mathias.

Are you feeling what I ‘am feeling?” Andy asks.

Maybe that depends. Red replies.

Well tell me when you do.” Andy replies back.

You are feeling our Medu, and Medu is a SePedi word meaning roots.” said Mathias. “You are feeling our hide.”

Reading about Thamsanqa “Thami” Mnyele and the Medu opens thought, does this cause conflict?” said Mathias asking, “Our art must become a process, a living, growing thing that people can relate to, identify with, be part of, understand and not a mysterious world a universe apart from them.”

At first it might, only because of oppression and candy coated bull shit you could say,” Andy replied.

As you can tell, Unity has been tried, and there is always complicit psychological operations against the public.” says Mathias.

All of this is certainly heightening my awareness, says Red. Thamis outlook on art and the world is impressive. According to Judy Seidmansspeech, he argued, under apartheid, and indeed throughout this globalized modern world, what we call art has been taken far away from our daily lives. Pictures hang in galleries and museums where most people never see them. Pictures are sold to the rich for more than a working person earns in a year, to remain hidden in their private living rooms. Thami spoke in outrage about how art is taken away from the community, even from the people who made it. This is something to consider with the Rising of Poetry.

Everyone was silent because they know the cruel and vicious cycle of those with money.

Red continues to educate the others, Thami rejected the approach that an artist make art to make money. Rather, he searched for ways to create art for his people, for his community.

“We are doing that, Poetry for the people.” Boet stated.

We must not let people who are not part of our world tell us what our art is about. Red added, The same with Poetry. Red laughs and says, You know the type.

Andy was reading too, and said, “I like what Judy Seidmans says here yall, “It takes both vision and courage to make art that speaks to each and every one of us; especially during a time of repression and suffering. Here we go again trapped in the induced ‘Lets let History repeat itself mode.”

“I like this poem ‘To Those Who Follow in Our Wake’ by Bertold Brecht,” said Boet, and he recited the poem.

Red spoke, Poets in exile, another one caring for humanity and forced to leave, for the fear of death.

“I will get us some munchies and drinks,” said Mathias.

“Thanks!” everyone said in sync.

“You are welcome, keep wise on prior generations of Poetry.” said Mathias.

“Whooo, putting oneself in any part of the world in a war is some serious thinking.” said Andy. “As the Poet Mongane Wally Serote says, ‘To heal is to heal, so heal in the manner you can heal.”

About the best we can do, said Red. We are following the wake, for sure.

The Lady with oranges returns and says, ‘Thank you for visiting our beautiful Botswana and really experiencing it’s beauty.”

You are welcome, Red replied and asked, What is your name? My name is Red Regatta.

Red introduced everyone.

“My name is Mary Kago Lesmore, and it is nice to meet you all of you. I hope you enjoy the oranges.”

When everyone was going to say a greeting to her, Mr. Walkemon Whipagala came into the train car.

Look, go back where you were. Red demanded, Mr. Officer Whipagala. We paid for this, go on now!

Cow skin and shield,” Mr. Walkemon Whipagala replied, and went back to where he was seated.

I don’t know why he has to be so grim,” said Boet.

He must have some kind of man-rabies,” said Mathias laughing as he came back with drinks and food. “He wants to keep investors out of Africa, and he wants to keep the grim side bright. In other words, he is perpetuating the poverty here!”

Andy looked at Red, and it was a look that they needed to talk in private soon. “Lets go pet some Cheetahs,” said Andy smiling.

Sounds fresh, Red replied, and said, Mary, It is limitless here, it’s like a song with a melody… Beautiful tones… As Red was looking at Mary and the beauty outside, he seen a row line of those thorns he seen in his dream, those red tipped, wait-a-bit thorns, thorn bob trees thorns.

Mary Kago Lesmore smiled, and walked away with more oranges.

Andy look at all the Zebras, Red insisted.

Yes, beautiful.” Andy replied, “Look at all the animals to the left of them.” Andy wanted to tease Red, and sung, “Every Cowboy has a sad song.”

Red laughed, and looked at the animals.

The land that does not deny,” said Boet.

You can feel the peace.” said Andy to everyone looking at Red.

Until you see a Cheetah,” said Mathias, “The Spirit of the Kalahari, and are you ready for your explorer program.”

Yes they all replied.

“Okay, put on your tear marks like a Cheetah, because I wouldn’t want to be ya,” said Andy and laughed.

“We are about there.” said Mathias, “You know, strife is great for Poets.”

Andy laughs and says, “Yes, has to be. Because who knows Peace?”

Would Peace be like a brother and sisterhood of Lion like people? Red asked.

“Yes, and when they speak, a gong is sounded, and the Elephants arrive with the Greatest Minds of our time.” said Andy. “Like Mountain climbing, where we finally get to the top, and un-fold the flag of peace.”

Boet laughs, and looks and Mathias and says, “These men are the real deal, unlike others who look at people here as exotic primitives.”

The Train Conductor came by and said, “I forgot to mention. It is nice to have you all here. My Grandfather told me stories about when he was a boy and film director Geoffrey Barkas came here to film movies in the 1930’s about Africa.”

Thanks Red replied, We do the same but with ink and paper, and we are American. Barkas done Operation Crusader, and we have our own entitled ‘Operation Jester.”

“Oh that’s right, he and artists made a complex of deception involving six miles of dummy railway, and a dummy train.” The Train Conductor laughed and said, “You can learn a lot from a dummy.”

Andy laughed, “I almost forgot about that one, nice.”

Red laughed and said, You can learn a lot from a Poet too.

“Ya ya, can we have, oh never mind,” said Boet I was going to ask for Lion clothes, but, oh, we don’t kill Lions.”

“They too are vanishing over trophies,” said Andy. “Hunting is an obsession, like a disease. Do you want to know what? If these people who hunt loved animals, then why kill them? Me, and I won’t because I know the difference, but the thing is, I’d have my own zoo. I love animals so if I did not know wrong from right, then I’d have a zoo of living, and not a building full of heads of animals dead and what of.”

It’s not enough that people kill each other, said Red, Now, even more people have to kill endangered animals. Man, look at this tall grass.

“Ya, and father back, you see then black spots with horns?” Andy asked. “Amazing how much money people spend to kill animals. Every we are going to have to promote and help establish ecotourism. We don’t want these animals to go away like the giant wolves of Canada.”

Red knew Andy was upset about a lot of things, but one thing for sure, no one, no human can take away his love for animals. Andy was crying inside.

“We that oppose this, must be as strong as these Cape Buffalo aka Black Death, and defend the herds of all. With brains and brawn.” said Andy. “We are professional Poets, licensed to stop this with love and words. No matter how thick it gets, target on.”

“Diamonds, Animals, Slavery, what else?” said Boet, “Trophies to glorify their own macho natures. Sickening is what it is!”

“Red, it is important.” said Andy, “We must groove on this, and create a beat.”

Ten/Four says Red… Vocabulary spear sharpening now.

“Okay Gentlem, lets go on a word safari,” said Andy.

And they all got ready to enjoy some time with the animals of Bostwana… Learning and Listening.


-… …-

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


Poetry Train Africa Chapter 2 South Africa, Meteorite Night


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