Dreams of Limpopo

Baobab create gaps in the sky for light

to shine on a palate expanded by love
among the bushes that grew tongues
—only a select few weren't afraid to pick—
instead of wild berries
I asked the man, “where is your heart?”
as I waited for an explanation
I daydreamed about the old times
wrestling pigs and killing alligators
with my bare hands
unaware that the heart is to be
connected to the tongue
so a clear understanding
is needed before any emotion
is to leave the body
the silence was like a conversation
among the dead rose petals
thrown at whoever left him so speechless...

As we walked through rivers of
monkey apple pulp and crowds
of women collecting the life juice
as babies grasp the edge of mother's
paiute water basket. Everyone has little
to no pigment in their eyes, so a peek
into their window glistens as the children
drink pulp that harbors more protein
than breast milk like the starving youth
that only exist when I awaken...


©2014 Anthony Desmond Scott. All Rights Reserved.
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The Beauty.

She is the color of Swahili Aphrodite laid

against the night sky—not limited to darkness.

She kisses the sun red

to blend the bloodshed
down to a matter of perspective
so her view of the world isn't so bad.
Her presence brings a tear to the eye
like raindrops that distort your
reflection on the edge of a pond.
She dances off the high of long-winded
debates on heaven and hell's existence
while running her hands over loved
ones whose time has yet to come.

All after washing the dirt

of religion from her socks
one last time in the same
bathwater she used to
cure her loneliness.

©2014 Anthony Desmond Scott. All Rights Reserved.

 

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